Writing Exercise

I'm in way too many writing groups, behind in all of them, reminded of how badly I want to write- and how I never seem to find the time. I have essays bubbling over in my head, with the words swimming against the current of life's constant occupation with the banal-- a few words have the stamina and weightiness in my mind to string themselves into sentences that yank themselves into existence- making their way thru my fingers toward the page. It's kind of sad- so I have little to share as of yet, but I thought I'd include a small writing exercise I did in one of my writing groups.

The exercise was to draw from a list of trees or animals (I chose trees), and write about yourself "When I was a young child, I was a (blank) tree...," "When I was a teenager, I was a (blank) tree...," and "By the time I reached my twenties, I had become a (blank)...."

I think we wrote this in five to ten minutes, so it's very rough. But I want to keep this blog active, so I'm going to cull from all corners of my life- including haphazard stream-of-consciousness jottings. So here we go.

* * * * *

When I was a young child, I was a birch tree. Just like a birch, I had supple limbs, boughs that bent like they would snap. They never did. Resourceful, I supplied myself from myself. My skin was paper. I began to write. It was fun playing with the wind.

When I was a teenager, I was a maple tree. Maple trees are temptestuous with the seasons, and many times over these years I would change colors, especially when the cold set in. My cheeks flushed crimson, knowing the turning hand of earth and those not yet men. Uncorrupted, I still trickled a sweetness, my laugh like syrup.

By the time I reached my twenties, I had become a fern- closer to earth, less conspicuous, a soft lining for the forest floor. I don't have a trunk anymore, I am made of less, spread out more, travel, remain rooted lightly. I lap up the light in all directions. I leave less of a trace. I am one who always seems to know which way the water goes.