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Tiny Essay: It’s simple, she said.

Sitting on a bench in my favorite tiny woods, I heard the twigs crack in an uneven rhythm and expected to see a chipmunk hop and scurry past. Instead, I turned into a gaze of intention, steady and unwavering, which made me question my intentions. I was used to being the one who watches to determine when it might be safe to stay, or to go. I barely took a breath, moving with caution to snap a photo of her in the wild. I wondered if this would break her focus. But she was direct, she would not be moved. Not by fear or by doubt or by question. Not until she so desired. I admired such character and her willingness to sit with me in my own moment of doubt. I had questions for her then, but her eyes fluttered as if to say, This isn’t the time. It’s simple trust. Her expression relaxed, and so did I.

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Tiny Essay: Fruit on the Vine

raspberry fruit on the vine, one nicely ripened redAt first weedy and full of needles unseen, it’s easy to mistake the raspberry bush for a nuisance, the way it pushes through the neighbor’s fence uninvited and spreads woody roots across your tiny garden space, shading the basil, threatening to overpower the tomatoes. The tomatoes fight back though with their own wild smell and sinewy vines. Still, the bush remains a source of contention, cut down almost in full last spring. It came back stronger, offering promise underneath its leaves regardless. I poke at the plant now, curious and amazed at its resilience, pick the berries one by one, imagine all they might become: buttermilk scones, ice cream toppings, dressed-up granola. Something offered; something shared. A peacemaker, this fruit on the vine.

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Tiny Essay, tiny prompt

The following tiny essay and prompt is part of a working collection entitled just that: Tiny Essays, tiny prompts. If you love writing in short form like I do, and you’re up for a few weeks of learning and exercise (pen to paper, fingers to the keyboard), register for the next online course, Flash Nonfiction I: An Introduction. Seats are filling fast, and the course begins on January 7th!

Sacrilegious

I pulled out my notebook and pen in the middle of church, when I should have been singing or meditating on the Gospel, because something struck me that needed to be written down. Sure, I felt guilty. Profane. But I wrote pensive, as if I was simply taking note of the hymn number (which one time I was), so that I might return to the verses later and ask for forgiveness.

The Prompt: guilty