My Aunt Mildred passed away last week, so I’m rerunning this post from two years ago as a tribute to her.
When I was a small child, she took me to the gravel road that ran by my grandmother’s house and patiently sat with me while I hunted for rocks, which I found, for whatever reason, fascinating. I have no memory of this, but I felt it in every interaction between us thereafter—that patience, that encouragement, that love.
How fortunate I was to have the sort of aunt who would spend so many hours with a little boy who was intent on sorting through rocks. Patience and curiosity are essential to the development of a writer. We deal with those two qualities every day that we push words about the page. Although my aunt may not have known this, she was indulging my curiosity and teaching me that it was okay to take a good close look at things, to push the rocks around until I found some shape, some size, some texture that interested me and made me decide it was a keeper.
It takes time and courage to look closely at something and to see the things that others have passed over. Isn’t that what we do as writers? We poke and poke at situations, characters, images, language until some precious thing emerges, precious because it’s gone unnoticed by so many. We gather that thing up, that truth, and we shape it and we carry it back to the other members of our human tribe. It’s only ours to share, though, because we took the time to look, because we had the heart to care, because we had the need to know what we might find.
My aunt gave me those gifts. I watched her put them to use in her own life: painting landscapes, tatting lace, quilting, growing glorious flowers, collecting antique music boxes. She taught me to look closely and not to be ashamed of an artistic temperament. She taught me that it was not only all right, but also necessary, to search, to find, and to have the courage to say that something is beautiful, or if need be to point out the ugliness that tries to keep us from seeing this glorious life.