In my hands is an old postcard that I bought on e-bay.It arrived in an envelope from Latvia .I hold it and wonder.It has ink stains, a bare spot and wrinkled edges.Who in Latvia was careless with an ink pen ?How old must it be?Is this Russian hut a real place or an artist's imagining? I wish I knew the artist so I could look for other works.Nothing on the back of the card gives away who painted this scene that captivates me so.
I hear the owner tell the story of this poor insignificant place.:
"The terrible war is over and my dreaming of this place saved me.Staggering across the soft black earth, I head for the open door.It is all so familiar, this white washed thatched hut, this spare,small place like a lodestar tucked in my memory. The hollyhocks look like tall sentinels with blood red hearts attached.I watched the swaying weeping willow when I first crested the hill.Willow weep for me, I have missed you so.To find you still here brings tears cascading down my cheeks.Still here !
The old fence that carried the stunning blue morning glory vine is leaning a bit but still standing.Morning glories, did you hold it up for me? How many times did I collect the small black seeds that looked like tiny pieces of coal and put them up for next year.I had to be sure to get out there ahead of the birds.The flowers themselves when unopened were twisted up like tight little hands. You would never guess the startling sky blue color that would appear when they opened..
The small window to the right of the door is where the old blue wooden desk was placed.Uneven but very long, there was room for all the spreading out needed.It is that spot that loomed in my mind while I was gone, the place of writing stories.Of digging around the roots of my life to find what is real, true and worthy.Who are you to think that you can write? I, you and I, have a story, our story, that no one else can write and if it is true and real it will be worthy.
When you love the very idea of that desk, those black medium point pens, those tumbling words:when the crinkle of the paper as you open a Goodwill journal, with a note from the giver tucked in the back, causes excitement in your soul, you are a writer.
"Why should we use our creative power?Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate...because the best way to know Truth and Beauty is to try to express it.And what is the purpose of existence, Here or Yonder, but to discover truth and beauty and to express it."
Brenda Ueland.
