Writing hides in the fountain in my courtyard, in the blood-red roses
that snarl and tangle across the wall, in the pepper tree that bears fruit that
explodes across my tongue. In the delicate perfume of the sweet
osmanthus bush, with blooms that fragrance the entire room with their
scent.
I find writing in my lemon tree, whose juicy fruit I suck until the tangy
taste evades my mouth and I pucker up from the sourness.
I find writing in the dirty old corner of gardening tools that no one ever
cleans. In the buckets and mops, tucked away in that corner, left to gather
dust and cobwebs. Forgotten to the world, as a great big yellow spider
spins its web that catches dewdrops like little diamonds in the sun’s rays.
I see writing in the little hummingbird that flits from flower to flower in
the garden, its back a wide array of feathers ranging from crimson red to
cerulean blue. I see it in the way it flaps, twitters, and shoots away like a
bullet, thus becoming a blur in my eyes as it zooms off to another
neighboring garden.
I find writing in fear. I find it whenever I am doubtful enough to
conquer something, something that I know I can do. I put words down on
paper, and through that paper, wafts courage and confidence. Writing
gives me a solace, a place to regroup, gather my fears, and cast them
away.
I find most of my writing in my piano. Every note that blossoms out,
every piece I play is telling a story. That is how I write music. Following a
story’s tone and mood, I transfer it into the music.
I see writing in the old blue sofa, that I spent my entire life lying on,
still there, after twenty years of service to nappers and coach potatoes. It
is filled with stories, filled with an entire history of my family’s explosions
and tranquil moments. I still see the milk stain I burped up twelve years
ago, the scratch my neighbors’ cats made eight years ago. Twenty years of
coincidences, twenty years of havoc. From Iowa, to Texas, to Virginia, and
finally to California.
Writing hides everywhere in my life. It hides where I least expect it, in
the strangest of places. People can find it everywhere; writing is
everywhere. It only hides if you are too afraid to acknowledge it