Guest post by Ree Augustine
Writing Without Ink
by Ree Augustine
I thought I became a writer,
When I was forty,
Sitting at my kitchen table one morning,
With a pen in my hand.
But over the years,
A memory has never left me.
It happened on an ordinary day,
As I was walking home from a friend’s house.
I was fourteen.
It was dark.
I was alone.
I stopped at the end of a dead-end street. Ahead of me was a field that stretched forever, blending into the bottom of the sky. Broken pieces of corn husks shot up from its dirt. A slight breeze blew translucent clouds over a full moon.
It was so quiet,
It seemed I was the only person in the world.
The air around me,
My body turned silent.
Standing right there,
Wonder filled me.
What was out there in that long-legged field?
How far did that sky reach?
What would happen if I just stepped onto that field,
Turned my back on what I knew,
And followed the field wherever it went?
It was on that day,
I became a writer.
Without a pen.
What does writing without a pen look like?
It looks like a story,
That has not been told.
When a baseball pitcher prepares to throw a ball,
Will the ball make it over the plate?
Will there be a hit?
Will he strike the batter out?
When a worker plans their vacation,
Will there be hills to climb?
Will the countryside be green?
Will who they meet be friendly?
When an artist stands in a meadow,
Will the tall grasses make a good painting?
Will there be enough colors?
Will the painting hang in someone’s home?
When a student raises their hand in class,
Will I be the only one to speak?
Will my words come out right?
Will I shine?
When a girl likes a boy,
Will the boy think she is pretty?
Will he like her?
Will they hold hands?
And just as there is realistic fiction,
In one’s own personal story,
There is fantastic fiction,
In one’s wide imagination.
Imagining as you drive down a wooded road,
There are fairies hiding in the trees.
Imagining the foxes beyond your house,
Are having conversations.
Imagining the town next to yours,
Is housing for ghosts.
While people may never voice these thoughts,
They are there,
In everyone’s minds.
It is these thoughts,
That connect us.
That make us the same.
We are all wonderers,
We are all writers,
Just some without ink.