How you do anything is how you do everything

How you do anything is how you do everything,

so in my case,
distractedly. 

I started this poem two days ago,
got sidetracked
by my brain,
forever diverging from the task at hand,

or maybe my hand
just set the pencil God knows where,
reached for a snack or
hovered brainless
over the rocks that line my windowsill.

I am holding one now.
It isn’t sure
what to make of itself.
From a distance, it is charcoal
with a few white flecks
stuck to its surface like
marshmallow fluff,

but held close, it is all
aberration. It is bits of chocolate and
crumbled graham, and maybe you see
what I’m dealing with here—
I wanted to tell you about 
flickers and smoke,

how my brain can’t look 
at any one thing for long before
I need to blink
or move
or light something on fire.
I wanted to tell you about 
distraction. Instead,
I am licking my lips,
stroking a stone. 

The Prompt

My desk is covered with dozens of rocks, a few acorns, and a handful of shells, including one from a snail. Also books, papers, pencils, and a rapidly growing aloe plant, threatening to push us all to the floor. I’m not especially tidy, in case you’re wondering. If I were one of those super organized left brain types, maybe I would find it interesting to tally the items on my desk. In any case, there’s little doubt that rocks outnumber the other desk dwellers by a substantial margin.

I reach for them reflexively when I am reading or writing or stressed or bored. Most of the above poem was written with my right hand, while I held a stone in my left. And that’s my weird invitation to you today: hold a rock in one hand, write a poem with the other. Like for real. If you have a rock in your house already, great! If not, take a stroll and find one, or borrow a stone from a neighbor or friend. (I’d love to hear how you explain that particular request!)

Spend a little time getting to know your rock before you begin writing—before you even wonder what to write about. Just feel its weight in your palm. Notice its temperature and texture. Wonder about its story—how old it is, where it has been, and what it has endured. If the rock tells you to do something that is within the bounds of your personal moral code and the laws of the land, then listen. You might, for example, hold it over your heart or toss it from hand to hand or, I don’t know, lick it? Be a little silly if you’d like. Chat with the rock. Tell it a secret.

When you’re ready, let the rock rest in one hand (or perhaps on your knee if you insist on typing with two hands) and begin to write. You don’t need to write a poem about a rock—and you don’t need to write a poem not about a rock. Just start with whatever comes up, and see where it takes you. I mean, I subjected you to a poem about my covert yearning for s’mores, so I’d say anything goes.

I am so looking forward to reading what you share! And even if you aren’t up to sharing a poem of your own, I encourage you to check out the comments thread. There is such humor, intelligence, kindness, and utter gorgeousness there. You may just find another poet or two whom you’d like to follow!