Tiptoeing Soul: The Swooning Tree

“I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.” ~Henry David Thoreau

...

“You were wooed by the tree.” A look of horror gathers upon the well-chiseled face, passing over the lavender eyes with keen familiarity. “Please tell me you didn’t swoon.”

“I have never swooned in my life, Lulubell, and I don’t plan to first do so over a tree.” I stubbornly refrain from rolling my eyes. It would only encourage her. My cousin’s ravings and extravagances of language are legendary in the family. Most choose to ignore her. I do not. It is a fact that may need reconsidering.

“Well, that’s the problem with swooning, isn’t it? It’s rarely planned out these days. Time was a woman could use a well-timed faint to wring flowers, if not a diamond, out of a man.”

I have no idea what time period would have suited dear cousin Lulubell. I’m just glad I have missed it.

Before men become the topic du jour once again, I ease her attention back to her phone and the draft of my travel blog. “So, what do you think about the place? Should I house it with The Selcouth or with the general population of Writing Nook?” Some people claim, I and Lulubell are very much alike. I don’t see it myself.

“Neither,” she condemns with a sharp shake of her head. “Come up with another.”

I sigh. “I don’t have time to research another place…”

“No. Not another place, another category.” She taps her fingers upon her chin as she hurriedly sorts through her mind for just the right thought. It is a vast library of what-not and takes her a considerable minute to rifle through. “It should be something quick and flirty. A lust at first sight sort of a thing.”

“It’s not a man, Lulubell.” Everything is a man with Lulubell.

“Certainly doesn’t mean a place can’t sing to your, um, literary libido or whatever you call it. Just because a place can’t have a proper ding-dong doesn’t mean it can’t ring your bell.”

Knowing I can’t touch the ding-dong with so much as a ten foot pole and survive unscandalized, I go for the safer target. “A bell?”

“Your creative juices. Do I really need to spell everything out?”

I nod.

She sighs. “A gut reaction. Don’t tell me you didn’t see this tree…”

“I did not swoon.”

“… and think of Van Gogh or Poe or any of your other artistic fetishes?”

I ignore the ‘fetishes’ completely. There are arenas I refuse to step into with her. Besides she was right in part. Van Gogh and Poe did pop immediately to mind. “Fine. But why would anyone care to read about or see places that…”

“Turn you on?”

“Can we take the penises off the table, please.”

She rolls her eyes at me impatiently. “Fine,” she repeats, “But don’t you think other authors, other creative souls like yourself might also get inspired by a peek at these places?”

She’s right, and I know it.

I will never live this down.

...

So, with begrudging but heartfelt acknowledgement to dear cousin Lulubell, this week I will add another category of Writing Nook to this travel blog…

The Capriccioso

A quick and flirty peek at places that, at first sight, juice my creativity (if you pardon the Lulubell-ism).

However, I can not leave you without said-peek at the nook and the tree that inspired this new category.