Monthly Archives: January 2013

Writer and Reader: A Work of Heart

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Kami
English: Picture of an open book, that does no...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I have come through this many of my allotted days, watched the passing of life on earth, made something of it and nailed it to the page. Having written, I find I’m often willing to send it on, in case someone else also needs this kind of reassurance. Art is entertainment but it’s also celebration, condolence, exploration, duty, and communion. The artistic consummation of a novel is created by the author and reader together, in an act of joint imagination, and that’s not to be taken lightly.” – Barbara Kingsolver, from “Careful What You Let in the Door” in her book of essays High Tide in Tucson

I love hearing that an author has respect for and interest in her readers. Maybe that’s why all the books I’ve read by Barbara Kingsolver resonate me with, regardless of the topic. She trusts her readers to bring thought, wisdom and intelligence with them when they open her book.

There are many authors whose works I’ve read that left me with a similar sense of collaboration. Surely that’s where the sentiment of “the book is always better than the movie” comes from. No movie maker can duplicate the combined imagination and interface of writer and individual reader. What happens in the space called reading is uniquely personal and potentially magical.

As solitary as reading appears to be on from the outside, surprisingly, it’s actually a relationship and an alliance. Thanks to authors like Kingsolver and many, many others, there are countless opportunities to be part of of such creative adventures.

Long live the written word!

Categories: Books, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Crazy Going Slowly Am I

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Kami

I think I have all the makings for becoming a crazy cat lady.

I used to love cats! As a kid I almost always owned a stray cat of one stripe or another.  Zorro had a black mask around his eyes that made him seem mysterious and sneaky.  He’s the only one whose name I remember of six or eight little fur balls that I loved.

A photograph of a stray cat I have adopted.

A stray cat. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There was this Tom cat with bald patches, a short crooked tail, huge clumps of white matted fur and two different eye colors. That was on a good day.  He would disappear for weeks at a time and return with injuries, sores, greasy fur and skinnier than when I’d last seen him.

I’d get him washed up, fed and snuggled into a blanket on my bed and then rub his ears to reassure him that all was well.  He’d stick around for a month or two and then disappear again for a few weeks.  On his return we’d repeat the cleaning ritual. After a few years he simply never returned from one of his forays. I like to think that scraggly Tom went out with a wild cat fight that matched his obviously wild life.

We adopted another scruffy stray when I had a toddler at home.  This one I didn’t let in the house, but it got fed and watered and loved by my toddler.  She was the one who came up with a name for it, “Suffer.”  Seemed like a really appropriate name for a mangy stray who attacked the birds from my feeder and looked like he lived a rough life.  Years later that toddler told me she got the name from cat in the Disney movie “Cinderella.” That cat’s name: “Lucifer.”  Apparently to a toddler’s ears the name sounded like “Suffer.”

We don’t own or feed any cats anymore. MSH is allergic to the critters and I don’t have time or patience for one. Lately I just chase cats away from the yard.  The overfed orange tabby I refer to is usually lying in wait for some hapless bird to get complacent and comfortable.

English: Orange tabby cat

English: Orange tabby cat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So why do I think I’m ripe for becoming a crazy cat lady?  Maybe the emphasis needs to focus more on the “crazy” and less on the “cat.”

Cats are only predictable in their unpredictability. You can’t count on them to snuggle you when you need snuggling, not like a dog, who senses a need and fills it. No cats are all about spontaneity and whimsy and fluffiness.

I’m unpredictable, spontaneous, whimsical and all too often focused on the fluffiness.  I’m a dreamer with little follow through, a planner lacking energy. Stacks of papers fill surfaces like a litter box and things sit around half-finished, waiting for inspiration or desire to strike, like a cat waiting for motivation.  It isn’t gonna happen.

At this stage in my life am I capable of scaling back or ramping up or finding balance, chi, inner peace, feng shui, enlightenment, reason, order or balance? Or am I one quickly becoming of those people everyone will want to avoid for her eccentricities?

“Crazy  Aunt Kami, man was she ever weird, let me tell you about the time she…” they’ll say and I’ll roll over in my grave to listen to yet another story of my non-exploits.

Maybe if I got a cat, I’d be a little less “Crazy” and more “cat.”  Sassy and content, carefree and clueless, living in the moment. Oh, and lots and lots of naps.

Actually, I think I’m already doing that, and that’s the problem.  What circular thinking I have.

Maybe I’ll just be crazy. I think it’s unavoidable.

Categories: Humor, Mental Health | Tags: , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Singing and Dancing in the Rain

Posted on January 26, 2013 by Kami

rainy dayIt’s Raining!  Hooray!  It’s rained so much that the park across the street, which is really a water retention basin in disguise, is filling up and almost ready for a few canoes or inflatable boats. 

Here in the desert, nothing brings out the smiles faster the sound of rain.  There’s no smell here more delicious than rain scented desert air. Nothing brings out the child in people around here faster than the steady drip and splatter of raindrops. It’s a joyful, snow day kind of excitement. We all become puddle jumpers, splashing with abandon, leaving the umbrella’s closed and getting drenched.  

The three girls under umbrellas who let me take their photo fifteen minutes ago, are now at the park running along the edges of the newly minted “pond,” no umbrellas in sight.  

Is there any movie scene more charming than Gene Kelly dancing in the rain?

“I’m singin’ in the rain

“Just singin’ in the rain

What a glorious feelin’

I’m happy again.

I’m laughing at clouds.

So dark up above

The sun’s in my heart

And I’m ready for love.”

Something about cloud cover and water falling from the sky puts sunshine smack dab in the middle of my heart, just like those lyrics say. 

I suppose if it rained often here, it’d be less delightful.

When we lived in the Seattle area the clouds were a constant companion, rain was as common as blackberries growing on the side of the road, and humidity was the norm.  Summertime occasionally let the sun peak through, and it didn’t get much warmer than the 70’s.  80’s was a heatwave there. 

Having spent 15 years in this desert now I’ve learned to cherish the few rainy days we have. We open the windows and doors and let the freshness waft through the house.  Here, rain is like a gem and we cherish the intermittent, the atypical, and the rare.

Let the stromy clouds chase.

Everyone from the place

Come on with the rain

I’ve a smile on my face

I walk down the lane

With a happy refrain

just singin’

singin’ in the rain… dancin’ in the rain…I’m happy again…

I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain…”

I suppose learning to sing or dance in stormy weather requires that we suspend reality or access the inner child in ourselves. Dancing in the rain means we’ve set aside worries and negativity, at least momentarily, in order to just enjoy that short moment. We’re not concerned about what anyone thinks about us.

It’s not always easy to do that, that’s for sure.  Sometimes the emotional or psychological climate we’re in just sucks the life right out of us. Singing and dancing are the last things we feel like doing.

It’s possible that’s exactly what we need to do.  

Whatever the weather is bringing you today, I hope you can find joy in it, see the beauty in it’s variety, cherish the changeableness in it. Maybe you don’t feel like dancing about it.  I hope you can find that sunshine hiding out in your heart and dance anyway.

 

 

 

 

Categories: Joy, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Little House in the Big World: It’s Not Laura’s Prairie Anymore

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Kami

We moved when I was in second grade, over Christmas break.  This meant starting at a new elementary school in the middle of the year.  My world suddenly got bigger.  Instead of walking to school, I rode the bus. Instead of a traditional classroom I was in a shared classroom with multiple second grade classes sharing space barely divided by moveable walls, and small reading nooks.  The classes were on a staggered schedule, with different start and end times for various groups in the same grade.

I was one overwhelmed kid in that arena. I nearly missed the bus home the first day at that new school. Too much noise, too much input, too many kids, too much to keep track of.

Add in the fact that we hadn’t yet discovered that I needed eye glasses.  That made this new noisy world fuzzy at about five feet away in any direction.

Charles & Caroline Ingalls

Charles & Caroline Ingalls (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The one thing I remember focusing in on very clearly was story time.  The teacher was reading “Little House in the Big Woods,” by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  Mesmerized within the first paragraph or two, I sat entranced, absorbing every word. I lived for those few precious pages our teacher read to us each day.  I was so spellbound that I started reading these fourth grade level books as soon as I could talk the librarian into letting me check one out.

I loved the world Laura inhabited. Even the difficult things she dealt with didn’t deter my desire to live her life in the wild countryside.  It was a small, manageable world with daily adventures and the perils of nature and society ever-present.

Fast forward a few decades or more.

I am not naïve and brainless. I don’t spend my time watching reality TV or sitcoms. I consider myself informed, well-read, educated, literate, book smart, experienced in the school of hard knocks. I’ve lived through more than a few things, survived a few close calls, I know what real life dishes out. I’m no second grader, not any more.

Since I started blogging, my reading and learning has expanded.  It’s as if, once again, I’ve been transported to a new school, with a new curriculum, in a world that never sleeps. I’ve read blogs from all over the world, learned about things I never dreamed existed, followed the rants and responses to topics that amaze and fascinate me. CNN, BBC, NBC, PBS et al have nothing on bloggers and writers and their ability to inform, entertain, enlighten and share and touch raw nerves.

Here’s the thing.  Instead of a lovely, manageable novel or two of a tiny world, I’ve stumbled upon the entire planet. At least it seems like it.  Suddenly I am feeling guilty for the life of ease I live as I realize someone in Pakistan or Ghana or Croatia is reading my words, my life, my wonderland.  I marvel at the audacity of Americans to think they are the center of the Universe and somehow qualified to make decisions for the rest of the planet. I am breathless as I learn of tiny countries and the families and people that live day-to-day, hand to mouth, oblivious to the worries I think are important. The foundational ideas that make me who I am have developed a few hairline fissures as I’ve tried to balance other world views on the same ground.  The ridiculous and the sublime compete for my time and brainpower.

Superman logo

Superman logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I hover between two desires. I want to go back to having no eyeglasses, the world a vague and fuzzy place like it was four months ago. And I want to miraculously have laser vision, a flying cape and super powers, endless resources, time and energy to save, help, lift, care for and make an impact.

There I am thinking I have something to contribute having barely skimmed the surface of information.  Silly me.

I want to go back to focusing on my tiny family of six, or my expanded family of sisters and brothers and parents, or even my extended family with cousins and aunts and uncles. I want the ease of worrying over people in my small community and trying to find time for a few friends who need a listening ear or a friendly face.

I barely manage to work, fix dinner, do laundry and keep the house clean. Occasionally I’m able to help out a friend, call a sibling, touch base with someone I feel a responsibility toward.  If I gave up sleep I still couldn’t care for all the people in my life I want to care for, love, share with and spend time around.  How can I possibly do anything with all this new information, this new sense of weight, responsibility and worry I have for the rest of the world?

The Earth seen from Apollo 17.

The Earth seen from Apollo 17. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The genie can’t be stuffed back into the bottle.  And, unfortunately, I can’t make a wish and have phenomenal cosmic powers.

Here is one itty bitty woman with tiny resources, 24 hours in my day, with a new weight trying to settle in on my shoulders.

Part of me wants to disconnect from the internet, move to a distant, isolated tract of land and simply live a small quiet life.  But I can’t.  Even if I could, I couldn’t.

I’ve heard the stories, I know they’re out there. Reality is too real. I am lost and probably about to miss the bus again.

A good book isn’t going to give me a grip on anything at this point.  Maybe I just need to step back, clean off my glasses and try to pull things in to focus.

Categories: The World, Wondering | Tags: , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

A Mess of Mixed Metaphors

Posted on January 23, 2013 by Kami

“I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my….” whatever…

Whoever said that, whenever they said it, didn’t have the eternal cough of the blue plague of 2013.

Sure you can pick your attitude but that’s about it.  You can’t pick up an extra packet of actual physical energy at the corner drugstore when the survival of your basic vital organs has taken precedent over, oh, lets say, walking and sleeping and eating.

When breathing in becomes akin to sucking air through a soggy wet sponge and exhaling is more like a ’55 chevy truck trying to get started on a subzero morning, attitude counts for zilch.

Bad Hair Day

Bad Hair Day (Photo credit: simon_redwood)

No amount of perkiness is going to hide that hair sculpted uniquely by the pillow you molded, wrestled, cursed, punched and eventually drooled all over. The lovely color coördinated pajamas you carefully picked out to show stalwart resilience, sooner than later give over to a kind of Harry-Potter-got-dressed-with-some-things-from-Hermoine’s-bottomless-purse-look that should never be purposely duplicated.

And when you think you’ve cheerfully hit that magical spot in the illness where improvement feels imminent, you’ll overdo it by, oh I don’t know, sweeping off the front porch rug and running a load of laundry. And suddenly you’re back to desperately whispering sweet nothings to your lungs in hopes of pacifying them into a quiet stasis.

Days and nights run into each other, not even bothering to say excuse me, in a kind of manic rush of boring nothingness. Where is optimism now? In the trash can with the overflowing used Kleenex and saltine wrappers.

The formerly comfy couch and I have become too well acquainted. It’s not a healthy relationship anymore. I’m thinking of cutting back to visiting once or twice a week.  I’d like to renew my friendships with my boss and her neurotic dog, my car, the grocery store, my gardening and the laundry.  It’d be wondrous to see real live people again, too!

Highclere Castle

Too much Netflix, too many books, too much internet combine into a perfect storm of fevered sleepless weirdness involving Downton Abbey, White Collar and Sherlock Holmes which, oddly, seem to go together ever so well.  At least they did. In the haze of cheerful coughing everything is lovely, loverly, lovely!! Cue the soundtrack to “My Fair Lady.”

But now, ah yes, now I am on the upswing.  No, nix that.  I did not say that.  I don’t want the virus/bacteria/evil dark Sith to know that I think my body is winning.  After all, Attitude is Everything and Pride goeth before a Fall and all that. Rest, rest, rest, rest and more rest is about all I am capable of or should try to do.

Han Solo and Chewbacca

Until the rebel forces prevail and the planets all align, I will continue to sip herbal tea, Russian Tea, hot ginger honey and lemon, hot chocolate, mulled cider, broth, powerade and NON-diet coke. Once Han Solo shows up with Chewbacca, then and only then, will I stop slurping Ramen noodles, yogurt, Chicken Soup and saltine crackers.

Do I seem a little lost in fantasy land? Yup, I probably am. I’m teetering on the edge of a not so optimistic attitude, thinking this cough really will never end.

I can’t imagine keeping my sanity intact for an illness of any real magnitude.  As it is, this nineteen-day (so far) cough has pushed me to my perkiness limits.

Don’t worry.  I’m working on it.  I’ll get there.  In the meantime, I’ll just rest and try to stay off the internet as much as possible.

Where’s my book?

Categories: Humor, Mental Health | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Weeds and Wildflowers

Posted on January 22, 2013 by Kami

It’s Gratituesday! Today I’m thankful for the tiny green shoots of wildflowers I have popping out all over my front yard.  There’s a promise in those sprouting weed-like growths. I know even though they look like weeds, and grow like weeds, they aren’t weeds. They’re going to produce masses of yellow and orange African Daisies and bunches of satiny orange California Poppies in another four to six weeks.

To appease the HOA I set out a couple of signs that say, “Wildflowers Under Construction.” I don’t really want to pay a fine for my “weeds” or get out some mean weed killing chemical.  I want to see the yard burst into golden waves of color.

wildflowers under constructionI find the symbolism of these flowers particularly appropriate for the challenges I face in my life, large or small.  What appears as something terrible, something troublesome, with time, often, not always, but often, in the long run becomes something positive and memorable.  I’m not about to proclaim gratitude for trials, oh no, not me. But I am willing to concede that I learn from going through hard times.

There’s a beautiful song, written by Stephen Foster, which I found particularly moving a few years back when the tides of trouble breached all levees and inundated my life.  It became an anthem for me of sorts, or a prayer, which I still hum often and think out loud and verbalize while on my knees.

“Let us pause in life’s pleasures to count its many tears,

While we all sup sorrow with the poor;

There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;

Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,

Hard times, hard times, come again no more.

Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;

Oh hard times, come again no more.”

For me, as for many, if not all, hard times are not a one time event.  Hard things press in on us and weigh us down with a weight that is unfathomable. Finding a small thing like the shoots of wildflowers pushing through the weight of rocky soil can bring hope and send a song through the air that lifts the weight ever so slightly.

Looking For Signs

I look for signs of hope all around me. Not just in springtime harbingers, but in everyday life.  A newborn’s mewling cry. A teen’s energetic laughter. An older couple holding hands. Help being offered when a need presents itself. Kindness extended, smiles proffered, handshakes offered. Birds chirping. A toddler’s rowdy chaos. Blue skies.

The lyrics of this haunting song continue:

“While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,

There are frail forms fainting at the door;

Their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say

Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,

Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore

Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave

Oh hard times come again no more.”

I want to put a “Wildflowers Under Construction” sign on the doors of certain houses that I know.  I wish them vision to see the shoots of green that are pushing tentatively up through the rocky ground they’re walking on.  I want them to hear the song of hope, however quietly it may lilt in the air. I pray they feel a gentle tug of hope encircle and lift when all seems lost.

I watch for hope, for signs of life and laughter and good things to come.  Being small, they aren’t always easy to see. You have to look closely. They’re everywhere, can you see them?

Mark O’Connor, James Taylor, Yo-Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer – performing “Hard Times Come Again No More”

Categories: Gratitude, Gratituesday, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

That Way, This Way, My Way, Some Way

Posted on January 21, 2013 by Kami
English: camino de santiago

camino de santiago (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Here’s more than a movie recommendation for you; “The Way” starring Emilio Estevez and Martin Sheen.

I hadn’t heard of this movie until I stumbled on it last week.  Apparently it never got the usual blingy press and advertising.  That’s probably for the best.  Created with care, reverence, and respect, its clarity and thoughtful, natural pacing create a feel for what it must be to experience such a thing. Not a single part of it felt gratuitous or forced. It’s not a movie for the masses.

Here’s a summary quote about it from Netflix:

“When his son dies while hiking the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage in the Pyrenees, a grieving father decides to complete the 500-mile trek to Spain.”

The Camino de Santiago is basically “the pilgrimage route to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain, where tradition has it that the remains of the  apostle Saint James are buried. “

Fascinated by this depiction of a modern-day pilgrimage, I let myself absorb the beauty of this film.  The scenery was pretty,  the trail looked user-friendly, the characters real. The story line was poignant and sincere. Something about this movie clicked in me and got me thinking.

So what is a pilgrimage and why do people do it? Dictionary.com defines it as

 “any long journey, especially one undertaken as a quest or to pay homage”

Certainly a pilgrimage isn’t something every person needs or wants.  But then, I wondered if life itself isn’t its own kind of pilgrimage for some, for many.

Hiker

(Photo credit: VagabondTravels)

I know some who are on a long journey as a single parent, others who are traveling a difficult path through the daily trial of depression. Still others know their long road is shorter than they’d like and will end early at death’s shore.  Providing long-term care for an ill family member must count as a journey worthy of honor or blessing.

I wonder if joining the military isn’t a kind of pilgrimage, certainly it’s self-sacrificing, serves a higher purpose and surely leads to deep introspection.

Service of a religious or charitable nature can take on the qualities of pilgrimage.

I’ve also wondered, since watching this movie, about my life.  Do I need a pilgrimage? Have I been through any kind of refiner’s fire? Sometimes I think the answer is yes, to both questions.

Then the question becomes; do I want to take on a pilgrimage by choice instead of by default?

There is an ocean and a continent or two between myself and any beginning point on that trail across Spain.  I would need a very substantial reason to walk such a path, to invest that much time and that many resources into such a quest.  I’m not catholic, so a traditional religious reason doesn’t exist for taking this on. I’m sure, at this point in my life, I haven’t got the reason, the time or the resources, or the physical ability to take on something as big as the Camino de Santiago.

Grand Canyon, from South Rim near Visitor Center

Grand Canyon, from South Rim near Visitor Center (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I set a goal some years back to hike the Grand Canyon. It seemed a reasonable quest, with a realistic time to prepare, to plan, to follow through.  The goal date came and went long ago and I had done nothing to move myself toward it.  Did I not really want to do it?  Was it worthy of my time and attention?  Or did life simply have other paths for me to take?

I feel compelled to find a reason, a justification perhaps, to take on such a quest as the Camino de Santiago. And yet, I find excuses at the ready, and know it’s something that will never happen for me.  To think otherwise is to be a dreamer of the silliest sort.

Maybe all I need to do is treat my life more like the pilgrimage that it is. What’s my quest?  What am I hoping to pay homage to? Where am I going? What am I hoping to achieve on this journey I’m on.  What are the milestones and how will I honor them? All good questions I ought to know the answers to.

Have you been on a pilgrimage? Any experience with something like this? Any desire to do such a thing?

Related articles you might also like to read:
Categories: Outdoors, Wondering | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Just Wondering

Posted on January 19, 2013 by Kami
Question mark icon, blue

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Why?

Why?

Why?

Ah, one of the great mysterious questions.

“Why.”

It seems one of the first questions children ask.  And ask, and ask, and ask.

The other question children pose is “What’s that?”

“Where,” “who” and “when” come later in life.  Those must be concepts that require different developmental milestones.

“Why” and “What’s that” continue to be questions throughout childhood and especially into teen years.

As an adult “Why” and “What’s that” are preeminent. They actually constitute the bulk of our thinking, our decision-making, our emotional equilibrium or lack thereof, our spirituality, our love life, our family dynamics.

English: Question-mark icon

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Of course in the grown up world the questions come out a little differently.

“Why me?”

“What the heck?”

Those are just two iterations of the same sentiment.

Then there is “Why is this happening this way, and why now?”

There’s the precarious “Why not?” which carries the possibility of putting someone over the edge either direction; into extreme behavior, or into action one has put off far too long.

Asking “why” about others will only bring you grief and confusion and heartache.  Usually.  However, if the answers you get are true and clear and open, it might lead to understanding, but that is a rare and tenuous thing.

“What’s this and what am I going to do about it” are a healthy combination to ask together.  Logic is trying to take the lead in a question like this.

How often does logic really win out in our lives though?

Probably not often enough.

Hmmm. I wonder why.

I’m back to asking “why” again, about so many things. I hate when I get this way. I prefer my less ascerbic self, my optimistic self, my non-sarcastic self. “Why” seems to bring out the worst in me.

Maybe the best answer should always be, “just because,” or “because I said so.”

Question mark

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But why? I’ll usually ask.

Why me?

Why now?

Why this?

Why?

Why?

Why.

Categories: Wondering | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Bridges on the Path

Posted on January 17, 2013 by Kami

Another photo from a shared walk with my cousin last year.  A month later I actually crossed this bridge and took the less traveled rocky ledge of a path.  So glad I did.

bridge over Queen Creek“The most precipitous chapter of life always begins before we quite know it is under way.”

-Morrie Morgan, from Ivan Doig‘s “Work Song“

Funny how life doesn’t give us any road signs, warnings, ominous theme music, or any other clues that some big change is waiting around the corner. Life is not like a movie at all. It’s simply putting one foot in front of the other, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

Sometimes we have a choice to take one path or another, never knowing the outcome of what the other path might have brought us to.  That’s all probably for the best.

I am glad my path has taken me here to where I am right now. What bridges lay ahead of me? Don’t think I want to know.  Whatever maps I might create or use to plan the road ahead will be rendered useless by life’s fickle sense of humor, fate’s sense of irony and God’s will for me.

I breath in. I breath out. I enjoy what I can and love as much as possible. I give my best.

I keep walking.

Enjoy your journey.

Related articles you might want to read
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Starting Over: A Little Piece of Fiction

Posted on January 16, 2013 by Kami
In this week’s Daily Post Writing Challenge, we’re asking you to write a short piece of creative writing (fiction/poetry/prose poetry/freeform mindjazz/whatever floats your boat) on the theme of Starting Over.
Drop Starting Over on your page and see where it takes you.

 ******************

Starting over was what she did all too often. Scrounge for boxes, pack up stuff, tape and seal, haul and load, clean and leave.

packing up

packing up (Photo credit: Joanna Bourne)

Then reverse the process, arrive and clean, haul and unload, rip open, unwrap, and unpack.  Then the decision: store the flattened boxes for the next inevitable move, or recycle them and scrounge again when the time came.  Neither decision carried any assurance, or saved any work.

Sooner than she’d want she’d be back at it, finding boxes, packing, taping, hauling, loading, cleaning, leaving. Once again, she’d find herself arriving, cleaning, unpacking, starting over, settling in very lightly.

Starting over was something she’d have earned a degree in if it were a college major. She should be a pro by now, but she wasn’t.

She had always dreamed of a settled, permanent place called home. But she refused to admit it out loud. The disappointment would be more tangible if she did.

The first few months after starting over she resisted putting out personal effects, choosing instead to leave them in boxes, stacked and stored.  She certainly wouldn’t hang curtains or put up pictures.  That jinxed things immediately.

It was what they did.  It was the path they had put themselves on years ago.  It wasn’t really running.  It was simply not staying.

Planting something in the yard all but guaranteed there would be a move before the plant came full circle, bloomed, self-seeded, volunteered again the next season.

Wildflowers in Death Valley National Park

Wildflowers in Death Valley National Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In a way she was a wildflower seed, except she was the seed that blew across the top soil with a breeze and landed far down the road, in an unpredictable, unusually rocky untilled soil. Waiting for dust, rain, a thin grip on ground so she could grow clingy roots.

It was wearing her out.  She wanted to stop.

Maybe someday she would say it out loud.  “No more.”

Sure she would.

Probably not.

There was never any choice anyway.  Saying “no” would make no difference in the outcome.

Someday, yes, someday she’d get planted deeply and stay forever. Then she might flower.  Then she would rest.

But that wasn’t likely to happen for a long while. And so, she continued starting over and starting over and starting over.

Categories: Uncategorized, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , | 5 Comments

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