07 May

Harry, my muse, was in pout mode.  I could tell by the mumbling coming from the other room and by the artwork he had been painting on my walls throughout  the house.  Big eyed children lost in tears, old dogs laying in pain and once lovely towns destroyed by whatever came to his mind, fire, flood or just tornado.    Harry had stopped speaking to me when just last week I had sat before my computer screen and ignored all the suggestions that he was whispering in my ear.  “Don’t want to write about that…Un-uh, that either…nope, not that subject”… and round and round we went.  Things were either too depressing or too off the wall or just, well they just didn’t feel right.

Harry, God love him, with his gnat patience (zip, nadda, big O) could only take so much, and with the lack of prompts out there to spark my imagination, he rapidly moved from  anger at my lack of cooperation to being frustrated and depressed about my lack of motivation.  Thus he went into his pout mode which consisted of creatively making me feel worse than I already did by painting murals  and taking up all the white space he could find, to include  a really funky bombed out house on the refrigerator door, which I had to  try and ignore every time I got a glass of iced tea.  Harry when depressed, like to bring everyone down with him.

His art reflected his soul  so deeply that each and every room I entered was a stark reminder that he was out there waiting for an apology.  Giant groveling  would be necessary to get him to come around ( we had been down this path before) and since washing the walls was starting to grow tiresome I figured it was probably time to get him off my back.

Now since groveling was not a specialty of mine, I knew that I would have to put on my “woe” face and act the part of a frustrated writer desperate for help to get back on track (all true) .   Fresh from the shower in my jeans and t-shirt,  I made a  pot of coffee ( Harry loved the smell ), poured a giant cup and headed to the computer.   The screen lit up casting shadows down the hallway, which I knew would attract Harry’s attention.  He was such a sucker for the written word plus he loved computers, the fact that those that wrote with them never had to pull feathers to make new quill pens nor refill empty ink pots, before getting down to business, he thought was way great.  (Yes, Harry had been around  A..Long..Time..)

I sat staring at the screen and I could sense him come up behind me and feel the light breath on the back of my neck as he just waited.   “You know it’s been a really tough couple of weeks.  I appreciate you hanging in there while I sorted thru some stuff”, I whispered and counted the beats of my heart waiting for some response.   “I could feel your sadness in your murals..especially the house in ruins on the fridge…it felt tired and worn but with its powerful essence still lingering.  I knew it could be woven into a tale worthwhile………..Help me…please?”

I felt the tear land on my shoulder and knew I was forgiven when suddenly on the screen, before my eyes stood the house so lovingly painted on my fridge, it’s image a sure reminder that from out of the ashes there are always possibilities.

Weekend Canvas:  Thinking Ten


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