notebook, writing, and home

a meditation on synonyms

There is a reasonably large, rectangular plot of farming land next to my family’s home in southern India. I am a fairly frequent visitor, and I have seen the grounds when they are empty, sometimes waiting out a season, and when they are covered with banana plants. Right now, the plants look nearly fully grown, a closely-packed, emerald green banana orchard brushing up against the wall that runs next to the house. My gaze is drawn to the plants repeatedly, sometimes comparing their silhouette to the more distant line of taller palm trees, but, more often, I am hypnotized by the plants themselves. I can see them above the wall, their leaves seeming to wave hello throughout the day. Their greenness seems to rise up from them like vapor, shimmering, iridescent waves in the hot, humid summer air. Such is the power of the color, their presence, that some of waves enter, stay inside of me, a euphoriant, intoxicating me even after I have turned away. The grown banana plants, too, feel like visitors, not always here, another reason for the bond I sense with them.

I bought new notebooks, with pretty, fabric covers, and smooth Gelly Roll pens (even the name makes me happy) in different colors, to record my interactions with the banana plants: the time of day, how they looked, what they seemed to say, their sway, the tumultuous feelings that rose and crashed within me, and how I had to turn away to catch my breath, especially if I stared at them for a little too long. I wrote about the time I paused mid-conversation, glancing at the rows of nodding leaves beyond the other person’s shoulders, and imagined being invited to join the plants. How wonderful to wander in the dimly-lit green corridors between them, drunk on community. Another time, a peacock (common in this area) called out loudly. The banana plants giggled, daring me to reply, and I felt a rusty, answering call rise up in my throat. And, today morning, I got up early to crane my head and see if I could catch the sun as it lit up the pale green of the newest, tenderest leaf. I wrote down how the green had a soft texture that I, from 20-40 feet away, could feel in my fingertips.

For years, I have tried to establish a regular writing practice, but my relationship with my writing has been full of intrigue: immense relational pressure, betrayal, separation, followed by an on/off relationship rife with abandonment and trust issues. It is only in the last year, forty years after I wrote my first poem, that we, my writing and I, are on a road to reunion. For an equally long time, I had the idea that writing meant sitting down, writing perfect (or, only slightly imperfect) sentences, of writing emerging fully formed, coherent, and with a pre-knowledge of what I was writing towards. But, obviously, that is not how it works. Instead, you run into the banana orchard, and in running like a child and in letting the leaves slap your body in welcome and brotherhood, you repeatedly, briefly, arrive home.

To let myself be pulled towards what draws me, to open a notebook, to write, and to come home are all synonyms.

I’d love to hear from you. Share what came up for you and what words are synonyms for you.

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