Goldilocks Meets T.S. Eliot

I try to pay attention. Truly, I do. Still, I’m constantly searching for my car keys. It slips my mind that I should stop at the grocery for milk, or swing by the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions. Occasionally, I neglect to feed the cat until she nudges at my foot, murmuring her complaint. Computer passwords dissolve into the ether, along with the names of former school chums, padlock combinations and the phone number of my favorite aunt. 

People who understand such things tell me this everyday-forgetting is unremarkable.  A little more age here, a few more-interesting things to ponder there, and the mind wanders off, unconcerned with milk, kitties or keys.

Over time, I’d even forgotten my promise to some blogging friends that I would tell them the story of the beginnings of The Task at Hand - specifically, how it received its title and tagline. Being a Janus-faced month, a time for pondering the past as well as looking toward the future, January seems as good a time as any to recount the story of those first, halting steps onto the path called “writing”.

Godot, Meet Godette

 

Very little satisfies more completely than closing the cover on a well-told tale.  Breathing out a sigh and gazing into the middle distance while unmade beds and untended gardens begin to re-stake their necessary claims, we linger for a moment at the threshhold of our half-remembered lives, not quite willing to close the door on the vibrant, constructed world we leave behind, happy to have discovered all the pleasures of diversion, insight or beauty it had to offer. 

The adventures of Godot, my self-effacing little cactus with the phenomenal blooms, was such a story.  As I set aside his chronicle,  I was content.  The drama of his rescue, his determination against all odds to bloom and the glory of his flowering seemed to have satisfied him as much as they did me.  As his blossoms faded and fell, he didn’t fuss or complain but re-dedicated himself to growing quietly in his corner.  Life went on, as life does, and all was at peace on the porch. 

 

 At peace, that is, until one of Godot’s neighbors, a taller, columnar cactus with a shape resembling a starfruit, began to grow restless.  She’d always been a bloomer, putting out pairs or triplets of lovely, small yellow blossoms several times a year.  Like Godot, she kept her blooms for only a few hours, but she set flowers with such regularity it was easy to overlook her efforts. Most of the time, I gave her no more than a cursory glance.  If I missed one set of blossoms, another arrived soon enough.  There wasn’t much surprise with this cactus. Neither dramatic nor spectacular, she was steady and dependable.  She could be counted on to produce.