Picture this

Picture this, an 11 year old, shy blond girl at a summer camp she was excited to do. Sweatered and skinny, she thought it might be a little cold yet for hiking this morning. It was a camp put on by her school to give kids opportunities who might not otherwise have them and not far from home.

After breakfast, the assignment was to hike with the group having a pencil and notebook in hand. It was a writing camp so that’s not too weird a request.  As a mountain flower field craggled with rocks and grass opened to view, its sun baked warmth invited her. 

We were each handed an orange as we stepped into the sun. With a puzzled look in frustration I was thinking, ‘This won’t sustain me. I mean hiking is arduous work.’  Actually I didn’t think arduous, I didn’t yet possess that word, but doesn’t it sound literary here?!

Instead of continuing to hike, we were told to spread out, and find a place to sit and get inspired. We were to write something in our notebook before returning to camp. The instructions were very purposefully simple and open to personal interpretation. 

Interestingly enough, we could individually return to camp once we had something of which we were proud. At that evening's campfire we would be sharing our written masterpiece. It was the norm.

I watched as the counselor sat where she was in the shade and began to read a book she’d brought with her. In the still crisp morning air, the warm surface of a sunlit rocks beckoned me. I found my place near the trees but still sun filled, in the upper back corner of the field.

I preferred being away from center stage and the chatter that was already starting. I liked chatter just fine, but wasn’t in the mood this morning for unknown reasons. I just wanted to be in my own juices and stew a bit.

We now knew we would be there for a while.  We were to find and use some inspiration to write something. Yeah, it really was an open-ended assignment and I started getting lost in the mechanics of what form of writing I would be using; poem, article, essay, short story…

And with no luck picking a method in the moment; I turned to look out into nature to find some form of inspiring something; a hawk, a 4 leaf clover, a beautiful bouncing bunny rabbit, sunbeams dancing…

I was at a loss. I didn’t feel inspired by the environment, pretty and pleasant as it was. And, I already knew my writing moments were sole encounters with myself, I didn’t write my writing in a group.

I had a friend at the camp who only wrote in a group. I wondered if she never actually did the writing because I didn’t know how to except while alone. We were allowed a lot of leeway here and I felt rather un directed in my endeavor. 

My attention turned to the group writing together in a clearing; chatting, sharing, seemingly actually writing something at the moment. I looked out at the other kids and where they had each placed themselves; some looked engaged, others daydreaming.

I turned around to look into the woods behind me and pondered what ferocious animal was nearby ready to pounce on me. I re-positioned myself on my rock so as to see into the trees and part of the field together at the same time.

My orange tumbled to the ground. As I bent down to retrieve it, I changed my position again to my stomach. After I scooped up my orange, now a bit warm from the sunlight, I put it into a shadowed recess of the rock.

I peered down at the ground near my rock seeing smaller pebbles and grass sheaths poking about and frittering around in the breezy morning. I saw a potato bug scurrying, then balling up. A ladybug landed on a grass blade and ants were carrying something to their nearby home.

I sat back up still searching for my inspiration. I bathed my face in the sun, feeling warm rays settle into my skin, painting me pink I’m sure. Yeah, it didn’t take much to give me the sun kissed look. Still, inspiration eluded me.

I took out my orange, thinking; maybe I will just eat this now while I wait to be inspired. I grabbed it.  I didn’t have one of the pretty perfect ones. I didn’t think to get one of the big, good, plump ones.

Mine had criss cross scratches like it had been swiped by that bear I was still watching for. It had lines and bumps, seemed dented even. Ha, I could almost see my name's first letter in the scratches.

It looked like one of the scratches punctured it and that part had turned into a black mark. I knew where my heart was now. It wasn’t in the picture perfect beautiful inspiring view. it was in the normal, not quite artistic orange.

With lines and dents

And bumps and lumps

The forms of letters are taken

A black spot here

A brown patch there

And 2 belly buttons.