Writing: November

For you in particular who asked me to write and not give a damn about editing for now:

I was alone on the farm. My employer and friend hired me on to keep watch over the property and animals while they high tailed it to the Eastern seaboard which was ever far away from the farm and Texas. Coming to stay here and work was a small price to pray for my own space to work, write and create. The converted trailer was a boon to me. I did not have to bring supplies and tools into the main house. This dear lovin’ space with separate electricity became a home away from home those last few years of university. My employer needed the extra help with practically everything, including her daughter. At the time she had been out of public school for a year. With no curriculum or encouragement she was languishing. Employer also took me on as her tutor-teacher-governess in exchange for room and board.

The arrangement was bliss out in the country. Memorable journeys started three miles of dirt off the main road. I had stayed the occasional weekend before, but these two weeks roughly out in the middle of no where gave me the occasional tick and nervousness that lingered till calmed after a meal. This night, the second I spent in quiet and whispered song, matched no different twitch with food or rest. Time gathered itself in my mind a few hours after sundown. I was convinced I had to build a fire in the pit behind the house. The anxiety that built in my mind had been metered out with fire before. Maybe this time I could manage a burn and not come away singed or choking with ash and smoke.

Building the tower took a little time as well as finding kindling. Light streamed down from the lamp posted at the front of the studio. I was able to see my way around the property to find dried grass, sticks and a handful of pieces of bark.  Back to the put to start the fire. My sense became a testament to focusing on my task while to anything about me I was lost tending to the small flames. After a time watching the flames take to the larger wood, I finally sat down easing into the grass North of the pit. I stared into the heart of the bonfire and traced the licks with my eyes as they rose and fell into ciders with grace. I never toldthis but I’ll tell you; the night started to change. So much so the fire reacted. While I watched into the flame a circle started to form around the bonfire creating a perimeter. I say it this way because if I say the surrounding dark closed in around me, the implications seem a bit too farfetched. I watched the casting light and it held a rigid line around me and the pit. Not before long my eye started drooping. Maybe the time was after one in the morning and not before eleven at night. Either way I started to dream as my eyes grew larger to find the source of the light that came into the fire. I watched a lamb, drawn seemingly, not real, walk from the West into the circle and on to the fire. I could not move. All I could do is watch. The lamb stood then finally sat on the flaming pile of wood tucking its legs under its body. It stayed and that is when my ears opened up. “The lamb won’t burn” over and over again. “The lamb won’t burn” in several man’s voices. I sat still, for more time. I did not move – for more time. My instincts were waiting them out it seems. When I realized I could move the fire had died down and the circle was gone. I went after the hose and shovel to finish off the hot coals. I put nothing to thought after that and walked into the house for bed.

Christian metaphors strike me as I wondered about the details of this occasion for years. What hits hard in my soul is the symbolism of Christ as the Good Shepard. When I do put a better understanding to it, I’ll plug it into the writing for a character’s development in a story. Here I told more than I could show you, but that will fix itself in the retelling and editing.

~Mother Snow Goose