re·​fram·ing​​

Chris just wrote a sweet little post about a picture frame (which was promptly followed by another well-worded, stress-relieving and -inducing post about being stuck in a stream). It offers the goal of only taking on a one-inch picture frame's worth of responsibility per creative day. It suggests, quoting Anne Lamott, "all I have to do is to write down as much as I can see through a one-inch picture frame." So let's try this on for size. I'm metaphorically constructing a frame, probably made of cardboard--no, clothespins. These pins are chomping each other's ankles, holding on like tiny Jacobs & Esaus, creating a window to look through. An inch of negative space, the borders and exterior of which are none of my concern at present. All I have to do is peer through and narrate what I see, right?

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I see a riverside. The right edge of the water is hugged and overseen by an imposing, light brown wall. It is wooden and well-made, apparently blocking anything that may fall off the side of the curving, unguarded roadway above. I'm curious why they chose to build a massive wall rather than a simple guardrail. The water is not clean, but it sparkles blue and green like an engagement ring, proud of who and what it is: the protected daughter of a royal guardian. Who needs guardrails when a wooden wall is erected in your honor? "No more will the threat of incoming road bikers or top-heavy minivans threaten my shimmering body," she boasts. The stream curves beyond my sight, beyond the clothespins, and the bank seen on the left is a lush green, Tuck Everlasting and The Hobbit giving a nod. There is no rush, no activity. Here it is, and here it will stay, nature secluded and secured by mankind's intervention.