Maternal Journeys

Life is good right now.  My ADD mind is racing to about 70 places, but most of them are in positive directions.  This is from my journal and I wanted to share.  Thanks for reading!

It’s on the market.  The madness begins.  Getting the house clean and keeping it that way with Sylvie and Robyn is a daunting task.  I am beginning to understand why people with extremely clean homes are so uptight.  I am also noticing how much trouble Robyn can get into when left to her own devices.  And the TV is loosing its allure because I’m using it to keep them occupied too often.  On a positive note, Sylvie is going down to sleep SO much easier these days, which is intoxicatingly lovely.  Robyn is learning to name her emotions, and mine, with uncanny accuracy.  That is good for her, but kind of freaks me out.  Sometimes she asks me if I’m feeling ____ right now (frustrated, tired, crabby hungry, etc.), and I didn’t even realize I was!  There’s a future in psychology for that girl, and I’m in trouble if she can read me that well already!

We drove around a bit and looked at a few rental possibilities in the village of Brockport ~ there are not many that are not college housing.  But we are always driving into Brockport to do everything, and have very few connections where we are.  Aaron is understandably anxious about where we will live next.  I have no idea why I am calm about it all.  I have a feeling I’m somehow blocking it out because I’m more anxious about little things lately.  (Maybe Robyn would have some insight into how I’m dealing!)

I’m trying very hard to be present in the moment, but in my head it’s like CNN is always on; someone is doing in depth analysis on a current situation while pictures from other stories flash and still other breaking news runs across the bottom of the screen.  And that’s just inside my head.  Life is moving obscenely quickly, Sylvie is always a step ahead of me, and Robyn has begun to quietly disappear and draw on things or make a mess some other way, seemingly just to be messy.  I know she’s uneasy about the changes that are happening and the ones that we are talking about that are coming (moving, living in a new place, etc.); and I don’t want the kids to be anxious about the move, but I know some of that is inevitable.  Hopefully it will happen in a timely manner, so we don’t have to live in Limbo Land for long.

I am actually enjoying the way the house looks, even though I’m cleaning 24-7.  I feel such a sense of accomplishment and pride at the way things look.  We still have clutter in some places, and there are plenty of little things that need to be touched up, but it’s a good looking, sound home with a lot to offer.

Five pounds and counting.  I am also proud of that, even though you can’t really see it yet.  The changes I am making are all the small “This one cookie, sweet tea, candy bar . . . won’t make a difference” snacks.  They are making a difference; and it’s becoming habit.  I eat those things once in a while, cutting back somewhere else to offset it.  The sweet tea, candy bar, or whatever it is, tastes so much sweeter now.  I enjoy it, but it satisfies the craving in a way I wasn’t satisfied before.  I used to eat whatever it was and say to myself, “I deserve this because ___.”  Now I tell myself, “I deserve to feel good about my weight,” and the Craving Monster seems to shrink a little.

Maybe that’s just me standing taller.

She sat in the McDonald’s parking lot, gulping in huge mouthfuls of air.  Most of the interview had taken place underwater, she felt sure.  Every so often, she caught a glimpse of the woman they were interviewing, so seemingly self assured and calm.  But inside, she was holding her breath, and her lungs were screaming and she wasn’t quite sure which way to swim to reach the surface.
She was sure of one thing; she was never playing poker with anyone in that conference room.  The image of that in her head made her laugh out loud, and she finally began to relax a little.  During the interview, things had been fuzzy around the edges, and there was this incessant buzzing sound she couldn’t figure out.  Probably her blood pumping.  Glimpses of the interview caught in her memory, but she couldn’t quite see them clearly.
“What’s done is done,” she announced to the empty car.  “I’ve given birth twice, and lived through Brian’s funeral, why is this so hard?”  But she knew, the fear stalked her dreams.  This is what she had been trained to do, before taking time off to be a full time Mom.  What if she didn’t have it anymore?  Plan A had been hard enough to formulate, there had to be a Plan B, too?  The realization that she was the sole breadwinner punched her square in the face, again.  “I need a latte” she decided and pulled out of the parking space heading for the drive through.

This week’s encounters with Lynda Barry’s book “What it is” left me scrambling for notebooks and writing until my hand cramped.  She urged us to find an image, one that sprang easily to mind, and turn it over gently in our mind, and on the paper.  To notice what was above, behind, who was there, what it smelled like, etc.  I had fun!  The following just fell out of my pen one day when I studied a shaving mug that sits in our bathroom.  It is more of the story of Izzy, a fiction piece I wrote earlier called “The Road Home.”  The info about the creation of the shaving mug is real, thankfully the storyline isn’t!!  You can read more of “The Road Home on this blog.

She walked to the end of the pier, enjoying the sound of her flip flops on the wooden planks.  The gulls cried, screaming at the fishermen for a morsel of the catch.  Children ran and squealed below, chasing sand crabs and waves and bubbles.  She loved how she could feel safely alone in the midst of so many strangers.  An empty corner lured her to the edge, and she stood for a while, staring over the waves until the rhythm of threes presented itself, and she unconsciously relaxed her shoulders.  A surfer smiled and waved, apparently assuming she was awed by his skill or looks.  She hadn’t even noticed him until he moved his arm.  Smiling and waving a little, Izzy decided to find an empty bench and get to work.  The resume and application didn’t feel quite so daunting peeking out of her notebook out here on the pier.  One question at a time she could handle, but the idea of applying, interviewing and going back to work right now suddenly seemed like too much to add to the already insurmountable anxiety that seemed to stalk her.

Izzy had been used to parenting alone.  Brian had had meetings, usually four nights a week, but almost always made it home for at least an hour to eat with the family.  Somehow Izzy had thought so many nights of doing dinner prep, clean up and bedtime alone so often would make his sudden absence easier.  Not so.  Every single night since his death, she found herself thinking of what they would talk about later, as she dimmed Jesse’s light at bedtime.  The walk down the stairs, knowing he wasn’t coming home, made her feel so brittle and empty.  She was surprised she didn’t simply shatter.

At least now she wasn’t in “their” house anymore.  Being surrounded by his everyday items, the brush he never put away, the pile of sock with no matches that never quite went away, had all made it unconsciously feel like he was running late, like he’d be home soon.  Jesse felt it too, and had asked to pack his brush and shaving mug so they could leave it out at the new house, too.  She never said ’so he could use it’ or ‘to remind me’ but Izzy knew on some level, Jesse knew.  So a small pile of lonely socks made its way to the condo, along with Daddy’s brush, which lay on Jesse’s bathroom sink, used by her daily.  The shaving mug stood silently in Izzy’s bathroom.

The mug had been the first piece of pottery Izzy had made, years before meeting Brian, and it fit his shaving brush so perfectly, he had used it for years.  It represented so many things that had become a melding of Izzy and Brian, and she closed her eyes and smelled it every morning, drinking in that musky clean smell that was Brian just after a shower.

At first these things had felt desperate and pathetic; smelling his soap?  Every day?  But she decided early on to be gentle with herself, she would grieve however felt right, as long as it was healthy for her and the girls.  So far, so good.

The weight of all the decisions, the responsibility of all that was no longer shared threatened to smother her in the days that followed the funeral.  Some nights her brother, Dave, would have dinner cleaned up and the cards out when she came down, some nights he even did Jesse’s bedtime.

Usually, though, he packed boxes or took a piece of furniture apart. Boxes piled up in the dining room and eventually the garage, so that the living spaces could be kept reasonably normal as long as possible.  Jesses’ need to know exactly what was going in each box tried even Uncle Dave’s patience sometimes and the child watched more PBS Kids in those weeks than in her whole life combined.  She didn’t seem to understand that all the boxes were going with them, and that the house would be empty, so they could tell if anything was left behind.  Ah, the gift and curse of concrete thinking!

[ I promise to spend time with Izzy this week, and add to the story.  I forgot how much I missed her!]

This week as I read through my twenty pages of “What It Is” by Lynda Barry, she gave us a ‘workbook.’ One of the suggestions was to make a list of ten cars you remember from childhood and write about one of them. Here is what spilled onto my page. Check out Christine’s blog to find out what adventures she’s been on with the book.

I think the car ran on hormones, they were always swirling around in that boxy red car. Christy got a car before I did, and so of course I thought it was magnificent. The fact that we had to stick a screwdriver in the starter whenever we wanted it to start, only seemed to add to its charm. Looking back, I can’t believe that her Dad let us drive that thing, he showed me how to place the screwdriver just so to avoid electrocution and successfully start the car. It took two people, one to be in the car and turn the key, and one to hold the screwdriver. Somehow, I always held the screwdriver. After it started, she would scoot over so I could drive. She HATED driving, and she knew I loved it, so I usually drove her car. That was fine with her parents, they knew she would never be alone, and I was allowed to do less than she was, I guess they assumed we followed the rules when we weren’t with them.

They really didn’t have much to worry about. Christy was afraid of getting in trouble, and I was afraid of Christy getting mad at me, so we stayed at least in sight of the Straight and Narrow. I remember one night we had driven down to the beach to cruise Johnny Mercer’s Pier. The excitement of the evening was to drive around the cul de sac at the end of the street, just by the beach. We never went on the beach (at least when it was just us girls!) but drove around and looked at who was hanging out with who that night, and what everyone was wearing. This particular night, there was very little going on, and we had just learned where Mr. B lived, just down the street from the pier.

I must explain about Mr. B. First year out of college, black hair, stunning blue eyes, soccer body, oh, and he taught English. To us. I never paid attention in class like that, watching him speak and pretending to understand Shakespeare. A funny thing happened in that class, eventually. I stopped staring and started listening. He would explain certain parts of the plot so that the rest of the story fell into place. He would get us to read plays and actually think about what the characters were feeling and thinking. Part of my love of writing and reading came from the way he made the stories we read come alive. But on this particular night, we were not thinking of English.

You must understand, this was “Girls Gone Wild” for Christy and me. The plan was to drive past his condo and see if his light was on, if he was maybe even on the deck. That was the extent of our plan. We would never have the nerve to speak to him, or even knock on the door and run. But we had this juicy bit of info, where he lived, and curiosity got the better of our sixteen year old brains.

There was another idiosyncrasy of Christy’s car that I forgot to mention. Once in a while, it would cut off at stoplights or when we slowed down too much. It rarely happened, and we simply pulled over, stuck the screwdriver in, and we were off again. Except when it didn’t start again. Which only happened the one time.

We had circled the condo parking lot at least three times and giggled until we cried. It was almost Christy’s curfew, and we usually spent the night at her house so we could stay out later (a lot could happen in thirty minutes!) . We pulled into a parking space to turn around and IT happened. The car sputtered, jumped and puttered out. We both groaned and twisted around in the car to make sure the dying noises of the car hadn’t aroused Mr. B’s curiosity. His door was still closed, the blue light of the television still blinking through the window, we were safe. I jumped out and she scooted over without a word, we wanted to restart the car and sneak out before anyone figured out we were spying on our teacher. Nothing happened. No sparks, no struggle to start, nothing. I think we later learned that the interior light had been left on, and the battery was too dead to restart. So there we were, 2 miles from Christy’s house, cell phones didn’t even exist in movies, and we had about 20 minutes until curfew.

I got back in the car and we sat scheming for a couple of minutes. We didn’t have the nerve to knock on a door we didn’t know, and there were no phone booths nearby, though they did still dot the streets along the beach. So we checked our huge 80’s hair, put on lip gloss, and sheepishly walked up to Mr. B’s door. We had worked out a lie in the car; we heard there was a party in this neighborhood, and wanted to see who was there, but we must have gotten the wrong neighborhood, and we thought we remembered him saying he lived here. There were lots of people hanging out on the lawn, so one of them told us which condo was his. We just need to use the phone to call Christy’s Dad to come get us.

Someone else answered the door. Obviously we had not considered this, from the way our mouths sputtered like the dying car. We finally asked for Mr., um, B. The beautiful blonde man yelled over his shoulder and Mr. B came to the door in a T-shirt and shorts. He threw back his head and laughed when he saw us, calling us by our last names, and welcomed us in. Christy’s mouth spilled out every bit of our lie all at once, and then she breathed. I think she thought we were going to be in trouble. He offered us Cokes, which we took, and I went into the kitchen to call Christy’s Dad, figuring I had to be able to lie better than she just had. Her Dad suspected nothing, except that he would have a large mechanic bill early next week. I told him what neighborhood we were in, and that a friend from school let us use the phone. I remember thinking, ‘this is easier than I thought it would be, wonder what else we could get away with.’

When I went back into the den, Mr. B, Christy and The Beautiful Room Mate,( I have no idea what his name was) were chatting, as if this were some normal, plausible thing to do on a Friday night. We thanked them for the phone and the Cokes and left, anxious to make sure Christy’s Dad never knew whose house we called from. He never mentioned it at school, but asked Christy in the hall how her car was doing. We giggled all the way home that night, and never even discussed going near his neighborhood again. Such wild adventures in that boxy red car! Sure wish I could remember what kind it was!

“But the two questions find everybody. ‘Is this good?’ ‘Does this suck?’ . . . For the next 30 years I chased after only good drawing. While I drew, my main feelings were doubt and worry, and when I finished my only feelings were relief and regret. I never drew for fun anymore – and I’d forgotten about that strange floating feeling making lines on paper used to give me. I’d forgotten how stories used to bubble up out of the lines and surprise me. It was why I started drawing – to meet those lines and stories.”

There have been days when I had to pull over and scrounge around under the car seat to find a stub of pencil or a pen, and write on an old receipt. Sometimes the stories or ideas in my head get so big and loud, all I can do is stop and let it out. Sometimes the story is falling out so fast my hands hurt by the time the story is over. I never know what is going to happen, never outline or map out a story when it’s fiction, the characters just seem to do things. It’s like getting to know a new friend; or enemy depending on the character!

If I am writing nonfiction, things seem to come slower, more of a relaxing experience. I stop and close my eyes and transport back to another time, to smell things and touch objects and look people in the eye that were in that past experience. Those times feel like a visit with family. Those writings come when I choose to stop and ask them to visit with me. Perhaps they are waiting patiently in some corner of my mind. I should dust them off more often, I think if I did, I would see more of their beauty.

I do find myself stopping more often in the nonfiction to check in with The Two Questions; but fiction never lets me pause, which is good. I always show my story to The Two Questions when I am finished, regardless of how often they visited while I was writing. It never matters to me how the fictional story will end, it feels pretty much like I’m reading someone elses’ story that has already been written. There is no feeling of control over the plot or even the descriptions of people. When I try to bend the story to fit some plot idea, the story withers before my eyes and whatever was alive and creative dies. Most often when that happens, I apologize and wait for its return, but it doesn’t come back. I never really named that experience before, and Lynda’s discoveries on the subject have allowed me to trust the process in a whole new way, instead of trying to write “correctly;” in some way that another author has found that works for them. As if there is only one right way to create! It is so easy to assume there is a right way, which really says everything else is wrong. How small and confining! The more we can simply create with abandon, the more beauty we will meet. A photographer takes good pictures because he or she takes many pictures and throws away those which are not ‘living.’ Why is it so difficult as a writer to let go of that which does not connect? Why do I feel that every word I type or write needs to be good enough to change someone’s world?

No doubt that is why Aaron is so much better at pottery than I am. He is in it for the experience, and always seems to come away with such a sense of peace. In fact, sometimes when he is stressed out or crabby (which, thankfully, isn’t often!), I make time for him to throw some pots; he’s so much more relaxed after time in the wheel!

I, however, cannot seem to let go of the idea that there needs to be some astounding piece of art to show the world after being on the wheel. I place so much pressure on myself that it’s not fun anymore. The wheel is in the depths of our basement, there is no spotlight or recording device, no one will know if I go down there and just experience the clay; but I can’t seem to let go of the need to produce something every time. I think that’s why I don’t play my guitar very often. I am gifted in some aspects of music, so it feels like I should be a natural on the guitar. Of course I’m not. I need to practice and make callouses on my fingers and spend time with it making bad music before I can enjoy it.

Maybe that’s why we aren’t more creative as a society. We don’t allow ourselves or others to spend time making bad art so we can learn and get to the good stuff. Lynda would say it’s not about bad or good, but about enjoying the experience of simply making art. Somehow it can’t be fun if the end result is not stellar. I wonder if we made art that could not be kept, like sandcastles or chalk on the driveway, if we would be freer to play. Freer to simply experience the beauty of creating. I bet blood pressure medicine sales would go down!

The next section of the book is an “Activity Book” for writers. There are suggestions for activities and exercises. I’m not sure what I will share from that experience, but I promise to try and share what I enjoyed, not just what I think is “good enough” to post. I’ll also post some of the exercises and activities she suggests; I would love for you to try it too, and let me know how you liked the experience. If we give ourselves a chance, there is no end to the fun we can have! See you in a week ~

My journey into the richness of the book “What It Is” by Lynda Barry continues. This week we delve into imagination and how something can be meaningful. She plays with words like a cat with a yarn ball; slowly almost lazily, until it suddenly gets away from her and a long string of color unfurls across the room, beautiful and unexpected.

“No matter what disappeared from my life - - - the TV was always there to take its place. I found I could depend upon television. What else in my world was as reliable? . . . If your kingdom has gone dark inside, if you are lost, if you have dropped your map and compass, if you are only twelve years old, and there is a light which flickers and speaks in a way that makes you forget things. . . you will go to it. You will go to it and willingly turn to stone. What else can you do? This ~ you can follow us.”

I do not think we realize the power television has. Advertisers do. We say we do. But then we leave it on in the background, saying “the kids aren’t even watching it. I’m not even watching it.”: So why is it on? We think we might miss something if we turn it off. So we are surprised when our children are always bored, they don’t know what to do, don’t know how to imagine and pretend. If they are always given pictures that move and things to think and watch, why pretend? Why get up and move around with toys, when we can sit and watch someone else move? And we are surprised by the health problems we live with.

On a completely different thought, Lynda wonders,

“Can something be meaningful even if we can’t say what the meaning is?”

As a writer, I am constantly trying to find just the right word, just the right image to convey my thoughts. It makes me tongue tied in conversations, and often people fill in words they think I mean or simply interrupt and move the conversation along without me. But I have recently discovered how peaceful it is to simply sit with an image in my head. The need to share every image is not so strong, perhaps because I’ve been writing more. Simply sitting with an idea or the thought of a loved one has been quite powerful, and often a wonderful way to pray. It is a relief to take a break from trying to explain or describe everything, as the writer in my head wants everything documented. Simply sitting with an image can bring it into such great focus. Sometimes, the importance changes from what was the focal point, to some obscure object or emotion that I didn’t notice at first. What rich tapestry can be woven by simply being still and comfortable with my thoughts.

As the writer in my head will not be stilled for long, I spent some time sitting with an image today. The following writing poured out afterward. Thanks, Lynda, for spurring me on to write.

The only thing that moved was the occasional leaf, shielding the underbrush from the brunt of the sun, quivering slightly as if afraid of the storm that was electrifying the air. The quiet was odd, there should be squirrels chasing one another, and birds fighting over territory with their beautiful angry voices. Bunnies and moles and deer should be silently grazing, munching on a late afternoon snack. But everyone wild had been paying attention, and I was illiterate to the writing of the storm clouds. That is, until the lush green of the canopy around me turned slowly to browns and grays. The chill crept into the breeze so slowly, that it was unclear if I was simply uneasy all of a sudden, or if the temperature was actually dropping. Sadly I stretched and stood, casually gathering the pastels and easel that had lured me like a lover into the quiet woods. I had sketched the veins of leaves and intricate secrets hidden in the bark, and even a caterpillar working on a cocoon. It had been a good day. The canvas tote welcomed my day’s work and I laughed easily as the first raindrops attacked with all the soggy might they could muster. As long as my lover was safe and dry in the confines of the tote, I was free to saunter to my waiting bungalow, soaking in the cold sweet drops as others might soak in the heat of the sun.

Somehow the heat of the sun always made me feel dry and empty, as if I was lacking something life giving. The lushness of the jungle or the woods makes me feel safe, I am surrounded by sustenance. If you sit still long enough in the depths of the forest, there is no end to visible examples of the cycles of life. It’s not always pretty, but it’s always beautiful.

This is my latest adventure into the land of Lynda Barry.  My friend, Christine, and I are blogging through the most fabulous book, “What It Is.”

So here’s a question Lynda Barry didn’t write, but came to me out of her musings; Is something good if no one else sees it, or comments on it?

I’m not sure when it starts, but at some point, everything we do is done, or not done, based on what other people will think of it. The way we dress, what we do for a living, what we eat, where we go, what we drive, the way we do (or don’t do) our hair. It’s all done through a filter of “What will people think?”

We watch children playing and long for that carefree attitude, then tell them they shouldn’t do this, or they should act like that because that’s the way we act. Surely, we need to treat others with love and respect, but there are so many “shoulds” that only exist because we want to fit in, and we want our children to fit in as well. The feeling of being praised and liked is the most powerful drug there is.

At three, Robyn doesn’t care or even realize that people are noticing how she is dressing, acting, playing, etc. She simply is being who she is. There are glimpses of what is to come, as she plays with more kids and brings home ideas of what is “amateur” and what is “super cool.” (No kidding, she said ‘Mom, you’re such an amateur’ yesterday!)

Pink became her favorite color when a grown up told her that boys like blue and girls like pink. I thought I would cry. Not because our lives are now pink, but because she changed her favorite things because of what someone told her she should like. There are still tractors and balls and bugs in her life, but many of them are pink. And that’s just because no one has told her ‘the rules’ about tractors and balls and bugs.  Yet.

“Kids like making marks that make shapes that make stories. (adults are scared to do this) Why? When did we get scared? What scared us?”

I’m sure it happened well before this, but I remember being in Mrs. Butler’s fifth grade class. It was a ‘gifted’ class and we were told that often, with the expectation that we were to do more and be better at things. There were some kids in that class that could draw. I mean draw things that seemed to breathe. There were other kids that could look at a math problem and tell you the answer, when I needed paper, pencil and half an hour. One kid loved to tell and write horror stories, the good ones he never showed to the teacher. But he would read them to us at recess or when the teacher left the room (which happened a lot; we were ‘gifted’ after all, surely we wouldn’t make trouble. Really?!?) I remember lying awake in my bed, sure that whatever scary monster Robbie Price had read about that day was just outside my door. If I didn’t breathe or move, the monster wouldn’t either. I lost a lot of sleep that year.

I noticed how pretty Natalie was, and that the girls wanted to be her friend, and the boys wanted to “go with her.” That Brian was great with basketball and Dean just seemed to be good at everything. At some point, I remember looking down. I could draw okay. I could write well enough. Math was confusing, but eventually I got there. I secretly hated all sports, because my glasses slid down my nose when I got hot and my body never quite did what I asked it to do. I remember realizing how mediocre I was in that group of people and wishing I could be in a regular class, where I could excel and stand out. I started to look at my body as it compared to Natalie’s. To try to change my hair, my clothes, and become like her so I could be liked that way. I was pretty skinny, but not in the same places. My hair was not quite blond or brown, and cut funny. And the glasses were quite thick. Even in high school, after I got contacts and let my hair grow out, I still felt like that awkward fifth grader with Coke bottle glasses and braces and lumpy legs. I am surprised to see how I looked in high school pictures; it’s a different person than the way I felt.

“When did you first notice that you were bad at something? Then what happened?” I think I slowly crawled into a shell. I was terrified of standing out. It was so much easier to keep quiet and blend in. It never occurred to me to share my beliefs or feelings with my friends, theirs were surely better. But I still wanted people to see the neat parts of me. I guess I thought they would see it shining through the mediocrity I covered up with, and shout, “Hey look at this cool stuff under here!” Then I could shine without trying, and I’d know the gifts were good enough to share. I think I still do that, but I’m slowly finding ways to share my creativity in ways that bring joy to others and myself. And isn’t thatthe whole point of all these gifts we’ve been given? Not to use them to make ourselves shine, or to make others feel bad because ‘hey look what we’ve got, where’s yours?’ But simply to share them, so everyone can benefit?

What if we had the guts to pour all of our hidden talents out on the table and craft them into something new together? Something that wasn’t mine or yours or even ours, but became something that simply was. That simply existed to bring joy to all of us. Not just the best of any given talent, but all the hidden joyous parts that people wanted to share.

That would be a sight to behold indeed.

Anyone game?

“What It Is” ~ the next entry

It has been so long since I was able to curl up with the images and thoughts of Lynda Barry, I missed them! This week I was reading about story. “Where is a story before it becomes words? Where is it after it becomes words?” What an interesting concept. Very often for me, stories begin as random thoughts that attach to a memory and somehow begin to grow. I had never thought of it in this way before, but the only fiction I have written that has been any good has had elements of my life in it. Parts of my life I kept secret, parts I am currently experiencing, even parts I wished for so much I feel they were a part of my life. It is so much easier to write when I am basing it on something tangible from my life. Just like it is so much easier to draw something when I have the actual object in front of me, to see shading and light, depth and hue. A photograph is a mediocre substitute to paint from, I guess like a memory that hasn’t been dusted off lately. Even the old memories that were treasured or hidden or in some way preserved are almost as good as the present to write about.

I have made this huge discovery recently (huge to me) that inserting vivid images, smells or sounds from my memories into fiction pieces brings them to life and adds so much depth. I read a fiction piece in Good Housekeeping recently under the heading “A Good Read” and was disappointed. The author laid out the storyline, had a few characters that said stuff, and eventually an ending. Nothing sparkled. Nothing grabbed me. Then I realized she didn’t use any of the senses to describe things. The piece was dead.

Lynda explored the feelings that are associated with play, discovering this; “I believe a kid who is playing is not alone. There is something brought alive during play. And this something when played with, seems to play back.” She goes on to say, “There were times when nothing played back. Writers call it ‘writer’s block’. For kids there are other names for that feeling, though kids don’t usually know them.” I really connected with this idea. Listening to Robyn play when she is pretending I sometimes have to stop and listen, to make sure she is actually alone. She uses different pitches, different volumes, and is even experimenting with accents already. There is a real sense that something is being created, that I have to be quiet and not interrupt or that something will burst, like a bubble and leave us feeling empty with its absence.

Once I went into her room after nap time and started cleaning up. All I saw was a mess that needed to be fixed before we could leave and move on to the next thing. “Mommy!” She screamed, as her little hands jammed onto her hips, “You’ve just ruined Blue’s pretend birthday party! You need to say sorry!” And indeed I did. I had splattered that beautiful bubble of play and made a mess of a perfectly good pretend birthday party. Once in a while, like when I apologized to Blue and helped to clean up the party, I get invited in, too. She would let me in a lot more often if I only asked.

Lynda goes deeper into the idea of being blocked, suggesting that this is the basis of many fairy tales, such as a dead kingdom where all its residents have turned to stone. I love what she describes next; the way to make it alive again. “One doesn’t restore the kingdom by passivity, nor can it be done by force. It can’t be done by logic or thought.” She says later that it takes “courage and terror and failure or what seems like failure” to finally bring the kingdom back to life. I notice that we are not only afraid of failure, but also of others seeing us pretend, to create. Why do we feel like we will look stupid, when we are actually bringing something to life? Those that have the courage to create, whether it is through writing, painting, sculpting or simply pretending, those ‘artists’ are revered and awed. Perhaps what we are in awe of is their courage.

Thanks, Lynda, for giving me food for thought.  See you all again later in the week!

So I decided I would try my hand at fiction.  There is a cheese factor, but it was fun!  Hope you enjoy it.

She sat mesmerized by the story unfolding in the book in her lap, unaware that her hair was blowing in circles around her, the clouds ready to spill, and someone was admiring her stature. The huge drops of rain distort the final paragraphs of the novel, and she cursed at the interruptions as her body uncurled from its nest in the sand. The corners of the worn cotton blanket gathered swiftly in her quick fingers, its contents tumbled into the center as the drops became sheets and her swirling skirt seemed to carry her to the nearest gazebo, actually attached to someone’s home. The blanket and all its contents tumbled along the floor, as a quiet voice smiled, “Been watching that storm build for almost half an hour, must be a pretty good book.”

Rae suddenly realized she had no idea where she was, having walked a good ways before finding a spot she could read alone. She whirled around, ready to grab her pile from the floor and run, rain and all. She decided immediately not to.

The voice had come from a stunning man in one of the worn Adirondack chairs near the house, well under the blue and white awning that strained to keep hold of the porch. Still oblivious to the storm beginning to rage, she enjoyed a bold stare at the length of the figure that lounged and smiled.

“You could have told me it was coming before I got soaked!” She tried to wipe away the water that dripped from her hair and dress, and finally gave up. He dropped his gaze for a moment, “I could have, but that would have been much less interesting to watch.”

“May I?” she said as she motioned to the second chair. “Of course, can’t really send you out in this, I might even have a towel.” He disappeared into the house without waiting for a response. She closed her eyes and replayed the picture of his eyes as he mocked her. Damn he was pretty. The wind picked up and for reasons she could not fathom, she relaxed into the chair and propped up her feet. He returned a few minutes later with a towel, a sweater, a Yellowtail Shiraz and two glasses. This was much more interesting than the end of the novel.