I have a hose bin. It’s a quaint, pretty thing. It was a requested birthday gift, three years ago, something to help the Saint and I maintain our yard. Think of a beige plastic box with a feeder reel, a rod, a lid and a hand crank lever. You hook up the hose to the back, hook that up to your water spigot, and bam–you have a stored hose. Roll, unroll and off you go.
I used to think these watering hose bins were classy things. Instead of having hoses laying in driveways baking in the sun, or shaded underneath awnings like an idly waiting Boa Constrictor, hoses could be contained and camouflaged in garden beds. No more tripping, more more lugging, no more unsightliness. No longer do I entertain such foolish notions. This summer, as I stood shaded by my Japanese Elm tree, I went to war with the hose bin yet again. And I wondered exactly, just exactly, how many times a hose can get stuck and refuse to come out!
When the Saint came home from work, I merely pointed to the hose bin. By this time it was knocked over, dragged across the landscaping rocks and pinned between the front porch corner and an unlucky Holly bush. In my hands, I grasped about four feet of green rubber hose–a hard sought victory, a well earned prize.
My patience had disappeared.
Sometimes writing is like battling a hose. You have this idea, curled up in your brain and you’re trying to drag it out, foot by foot. And then–quite suddenly–a kink happens. Maybe it’s writer’s block, or your laptop freezes, or perhaps you lose motivation for awhile. But the idea is your mind, you know it is–just like the hose is lying inside the bin. And so you coax, you drag, you push and you pull. And maybe you yell in made up languages while apologizing to innocent bushes and passing bees. I know I do.
Like I mentioned in a previous blog, I am a gulper. I don’t like when kinks happen, whatever form they take. I go, I continue, I finish the race–I don’t like stopping. I rip, I tug, I pull, I yell–and I battle on. The hose–the idea–will come out. Because it has to, right?
Just at this moment a young boy is yelling outside, breaking my concentration. My Labrador takes her guard duty seriously and begins her own vocalizing. My meditation music station plays in the background ever so ironically, punctuated by vigorous barking and growls. I look up and see a boy, rolling by on a noisy scooter, scraping against the pavement. The parents with a stroller amble behind.
I grimace inwardly in a pained sort of smile. And I continue to tug.
Music: Relaxing Sleep Music, YellowBrickCinema