A Hair-y Dilemma

So, yeah, I went and got a short hair cut and have been LOVING it, because of the whole wash 'n go, no muss no fuss aspect of it. Plus, there's the part where EVERYBODY else seems to love it too (at least that's what they say, and I'm choosing to believe it). I mean from the reactions I've received you would think I hadn't changed my hairstyle in over 20 years. Oh, wait, that's right I haven't. So never mind about the whole "everybody's over-reacting" vibe I was just giving out there.

Empty

Today's prompt from San Diego Momma challenges us to write a story or poem based on the picture picture below and includes the word "empty".

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

She sits almost silently on the shore.
Her arms wrap tightly around her knees.
Her toes buried in the moist cool sand
Unconsciously, she hums a gentle melody,
closes her eyes and turns to the sun
as if absorbed in worship.

She refills her empty soul with the scent
of pine trees, the sound of water lapping
against the canoe, and the warmth of sunshine
on her skin before slowly rising
to make her return to "real" life
on the other side of the lake.

Sum, Sum, Summertime.

Summer is almost here. In fact it seems as if summer has been trying to show up early this year. Sure the past couple weeks haven't been the greatest meteorologically speaking, but today was amazing! And that's coming from the girl who forgot to take her breakfast to work because she didn't get much sleep last night due to a kitty who would not shut up about wanting someone to play with. (Seriously, TheDexter, three a.m. is NOT a good time for mama to play the mousie game.)

Any-who, since it's almost summer and since one of Mama Kat's writing prompts this week was to "list your top 10 favorite things about summer growing up", I thought I'd take a walk down memory lane. First, a warning, I don't know that I'd consider myself done growing up yet, so I'm just going to limit myself to the time period before my family moved away from the farm and into "town". And now, without further ado and in no particular order:

Best Advice Ever

In an attempt to spend at least a little time writing each day, I will be participating in various writing prompts/challenges/etc. I will be linking this post up with Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.


Today's Prompt: Share a lesson you learned from your Mother that still sticks with you to this day.

Today's result:

When I was in high school she was talking to someone about kids and curfews. Now I can't for the life of me remember who she was talking to, but we'll call her Mom X.

Mom X said something about being exhausted because she had to stay up to make sure her kid(s) made it home by their curfew. My mom replied that she wouldn't know about that because she didn't stay up to make sure my brothers or I got home on time. Mom X was flabbergasted at the response and wondered how my mom could possibly do that.


My mom, the woman who had seven children to look after, simply replied, "I trust my kids to be home on time and if they aren't, for whatever reason, I'm probably going to need all the energy I can have to deal with the situation."

Now I don't have kids, nor do I plan on having them, but my mom's words have stayed with me over the years. Her rational can be applied to a myriad of situations where one might be worrying about future events. Simply trust that you've done your best, and don't waste energy worrying about something that may never happen, because you'll need that energy IF it does happen.

Best life lesson, ever.

The Last Time. . .

In an attempt to spend at least a little time writing each day, I will be participating in various writing prompts/challenges/etc. Today I am linking up with The Lightning and The Lightning Bug.



Today's Prompt: Flicker of Inspiration Linkup #49: The Last Time

Today's result:


The last time I heard his voice was at my surprise birthday party. I had turned 30 a week and a few days before and my mother-in-law had invited my family to her house to celebrate. I wasn't surprised by the party, but I was surprised he had come. My father was an introvert, a trait he passed on to me, and the fact he had traveled four hours to a near strangers house was slightly shocking. 


What wasn't shocking was how he positioned himself off to the side, nearly in a corner, of the living room. The chair he chose was between the entry way and the door to the kitchen. Typical of his nature, there was no chance for anyone to sit next to him.


Throughout the party his mood slowly turned from slightly cranky (a result of the four hour car ride) to downright cantankerous. While his chosen spot allowed him to keep an eye on everything going on in the room, it also planted him in the middle of the main flow of traffic which caused problems for his hearing device of choice. Unable to make out an specific conversation taking place in the room, and unwilling to move to a different chair, he finally retreated to the car in the driveway so he could have a good grump.


The rest of my family soon noticed his retreat and packed up to leave. Disappointed, I walked them to the car and watched them pull away without saying goodbye to him. A week and a few days later, he was gone. I sometimes wonder if our parting that day would have been different if I had known it would be the last time.

Putting Pencil to Paper

In an attempt to spend at least a little time writing each day, I will be participating in various writing prompts/challenges/etc. Today I am linking up with The One-Minute Writer.

Today’s prompt: Together

Today's result:

The wrinkled couple silently sits on a bench, while staring in different directions. You can tell they have been together for a lifetime by the way their gnarled fingers mesh between them. 

Taste of Dawn

Taste of Dawn

On weekdays after breakfast
I stood in front of the kitchen window,
and washed dishes before going to
school. While up to my elbows in hot,
soapy water, I watched lemon
scented suds slowly slip between plates
my brothers glued together with
Mrs. Butterworth's famous syrup.
Occasionally I glanced out
the window to see a single plate
of flaming crimson silently slide
from its earthen shelf into the cool
morning sky. Clouds would float by
as if God himself had blown them from
his fingertips, like I blew soap suds
from mine. Behind me, my brothers stabbed
each other with sticky forks until
mom yelled and they sent the forks flying
into my cooled dishwater. I would
open my mouth to yell only to
have the flying suds land on my tongue,
filling my mouth with the taste of dawn.

The Empties Speak

(A bit of a flashback from sometime during 1996 through 1998. This poem was written for a Writer's Workshop class taught by Phil Dacey.)

The Empties Speak

We were hand picked for what only we
could offer, a sweet innocence our
lovers drank to fill their bodies' needs.
They spent their money on us, for us.
For the price of a drink they wanted
us to open without protesting.
They found that we had built defenses
to protect ourselves from the world.
But they were patient and overcame
our walls. We had learned to trust and poured
our secrets out to them. We offered
sweetness on their lips and refreshment
for their souls. Time and again they came
to us for our pleasures, leaving us
drained of everything we had to give.
Now we sit here, empty, alone, void
of almost all value, to be kicked
around until someone decides
to pick us up and refill our souls.
We are the forgotten lovers left
in the garbage to be thrown away,
or recycled and used again.

(a syllabic poem)

For Annette

I had planned to post something entirely different and a little lighthearted today.  I had even started writing the post, but then my day changed. This afternoon I found out that someone very dear to me had passed away, and it's appropriate that I write about her today because she always encouraged me to write.

Annette was my grandmother's best friend. They grew up together, their kids grew up together (in fact my grandma's oldest son married Annette's daughter) and their grand kids grew up together. We would have family reunions at Lester and Annette's farm by the lake. They would set aside a specific area for tents/campers and our families would spend the days in the lake and around tables loaded with food. At night we would gather around a campfire to roast marshmallows, while the younger generation listened to the older generations retell stories of the exploits of their wilder days.

When I started writing, Annette was always very supportive. The first time my work was published by my college's literary journal she was over the moon excited for me and requested that I make sure she got a copy (and a copy of each year's journal after that). Any time I saw her she would ask if I was still writing and if I ever said something that would imply that I wasn't writing a lot, she would shake her little fist at me and tell me that I better keep writing and not to waste my talent.

Even though it's been several years since I've seen Annette I will still miss her presence in the world. And so, I dedicate this month of posts the her.

My Favorite Part about Writing

What's not to like about writing? Okay, I know there are many people out there that find writing very difficult, but for me, oh my, I do love it. I've been thinking about this for a bit and I've managed to narrow it down to just a few things:

1. It's therapeutic. For me, writing is the best form of therapy there is. I can honestly say that even though I don't use my bachelor's degree in Creative Writing in my "day job" much, getting that degree was the best therapy EVER. Through my writing classes I was able to process and let go of a lot of things about my childhood that I had kept inside for way too long. Are there things that I still have issues with? Oh sure, but they aren't eating me alive anymore. Phew! Best investment ever.

2. It's musical. I'm not going to be modest here, I totally sing like a ROCK STAR! But only when I'm in my car, alone, with the windows rolled up. If you were to catch me singing anywhere else, you would know that even though I love music, I am a horrible singer. I'm okay with that though. Even though God didn't give me the gift of a beautiful voice or the ability to play a musical instrument He did give me a love of rhythm and tempo and writing allows me to indulge in that love without hurting anyone else's ears.

3. It's outgoing. I am, by nature (and partially nurture), an introvert. Even though I love people it is often difficult for me to overcome my introvert-ness and be "out" there. Writing allows me the ability to be more extroverted and share myself with the world through blogging and writing in general.

So that's what I like most about writing. How about you? Anything you like about writing (your own or anyone else's)?

To read blogs by others participating in the NaBloPoMo November 2011 event click on the NaBloPoMo graphic to the left.

NaBloPoMo

That title is not a typo, and I'm not crazy (well, I'm mostly not crazy) either. The last couple of months have been incredibly busy for me at work and I've been terrible about blogging. When I came across this NaBloPoMo (National Blog Post Month) event I thought it was the perfect way to get me back on track!

So for the next month you can expect to see a post everyday. I'll probably rely on the daily prompts from the NaBloPoMo for many of the posts, but I'm excited to get back to writing on a regular basis. I'm so excited in fact that you may find me making a couple blog posts some days. We'll see how things go.

Letting Go

Letting Go

You win.
I'm done.

No more reaching out
where no one's reaching back.
The hands I yearned to hold
only pushed me away.

I'm done.
You win.

Goodbye.

He Never Said It Would Be Easy

"Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed." - 1 Peter 4:12-13 (ESV)

Recently, I was speaking with a friend who mentioned that she was struggling with why God allows his faithful subjects to suffer. She specifically mentioned a family in her church. The father has been undergoing treatment for a brain tumor. Although he is currently in remission, he is still unable to work. His wife works and goes to school and takes care of him and their five children. He does as much as he can, but his treatments have left him weakened and unable to do all that he could before. And, even though he is in remission, the family knows that if/when the cancer returns it will be much more aggressive and it will be only a matter of time before he gets to meet Jesus face to face. Throughout these trials the family has remained faithful to God and His plan for them even though they do not understand it. They rejoice in the time they have together and give thanks for the relationships that they would not have otherwise had.

Calming the "Storm"

“And a great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion. And they awoke him and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, "Peace! Be Still!" And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm." - Mark 4:37-39 (ESV)

Karen was an expert multitasker who worked in a busy office area. She could often be found working on long term projects while processing data for managers who needed the information right away and taking phone orders from customers. She was able to do all those things by skillfully, and selectively, tuning out most of the noise of the other people working around her.

On Fixing Potholes

“No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth to an old garment. If he does, the patch tears away from it, the new from the old, and a worse tear is made.” - Mark 2:21 (ESV)

While driving to work this past week, I was thinking grouchy thoughts about all the potholes in the road.  You see, every fall the work crews patch up those potholes by filling them up with asphalt, and every spring they reappear, seemingly worse than ever. Annoying, right? Yes, but there is a reason for it. You see the initial pothole is formed when moisture creeps below the road surface through cracks caused by traffic wear and tear (and this section of road is in an industrial part of town, so there's a lot of wear and tear). When the temperatures fall to below freezing, the moisture turns to ice and causes the pavement to rise. The heat from the traffic still driving on the pavement and/or a rise in temperature causes the ice to melt and a small space is created. This cycle continues until eventually the weight of traffic forces the pavement to actually break (because there's nothing supporting the part of the pavement) and creates the pothole.

Every Time I Hang by a Thread

“fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous hand.” - Isaiah 41:10 (ESV)

After spending most of the evening in the hospital waiting room while her husband under went an emergency appendectomy, Sarah needed to go home and get some sleep. Her friends, who had graciously spent the evening with her, had gone home when Eric had come out of surgery and she was allowed to join him in the recovery area. It could hardly be called a "room", as there was only a thin curtain separating them from the other recovering patients and their families.

His Treasured Possession

“And the LORD has declared today that you are a people for his treasured possession, as he promised you, and that you are to keep all his commandments,” - Deuteronomy 26:18 (ESV)

Nancy had spent the day outside weeding her garden, mowing the lawn, and carefully nurturing her flowers.  It wasn’t until she went inside to make lunch that she realized her wedding ring was no longer on her finger.  She frantically searched her flowerbeds, garden shed, and everywhere else she could think of before calling her husband and confessing the loss. 

While her husband was saddened by the loss, he was very understanding.  It was, after all, only a ring and not what made their marriage work, and it could be replaced.  Nancy, however, was heartbroken.  Yes, it was only a ring, and really not that expensive when you got right down to it, but it was the ring her beloved had placed on her hand all those years ago when they pledged their lives to each other before their friends, family, and God.

To My Husband

A couple of years ago TheHusband made a comment that he was surprised I haven't given him more poems as gifts over the years. And I suppose he has a point, I mean I do claim to be a writer. However, over the years, I've found that I just can't express my love for him (or how much I appreciate his love for me) any better than I did in the poem I wrote for him for our first Valentine's Day as husband and wife. So to remind him how I feel, here's that poem again.

Cracks

The sod of hard worked fields lies embedded
in cracks caused by hours in the summer sun.
The same cracks marked the face of his only son
with a force that left his eyes reddened and wet
with tears. His son cannot wash the dirt
from those unearned cracks. His hands, farmer's hands,
are tough and hug the grains like precious sands
in an hourglass. He can not wash the hurt
from his son's eyes, eyes that will not foregive
the nights lived in fear of making noise.
Eyes that are crazed from living on the brink
of love and approval. Now they live
without the memory of children's toys.
Dreams wash down the drain of an old cracked sink.


**Author's note: Have been super busy at work. This is another of my poems from college.

Training Wheels

He learned to ride a bike
with no hands to guide him,
no training wheels, or strong arms,
to catch him when he fell.
His only teachers were the biting gravel
and the laughing tree by the driveway.

When he would fall
the gravel screamed, "Don't do that!"
and he could hear, "Try again,"
come whispering from the tree.

When he did succeed
with timing and with balance,
the friendly tree congratulated him
with open arms, a rough kiss,
and a bit of advice:

"Now practice your steering, please."

This is actually one of my favorite poems from college. The professor (Bill Holm) walked into class a little late one night and said "You have seven minutes to write a poem with the word 'tree' in it. Begin now." He looked at his watch, then sat down. This poem is what poured out.