eat the rose

Taped to the wall behind my computer, I have a picture of my daughter stuffing a rose blossom into her mouth when she was not quite a year old. The rose, a gorgeous shell-pink color, belonged to the enormous New Dawn bush we had growing on the side of our Connecticut house.

Until the age of sort-of understandable verbal expression, my daughter had an insatiable oral appetite. Other people's fingers and arms, shoes, furniture, metal railings, stones, plants, insects, in short, anything that didn't run the opposite direction, made the journey into her mouth to be felt, tasted, gummed, chewed, perhaps swallowed, perhaps spit out, in an ecstatic and determined act of discovery. 

I love looking at that picture. There is no hesitation, no second thought, no what if, no jaundiced irony, no cynicism, no worry about disease, propriety, or concern for the future, only a laser focus on understanding this thing NOW. 

That is what plays are about. This is what writing, when lost in the craft, is like.

Eat the rose, write on.