I shared this picture with friends and family along with other colorful positive shots. Everyone asked me about this one. They call it negative art. My camera has a setting to make a picture just like the old negatives of film days. I took this picture through long grass looking out on the flooding Columbia River. On my walk today it came to mind. This negative represents life. I mean more than a metaphor. I mean that it's really this way. The most amazing truths usually exist about 180 degrees opposite of my present position. I have lived the positive image all my life only to find truth in its opposite.
For example, one would think that writer's block comes when a writer has nothing to say. Let me suggest just the opposite. I define writer's block as verbal constipation. I really have too much to say, too much on my mind, or too many emotions bottled up inside. I found myself monitoring Facebook with long breaks of staring out the window. “Warning...Warning...Warning.... “ I heard a tilt alarm going off somewhere far back in my mind. I jumped and headed outside in spite of the threatening clouds. I walked about a half block. Scores of ideas came rushing to mind. “Darn it!”
I ran back to the library for my journal and camera. “Duh, Rollie, when will you ever get it? “ I muttered out loud. A coed looked at me in her periphery. They always wonder about the ones that talk to themselves. All morning I felt out of sync. I got one assignment out but struggled with the next. I had a deadline in my mind. I bore down. Get it done. Work! I pressured. My muse walked out of the library. Did I see a tear in her eye? I failed to find her even using the all the powers of Facebook.
I fled the library. I took a picture of a detention pond. Detention ponds collect rain water, filter it, and feed it into the water table rather than direct it into the sewer system which overflows with raw sewage into the river. A professor looked at me funny. How many people do you see taking pictures of detention ponds? I understand.
I really try to act “normal.” However, these days experiencing life on the level that I think God wants me to experience it makes me do “abnormal” things. I lie on the ground to take pictures. I walk into businesses and ask them what they do. I knock on the door of a Hare Krishna house. I interview some angry college students practicing for a demonstration in a park. I talk to a guy holding a sign for money along the highway.
Today, I found myself in an alley a few blocks from the library. Try to find an alley in a new development. Portland still has alleys. I found a magical one. I half expected to find a portal into another world. You know, maybe I did. I know that I came out the other side changed. Walking down the alley, I thought of a student from a creative writing class that I conducted with junior high students. It took me me entire quarter to get them to write. When they finally got it, I cried. It happened on the last day of the class. I kid you not. On the very last day of class they just started writing.
This student, a young angry girl, had a favorite phrase. “This is stupid!” They had an assignment to write a book report from another class. I had the assignment to get them to actually put words on paper. They sat there for weeks. After about five weeks, I really started to sweat. The young lady glared at me. Yes, I know. “This is stupid.” She had read the story of Helen Keller, a blind and mute person with incredible spirit and intelligence.
I grabbed my coat and threw it over the girl's head. “Hey, what are you doing?” She asked. The other students looked at me wide eyed.
“What do you feel?” I asked.
“I feel stupid.” She started to take it off.
“No, leave it on.” I commanded
“Tell me more.”
“I want to take this stupid coat off.”
We went on several more minutes. I made her stop talking. Finally, she ripped the coat off in anger.
“You just experienced what Helen Keller experienced every single day of her life. Now write about it.”
And write she did. She wrote, and wrote, and wrote. She had writer's block caused by emotional constipation. I gave her an emotional laxative. Her writing and the one by my own son made me cry on that last day.
Even now I berate myself. I should be writing that other article. No, I should be writing this one. I should write the inspired one. I should write the one found in the magic alley. I should write the one I felt while walking hand in hand with my muse down an enchanted alley. In this post I know that I have mixed more metaphors than a cement mixer on a highway project. I hope you can pull something out of it.
"Why do you act this way?" I can hear my dad ask. It's not about rebellion or drawing attention to myself. For me, it's about living a full life. I find incredible meaning by looking deep into the eyes of a flower or taking an interest in the business of a guy working in his shop. I find meaning by observing life with all five senses. I find meaning by sharing those observations with you my faithful readers. Every once in awhile someone says to me. Keep writing, Rollie. Thank you. To keep writing, I have to walk a few alleys.
We all walk a journey. God only asks me to smell the flowers, to enjoy Him, and to help some others along the way. He finances the trip and takes care of all the travel plans.
A couple other shots because a word is worth a thousand pictures. No, I said it that way on purpose. I love you reader.