Writing, a Rose Flavored Coffee, and the Return of Pumpkins

     
         Blank pages thrill me, send a chill down my pictorial spine. I am enthralled by the words hidden there, the sentences, letters, phrases just waiting to illuminate themselves on the crisp, white pages. There is a mystery, a monster even, hidden with the margins of every journal, of every three ringed notebook, every Word document, every piece of parchment that has ever been devised. These mysteries are longing to be solved, these monsters awaiting their escape, waiting to be unleashed on the world of the ordinary where they become masters of chaos and inception. There is a beauty in the fluctuation of words from the mouth, and an even greater allurement when they come from the pen. It is this process of creating something out of nothing that captivates my mind and sends it free falling into a vast space where only words exist. Words and pictures. When I am writing a book, I first picture each scene in my head and then the words follow suit, like a proverbial vomit. My mind heaves out each word, very much like a stomach during flu season. But I love it. It is an incurable malady- if it can be called such. Perhaps malady is not the correct word. A blessing? A privilege? I find it ironic that there are no adequate words to describe writing. Ahh wait, I believe I have captured its essence. Adventure. Writing is an adventure, one in which I can write my own fate, my own destiny... but it is also a mystery. Enough of this talk, I could go on for a century about the effects writing has on me. But I suppose that could become quite dull.

      Yesterday I took a ferry to Vashon island. Now that sounds so quaint to me. Just the image in my head is one of rustic perfection. But of course, ferries these days are far from rustic. Or perfect. They are noisy, crowded, dirty things... but still I become so excited when I am on one. When the vessel first begins its crossing and pushes off deep into the waters of the sound, my heart beats faster and my mind tricks itself into believing that an adventure is close at hand. In any case, yesterday I took the ferry to Vashon island to watch my special gentleman's brother compete in a cross country meet. Vashon island is a quaint, little hovel of a town (slightly larger than a hovel but I do enjoy that word so I used it) no longer than ten miles in length. It is home to festivals, aquatic life, and a darling little coffee shop/ tea store called the Vashon Island Coffee Roasterie. I must admit that coffee has been on my mind as of late. The change in the weather has ensured this, as has the vibrant colors of Autumn that are beginning to peek out from beneath summer's cover. Normally I pay a visit to Starbucks for the infamous pumpkin spice latte, but the break we had between events did not permit an extensive search of the island, so we stopped in at said roasterie. This was no issue in my mind, since I am a vintage soul and I do love to visit local shops, especially shops as quaint as this one promised to be. Upon entrance, my nose was assailed by the smell of teas. (Assailed being meant in the most pleasant way possible). There were shelves upon shelves stacked high with glass jars filled with loose leaf tea with exotic names such as "African Green Leaf Tea." There was also, to my keen delight, an assortment of gluten free items. I settled upon a wheat less brownie made with local honey and walnuts. It looked simply delectable. Upon selecting my beverage, I chose to get a "rose mocha." I had to ask the barista what exactly a rose mocha was and she answered me in a matter of fact sort of tone that it was a mocha flavored with rose syrup. Well my adventurous, antiquated spirit just couldn't refuse so five minutes later I was sipping on the best cup of coffee I had ever tasted in my life. In all honesty, my taste-buds have yet to fully recover. It was just one of those, fun, little moments when you are so happy to be alive. It is true, I would rather have been somewhere in the deep jungles of Africa fighting off some tribe of war lords, rescuing children, or scaling the peaks of some snow-capped monolith, but in those moments, with a great man beside me, a rose flavored coffee in my hand, and the rain beginning to fall like a gentle caress- I was truly content. Oh, and the young lad, whose meet was the reason I was on the island in the first place, took first place overall. It was a proud moment for his family and also for me, for I admire determination and hard work above many other things, and such traits are things he possesses in excess. It was a delightful day, and a welcome change from the hermit like existence I feel I have been living these past few months. I write this all now as I am cozy in a leather arm chair, a skirt of burnt amber around my hips, a sweater donning my upper half, and rain boots the color of yellow traffic lights gracing my feet. I am awaiting the presence of two special friends, with an anticipation that could be rivaled only by the greatest of news. We are leaving shortly hereafter to frolic about a pumpkin patch, and by frolic I mean no understatement of the word. I am deeply enchanted by pumpkins. There is something so arcadian, so provincial about them... I hardly know how to describe it. They are the very essence of Autumn, and radiate a warm, agrarian feel.

      “...dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field...” -John Geddes, A Familiar Rain