Sometimes, in the very mundane chores of my life, something will strike me as worthy of putting pen to paper. Usually, this will take form as a journal entry or a quick jot in my "ideas" notebook.Today, I thought it would best serve me as a writing prompt, something I could tell my own experience of, but as a narrator.
I've been reading Anna Karenina, so there is, perhaps, a hint of Tolstoy's flavoring influence in this ...
In the morning, she came upon a pot in which she had planted spinach, she thought, and promptly forgot about it until this day, more than a month later. Spinach was not to be seen anywhere. Instead, a mess of tall grasses, sturdy leafy greens which she could not identify, and a young — was it really? - nettle, of all things.
Having been settled into city life for several years, she could not recall the last time she had seen the delicate but fierce nettle, nor where this one may have come from, having found its home nestled in a pot on her urban balcony.
Her childhood was full of nettle experiences. And when the young nettle leaf brushed her arm and kissed her with its sting, a familiar memory of that very feeling warmed over her and a smile crinkled at her lips.
How many times had she felt that crackling, almost electrical, sensation on her skin as a child? Countless, to be sure. She longed for her childhood at that moment, for the time spent free in the wilderness, not yet saddled with such struggles between spinach and weeds, only the wide eyed wonder at such a plant as the nettle - a small danger lurking in the midst of those roaming summer days.
Two small, perfectly round and whitened bumps began mounding on her skin as though they were lily pads in a blushing red swamp, as if to confirm her identification of this species. There could be no doubting now. The sting subsided and she proceeded to pull at the tall grasses and unidentifiable leafy greens and, finally, the nettle, taking care to glove her hands. She had special plans for this nettle, indeed.
As the pot was emptied, two small spinach plants became apparent, still so tiny, dwarfed by bullying weeds and her own neglect. She watered them carefully and walked into her apartment carrying her prize, her childhood, in her hand.
She started a kettle for tea.
I also thought about combing through Istagram to see if I can find a prompt there. Do you write? How do you exercise your writing muscles?