I don’t know where the cactus was born, but I know where it died.
The small plant, fierce in its smallness, standing sentinel over the surrounding succulents in the home I offered it. Its blistering needles kept danger at bay, but it couldn’t protect from the danger within. It stood in the midst of those other desert plants, in their pot of gold, as their leader, their protector, their friend. And now it is gone. One night standing erect, seemingly full of life, futile life, short, senseless life. The next morning gone. Doubled over, as if in pain, something rotting from the inside out, rotting like the death and sin and decay that consumes us all unseen.
I dug the murdered plant from its earthen home, stabbing my fingers against the still-stinging needles. Perhaps it was a self-reproach, a deserved punishment against the hands that had failed to keep this innocent creature alive. I dug it out, and my heart was dull, in my grief unable to feel the full weight of this tragedy. I dug out the decrepit thing, fingers flaming, and dropped it unceremoniously in the bin of refuse — matter thrown away or rejected as worthless. Oh, my plant, your life was not worthless. Not unless mine is, or the chickens and lizards that roam, or the flies that fly, or the flaming ball of sun that lights our way each day, our way towards the end, towards the eternal bin of refuse.
On that very same day, the day I failed my plant, the day a living creature needlessly died, another came to take its place. This plant would be my redemption. The death of the cactus was my iniquity, the life of the ivy would be my salvation.
The ivy had the appearance of death. Neglected, parched, wilted, weeping, it seemed the life had gone from this creature as well. Must all come to this? Is all a barren wasteland, turning to burning dust in our helpless embrace?
But no, this plant was not yet wasted. Neglected, forlorn, starving, but with a glimmer of hope. And I drenched this plant with water as though I were drenching it with my tears, and I felt my soul being drenched with the life-giving water of hope. Not all is a barren wasteland. We go, all of us, with certainty towards death, but there is the heat of the sun and the cool of water to sustain us in this middling place between birth and death. The journey of the cactus is done. The journey of the ivy is not. The journey of me is not. We will soldier on, the ivy and I.
Elisa
It was Tuesday morning; the second week of school. My daughter had just started kindergarten; my son had a practice day at preschool later that morning. I had managed to get out of bed before the kids. They came tumbling out of their bedrooms while I was drinking coffee. Too early—I hadn’t yet shed the sleep that clung to me like a snakeskin. I gulped my coffee, heaved myself from the couch, wriggled to free myself from that stale, groggy sheath.
I went to raise the window shade over the big window, the living room window that looks out onto the street, the neighborhood, the part of the world I call home. I tugged on the long cord, hand over hand, like a sailor hoisting a sail; the heavy shade inched up, shivering with each pull, reluctantly giving up its view.
The world outside was wrong, incomplete. Someone had forgotten to finish the colors. Just beyond the green of our yard, the palette faded into blankness—whole houses swallowed in mist. Clouds had wearied of the sky and fallen to earth, exhausted, silent, eerie—unmindful of where they’d landed, of the fretful comings and goings that their white bulk obscured. Or else the crevices of the deep had opened and let out excess steam. It had billowed up from some treacherous, unseen cavern. I stood transfixed, gazing at where houses should be; there were dim outlines, shadows. I expected a breeze to come and sweep away the fog; restore my vision; reassure me that the world was still there beyond my front yard. No breeze came. The fog loomed, unchanging.
We walked to my daughter’s school. The air smelled like the humidifier I put in my children’s bedrooms when they have a cough. It was a clean smell. We were damp and cold. The kids skipped—“We’re in a cloud, mommy!” they shouted. The cloud gave us a small circumference of sight. We were in the center of a circle of color, surrounded by emptiness all around. What was in that emptiness? What if we should pass beyond the walls of our circle, and find—nothing? Or all the houses rearranged, the sector of my world gone topsy turvy? The whitish gray nothingness was too close, pressing in. What will I do if the houses have vanished? Will I remember them? Were they ever even there?
We got to the corner where we should see the school, but there was nothing. The sound of children’s voices came to us, muffled, from somewhere we couldn’t see. We walked on and on, for seconds, minutes, a lifetime; nothing took shape, we were alone in a white sea. The shadow of a child ran across our path, and was swallowed into mist. On and on, muffled children’s shouts, the only sound; and a few yards of sidewalk and each other, the only visible things in the universe.
Suddenly there were figures everywhere, little shadowy people, kids running on the soccer field; and behind them, silent and still and massive, the dark brick school building. My daughter squealed and flung herself towards it. She remembered to hug me, then she was running at top speed toward the hazy playground. Her small circumference of sight parted from mine; the mist ingested her. I went with my son back down the sidewalk. At the corner I stood and looked back, staring at the wall of white where the school should be, where a little piece of me was running around inside her own small circle of color, surrounded by emptiness. I stared and stared, but she was gone.
Emily H.
Over the course of the last few days, the air had begun to chill. Every time I stepped outside, wind’s talons clawed at my skin, mocking the sun which could not seem to make its rays stretch out long enough.
It was time, I thought. Time for some fall baking. With a sigh, I reached up to the top cupboard, and fumbled around at the papers shoved inside. There. That one. Carefully, I pulled it down making sure to not give it anymore rips. Oil splats and chocolate smears scared its surface – signs of an overused recipe; I couldn’t help but smile at it sympathetically.
My smile faded like the warm air that once graced my skin. Slowly, I added the ingredients into the mixing bowl. (Still finding myself shocked, even after all the years of making this recipe, at the amount of canola oil used. ONE WHOLE CUP. Sure to give someone a heart attack. Oh well. Isn’t fall a time of death anyway?)
There. The dry ingredients added to the wet. Now for the chocolate chips. By the handful, I sprinkled them in. Delicately they fell upon the batter, not unlike the leaves falling softly on the moist soil outside. Then with the force of the spatula, they took the plunge to the belly of the bowl. Drowned. Swallowed whole just as autumn gobbles up summer.
Spoonful by spoonful, the orange batter was poured out like a drink offering into the awaiting muffin liners sitting in their aluminum graves. Carefully, smoothly, thoughtfully, I slid the muffin tray into the open door of the furnace, and closed it up. Mindlessly, I turned on the oven light and sat like a heap of dead leaves on the floor, staring into the impending doom. I saw it. And I heard it. The batter gurgled up. Bubbles rose, then slowly popped with a tiny, fleeting scream.
The timer beeped, and the children came running like ferocious little beasts ready to eat their kill. The chocolate chip pumpkin spice muffins would meet their final doom.
Emily M.
Some days are doomed to fail before they even start. No matter how much of a boost you get, you just know you’re going to blow it. That was my day. It started out too good to be true, an hour of quiet time, followed by a relaxing shower. Maybe a little too relaxing. My husband, who is usually gone in the mornings, was here to welcome the children into the new day. Let’s be honest, he was here to do the dirty work of telling them to shower and get dressed, which is never received well from me.
Breakfast was too smooth to be true. Packing lunches was only a little smoother than usual, because I still can’t accept that “surprise me,” actually means surprise me and don’t ask me 10 questions about what I want! There was no way we could be late to school with a set up like this, and yet, of course, we were.
The drama ensued as I was heading out the door to the van, right on time. My 4 year old was at the door, wailing and walking suspiciously tense. He had to “POOP!” More accurately had already done so, and hates nothing more than soiled pants. But of course doesn’t hate it enough to prevent it, yet.
“We don’t have time for this!” I said, breezing by him to strap the baby in the van, before impatiently going back in the house to help him. I blew it right there, the perfect morning down the tubes.
After tackling a month worth of cleaning and a week worth of laundry with the youngest two, I let them talk me into a hike, which was how I had really wanted to spend the morning. But it was too late in the morning and, of course, ended in a huge meltdown that took me some time to recover from.
Then tonight I got to go to a very practical talk by Naomi Tutu, Desmond Tutu’s daughter, about healing the wounds of racism. She talked about the importance of seeing the evil that we are all capable of and not assuming we would never….Truth be told, I am not surprised at my own ability to blow anything, like this writing assignment, because I have no idea how to write like Annie Dillard.
Cedar
The challenge: Annie Dillard Challenge!! Describe an ordinary event from your past week, but write about it in the style of Annie Dillard. If you aren’t familiar with the style of Annie Dillard, the formula goes about like this:
- Your emotions are those of a life-and-death experience
- Everything has apocalyptic implications
20 minutes
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