the fig tree
For writing class, I teach my kids that essays and stories aren't the same as pictures. If you see something beautiful, you can pull out a snazzy new digital camera and take the picture. Then, you can post it online so that everyone can see. As always, they nod their heads politely and wait for me to tell them something they don't already know (my kids are smart, you see).Then, I tell them that sometimes adjectives aren't enough. Is the blue dress just blue, light blue, dark blue, or is it blue as ink or sapphires or the faded sweatshirt you used to love? Would the words "white," "cold," and "round," be enough to describe a snowman to a martian? Don't think so. I think the best I got was "like three asteroids piled on top of each other, then covered with white stardust." This is how they learn about similes and metaphors.
The lesson always ends the same way: I give them a piece of paper and ask them to draw the image I tell them. I say, "Draw me a tree, one with nice broad leaves. It's next to a house that's not too big, just a regular house that's snug and comfortable. In the tree, there's an owl" (which elicits the usual response: "how do you draw an owl?").
Just for a second, imagine that big tree with the owl, next to the not-too-large cozy house.
While they're drawing away, I'm making my own version of the picture to see how close ours turn out in the end. They always draw the same picture: an abstract house with a triangle for the roof, a few windows, door. There'd be some cat or rat-looking bird animal perched on a branch. The tree almost always looks like a cream puff standing on stilts meant to represent the trunk. Sometimes the tree would be to the left of the house, or to the right, some trees bigger than others, and some houses with a garden out front. But in the end, it's all the same.
There's a second half to this lesson, but it's not my place to teach it. Sometimes, I feel so tempted to blurt out that this activity has nothing to do with writing at all--it's things we say to each other. The everyday things: "I love you"...those three words are the owl, the tree, and the house. When I say those words, or when he says them to me, I imagine that we are seeing the same trees and gardens and cars out in the driveway, morning kisses and late-night movies. And our pictures would match, like the curtain panels some kids manage to add.
Still, in the end, the assignment is just three items. Though I've collected more than a dozen of these pictures, and each unique and dear to my heart, they all turn out looking the same. So when I take out my drawing, and I show them to the kids, some laugh with surprise, others squint and stare, but it always manages to catch them offguard.
And I say, "Well, what's the difference between what I see and what you see?"
"You're already inside, looking out at the owl and the tree."
And that would be the end of the lesson, preceded by some comment about the importance of explanation. Still, as most people know, there are some things that go beyond words, where pictures and explanations fall pale and linger awkwardly on the balls of their heels. It's what makes me clutch at the edge of my pathetic little drawing till the edges form grooves against my fingertips.
I want him inside with me. Sometimes, I imagine that lonely little figure that must be in that house I've drawn, looking out and wondering where the owl will fly to next, or how it must sound when the leaves crinkle to the ground. I don't know if we're seeing the same things, or if the word "love" means the same, because there aren't enough adjectives or similes to express what they really mean. I don't know if he can love me the way I want to be loved, but I need to keep on hoping and staring out through those crooked felt-marker windows, and maybe one day I'll feel that familiar palm on my shoulder, and some new bird will have begun to perch.
posted by Tiffany @ 11:54 PM
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