This morning I had the opportunity to give her method a try. Another friend had spent the night en route between longish bus trips. From tulips in full bloom to a forest that still has patches of snow where her dog loves to roll. Over breakfast we talked about the why's and wherefore's of writing fiction. The use of Latinate versus Anglo-Saxon vocab. Working within a point of view. I paraphrased my favourite lines from Rilke. Don't tell the angel about your grand emotions and schemes. You can't impress him. He lives in the cosmos. Describe a yellow flower, a jug, an olive tree. She paraphrased Katherine Mansfield. Write about the squeak of the laundry basket. (In both cases, as I said, a paraphrase, and I've now paraphrased what I recall her saying.)
After I walked her to the subway, I decided to keep walking to the market where I had a decaf espresso and a chausson aux pommes. Buttery flake pastry filled with tart apples.
I walked the long way home along the canal. Dandelions and poplars. The stretched elastic band call of the Redwing Blackbirds. Cyclists. Joggers. A group of moms with newborns in strollers being marshalled by a manic exercise sergeant shouting, Knee bends! Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq! Arms over your head! Twist to the right! To the left!
The morning felt happy. Talking about writing at 8 am. Getting out for a good walk. I may have to try this again... though probably not with a chausson every day or I'll have to seek the services of the manic exercise woman.