The Native Iowan

I hear talk. Some think. Words come hard. Images. Ideas. Concepts. Beliefs. Not easy. To articulate. To explain. To write. Standard modalities. Accepted practices. Rules to follow. Dictums handed down. Taught and learned. Guidelines. Turned into fences. Erected by our selves. Constraints. We become comfortable with. Words do come. Just takes a bit of unlearning.

A sentence. Has structure. Must possess. Nouns. Verbs. Must be ordered. According to rules. But my thoughts. Images. Concepts. Possess no such order. Bound by no rules. My thoughts whirl. Fly. Carry me on their wings. What I see. What I hear. What I sense. Through a myriad of senses. Perceived. Not according to rules.

When I see the sun rise. A flaming smear of orange. The horizon burning. I feel a stirring. My being is drawn. A vortex of emotion. Through my eyes. I sense the day. Birthing. Anew and aflame. In my being. I sense. Understand. That which words cannot. Comprehend nor verbalize. Genuine emotion. Flawed by articulation?

The day gets brighter. I stand in a light rain. My eyes lead. My other senses left behind. Visually into an unreal experience. Magically drawn to the edge of the earth. A midwife to this new day. A witness to the unexplainable. The lucky innocent allowed to view. Be a part of. This new dawn.

My emotions are strong. I leave the experience feeling energized. I prepare for the mundane. I work. I pretend my business is meaningful. I smile and enjoy. Yet. The magic of the morning. Lingers. I wish to tell others. Share my experience. But words fail. The rules do not apply. Make no sense. Don’t belong.

So I begin by tossing out a rule. Maybe two. My written words. Mirror my thoughts. Short. Fleeting. Hard to grasp. Concise. I struggle with words. Search. Ponder. Reject. But, such it is. I remember. A youthful line. Scrawled late at night… – Words. Like birds. Fly past my mind’s eye. I grasp. Only feathers. –

Why the writing? I ponder often. The emotion. The experiences. All valuable. Sought. Pursued. Relentlessly. Fill the cup of life. Drink it down. Fill it again. I understand. But the writing. The words. Often leave me perplexed. Who do I write for? Why do I feel the need? The urge. Demand? To articulate. To share.

Is it natural? An aberration? Not all write. Everyone. Not a writer. How many share my dawn? The cold drizzle? How many are drawn from warm beds? Woken by rain? Enticed out of doors?  By the flame of the new day. To stand on the hill side. Entranced by the magnificence of the common place.

Is it the common place I see alone? As magnificent. Is it that the world outside my tropical paradise has become devoid of magic? Does magic exist in the suburban jungle? Does modern man still possess his link with that which is magical? Does magic live in suits? Is magic fertilized by a large income?

I grew up knowing magic was real. Magic was a part of life. I grew up knowing that words were very magical. The parish priest made magic. His words were strong. Old folks made magic. Their words held wisdom. Experience. I grew up in an old fashioned way. Knowing that words were important. Valuable. Dangerous.

Every year. The magic began in the spring. The air still crisp. We’d till the fresh soil. The soil just woken from slumber. Potatoes planted on ash wednesday. Tomatoes sprouted in waxed paper cartons. Ready by May first. Almanacs consulted. The written word. Magically assisting. Directing our toils. Sweating. Preparing for. Another year of existence.

The garden would grow. Magically. Through the summer. Squash. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Potatoes. Beans. Peppers. Eggplants. Sweet corn. Beets. Radishes. Carrots. Horseradish. Onions. We tended. With care. With love. With devotion. The Almanac consulted. Time and again. It’s magic sought. Demanded. By the growing garden. By the tending hands. The written word. Did guide. Our endeavors.

The harvest began early. Sour rhubarb eaten too soon. Dipped in a bowl of sugar. Stolen from the kitchen. Young, tender sweet corn. Still green with youth. Munched fresh. Spring potatoes. Small, round, covered in dirt. Eaten apple-like. Sweet spring onions. Dug fresh. Rubbed on dirty sleeves. Eaten whole. The magic exploding in your mouth.

The magic began early. Lasted all summer. Each day. Each moment of magic. A part of the garden. Each vegetable. Fruit. Pair of hands. A part of the magic. The stormy June days. Thunder storms. Lighting. The placid July mornings. Dew covered. Crystalline. The sweltering August nights. Sweat soaked. Stifling. Each day remembered. Nurtured. Tended.

The garden became each moment. Each day. Recorded. By the garden. As it aged. Matured. Became the garden. As it changed. Turned brittle. Waiting. Soon. The first frost. The harvest begins. Baskets full. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Squash. Potatoes. Beans. Peppers. Eggplants. Sweet corn. Beets. Radishes. Carrots. Horseradish. Onions. Apples. Pears. Peaches. Plums. Strawberries. Rhubarb. Grapes. Blackberries.

That’s when real magic happened. Each day. April, May, June, July, August… Waiting to be stored. Preserved. Boxes and boxes of mason jars. Carried from the root cellar. Washed. Boiled. Lovingly prepared. Holy receptacles. Cleansed. Ritualistically. Ancient rites. Handed down. Taught with strict discipline. Everyone working. Everyone cooperating. A part of. One with. The magic.

Empty shelves. In the dark root cellar. Dusted. Cleaned. Barren. Waiting for this year’s magic. Rows of glistening jars. Pickles sweat. Pickles dill. Jams of yellow, red, black. Tomato juice. Tomato sauce. Tomatoes whole. Beans. Corn. Beets. Each jar dusted. Date written on top. Lining the shelves. Reflecting the single bulb. A rainbow of color.

A rainbow of magic. Preserved in glass jars. Waiting to be opened: December. Peach jam. Fresh bread. A taste of June… The thunderstorm that blew the old windmill down. January. Buttered sweat corn… Still wearing the dew drops of July. February. A bowl of beets… Fresh with the sweltering August nights. Musty with heated loam.

The magic was real. Cyclical. Tangible. Edible. Words fail to bring to life. Fail to offer adequate construction for an image so diverse. So intense. Fail to allow the transfer of emotion. Fail to lend a sense of being there. Having shared. Experienced. Been a part of. The emotion. That was real. Savored. Magically recorded.

Yet I plod on. My words come in streams. I spend too much time wondering why. I know this to be a flaw. A flaw of indecision. A flaw of excuse. Perhaps I shall convince myself that I can live without the words. No need to articulate the emotion. Share the experience. Record the magic.

But I doubt it all to hell. The words bubble and boil. Ferment. Emit gaseous belches. Along with perfumed memories. Words push and prod me. The need, demand to articulate my experiences. To turn my emotions into something understandable. I know… – Words. Like birds. Fly past my mind’s eye. I grasp. Only feathers. –