Line, please.

This feels foreign and uneasy. I've missed the success and escape, but stage fright can be crippling. These bucket loads of dry sand I've been trying to hold between two bare hands are beating me. Emotions, thoughts, memories and words run through me as long ribbons of blurred grains - smooth like silk, warm like the sun - leaving me hollow and limp.

I turn to my bed. The book on my nightstand, once filled with passion, adventure, images and culture, now lies silently beside my clock, resting beneath my mobile wake-up call, counting down boldly to 4 A.M. Reluctantly, 5. Regrettably, 6.

Each night, I turn off the day and blanket my soul with the safety of an old quilt, cushioning my nighttime thoughts with a pillow, sweet with the scent of home. This is my retreat.

I read my friends' lines and directions through the filter of distance - miles and years. I can hear through these flimsy walls the soundtracks of their own dramas, romantic comedies, documentaries, and musicals as their stories carry on. My own movie is paused like an old VHS. Someone needs to fix the tracking. It's shaky and wiggly.

I'm waiting for direction, the next pages of my screen play.

Improvisation is harder than it looks.

The show must go on. Put on a happy face.

How the hell did I get here?

Whose line is it anyway?

permission to write junk: granted

I’ve written about this before, but some things are worth revisiting.

When I first read Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones and saw how she emphasized the importance of writing with pen in hand, I scoffed.  I can write best when I type.  I can type faster than I write.  I had a million thoughts about how this did not apply to me. 

Now, after more than a year and a half, hundreds of pages and dozens of pens, I’ve reformed.  In fact, you could say I’ve “converted”.  I am a notebook junkie.  Not in the sense that I buy notebooks everywhere and have pretty, fancy journals.  Although there is some truth to that as well.  But in the sense that I have at least four or five notebooks running at any given time.  What’s more, they’re usually with me – wherever I am.  In my car, in my work bag, in my purse, notebooks, notebooks, notebooks.  I even keep a pad of paper in the pocket of my car door. 

When I write at my keyboard, there is a pressure to publish.  I need to do something with these words.  Go somewhere with this message.  A notebook does not impose itself on my mind in that way.  Rather, it is a place for me to do with it what I choose.  It is a dumping point and a blank canvas simultaneously.

I wish I could say all these notebooks are neatly tabbed and organized, categorized by writing purpose or topic.  But, that would be a lie.  No, my notebooks are very much a mess, somewhat of a stream of consciousness.  Though, I don’t always work front to back or even chronologically.  My topic or purpose may be a sharp contrast to the last piece I wrote, so I find myself skipping twenty pages or so to isolate the entry.  At times, I open to the back page and start from there. 

In effect, I’m burying treasures for myself.  On many occasions, I’ve stumbled onto a forgotten page and thought, “Wow.  I like that.”  Other times I think, “Ugh.”  But, more often than not, I find within those lost words a piece of something I can use – some line or paragraph I can lift and rework or build upon.

Many times, momentary regret leads me to feel I should be more organized and systematic with my spirals and pages.  However, I always decide – no.  That would take away the freedom of the page.  I never want to find myself sitting before a page reserved for Hank and Ione.  I don’t want to be faced with lines allocated to emotional tirades.  There is not a humor and sarcasm tab in my mind, nor is there a specific time of day or chair in which I sit for motherhood reflections.  I may dream in my bed, but perhaps I remember and ponder my dreams while pulling Pop-tarts or drying my hair.  I need an outlet that goes with my flow, or my flow won’t go.

And there’s one more great thing about these crisp white pages.  One day, when I’m good and ready, I’m going to burn them.

My Private Tunnel

It is dark and lonely and the wind is strong. The sunshine is beautiful on the other side, though.  I know it’s warm there.  The sky there will be a beautiful blue with only a few cottony white clouds floating high above me, just enough to make the blue all the bluer. 

Some tunnels are so dark and so windingly long that they rob you of the sunshine peeking in from the other side.  Not mine.  My tunnel is mostly straight with an easy, gentle curve or two, but none so sharp and tangling as to blind my eyes to the relief that lies ahead of me.

Going into this tunnel, the face of the mountain was rocky, barren, jagged and threatening.  But when I emerge, the peak above me will slope more smoothly.  And it will be green and fertile and filled with signs of spring – rabbits, deer and fat little chipmunks will be busy around me as I squint in the glare.

When at first I feel that familiar warmth on my face again, I will pause in my tracks, my hand at my brow, filtering the stark rays from stinging my dark-weary eyes.  Footsore and lonesome, I will rest for a moment and suck in the calm deeply.  The relief.  The gratitude.  I will let the sounds of life, long muffled beneath this mountain I’ve been working through, fill my ears again.  They will sound brand new and beautiful to me.  Even the rustling of leaves as the wind tangles them against one another will feel like taffeta to my ears.

Across the way, just beyond the shoulder of the road, I will find a soft patch of fresh clover and wildflowers.  There I’ll lie outstretched on my back, napping beneath the blanket of light.  Time will stop as I close my eyes and breathe.  And feel.  And be.

Until that day, I will continue.  I will hold tight to that feeling of peace and warmth and safety as a promise, stoking the fire in my engine.  I will dig deeply and scrape the courage from the tips of my pinkie toes and elbows and wear it around my neck in a locket.  When I feel myself growing tired, I’ll rub the small silver charm between my fingers and will my energy to renew, my fire to refuel, and I will start again.

Until that day, I will press on.

 

 

Photo credits:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/docman/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

On Writing

Right now, I’m on an excursion within myself that goes a lot deeper than I care to discuss here.

However, there are aspects of this quest – legs of this journey – that truly belong here.  They unfold here.  This blog, this collection of thoughts and emotions, this trail of bread crumbs, is my mirror.  Sometimes it’s a rearview mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.

In particular, this piece of my life I share with you all here is my writing.  The writer in me is an adolescent, itching to spread her wings and explore.  She is passionate and wide-eyed.  But, her youthful ignorance is tempered by respect for masters and teachers of the craft.

I read about writing.  I practice in my notebooks daily.  I journal privately, and have nearly as long as I can remember.  I join communities of writers chasing down the ever elusive advice and feedback that will help me grow and learn.  And sometimes, as I try to improve my skill, I find that I am really working on my soul.

Anne Lamott wrote in Bird by Bird, that in order to be a writer, you have to be reverent.  This line made itself at home in my mind immediately.  It is an observation I’ve noted many times before. 

Writing comes from within.  It is record of a journey.  It is a trail of emotions, visions and experiences.  Writers look at the world from outside their body.  They are in tune with their sensory memory and can efficiently retrieve those moments in words.

I tell my students (at times, near daily) that writing occurs somewhere between your mind, your heart, and the page.  Sounds obvious, but what I mean is – when you write, you do not look to the world for the words.  You dig deeper.  You turn your eyes, your focus, your energy inward and climb into the core of your gut and bury yourself in the tiny corner of your abdomen that holds it.  The feeling.  The moment.  There, you will find the words. 

Sometimes it is harder than others.  Sometimes you really have to push.  Like holding your breath under water, you have to resist the urge to pop up.  Stay there through the burning, breathless sting.  Let the tears flow.  Laugh out loud.  Feel the pain in your hand as the page and pen bruise its back. 

Now, you’re getting to the good stuff.

To me, writing is quite personal and spiritual.  This, I believe is why, as my friend noted, writers love and crave an audience, but do not require one.  While, of course, some words are light-hearted and don’t really “rock the world”, if you will, much of it is an expression of an Achilles heel.  Whether the words are fiction or fact, there is a sense of vulnerability that accompanies the click of the “publish” button.  And, when you have the opportunity to read your writing aloud – no matter how good it might be – it is like standing naked before those listening.  Breathing deeply is only a memory.

So today, dear readers – and I do mean dear readers – I want to say thank you.  Thank you for embarking on this journey with me.  Thank you for your company and your kind words.  Know that, as my writing and I mature and change, I am extremely grateful to borrow your ear, if only on a rare occasion.

I will always welcome your comments, private or public.  I am always open to discuss.  And I will continue to stand before you – baring myself and my work – as long as you will have me.

There's someone I'd like you to meet...

I’m working, in the very early stages, on a story. I woke up this morning with some of the characters bumping around in my head. I decided perhaps I should introduce you to Hank.


Hank had a natural strength and bulk to his tall frame that came not from pumping random dumbbells at the local gym, but from driving fence posts and manhandling livestock. His dark brown hair, in need of a trim, revealed its hidden tendency to curl. When he was a baby, his mama had let it grow until it tumbled over his ears and rested just above his eyelashes. He smiled at the world through clear blue eyes as deep as the dimples in his sun-baked cheeks.

That morning, like every other, he kissed his mama’s gently aging face and told her good-bye as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the truck waiting out front. Rhonda always tipped her head with a small smile and closed eyes, taking this moment to steal a glimpse in her memory of that sweet baby boy who years ago toddled around her feet as she fried the morning eggs and bacon.

When did her baby get so big? When did he quit digging in her kitchen cabinets, banging on her orange Tupperware bowls? What happened to her days of preparing after school snacks, kissing skinned knees and fussing at little boys for riding ottomans like miniature bronco-busters? Before long, this handsome man she’d raised would leave home and his dutiful morning kisses would be just another memory of her years with him. They would be just another page in the scrapbook in her mind.

Outside, Hank tossed his backpack into the bed of the Chevy and piled into the cab. The morning was damp, but the air went out years ago in this ol’ bucket of a farm truck he shared with his older brother, Vince. They didn’t mind the fresh air whipping between the seat and front dash, except for the occasional Saturday night date. Pretty girls tended not to appreciate being forced to wear a windblown look for the rest of the evening. On the rare occasion they thought this month’s girl was worth the trouble, they’d resort to borrowing their dad’s truck, though that really wasn’t much of an improvement.

He never really minded school. Hank was smart and most things had come easily for him. He enjoyed learning about history and reading literature. Math classes were none too entertaining, but not too much of a bother either. The sciences intrigued him, filling in blanks and answering questions he’d had since his boyhood. Watching his father and the other ranch hands right a poor cow’s prolapsed uterus and stab cattle with vaccine-filled syringes had inspired a whole line of questions his father wasn’t prepared to answer. He’d long ago developed a silent curiosity about nature and science and how those two worlds intertwined.

What he did mind was homework. When he left school each day, his work had only just begun. There were animals to be fed, fences to check, and always, always, always the horses. The horses were his domain, his specialty. “His gift,” Rhonda frequently remarked with pride. He never had the time or energy to waste on filling in blanks on study guides or completing pages of random, arbitrary calculations, especially if he could pass the test, often spoiling the curve, without all that nonsense.

This year, though, he found himself in a French class. Vince and Hunter, his best friend since their early days of kicking dirt and throwing rocks, had proposed they take French instead of Spanish to meet their foreign language requirements...and to meet girls. Apparently, some of the guys on campus were toying with the idea of this “back door” strategy. The three had completed their schedule requests together last spring. At the end of the summer when schedules were distributed, the guidance counselor explained with a sarcastic tone, “Due to a surprising influx of student interest in the French language, we were unable to honor all students’ foreign language requests.” Priority had been given based on class rankings.

This was one time Hank half-wished his academic aptitude was more like his brother’s. Vince had struggled to learn to read. Rhonda had wanted him to move on with his friends. She feared how this would affect his self-confidence, especially since it would place her two sons in the same grade. Her husband, Jack, had no such worries, nor did the deciding powers at the elementary school. In the end, Vince repeated the first grade, making the two boys more like twins than big and little brothers.

Hank would have survived French easily, were it not for his otherwise charming Texas twang that pervaded every sentence, every word, every syllable his lips uttered. Madame Russell winced with pain at his inadvertent slaughter of the French language. For the first few weeks, he tried with honest efforts to master the throaty, breathy French “r”. He struggled in vain to soften his “j” and push it forward, between his teeth, as Madame insisted. Eventually, though, the sight of veins in her neck flaring with frustration and her teeth gritting impatiently sent him into a spin of apathy.

He had lost what little motivation he had for mastering basic French vocabulary, when Madame Russell called him aside just as the bell rang and students began pouring into the halls. She had a plan. She knew exactly what he needed – a tutor. And, lucky for him, she had just one in mind. The tutor was an honor student, in French III, and a natural with the language. Only after Madame Russell made it clear that this was not a request, but a requirement if he hoped to pass her class, did he agree to come by after school for introductions.

That was when he met Ione.





Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jmtimages/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Cheating Death

This week, my students asked if I would read some of my personal writing to them.  I quickly and politely declined, but offered to write a story for them, at their request.  One group of students asked me to write a story about a vacation.  They specifically said, “Tell what went wrong…” as part of their request.  This story immediately came to my mind.  I can’t believe I haven’t written it before, as it is a story that has been told over and over again since that day.  Here’s the story I wrote for them today…

 

The boat hovered heavily above my head as we trudged towards the river. My anxiety expanded like a balloon to fill my entire chest and gut.

When Daddy planned this little white water rafting vacation for us, I’d actually been excited. It sounded fun. After all, I love the water. I love boats. We would be in the capable hands of our river guides. I had envisioned a warm spring day and sunshine escorting us down along our gentle river ride, save for a few exciting twists and turns along the way. My sugar plum fairy fantasies faded when we arrived at the river outfitters headquarters, shivering in the forty degree gray morning, and heard the news about the body.

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about the body washing up today,” the local river expert laughed in reply to my mother’s nervous questions. We paced the floor quietly, our eyes soaking up the images of inflatable boats hovering sideways above rocks and racing water, its inhabitants clad in helmets, life vests and full body wet suits. As it turns out, he wasn’t kidding. Earlier in the week, a young woman had drowned in the stretch of the river that we would attempt to navigate today. Fortunately for us, her body was recovered only a day or two prior to this frigid morning.**

“Well, isn’t that comforting...” I murmured sarcastically under my breath.

A young man led us downstairs to the basement room where they stored the wetsuits and other gear. After they sized us up with their experienced eyes and a few clarifying questions, our wardrobe for the day was rationed and we were off to squeeze our flesh into this neoprene second skin. We looked like a box of classic crayons once we were ready, only bumpier and wearing goofy, hesitant grins.

Our guide chatted away, making small talk with us and laughing at inside jokes with his fellow river men. It seemed oddly distant to think of my warm, safe life at home in Florida as I marched towards impending danger. The voices in my head were dying to blurt out, “I’ve changed my mind! I’ll stay here! You go and have fun without me!” I considered running across that two-lane bridge that led us to the log building on the hill. The walk back to the Hardee’s where we’d eaten biscuits and eggs for breakfast wouldn’t be difficult. Perhaps I could find a little corner store, stock up on magazines and make myself at home in a fast food booth for the day. The hours would crawl, I was sure, but that seemed far preferable to being pinned beneath a raft, sucking freezing cold water into my lungs. I felt like a lemming – deathly afraid to go, but too chicken to speak out against the herd.

As the men, both taller and stronger than us ladies, righted the raft and set it afloat, I listened to the last minute review of safety procedures. Stay out of the bottom of the raft. If you find yourself taking an accidental plunge, extend your paddle and never let it go – this is your lifeline. Keep your feet up so you don’t get snared on fallen trees or other dangers beneath the surface. Listen to your guide. Listen and follow instructions...for dear life.

I have never in my life felt so close to death. I’ve never been to war or in the presence of malicious gunfire. I’ve never felt like my life depended on the clarity of my thinking and my physical abilities, until that day.

As we overtook the first rapids, my apprehension would blur and sharpen like the manual focus of a lens. When he told us we were approaching “Decision” rapid, I yearned to raise my hand and give up. “I quit! I’m done! Call the helicopter and get me out of this canyon!” I imagined myself announcing to the world. But, again, I refrained.

With each rapid we conquered, I whole-heartedly participated in the traditional paddles up “YEEEEEHAAAAAAWWWW!!” celebration. I felt my spirit give thanks that I would live to see the next round of torture in the watery path between me and the rickety, powder blue school bus that would take us back to safety.

The “Big Nasty” lived up to its name. My mother, just as terrified as I, had been unable to heed our guide’s advice. She had fearfully wadded her body up between the inflatable bolsters that spanned the width of the raft. She felt, inaccurately, safer on the thin synthetic floor of the vessel...until she found herself in the 50-degree raging river. Mascara streaking down her face, her short hair plastered to her skin beneath her plastic helmet, she gasped for air as she surfaced. The life vest kept her afloat as our guide hollered for her to hold out her paddle. I barely saw her paddle, now dangerous extension of her arm, reaching towards our boat, just as my Marine brother, a trained and professional hero, toppled into the river. In a blur of wet faces and choppy water, I saw the knot welling up on my brother’s head. My mother’s attempt at rescue had smacked him forcefully just above his eye. With a surreal smoothness, our guide expertly plucked my mother’s vest from the water and deposited her exhausted, stunned body in the boat at his feet. As he gave my brother his arm, everyone’s breath escaped in relief. We were unaware that we’d even been holding it.

“HE SAID NOT TO SIT ON THE BOTTOM OF THE BOAT, MOTHER!” I scolded her, rage quickly responding to my overwhelming fear. I had been afraid my mother would suffer more than just a sharp splash into icy waters. Once I realized the danger had passed, I couldn’t help being mad at her for putting herself into such a dangerous predicament – she should have followed directions! I took this as a personal lesson and reinforced my thighs and rear with steely muscles. “I will NOT,” I silently pledged, “be bounced into that river,” and I would sooner cripple myself than risk suffocating beneath a boat.

At some point between a heartfelt YEEHAW and the relentless sprouting of a fresh batch of terror, I heard our guide hollering to his counterpart on another raft in the fleet. It was lunchtime. They were making plans for a cliffhanger picnic, literally.

The guides nimbly hopped from their respective boats onto a rocky ledge on the canyon wall. They were patient and gentle as they offered their strong, steady hold to each of us as we abandoned the familiarity of our air-filled seats for the questionable security of this spot of earth. We clustered around the tiny campfire, begging for warmth; not only was the river stealing our body heat with its persistent spray and splashes, but the wind and sprinkling rain worked to fill in the blanks between the river’s attacks. Our bodies ached with cold.

For just a moment, I allowed my mind to float away, escaping to the day years ago when we picnicked on the Hawaiian Island of Lanai. Our adventure of sailing and snorkeling had been unexpectedly punctuated by a delicious, luxurious teriyaki lunch. Perhaps these guides had a similar treat planned. Perhaps they’d serve up some “river cowboy” stew to nourish our fatigue and famine. Once again, my daydreams were cut short as I held out my hand to accept a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Lovely. This is even better,” I laughed at my own disappointment.

After an all too short relief from our mental and physical stress, we found ourselves piling back into the boats and launching for the remainder of the gorge. I was resigned to gut through the journey and eager for my next steps on solid ground.

After an irrelevant stretch of time, we heard the tone of our guide’s voice change as he refreshed our memory to the safety precautions outlined at the start of the trip. He spoke with no degree of humor, explaining the severity and danger of the rapid we would next attack. This rapid, the Coliseum, is categorized class IV+. A class VI rapid is often thought of as unnavigable, a class V is “expert”, requiring extensively practiced rescue skills. I must have worn the face of a prisoner standing before a firing squad. My life would surely end that day. I was positive I would not survive this obstacle.

Again, I hunkered down and stabbed my will to live into the water with my oar. I met every command with the strength of my bones. My jaw painfully clamped, as though trying to hoard air into my lungs, preparing for the worst-case scenario. I was so intently focused on my role in this unlikely crew, that I didn’t immediately notice the guide climbing out of his seat and onto the boulder in the river, the boulder on which our boat was now pinned. I also didn’t notice him pulling passengers out of the boat and onto the rock beside him, until I heard the shouts.

My mother and the other, now faceless, mariners were hollering to me. “Move! Get over here! Get up and move!”

I tried in my shock and confusion to move, but something was stopping me. There was a rope – nothing of consequence, just enough to fluster my blurred thinking, just enough to stun me into helplessness. In my memory, it feels like minutes; in actuality, I’m sure it wasn’t even seconds. Once again, Our Heroic Guide, employed his brute strength and quick thinking to snatch me up from my assigned seat. He pulled my body like a rag doll to the top of the boat, and I watched my seat flood before my eyes. I saw the ghost of my body as the water pulled it under and buried it in a watery grave.

The next few moments are lost to me. I do not remember returning to my seat. I do not remember freeing ourselves from the rock. I do not remember racing through the fall. What I do remember is my breath and blood flooding through my body finally as I heard Our Heroic Guide laugh in celebration with a fellow river runner. I do remember the oars up YEEHAW that I witnessed from above the boat, in an out of body moment. I do remember the numbness that protected me from the reality of the moment.

And, I’ll never, ever, as long as I live, forget the moment my feet finally touched that riverbank. I was alive. I climbed that sleek, muddy incline, thankful for the pain I felt in my thighs. I was thankful for the trees that canopied above me. I was thankful for the smelly exhaust from the pitiful bus in which we rode home. I was thankful for the silent, albeit fearful in its own narrow, winding, mountainside way, bus ride back to that log building on the Cheat River. I was thankful for my dry clothes and the rented mini-van waiting in the gravel parking lot. I was thankful for the hotel bed hours away that would later shelter my weary, empty body.

And, the next morning, I was mostly thankful for the strong arm that helped me lift my dilapidated body from its resting place, for without it, I could not have moved.

 

**As I was researching the Cheat River Canyon today, trying to remember the name of the fall that nearly got me, I stumbled on this link.  Apparently, outdoorsmen have a way of playing with time.  I found this report detailing the events of the woman’s death.  However, it actually occurred a few years prior to our arrival…not a few days.  But, the story is so much sweeter the way they told it. :)

 

This post was also submitted as a part of {W}rite-of Passage challenge #8: Plot.

…deep breaths…deeeeeep breaths…

Today got the best of me.  Not even a good pair of boots, a gray pencil skirt, or a happy, springy coral beaded necklace could lift me out of my funk.  I hate days like today.  Days when you feel sticky.  Days that feel like trying to open up Duck Tape that has folded closed on itself.  Days when you just want to sit down and watch a bird nonchalantly pick at something on the ground near your feet, while the world speeds on and on around you in a blur, the people leaving colored trails in their wake.  Days when you’d like nothing more than to draw your curtains, crawl back into bed, and let the cool, smooth softness of your favorite sheets envelope your toes, feet, legs.  Let the gentle weight of the quilt cradle your bruised heart as you drift off to the place in your mind you can control, where you can feel smiles beneath your belly button and see love and happiness like an aura around you.

Your happy place.

As I was driving home tonight, feeling that awful ball of negativity welling up inside my chest, I decided I would play a game of reverse psychology with myself.  This evening, rather than write all about how sad or miserable I can feel…I’ll write about what makes me happy.  I’ll go to my happy place and bask in it for a moment…or two…or maybe more.

 

I’ll think about driving in a red car with all the windows rolled down.  The music is loud and I sing with my companion at the top of our lungs.  We feel the wind whip our hair around our faces and necks and we extend our hands out into the strong currents of wind pushing past the car.  We smile and look towards the open road ahead.  We feel free and young and alive and amazing.

 

I’ll think about sitting on the beach.  I can feel the sand between my toes and in the cuticles next to my Marilyn Monroe Red toenails.  The water washes up beneath my chair and laps up over my calves.  I raise my book so it doesn’t get wet, and squeal with a start as the salt water chills my warm body.  As the water recedes, I watch the wet sand run away into the surf with the last traces of water.  My feet and heels sink deeper into the sandy earth, and I wiggle my toes like a little girl. 

 

I’ll think about swinging at a park with my girls.  We pump our legs high and hard, trying to touch the sky with the points of our toes.  We giggle and shriek as our tummies flip flop and try to escape our bodies.  We are sure our bottoms will lift from our seats at any moment, sending us sailing through the air.  If only we had wings, we would take off and join the birds in the sky above us. 

 

I’ll think about walking on a city street, alone.  Smiling at people as they pass,  slowing to look in windows whenever something pretty or shiny catches my eye.  I have time to take, and I am calm and quiet amidst the chatty, busy herd of pedestrians.  My skin is smooth and cool to the touch as I brush stray hairs from my face.  I turn away from the display that caught my eye, towards the smiling face that called my name.  My heart warms at the sight of an old friend as we hug, thankful for this unexpected treat.

 

I’ll think about laughing.  A good, loud, down to my toes laugh.  The kind that makes you throw your head back and laugh with your mouth wide open, almost as though trying to catch rain or snow on your tongue.  The kind that makes your sides hurt and your cheeks cramp.  A laugh that brings tears to your eyes and steals your breath.  The kind of laugh that makes you want to touch someone – lean into them, share a hug, a smiling kiss.

 

These are my happy places. I’ll run away there and breath deeply.

 

 

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alternatewords/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The Men in the Shadows

There is a man who is invisible.

It is amazing how someone can be so big. So black. So powerful. And, yet, move so quietly through the world, like a shadow.  His eyes are deep.  His silence, deeper.  It is not hard to walk right past him without speaking.  He will let you.  Every time. 

But, if you do choose to speak, smile, say hello, you will be surprised.  From the shadows comes a ray of light that is his smile.  His eyes twinkle and his soul shines with goodness and kindness.  He is genuine.  He is thankful.

I want to know what he thinks about.  I wonder, and imagine, what his ol’Louisiana home was like.

Would he, like Johnny, and Little Johnny, and others beside them, have taken their lunch in my grandmother’s kitchen, while we dined in the other room?  Might he have driven into town on errands for her?  Could he too have moved furniture, cut grass, cleared plates, and loaded trucks and trailers to her order?

And, would he too have held and admired my babies?  Smile at how they’ve grown?  Felt the love of an entire family from arms length? 

Would he, too, not believe his image in photos to be true?

Quiet.  Loyal.  Working.  Proud.

These are the men in the shadows.

 

This is written as a part of the {W}rite-of-Passage Writing Well Challenge #1. 

Find a person and study them. Build them into your own short piece.

**Note – Quite honestly, after reviewing more pieces in the challenge, I think I’ve done this wrong…but I’m posting this anyhow.  I’ll take another stab at it this week…

Natalie Told Me To Do It.

If you've read any of my other blog (yeah, it's pretty dusty right now), you know that I love Natalie Goldberg. She's an author and writing guru...and she has taught me a lot. (OK, so maybe not PERSONALLY...but her books have taught me a lot.)

It's times like these when I really rely on her help to pull me out of the bottom of the barrel. You see, sometimes, I'm itching on the inside. I want to write. I feel like I NEED to write. (And, this month, I need to publish.) However, you don't always have the words. Natalie (yeah, I'm on a first name basis with her... in my mind) told me that I can write about anything. If I can't figure it out, start THERE.

But, sometimes, starting "there" would lead me somewhere I don't have the time or energy to go, if you know what I mean. So, sometimes, she tells me to start with JELL-O.

I love JELL-O.

Can you believe that FireDaddy and my girlies DO NOT LIKE JELL-O???

As a child, my brothers and I would be thrilled when Mama would make us JELL-O and serve it for dessert after dinner. I remember her brown glass dish she always made it in. The little, tiny bubbles that congealed around the edges of the bowl. The fun wiggle and shimmer on the surface as we watched her take it out of the fridge, waiting hopefully as she poked it lightly to see if it was really ready.

She served our JELL-O in cute little clear glass Pyrex souffle bowls with fluted edges. We cut out bites with our spoons and swished it between our teeth, turning it into a thick, bubbly liquid. It was a simple pleasure. So sweet and good.

Mama also made us JELL-O when we were sick. She tenderly asked us what color we preferred, red or green, before she boiled the water and stirred, stirred, stirred, dissolving the powder. It made for a nice change of pace from the Saltines, Sprite, Gatorade and beef bouillon (which, I must say, I also love).

The speed set method was a great improvement. Now, instead of waiting hours and hours for our sweet treat, it only required AN hour or so. Jigglers, though, never did anything for me.

Now, my refrigerator is almost always stocked with JELL-O cups. I'd love to say I buy them for my girls, but THEY DON'T LIKE IT. So, I buy it for myself and pack them as a guilt-free lunchtime dessert. Red and green, with the occasional orange. I've experimented with those newfangled flavors on the shelves at Publix these days, but they just aren't for me. I'll stick to my tried and true, red or green, please.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my tummy is growling and I hear some JELL-O calling my name.

My Friend Launched a Writer's Crisis

There I was, happily doing a little light blog reading this evening. Dinner was in the works, FireDaddy was trimming the viburnum out front, and the girls were happily chillin' out in La La Land. Unknowingly, I decided to read the latest post by my friend, and NaBloPoMo amigo, Cheryl. In it, she talks about scheduling uninterrupted time for personal writing, and implies how the internet and blogging has eaten hours of her time.

Guilty. Yep. 100% guilty.

No surprises there.

So, what's the big deal? Well, I started thinking, which is NEVER wise for too long. (I'm neurotic, remember? I'm famous for over-analyzing things...)

I, too, would love to one day be a published author. A real, live, author. A FOR REAL, not just blogging, author. I'd love to see my own words IN PRINT...on PAPER...in a collection of other pages of print...bound together with some sort of adhesive and strings and stuff. You know, IN A BOOK.

This thinking has quickly launched a writer's crisis in me. Well, perhaps it's just a blogger's crisis. Right now, I'm ready to go grab a pen and paper and write things down that I don't want to share. I want to reclaim my permission to write JUNK. Permission to be a crappy writer and just WRITE. Permission to forget all about audience for the day.

But, you see, I'm sort of in the middle of something...(National Blog Posting Month, in case you need more direct hints). And, it's sort of become a "thing" to me. I need to do this. I don't like to fail (even though I technically failed very early on, but I've decided to heck with their rules and I'm doing it for me).

So, here I go...I'm abandoning my blog for the night. (It's a little too late for that, right?) I'm going off to my bedroom to tuck myself away with a spiral and a pen (again) and write whatever it is I dern well please - whether you like it or not!

But, I'll throw you a bone...here's an unfinished draft I found in my post list. Hope you enjoy! (Perhaps it sounds more professional to call it a "cliffhanger" rather than "unfinished"...)

WANTED: New home for five year-old girl. Must not have your own children. Must live in Florida (she doesn't want to have to speak a different language). Must be available to help plan a birthday party in June.

It happened this week.

She told me she didn't want to live with me anymore. She's moving out. She's leaving home.

Well, that was the plan for about 12 hours at least.

7 AM - Fire Daddy wakes me with startled: IT'S SEVEN O'CLOCK!

CRAP!!!

All four of us need to be dressed and walking out the door in FIFTEEN MINUTES! There was NO WAY...

I bypassed the panic button and opted for creativity...er, bribery.

I dashed to "the pink room" and lovingly snuggled up to my Big Girl in her drooling slumber and whispered, "Baby, it's seven o'clock. We're supposed to be leaving in a minute and Mommy and Daddy just woke up. If you girls get dressed and ready really quickly without any fussing or whining this morning, Mommy will buy you a prize this afternoon after school!"

(And in that moment, I officially became the worst mother in the world...blatant disregard to all known good advice...)

Regardless of my poor parenting skills, the strategy seemed to work for a few minutes. The girls were somewhat more cooperative than usual, though Big Girl was very slow moving. The Littlest Princess was amazingly easy-going (call it luck) and she and Fire Daddy were out the door in no time.

Big Girl and I, though, hit rock bottom. All she had to do was put on her shoes and socks while I brushed my teeth (and otherwise dressed myself). Instead, she chose to sit and do nothing, insisting her hair was brushed first. You could call it a conflict in priorities, I guess....or task avoidance.

Inevitably, the reminders grew harsher, the friendly prods turned more towards jabs from a hot poker, and my soft, sweet, loving, tender voice morphed to an onslaught of shrill, wicked threats. Until, finally, after the last warning had been declared and no improvements were seen, the gig was up. It was over. She'd lost it. No prize for her....

...and the Littlest Princess had proudly been promised her reward.

As you can imagine, all hell broke loose at this point.

Doors slammed. Tears streamed. Words were spoken that could not be retracted, though I'm not sure she proclaimed "The H Word" at all (as I would have as a child). And she announced her desire to live somewhere else.

When a mother hears these words, it is a turning point. You can react to it many different ways -- and, in my hyper-analytic, neurotic way, I think how you react says a lot about you....especially in that little person's mind. Well, it would have to MY little mind at that age...

So, what I said was this...

"I'm so sorry, Baby. Mommy's really going to miss you."

I wish I could have been inside her mind to hear know what she thought when I said that.

Where am I going with all of this?

This blog was supposed to be funny, and sometimes it is. This blog was supposed to be a "mommy blog", and sometimes it is. But, what I'm discovering is that this blog is just as neurotic as I am. Like many blogs I read, it is less about a category or a style or a genre of writing, and more about ME.

Me, glorious ME!!!

But, I digress....

Tonight, I considered submitting an old post to BlogNosh. As I read and explored the site once again, I realized that none of their "channels" really fit me and my blog.

Last night, as I was tackling giants, I took a brief break to write about tackling giants. FireDaddy asked me, "Are you still working or are you playing?" I was working.

He didn't buy that. "Neurotic, Yet Classy is PLAY," he argued.

That is what I said when I started this. I remember telling people this was my "recess". But something has changed.

I put this on my to do list and really want to get to it. Perhaps it's NaBloPoMo. I want to know if I can cut it. I want to make it to the end. (Which is really a mute point because I've already missed a day...but I made up for it!) I want to accomplish that. But even if it weren't for NaBloPoMo, I do have a bigger goal in mind...I'm just not sure what it is yet.

True, it is still a "me" thing. (Aren't all bloggers at least a little narcissistic at times?) But that's not all it is.

So, I stand at the threshold of another post tonight and many exercises are running through my mind. Exercises I turn to when I'm just not feeling it yet. Or, perhaps when I'm "feeling" it, but can't put my finger on it. And yet, I yield. I wonder if this is the place for those things. Those words. Those stories. Do you mingle stuff like *that* with stuff like *this*? Do you bring your baggage - whether it be good or bad - to the playground?

I war with myself about this aspect of blogging. Do I write for me or for my readers? (You know, those 17 people have a lot of pull in my world.) Where am I going with all of this anyway? What is my goal? Do I have to have a goal? Am I really just completely self-absorbed and none of you really give a flying flip what I write about -- or even IF I write at all??? Do you? Do you give a flying flip? Huh? SAY SOMETHING, WILL YA?

(And this is where I realize I've gone too far.)

Welp, guess it's back to the drawing board. I'd better get down to "work", right? Enough of this silly stuff for one night.

Ain't gonna Nablopomo no mo' today.

**Postscript: Just wondering....Do you have a favorite post from Neurotic, Yet Classy that you would submit to BlogNosh if YOU were me, glorious me? If so, would you be so kind as to leave a comment reminding me of my glorious writing? ;) And don't worry...if you can't remember the titles, just say something like "the one where you ....." and I think I'll be able to figure it out. Thanks!

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/garibaldi/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

I love this photo. It reminds me of one of my favorite Monet paintings.

Flashback Freeway

"Sometimes, a writer finds buried treasures in places they remember. As you think about the geography of a place from your past, memories will surface as you think about the place where they occurred..."

This was the gist of a lesson I recently taught my students. Then, I drove off to my old stomping grounds for a long weekend, and I felt that lesson come alive in my mind.

Sometimes, you don't even have to visit a building or any specific location for this to happen. I learned this weekend that, in some cases, just driving down the road will be enough to stir the pot. As I drove alone on a few brief errands this weekend, I was overcome with memories.

I remembered driving down the road with one of my BFFs in a red Mustang, singing along with Celine & Meatloaf at the top of our lungs as the wind ripped through the car. (Don't laugh. That song was at the top of the charts then.)

I remembered driving on the interstate for the first time with Boyfriend K. I was terrified that the car in the lane next to me was moving in on my space. He laughed at me and my paranoia, and I laughed back. Terrified, still.

I remembered riding, stunned, with Boyfriend S after the "Meet the Parents Date". I was stunned because his mother had whipped out flossers after dinner and flossed her teeth RIGHT THERE AT THE TABLE. (I'm not sure if this redeems her at all, but she was polite enough to offer me a flosser, too...."Gee...thanks...I think I'm good, though.")

I remembered wondering what road we were on as I rode home in the back of someone's parent's station wagon from the Nelson concert, my ears still ringing. (Ahem, they were cool too, thank you very much.)

I remembered getting a ride home after school from Really Nice Guy Friend everyday, only later to discover he liked me all the while and I was too stupid and too wrapped up in my Loves Gone Bad to realize it. Hind sight is 20-20.

I remembered the day I spent with Short-Term Romance Boy as he got a tattoo on his ankle, somewhere on the other side of town. I have no idea when or where this was, but it was a sight that scared me out of a tattoo...for life!

I remembered riding in Boyfriend D's brand new Jeep one cool Florida night, feeling too grown up for my years.

I remembered cruisin' in a convertible the summer I retook Chemistry (yeah...Chemistry and I went together like oil and water...) with my Wannabe Model Friend. She looked in the rearview mirror more than she looked at the road. (Checkin' out her pouty look.) Then, we'd drive through Taco Bell for bean burritos and Dr. Pepper.

I remembered walking, after a movie, down the main drag in town while it was closed for construction. Laughing my head off at Guy Friend B's jokes. Who knew Raffi's "Baby Beluga" could be so funny?

I remembered the odd ritual of touching a screw in a girl friend's "bucket" of a car and hollering out "SCREW!!!" everytime we crossed a railroad track, as though her car would fall apart without our help.

I remembered "pushing" my "For Real" Model Friend's car - from the inside - everytime we went up a hill. "Go, go, go!" We were never sure if it could make it to the top.

I remembered walking with a Middle School Friend to the 7-11 outside her neighborhood and spending a few dollars on that crazy powder candy you dip a candy stick into and then lick off the stick. Afterwards, we dried fresh flowers in the microwave and rolled each other's hair.

I remember walking home in the rain after school. I remember cutting through the field, taking the short cut to Freshman BFF's house and having Dr. Pepper and bologna sandwiches. And laughing.

I remember the little sink hole on a corner around a few corners from my house. It totally freaked me out, so I walked a wide circle around it.

I remember standing outside my house after a great first date, with butterflies in my stomach. My face hurt from smiling so much. I don't remember where we went or what we did, but it was great.

I remember walking home from a friend's house when the street lamps came on, after a really silly afternoon of prank calling everyone we knew...and didn't know.

I remember riding downtown to a summer theater camp with a girl I barely knew, singing Richard Marx in the car. (Yes, he was cool then, too.)

I remember being so impressed when One Or Two Dates Boy had a CELL PHONE. (oooooh......) Sure, it was his mom's...but WOW! I also remember being stupid enough to believe his nonsense blabber about how it "worked on a grid system...blah blah blah...and if you move when you're on the phone it will lose the signal..." What??? No wonder boys got me in trouble so much.

Those moments truly are miles away from my present. Today, I find myself cruisin' the streets on the way to and from school and the dance studio, jamming to Hannah Montana with my NEW BFFs...Little Princess and Big Girl. My latest boy, FireDaddy, has a seat indefinitely reserved in my cool, white Pacifica. Sometimes, I still kiss the clock and make a wish when I glance down from the road at exactly 11:11. I still love to car dance on Target and Publix runs. And, everyday, when I look back in my rearview mirror, I smile at what I remember AND at what I see smiling back at me.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dotsi/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

F is for Funk, Not Funny

Dear Readers,

We need to talk. duh, duh, duuuuuuuunnnnnnn.....

For today, I seem to be fresh out of funny. However, I think I need to spit this out - so here goes.

I don't like filler posts. I don't want to post something just to say I've updated my blog -- just to see that "Last published" date advance. That is not the purpose of my blog, nor your purpose for reading. "Neurotic, Yet Classy" is not just something else on my "to do" list. Believe me. Mine, like yours, fills up all too quickly without any help from this blog. But, pretend I didn't just type that because I'm making a conscious effort not to talk about being busy all the time -- because, who isn't, right?

This week, I've started and abandoned 3 separate posts, realizing they were quickly becoming nothing short of crapola. I think they all, in theory, are good ideas, but their execution was just that -- a gruesome sight. I will not share the topics with you at this moment because, with some distance and reworking, they may one day actually be completed and published and I would hate to spoil the surprises. So, for today -- they stink and they're stayin' put in my "drafts" box.

What's wrong, you ask? How kind of you to care. This is why I love you all.

Well, I think I may have accidentally hit my Serious Bone. All the thoughts I seem to be dwelling on are too serious to post here. When my fingers begin caressing these reliable keys, the words just come out...boring serious. And, somehow, I doubt that you care to read those ramblings. Hence, my multiple blogs.

So, if you are a hard core fan and just can't get enough of me (for instance, my Mother Dearest) -- I'm adding some new links on the sidebar. These links will connect you to the rest of my publications. Feel free to add them to your reader or bookmarks -- or not. I'm all thoughtful and caring like that, you know. It's all about you, Babe(s).

In the meantime, know that I love you all and care about your needs. If I seem distant, it is only for your own good. In short, it's not you -- it's me. :)

Most Appreciatively,

Jenny

PS: This was NOT a filler post. This was something I had to do in order to move forward. I know. I'm neurotic. But, didn't I establish that in the title?