to write down

There are things I need to say,
to write down and step back from.
Like emptying my pockets onto a table.

sometimes

Sometimes, when I am here or there, but not home, I see the beginning of a story. Then, I jot down a few words on a scrap of paper, hoping they will help me remember. These little pieces of story waft off into forgotten pockets and dark corners of my purse, eventually surfacing on some high tide, clean sweep, purse emptying moment.
Found one today. There were a couple lines.
One read: Man smelling backpack.
I remember that now. A man lifting his backpack up to his face and inhaling. Not as in, "This is the most amazing fabric softener I've ever used. My pack smells like a field of daisies." Something much more quizzical and tentative. His face registered dismay.
Another read: Eagle trying to pick up dead rabbit.
I remember that now too. It seemed such a juxtaposition of majesty to the morbid. 

at his feet

We've had ice. That fact is so unusual it has made the news more than one evening this January. Ice, ice, ice. Of course, it began as snow. We all rushed to our windows with gasps of joy when the first flakes began to fall. Most of us did. And we gasped with joy as the snow continued and STAYED OVERNIGHT!  
Cue a change in the background music.
There is something unnerving about coastal snow. Something not so joyous. One moment it's as airy as fairy cotton candy. And then....where ere foot or tire treads it transmogrifies into ice.
Rain usually rescues us.
Snowmen droop and lean and slump.
Lawns green up.
Roads shine wet and dark.
Children's lips tremble....
This year though, rain was busy somewhere else and couldn't come. The thermometer dipped down low and the ice held sway.
There was ice absolutely everywhere. Great chunks of it.
And that was how my grandson made his amazing discovery.
How he found something both amazing and startling frozen fast in a chunk of ice.
It caught his eye.
The colors.
The prism of light and color.
He bent, wonderingly and picked up a chunk of ice.
Inside, glinting and glowing was a piece of the rainbow.
Has anyone ever found a piece of the rainbow before?
The Boy Who Found The Rainbow.
Sounds like the title of a fairy tale.
A strange, bleak wind howled across the polar seas.
It raced along the Rockies and plunged down, down through forest and river towards the sea.
A rainbow hung glistening in the pale evening sky.
A blast of icy breath and it was frozen.
Frozen, then shattered into a million pieces. 
And one lay at his feet.
At the feet of the boy and he bent and looked, surprise alight in his eyes.

inner rooms

I'm feeling a little tentative today.
A sort of 'so far so good' kind of feeling.
It's because of yesterday.
Yesterday I was unhappy.
And something worse than unhappy.
I felt desperate.

Doesn't that make you curious?
Me too.
I wrote it an age ago.
Those feelings are water under the bridge.
Can't remember why I felt that way now.
I could take a guess of course but what's the point.

I was trolling through 'drafts' with the intent of tidying up my blogs inner rooms and have had some very entertaining reading.
Here's another-

I had spoken hesitantly.
"They just seem dark to me. You know.... things that seem to be all about war and evil."
"But they're Super Heroes," my grandson had exclaimed. "They fight evil."
It is good to know the difference.
Even very young children can grasp the difference.
Later he had asked with the sober wisdom of seven, "Is there more darkness or more light.?"

"Is there more darkness or more light?" my grandson asked. He is seven and is a philosopher and theologian as all children innately are.
"Do you think I could teach people about good and evil with my stories," he had wondered.

We were taking turns making up stories.
"There was once a righteous man and he had seven sons," he began, startlingly..
"But some of his sons were turning to the dark side."

happy new

Oh how I've missed my blog! Dare I in the spirit of newness determine to more frequently put words down that record bits and pieces of life as it rumbles by?
As it roars by.
As is spins me in circles?
It's not that I think of blogging as a diary.
Although, it can sort of work like one.
"Can it really be two years ago?" I will exclaim to myself on looking back at a story.
No, not a diary, but definitely a record of life in a way that I find so helpful.
It's helpful in the writing.
Helpful in allowing me to sometimes see more clearly.
I don't always even know what I'm feeling about something until I write it down.
Words on a page stare back at you and demand to be honest. It's why I sometimes write my prayers.
I've had a two steps forward, one step back sort of 2015.
And at times, one step forward, two steps back, or three, or four. A sort of snakes and ladders year.
Lots of snakes.
But some very amazing ladders too!
I always thought some magical mantle of maturity would fall from the sky when I hit a certain age. That I would feel calm and dignified in the face of personal failings. Or better yet, would be free at last from embarrassing blots on my daily record and would become a wise and winsome creature.
I consulted Wikipedia and this is how it defines maturity- maturity is the ability to respond to the environment in an appropriate manner. This response is generally learned rather than instinctive. 
Hmmm, appropriate manner is so vague. That's good right?
And it's learned, not instinctive.That's hopeful too isn't it?
Maybe only insurance policies mature at a certain time.
Bet that's true.
Happy New.

wanting

The sunrise this morning was so beautiful, it broke a spell I have been under. I found myself wanting to catch those flaming colors in the sky and keep them in my blog for another day. Morning skies are filled with magic.
By the time I rushed to the computer, the heavy bank of purple cloud, frosted with magenta had lightened and the horizon was afire with apricot light as the sun rose behind the fringe of evergreen.

on the wind

Sometimes I write something several times and choose my favourite line:

White butterflies, fluttering like bits of paper in the wind.

Small white butterflies like bits of paper tossed by the hand of the wind.

Little white butterflies dancing over my garden like paper on the wind.

makes me wonder

"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"

Isn't that the oddest thing you ever read? I found it amongst old blog post drafts and had no idea who I was quoting or where I planned to go with it.
Sometimes I jot down a sentence or a few words although it's usually on a scrap of paper that wafts off, never to be seen again by mortal eye, or at least for a year or two. When I do happen upon it again I am not only delighted, but transported back to that very moment. It's a sort of form of time travel. Safer though.
P.S. Turns out to be a quote from The Secret Garden. Ahhh, yes, that makes sense.

worth more than

I got to thinking about the Lady of Shalott this morning.
She couldn't stop weaving.
And she was all alone in a tower.
Some people think Tennyson wanted to say something about the creative process.
How those who paint or write are isolated.
And compelled.
That although life surrounds them, are separated by the very task set before them.
It has made me ponder the message of all art.
The personal message of the artist.
Seeing life only from a distance as the Lady of Shalott did, as a reflection in a mirror seems a terrible fate.
And it was for her.
Sir Lancelot for all of his bling and jingle jangle really wasn't worth floating down a river over either.

I think when the mirror cracked from side to side, she should have jumped up and cried, "Hooray, I'm off to the market," instead of seeing 'curse' written over her in black letters.
I guess that is part of my personal message.
The color of everyday life is worth more than a tower full of woven magic or a fleet of glittering knights.

gentler on the skin

Sometimes I feel like I'm tumbling in a clothes dryer.
I'm feeling the heat.
I don't know which way is up and which is down.
I'm getting a glimpse out the window from time to time but that's about it.
Mind you, there are lots of stories that way.
Life feels very eventful that way.
It's just that if I don't write them down, they become part of the swirling color, going round and round.
And when I finally get to them, some are kind of wrinkled.
Some have shrunk a bit.
But some shake out as fresh as the day they were new.
Better even.
Softer.
Gentler on the skin.

away in the woods

I love children's stories. I love the meter and cadence they are written in, so like poetry, and I love that illustrations are such a big part of the enjoyment. This story is for my grandchildren and the rhyme pattern was inspired by an Appalachian counting rhyme.

I'm not sure why I thought of writing a little story about bears but now that I have, another one seems very likely. Maybe one about a bear that didn't want to go to bed.....until it started to snow. But until then, here's Away In The Woods

----------------------------------

Away in the woods while the snow swirled down

Slept old mother bear and her soft baby, brown

Sleep baby bear cub

Love’s all around

So he slept and he dreamed

While the snow swirled down

Away in the woods as the spring breeze blew

Woke old mother bear and her baby cub too

Eat, said the mother

Love’s fresh and new

So he nibbled and he lunched

As the spring breeze blew

Away in the woods as clouds chased the sun 
Roamed old mother bear and her little brown son

Play, said the mother

Love’s full of fun

So he capered and he climbed

As clouds chased the sun

Away in the woods through days golden bright
Away in the woods through silver summer night
Birds high above them
Love's taken flight
Mother and cub walk on
Through gold and silver light
                      

Away in the woods as autumn leaves flew

Lived an old mother bear and her young one too

Follow, said the mother

Love’s meant for you

So he rambled and he roamed

As autumn leaves flew

Away in the woods while the snow swirled down

Slept old mother bear and her soft baby, brown

Sleep baby bear cub

Love’s all around

So he slept and he dreamed

While the snow swirled down

mutual admiration

"Look," I say, holding a small toy up for my granddaughters entertainment. "It's Curious George."
"Curious George is for babies," my granddaughter says disdainfully.
There isn't even a flicker in George's smile. He obviously has a superb sense of self.
"But look what he can DO," I enthuse, moving his arms in tiny Karate chops.
"Grandma......" my granddaughter reproves.
"See, see," and I move his arms and mine, a sort of hasty version of YMCA.
My granddaughter gives me THE look.
But the next day her little sister comes to visit.
"It's George," I say.
Her eyes light up.
So do George's.
Mutual admiration.

sis boom bah

A blogpost a day would yield 365 posts by year end. It seems such a lofty goal. I've thought wistfully of it in the past but the math has usually stopped me in my tracks. Late in October or November is no time to think of making a sprint for the finish if it means writing twenty posts a day for the final month. Do I dare to go for it this year? December 31 is out of sight over the horizon. I would just need to write one a day plus an extra ten a month to stagger over the finish line. Then I could jump up and down and shake my gatorade all over the place. Should I make a dash for it?
Sis boom bah, rah rah rah.

on the way home

"Number 399...." a distant voice said. "Number 399?"
Winning a door prize is exciting stuff.
There had been an endless parade of happy winners clutching their loot.
And now, this one last number.
399.
Mine.
I hastened forward to claim the goods.

It wasn't a hoodie with a university logo.
It wasn't a coffee mug or a bulging book bag or a framed print or gift certificate to the salon.
It wasn't a potted plant or flowers either.
Those treasures were already being carted off, the spoils of war.

A huge bouquet of helium balloons was thrust into my hands.
Great black and white balloons with Holstein spots.
It felt like I'd been to the circus, or the PNE, or a birthday party at a dairy......
It felt festive and foolish at the same time.
I bopped and joggled them through the doorways and out into the windy courtyard.
The very windy courtyard.
I hunched against the icy stream of air and towed my bouquet along.
And then briefly, it towed me along and I turned and towed and turned again.
I struggled to open the car door, to stuff the bouquet into the back seat. Each balloon seemed determined to make a break for the skies but I manfully subdued them.
I dove behind the steering wheel and glanced into my rear view mirror to back up.
The balloon bouquet had recovered.
It had risen like a Phoenix from the ashes.
Not good.
Out I struggled and out they struggled, back into the wind.
A brief flurry til I opened my trunk and pushed the balloons in.
Helium and gravity were at odds.
It took both hands to beat them into submission.

I was at a writer's festival today.
Somehow those balloons seem the perfect reminder.
They remind me that writing is fun, even a celebration.
That taking things too seriously is a mistake.
And that effort and struggle may be necessary on the way home.

guess

“Guess what I’m thinking about,” my grandson urges.

I guess and guess and guess.

“Tell me when you give up,” he says smiling slyly.

“I give up,” I declare joyously.

“I’m imagining an alien eating pizza,” he announces.

???!!

“You should draw that for me,” I say. “A picture of what you’re imagining.”

“But I don’t know what an alien would look like,” he admits.

And then, “Maybe it could look like a slug,” he suggests.

“A Slug from Slog,” I declare laughing.

“And it could only eat round pizzas; round like planets.”

“Pizza’s are always round,” he corrects seriously.

“Well then, his pizza has only things that start with the letter S on it.” I challenge.

“Like spinach……and salmon,” I chant.

“And sushi,” he adds, his eyes brightening, and we dash through the wide open door to the beginning of another day.


When I got home, I realized something about where stories come from and I quickly wrote this one down.


Felix and George threw down their back packs and raced across the grass. They slid to a stop at the edge of the creek.

” Let's see who can skip a rock farthest,” Felix called out.

“Whoa,” George exclaimed. “Look at this.” He dropped to his knees at the edge of the water.  A huge slug was climbing over a rock. “Hey, it looks like an alien,” laughed George.  He bent over and peered at the slug.  

“Ugh,” said the slug, but of course the boys didn’t hear him.

“The Alien Slug from Slog,” declared George.  “I bet everybody on Slog eats pizza.” George always thought about pizza.

“Only if the pizza is round like a planet,” said Felix

“Pizza is always round,” argued George

“Well, only if the toppings start with the letter S then.” added Felix.

“Spinach,” shouted George.

“Salmon,’ yelled Felix

“Sushi,” shouted George.

“Ugh,” said the slug, but of course the boys didn’t hear him.

“Look at his antennae waving around. Cool. I bet he’s trying to pick up signals from the spaceship,” Felix crowed.

“Spaceship?!” squeaked  the slug.

“I bet that’s toxic slime,” George grunted, making a face.

“Ugh,” said the slug. “Ugh, ugh, ugh.”

“Hey, it’s starting to rain,” said George.

“Let’s go. I’ll race you,” Felix called over his shoulder.

“I’m a Slug from Slog,” said the slug happily to himself.

But of course, the boys didn’t hear him.

way back

A family often visited a woodsy park.

They liked to lean over the fence and look into the pond.

They liked to wander along the edge of the grassy meadows and explore the trails in the dark woods.

 The boy loved to run and climb.

His sister loved to skip and dance.

Their baby sister watched them.

Each day she grew a little bigger.

She wanted to run and climb too.
She wanted to skip and dance.
The baby had learned to say a few words. She loved to say, ‘down.’ When she said it, her mother or father would take her out of the stroller and let her walk.
The baby loved to walk.
But one day when she was lifted down out of her stroller she didn’t walk.

She ran instead.

‘Grab her,’ sang the mother and the baby smiled.

‘Grab her,’ called the father and the baby chuckled.

‘Grab her,’ shouted the brother and the baby giggled.

‘Grab her,’ squealed the sister and the baby laughed.
Everyone had to run too then.
They ran past the pond and past the meadow.

They ran through the forest on the woodsy path,

They ran past a horse and rider.

Past a woman almost jogging,

Past a hairy man with his hairy dog.

Past a rabbit and a little mouse.

and a huge owl.

“Who, who, who,” said the owl sternly.
The baby stopped running.
She didn’t know how to say her name yet.
Her family caught up to her at last.

They grabbed the little baby and she smiled and chuckled and giggled and laughed.

 And then she rode down the hill on her daddy’s shoulders, all the way back to the beginning.

magically becomes

Sometimes I read old stories from my blog to my mother. She is the perfect audience.
Today we enjoyed animal stories together.
I remember reading excerpts from books to her over the years; bits and pieces for her entertainment.
And I remember reading paragraphs from school assignments and even snippets of Dick and Jane for her applause.
I've always loved books.

Stories make up the fabric of our everyday.
And writing, although a solitary pleasure, magically becomes in the reading,  a shared enjoyment.

but...

Joe stood as still as a statue and listened. Ahhhhh, alone at last.

He slid to the edge of the cushion and happily closed his eyes. "A hop from the couch is nothing if you have been raised in a Baobab Tree," he thought.

But he got stuck part way down and took a bit of a tumble.

A little snack seemed just the thing, though it wasn't as cold as he thought it would be.

The sewing machine stood on a table near by. Things that whirred and buzzed gave Joe a thrill and he'd always hankered to give it a try...

but it was harder than it looked and he ran over his finger.

He climbed onto the back of the couch and watched the squirrels hiding nuts in the yard.

He held his breath and gasped in admiration as they flew from branch to branch.

He sat at the window until the low morning sun climbed in the sky and dazzled his eyes with its brilliance. 

There is a curious call to books, and turning from the window at last, Joe found a story that was just the sort of light reading he enjoyed, but he could hardly see the pages after gazing into the bright autumn light.

Then Joe played with the blocks for awhile; little cubes of jungle green, but he found them puzzling.

Barrel of Monkeys was so easy by comparison that he got lost in the game.

Playing Doctor seemed promising too, but only one patient showed up; a ballerina in very good health.

"I'll just watch a little television and enjoy a laugh or two," thought Joe

but the news made him cry.

He pulled up his quilt and leaned back in bed. "What a busy day," pondered Joe. Just the sort he liked to
  remember moment by moment,

but he was soon sound asleep.

both

"All writing is both a mask and an unveiling."
E.B.White

very moment

My previous post is an example of how writing can shift even as you are looking at it, how it can cause you to suddenly see what you were unable to see until that very moment. 
The original post was called 'liquid embroidery' and I thought  I wanted to talk about that. I realized though, that what I really wanted to tell you, was how liquid embroidery reminded me of my in-laws. It reminded me of how they always worked together. How they shared the weight of daily life.
After changing my post, I changed the title to 'collaboration' because that is where the joy is for me now.
Not just in remembering the complimenting lives of my in-laws, but in the happiness I am feeling to be completing something started by someone else.