Summer comes to a close; in a disarray of virtual documents that will eventually be strung into something not quite as disconnected as now, I write fervently.
The novel, which I've been talking about far too much since I gave myself permission to, figuratively tells the story of a commiserative culture of encouragement through the eyes of three sisters(or rather two) that are terribly innocent in their own ways, yet feverishly corrupted by the fear and the world around them. They began to lose themselves and each other along the way, and suddenly, there are nothing but gestures in their midst, gestures that are meaningless shells of raw, unapologetic communication. The glory of the story, however, is that they find so much of themselves along the way, and find, therein, that they are so much more than they could have ever imagined.
I smiled at the thought of the picture as we drove home.
Recently(and Beth knows this) I've been shopping for a camera. I glanced at Sonys, then Canons, then Nikons. Somewhere there, it lay, another gleaming orange butterfly that was so much more detailed than mine. I felt exasperation first.
But, had he, the professional photographer, leaned in so close as I had in the moment he'd snapped the shot? Had he observed the twitching of the creature's feet as is kissed the flower, delicately?
There are so many ways, but behind each, there is a story. We are all, in this world, a community of feelings that are indescribably linked, but we are all so different. When it comes to outlines, no matter how deep they lie, there is always something within, something more. Like rings, on a tree.