John Steinbeck. One of the great American literary authors. I discovered
him when I was still a child. A kid picking up a piece of sparkly trash off the
sidewalk, and then getting cut by it. A book that was years ahead of me. Something
sharp and unclean. I knew once I picked it up and it cut me that I wanted to
throw it down and be uncut again. But it was too late. The infection had set in
and the wound would never really go away.
A typical kid, I rode my bike around the neighborhood in the summertime,
pretending it was a horse, the wind flowing through his mane as I peddled
faster. The dumpsters at my old elementary school had been filled to
overflowing one summer day because the school was being repurposed into a
courthouse. Stopping my bike to peer in, I saw files, staplers, and textbooks
overflowing out of the bins. I grabbed as many of the thick textbooks that I
could and rode back to my house with them, returning for a few more (and a
stapler) before the afternoon grabbed my attention with something
else.
That was the summer that I had desired a place to hide, as the emotions
of adulthood had begun knocking at my door. I had carved out a ridiculously
sweltering and non-breeze filled niche in the loft above our garage, and made a
nest in the cardboard boxes of fabric and storage my mother had put there. Hauling the textbooks up there seemed like
the best idea at the time.
The air droned on hot and sultry as I sat in my shaded fabric loft with
those books that summer. They were English Literature textbooks, and since they
were in my possession, I was going to read them. The first story I opened to
and delved into was 'The Red Pony' by John Steinbeck. Horses, better yet, a
pony, sounded good to my horse crazy twelve year old self. Little did I know
that by page two I was going to be forever altered. Ah the power of literary
greatness, to wield and to wound with words. Mighty enough to crack open the
heart of a twelve year old.
This story was not about ponies, and girls, and happy suburb mornings.
It was about hard people, harsh gritty reality, death, ugliness, and heart pain
of the worst haunting kind. Why had I found this book, who was this author who
had just run a smear campaign on my view of the world, and why had no one stopped
this, stopped Steinbeck from writing like this, from letting this emotion get
out? I was upset, angry, and wanted to find out why this man had written like
this? Why had he chosen these ugly images to put in my head when there was so
much beauty to write about instead.
Indeed, it was at that moment that my little world was shattered to
welcome a greater one. I had taken a few steps on the path of all great
conscious awakenings, although I did not know this at the time.
For a year, or so, I went about
with a John Steinbeck measuring tape, and held it up to everything I
encountered. Did it resemble Steinbeck's images? Then it was no good. This
continued until I began to see that there was no place to hide, no 'thing' or
emotion that did not eventually become a contestant in the literary meets real
world reality.
It wasn't until my mid 30's that I came to accept the essence of
Steinbeck and put down my measuring tape. It was, I now saw, a Red Pony world everywhere.
I could not squeeze my eyes shut tight enough, or cover my ears fast enough.
Nor, could I avert my gaze any longer. As soon as I accepted the rawness of this
reality, it released its strong grip, and beauty began to equalize the
scales.
I still am a bit angry for the reality that crept out of my mind that
day, when Steinbeck opened the gate with his words, but also very thankful for
their power, showing me what I might
never have seen. Forcing me to open my eyes and mind to the wholeness of it
all, and resolving the pieces into oneness, though many different paths.
Steinbeckian. The word speaks volumes. No pun intended.
