1. Tollie's Garden Pt.1


    Date: 3/15/2016, Categories: Love Stories, Author: Sisyphus, Rating: 6, Source: LushStories

    flounder in their lives.” He stopped and took a sip of wine and I could see how passionate he was about the topic. He seemed disturbed and continued. “They drink, get high and have huge debts from college loans. Some find out what they like, but most choose something that will help them get a job, but they don’t love it—maybe some do but, like I said, most don’t. Most people are bored, I think. I remember a line from Thoreau’s Walden , ‘the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.’ It’s really tragic.” “You went to college,” I said, “and my mom said you were working on your PhD and then dropped out—why did you do that?” “Because I knew what I wanted to do. I knew I was a poet and it wasn’t a choice. It’s hard to explain—I mean, you can choose to do something like be a doctor or lawyer or whatever, but you are chosen to be a poet. It’s a gift and a tremendous responsibility. I found that I wanted to share what was intimate and secret and I felt, I mean, really believed, that what I had to say was important and I had to say it. I didn’t have a choice. I just knew I was a poet—it’s as simple as that.” “But you said you never published anything.” “I know. But when you’re a poet you have to forget that you are a poet and just write poetry. Getting published isn’t that important. The reason you are a poet is to write poetry and hope it will be found, discovered, like finding a treasure without looking for it. You don’t advertise yourself.” “But you spend so much time ...
    gardening,” I said. “Well, yes. I love to garden and it’s not that different from poetry and I have to eat—so gardening and poetry go together. It feels so natural and I learn so much from the garden. ” We finished eating and he poured me a little more wine, emptying the bottle. We sipped the wine, both of us sitting back while he looked at me. We were quiet for a few minutes, and I was trying to absorb all that he had said, fascinated by his words, how he thought and how he lived. “But don’t you need money?” I asked, still wondering about how he lived. “Not much—it all depends. Like your mom, my grandfather died and left me some money—not a lot but enough—and my mom and dad still live at Rainbow’s End. Maybe I’ll go back there one day, but I was lucky to inherit some money and I don’t need much. I believe I'm here to write poetry and stories and that’s what I do. I’m blessed and feel grateful. I really appreciate how lucky I am to have found this place and to be able to write and garden. I couldn’t be happier.” I looked over at his notebook sitting on his manuscript next to the lamp on the small table. “I saw you writing today, you looked so engrossed, like nothing else existed. What were you writing?” He chuckled and glanced over at the notebook then back at me. “I was working on a new poem. I’ll read you a few lines—not the whole poem—I’m still working on it, but it’s almost finished and I’d like you to hear it. Thanks for asking.” He smiled at me and went over to the small table ...
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