book-863418_640On the way to writing workshop I pass a book sitting out on a planter as though waiting for someone to take it. People do that these days; instead of keeping things forever as in olden times, they throw things away; purge, recycle, declutter. And someone, on this fine October day, decided to place a hardcover Roget’s Thesaurus, red, yellow, and black dust jacket intact, out on their planter for someone to pick up.

The collector in me wants to take it. I’ve never owned a hardcover thesaurus before, and my old yellowed paperback is barely holding together with crackled masking tape. But the lazy, sore shouldered pragmatist in me says, don’t be silly, you don’t need more to carry, and besides, you never use a physical thesaurus anymore. It’s true, now when I edit I keep open on my browser.

I walk a little farther. At least I could take a picture of the thesaurus among the fall colours on the planter. I could post it on Instagram where I like to put my anonymous pictures, pictures without people. Is it sufficiently ironic to find this orphaned book on the way to writing group?
But I have already passed it. And to take a photo now means stopping and going back, aiming and shooting, and maybe someone will be watching me and I’ll feel foolish.

It’s then I remember the prayer I prayed this morning: please Universe, show me, give me a sign; am I meant to be writing?