The time has come, the walrus said

Today's green beans, in a larger bowl than yesterday's (filling the largest mixing bowl we have)

My father the gardener couldn’t believe the bounty I brought in today, the contents of the bowl filled to the top. Especially as I told him that there were more waiting to grow a little more to be harvested. I’m surprised he’s surprised. My mom told me this morning, after I told her that I had barely picked any off of the plants for dinner last night, that I should pick all the biggest ones today and she’d bring half of what I harvested to work tonight, in a green bean and tomato salad. I think her coworkers will like it.

I’ve always thought I couldn’t be a gardener, by virtue of never having tried yet. Always leaving gardening to my dad. (He needs an outlet, after all.) But going out and harvesting these green bean plants—I like it. My dad thought it was funny that we’re going to stuff me with green beans before I leave. I pointed out how serious it was: how I pined for plain steamed green beans in the cafeteria every once in a while. Filling myself with fresh green beans from the garden before leaving again is necessary, really.

I think poetry is an acquired taste. Today I decided to get out of the house. I was sick of inside. I wish I could bike all over town, but instead I took my car to a central area, parked, and went walking for a while. I learn about an area through my feet. After walking I went to Peet’s, ordered a Snow Leopard White Tea (bland, but very bitter if let steep too long), and read my newly-acquired Averno by Louise Glück. All my life I thought I’d never understand poetry. There were too many nuances, too many unspoken things. I couldn’t understand how people could understand poetry. Until my last year of high school, AP English, I had to pick a poet to write a term paper on. I chose Louise Glück because her last name means “good luck” in German, and hoped that would help me get a good grade.

And then things started to stick.

It started with e.e. cummings. In class, we read a few of his poems as an introduction to modern poetry. As we read since feeling is first, I began to understand. Linking grammar with feeling helped me “get it”. I understand grammar. Feeling, that’s the hardship for me.

Then I began reading Louise Glück’s works. I understood more and more. I went back over the poems and found new allusions and metaphors to comprehend. Finally I realized I had to own some of her poetry, and purchased Ararat. I took it to school the year after, and read every once in a while.

I left that book at school this summer.

I realize now that that was a mistake, as time and again this summer I’ve wished to read those pages, to discover new meanings, to relish in the delicate combinations of words. When I found Averno at a store on Friday, I was relieved.

So today I took it with me, and began letting it seep into me: at Peet’s, at a park under the shade of a tree. I savored the words and thought about how much I missed writing: writing columns for the local newspaper, writing articles for the school paper. I was awful at fact gathering, but good at putting it all together. That’s why I won’t go back into news writing: I’m better at calling people and talking to strangers than I was, but I don’t know if I could figure out what facts to find out. I wrote two columns for the local newspaper though. I loved that, even if I rushed through them.

I’ve been told by teachers (and my parents) that I’m a good writer. I always brush it off and choose to disbelieve it: I don’t want to fall victim to hubris. I don’t write enough to be a good writer. For some reason I’ve neglected that path. I never know what to write. It’s hard to write without an audience. Writing-based RPGs I was good at (and sometimes I miss them). Stories for myself to read? Never got ideas for them. But I wish I could. I miss writing sometimes.