Stopping and smelling the roses really works

A poem and the why behind the poem

I’m pretty sure

the beach roses

behind my house

are telling me,

as the saying goes,

to stop and smell them.

So I do.

Option 2:

Listen to beach roses

when they tell you

to stop and smell them.

***

I wrote this on a quick walk I took between proofreading an 11 page, single-spaced client proposal, and editing and giving feedback on a three page 1.15 spaced draft of a future Substack post. I had been sitting for so long, I could practically feel my butt becoming bigger and flatter from all the pressure. Whether or not that is true or even possible is not something I can readily answer. But I needed a break.

I spent that break spinning out over a very tiny interaction I’d had earlier in the day. I’d gone to workshop at a local art studio that offers classes in painting and drawing and sculpture and paper-making…essentially an art school, but without any snobbery and for all ages. I am hoping to offer a writing workshop there at some point. I was supposed to spend an hour and a half learning about something called Soul Collage, but forty-five minutes in I realized I was going to faint if I didn’t eat something, so I ducked out to Blue Duck Bakery and got a cheese Danish.

If you have not had a cheese Danish in a while, which I had not, probably not in years, in fact, I highly recommend having one ASAP. If you happen to be in Greenport, NY., I would in particular recommend the one that they make, which comes in “with nuts” and plain versions.

When I got back to the workshop, I had basically missed all of it. It was kind of like walking into an AA meeting with 20 minutes to go, a meeting where the speaker very obviously gave an epic personal qualification, inspiring everyone in attendance to kick off their own shares with some version of “Omg, X, I loved your share…” And then there you are (or there I am), the asshole who has no idea what’s been going on, who nevertheless feels, for no good reason, after drawing all that attention to herself, compelled to say something along the lines of, “Well, I have no idea what everyone’s been talking about, but here’s what’s going on with me, anywayyyyyyy…”

But that isn’t even the thing that stuck in my proverbial craw. The thing that prompted the poem was this very tiny interaction I had with someone at the end. I was leaving, and saying goodbye one by one to each of the small groups of people that inevitably form at the end of such gatherings. I tapped on the shoulder of a woman who I follow and who follows me on Instagram, a woman with whom I had a lovely chat (I thought) when we were introduced by someone we both knew, a woman who I thought I might possibly be friends with. I said, “Nice to see you. Coffee sometime?” and she said, “Coffee,” while making this face that was like, um no, we are never going to have coffee.

Which left me wondering for the next three hours, while editing and writing and sitting and all of that, what I had done wrong.

And the answer is probably nothing.

And the answer is also probably, well, if it was something, you most likely will never know and there’s nothing you can do about it right this second.

And the answer is also probably, what other people think about you is none of your business.

And the real answer is: At least I got a poem out of it.

And please, if you have a second, let me know which version of said poem you like better.