It’s been years since I worked on a jigsaw puzzle. My mother and I used to do them together, bent over the puzzling pieces, saying, “Let me get just one more, and then I’ll stop.” When I got one for a gift recently, I just thought it was cute and whimsical, and thought to put it aside for some rainy day when we had guests who might want distraction.
But I opened it up. I’m sucked in. One thousand pieces.
The picture is a painting of a couple walking through a park in the rain. It’s not a good painting, managing to be both sentimental and garish — the colors are improbable. But as I’ve been working on the puzzle, my sense of shape and color is enhanced. After spending time sifting through the pieces, when I walk away I see the world afresh, my eye still alert for that certain shade of orange, for a piece with a little blue in one corner. I see new colors everywhere in the everyday world. And I’ve come to appreciate the picture painter’s bold use of color, his or her fearlessness at slapping a stroke of cerulean in a shadow, a smear of fresh-grass-green on a tree trunk.
Because I’m seeing the painting through tiny shards of it, seeing the bits of tree for the forest, I’m enjoying what’s been accomplished here in the details, as I pull back to look at the overall picture.
And it occurs to me that if I could bring this level of attention to my writing, it could be a powerful editing tool — to slow my process way down and see each and every word, how the words fit together, how they elbow each other, where space is used, and then pull back to understand each element anew as I view the whole piece. And also use that heightened awareness of word and silence as I encounter the world.
I tend to gallop through editing, working quickly, instinctively, shoving words or lines around. If you look at me working on a jigsaw puzzle, you see me bent almost motionless over the pile of pieces, examining, searching, maybe poking with a finger to get a better view of this one or that, sorting some out by color. If you watch me edit a poem, I’m cutting and pasting, deleting, undeleting, retyping.
But now I’m tempted to literally cut up my poems, even my essays into separate words, and spend a slow time piecing them back together, with the slow breath of concentration and meditation.
I know that putting together a thousand-piece puzzle is a slow process that will take weeks, and I accept the pace, and enjoy the process.
So why am I in such a hurry with my writing?