I wonder sometimes whether I could ever write fiction. My sense is perhaps not--I have very little sense of plot. I don't think in terms of plot; I am not drawn to notice potential plots. But little scenes. Vignettes and still-lifes. I could collect those, I think. I would like to write by candlelight even if I learn to see by searchlight.
I wonder sometimes whether I might ever be able to grow anything. I love the idea of growing things; of plunging clean fingers into rich dirt and planting seeds, rooting out weeds, clearing away dead and dying things so that living things can flourish. I could wear a wonderfully unflattering, floppy hat while I bend low to the ground, nearly crawling.
I wonder, too, whether I might ever have the privilege of caring for someone. Not about, but for. I mean the work of caring (though it sounds cold and transactional to put it that way). Might I get to feed or clothe or soothe someone I love? Who would I be that I could do such things?
I wonder if I will find, one day, that I have grown into my remotest extremities. Will I stretch myself so that my timid little soul fills my fingertips and my toes? Will I sing myself through the top of my head? Will I become radiant with heat and flame?
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