We've occasionally seen turkeys in the neighborhood. Off and on a few have gathered in the yard across from us. Once a flock of six strutted right down the middle of the road. But until yesterday, we had never seen this many. At least thirty brown gobblers pecked and preened in the neighbor's yard. Bill called me away from the office to take a look.
After oohing and aahing a bit, and figuring they'd be gone by the time I got my camera, I decided to go back to work. Bill told me later that the birds caused quite a stir and a few people driving by stopped to take pictures. He went to talk to one guy and discovered that he lived nearby. Not only that, he's lived in the neighborhood for over thirty years--just like us. And yet, until the turkeys, we'd never met.
The experience got me thinking about how much we writers tend to like our solitude--but how solitude should not define us. For we'd have nothing to write about if we stayed there! We need to meet people, see new places, experience new things--talk, laugh, love, encourage, engage. We may not always get the words right, nor always be understood, but our writing will be the better for it.
The turkeys came back this morning, giving me another chance. I grabbed my camera and dashed outside--and waved to my neighbors as I went.
