Instructional Writing About Growth

For this week of Booksify, we wrote pieces inspired by the following works: Margaret Atwood's "Instructions for the Third Eye," Yoko Ono's "Grapefruit," and W.S. Merwin's "Make This Simple Test." Enjoy!

How to camouflage in a garden

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Who are the true creatures of camouflage?

Then, to separate you, I ask –

If you could camouflage as any colour, which would it be?

*

The term, “camouflage,” originates from the French verb, “camoufler,” – to disguise. You are acquainted with disguise as amiably as the blood whom courses through your veins. Disguise knows not limits of scales nor skin; your eyes may imitate the sky’s white dwarves whilst you embody entirely a birch forest, yet remain wholly empty. Etymology refuses to adequately dissect the concept for what it is (I wonder why?). Camouflage is the undying evidence of strength in prey’s terror. Camouflage is the habitat for those uprooted and starving. Camouflage is the persuasion of oneself and all else that you belong, that you must exist here.

Nevertheless, of all those who have camouflaged – many exist anymore only as disposed disguises, dug deep into soil with shovels for headstones.

For those who wish. I will show you – you will learn, how to camouflage in a garden.

*

Ripped from the womb, that of a scab on a self-inflicted pain. Mutilated petals, the stem drank from as a vein. Messengers of war – and oh! Upon a sudden moment, you are to pack and preserve yourself for anew. Truly, the problem arises not from this – but how may you then unpack yourself in the unrest of the unknown? You are attempting to balance yourself, to rest down your burdens, to take space yet not have your hands stepped on, to fear yet not reveal it on your face. You cannot. Your entire self lumbers heavy with time; your growth is halted at the tips; all that you took into stowage comes spilling out.

You have been uprooted and placed into a garden. The seasons no longer align for you – yet it snows and blooms for all else. When you need the Sun, it does not shine for you.

*

Paralysis is your opening into camouflage. Moments wherein you must run, must return and must glance once more – these are often where you are entrapped by prisons of the unseen. And thus, you become unseen. To camouflage in a garden – you must strip this world of its surface and its prejudice. To camouflage in a garden – you line these as silks upon your being, and allow the fragile mirage of camouflage to drift you into that of water reflecting its home. Pebbles must skip along the water. Rocks must sink.

You survive for what you have hidden. Grow the leaves of the flowers whom get fed; sing the songs of the birds whom fly; feast with those whom watch, the closest to your kind, die. You protect your home as stolen land, stole off. You never reveal the, ‘you,’ who you refused to leave behind.

You never wish on dandelion seeds.

Until they lie at your feet which you no longer recognise (no matter how long it has been). Until you ask the question you know not to ask. If I am only ever camouflaged, then what am I?

*

An idea, that is what you are. It is either freedom or conjecture – oh, the two are hand in hand. An idea – that is what a wish is. The seed whom you planted deliberately, called upon with instinct.

And, it grows.

You must give the seed – it requires a soil, water, sunlight. Unravelling the tough dirt sticking to your knuckles, the dew from your cheeks and the warm yellow tones you blended into: you put all into this being, whether this, ‘all,’ is truly you or not.

And it blooms.

Unapologetically, they bloom to greet you. Thus you realise, you no longer camouflage in this garden. But now, it is too your garden. In this moment, whom you search with your eyes – you have never more longed for home. At last; you have savoured in its frail taste, its vanishing scent and pressure against your skin. You view it in the wish who stands in front of you, in their own bold features. The two in a garden.

The seeds laid beside yourself – your unravellings and becomings and all that has hid too long and all that you are not – they are expectant.

*

How to grow a garden.

Questions for the sand:

How does one grow?

*

Write your name in the sand and let it be washed away. Watch the froth sip nimbly at the shore and shoot its quips only to return to the water. Smile fondly and accept the melody of the sea.

Yes, this is how it starts.

*

Give up all titles and egos you’ve been foolishly tied to. Green grass grows the same as wild grass. You have to submit yourself to the Earth or merely to the snow, the air, the rain, the gossamer droplets that settle like morning dew. Understand the picture: you are just as stunning and just as wretched as the Earth is. You cannot grow above it, beneath it, or even between it.

Collect your virtues — but this is where you have to be careful. Account for those within and without and remember you are just another element: another link on the chain, another zephyr in the wind. It is important you regard yourself as virtuous as is the sunflower and as is the lion. You are the Earth; you are the same; you too can blossom.

*

Remove your fears and nerves you’ve been soldered to recklessly. Growing is painful and to fear is to never grow the same way tulips bloom. If you fear the winter or you fear the critters that feed on you, what would you do? Disappear into the Earth and forget your perennial nature? Would you forget that tulips don’t bloom every season, too wrapped up within the thought of your inexistence? Such stubborn tulips would be dug up and replanted, thus in an instant you would throw yourself away.

Disassemble your pettiness — and to fight this would be petty. Regather your bearings and join the pack. Would you forget the ferocity of wolves only to forget the tender warmth come snow? Each wolf is their own and this is how they sing together. There is no howl meant to clamber over the others, no scuffle meant to turn ravenous and cold. Wolves are different and this is how they are alike. You are a wolf, a tulip; you are you.

*

Now show your colors and let them bloom — just bloom. This is where you become wild or green, link or zephyr, perennial or monocarpic, wolf or cub.

Spring up into the Earth and admire the Earth in Spring. You bloomed among a meadow, a valley, a mountain, a river. Impossible or probable, you bloomed.

*

Return to the sand. Watch each little indent foraged along the way, each curve which harmonizes your long rinsed name. Gather each grain but don’t be afraid to let go.

Yes, this is how you grow.

First piece by Nat. Second piece by Anya.