Writing Group Exercise

(Written during my Solace writing group)

My little girls have long torsos; banana curls and ribbons and dresses. They skip around the house as a princess, sometimes a dragon slayer, but always a heroine of some sort. It’s as if they’ve reached the land of milk and honey, where adventures are only but a second away, and harm is locked in a cage with no key. I often envy their bliss and their sense of accomplishment from an afternoon’s play. If only I could conquer as much as they do in a four hour time slot. The blue violets in the back yard are no mere flowers, but majestic tools used to woo fairies and princes into our courts. Seashells become evidence of mermaids nearby, and the corn flower blue chips are the pet unicorn’s favorite snack! I wish I could hypnotize myself into the fantastic worlds they reside in, and have the confidence to save the day time-after-time. I long for simple days made perfect when an ounce of imagination and a small dose of magic. I could be a princess, but I’m too aware of how I might fall short of ruling over a people should I one day become queen. I’d fly on a unicorn, but I’m not sure I’d know where to tell him to go. Too many lollipops give me cavities, and that seashell would only bring to surface memories of that summer a few years ago I’d much rather forget. What I’d give to walk out the back door and see the world untainted by a frozen reality. My little girls, with their long torsos and banana curls – I envy them.

When the Stage is a Piece of Paper

I'm taking a creative-writing poetry class, and of course most of our time is spent reading and analyzing poetry, specifically modern American poetry. Our assignment over the weekend was to examine a book called 100 Notes on Violence by Julie Carr. Paperback, and full of 100 poems (notes) concerning, as obviously stated, violence. I read the pages and cringed at its content; I squirmed in my discomfort as the words took me into the minds of the criminal, the accused, the innocent and the victim. Often her poems ended abruptly, as if she couldn't bear the weight of finishing her sentence, so I had to in order to conclude what was implied. I didn't want to finish her thoughts; I didn't want to take myself into the dark places the pages were directing me to. Every "note" left its mark on my mind, and dare I even say, my soul!

I watch TV shows full of violence, and barely bat an eye. Spencer Reid (from Criminal Minds) was my biggest crush until replaced with a real-life Spencer. Mr. Reid spoke to me of serial killers, molestations, and rapes sparing no gruesome detail. I watched unashamed. And once the show was over, I went to bed unaffected.

Though news programs, tv shows and movies deal with the same content as the poems I read for class, why do my eyes so quickly want to shoot away from my page as if tortured by its thoughts?

Words on a page require a reader, not a passive listener or watchman. One must take action to read and comprehend the ideas and notions. Words are merely words until given a voice by its reader. If I write "snow" on a paper, it lies in waiting until someone comes to breathe life into it - and suddenly it's given emotion, life, a story, a face. Snow - this evokes joy from memories of sledding; dread, from ideas of prolonged Winters; certain people flood my mind in correlation with these white and magical flakes. Words on a page draw its reader in a deep way that impacts the thoughts and mind of the one who allows the letters to run through their head making connections along the way.

A piece of paper becomes a stage drawing the most unsuspecting passer-by, for one cannot pronounce the words in their mind without making a relationship with the page. "Snow" - its said with your own voice, in your own mind. My writing becomes your reading, my thoughts run through your head. What a powerful tool we hold in our hands as we write, and what a magnificent stage we form in the minds of those who glance upon our words.

Laid Bare

Okay, I'm being vulnerable. This is a poem I'm turning in for my class. Ehhhhhhh.... (PS - I don't write poetry, ever! I'm simply being forced to now...)


Laid Bare




Unable to open my eyes
Paralyzed, I lie

I was hoping for the day
But was awakened by the night

I reached for noon
Instead midnight fills my hands

Now My eyelashes, brown curtains,
darken an already black night

Daunted by the dark,
terrified of dancing shadows

Unknown, lurking, creeping
stars too dim for real light

The sky howls its song
as I gasp for every breath

Still and Surrendered
Lowly humbled by this valley

Sun in my dreams,
moon in my present

The In Between - On Display...

I'm single, sort of. I mean, I still attended the "Single Ladies" event with my church and I'd file my taxes as someone who is single. However, I am dating someone. So...can I just openly admit that sometimes its just plain awkward to be in such a transitional time as woman attempting to live a Godly life? No one ever talks about this, but it's driving me crazy! And before I'm overloaded with much appreciated advice, let me preface what I'm about to say with this: I am soaking in this time, and taking it one step at a time. I am not wishing beautiful moments away, nor running towards or away particular seasons of life. However, I am hoping to discover the exact purpose in this season that seems to hold no real solid place on paper or even in life, sometimes.

So, I know (in theory) the roles of a wife. And God radically changed my life with the joys of singleness from 1 Cor 7 - as a single woman I am only concerned about the things of the Lord, it says! However, once I marry my interests are divided and I'm concerned with how to please my spouse. Paul goes on quite a bit about this, feel free to read for yourself! Soooo...where am I now? Are my interests only half divided? Or I've only been dating a couple of months, so are they just maybe 1/4 divided? And the other 3/4 of me dedicated and concerned with the Lord? Seriously, where do I even fit?

Not even to mention following and leading and submitting! The man, in a dating relationship, is learning to lead. Okay, I guess I don't need to say "man". I'll just throw out names, it is my blog anyway. Spencer, Spencer is the man!! Hoooooooorah for the loving and caring and compassionate and intelligent and amaaazing Spencer! Alright, done. So, Spencer's learning to lead, and I'm learning to trust him in this. I love when he stops a conversation to say we need to seek God and pray first. Or when he says what he thinks is a right reaction regarding matter A, B or C. But....when I disagree - where do I fall on the spectrum of a sassy-Beyonce or a gentle wife?
On Spencer's side: Christ laid down His life for the church, literally. And now He asks that the husband love his wife in the same way. Which is a pretty lofty thing to ask, to love like the Man who loved us enough to leave His Father and home where He was King, and walk the earth as a humble and lowly man. Alright-point taken, but still... Spencer's a boyfriend, not a husband. And in return, the wife's call and (re)action is to allow the man to lead and guide her just as Jesus does us. WHOA. Okay, first of all: hard! And second of all (and back to my many questions): How does that apply now? I'm not promised anything, and I'm not in the union of a marriage... there's not a ring on it. So, do I half follow? Do I follow only when I think its best and safe? Do we go back to our fractions and I follow 1/4 of the time? I mean, okay - I'm being a bit sarcastic here, but honestly - what is the balance when you're dating in a way that is purposed towards marriage, but you're not there yet? Dating isn't natural, and its not "Biblical" in the sense that it's not talking about or required. The routes to marriage change with each and every generation in their big or small ways. So, this is what our culture and society has chosen: How do we master it in a 100% Godly way (besides the obvi's like no sex and no screaming at the top of your lungs at eachother)?

Alright, sooooo....I don't know if anyone's ever pondered these things, but I'm guessing (or atleast hoping) others have - but I've never heard it talked about it. Two cents, anyone?

The day came, when I was hoping for night.

This morning I was lying in my bed dreading the action of sitting up and putting both bare feet on the hard ground. I continued to cover myself with a comforter and suffocate under my 5 pillows (excessive, I know) when I noticed sunlight finding its way into my room. My curtains are hanging sturdy, guarding my eyes from this brightness, but it is daylight outside now; the sun will shine and the light will seep into my dark room even though I use fabric in attempts to turn the day back into night.

As I bitterly stared at this long and thick line of sunlight shining on my wall, God spoke to me ever so clearly: I cannot change or alter seasons; I cannot hurry the Autumn along to Winter, nor change the day back to night. It's getting cold out whether I voted for or against the change of temperature. My only option is to put a sweater and gloves on and hope the heat in my car is still working. I may adore the cold or I may despise it -- either way, the temperature is dropping and will continue in the same patter for a while. But after Fall and after Winter, come a new season: Spring. And I can't rush or wish any time along. I can pray I survive the cold and that my sweaters stand strong against the snow, and I can even pray this season isn't a long one, but I cannot suddenly step outside of Autumn, or outside of the daytime. There is a time for everything, and no matter how long I look at the calender or clock, or whether I understand the reasoning and science for such changes -- it is Fall and it is day. I will prepare for the sunlight and dress for the cooler temperatures. It's my only option, and I will embrace it because it is where God has placed me.

Socrates the Cat, Peas and Nuts

I laugh, a lot. I laugh to myself, I laugh out loud and I laugh in an obnoxious loud cackle-like way.

So, remember Socrates the cat? The cat who was staring at me in what appeared to be a condescending and judgmental way? ...But I concluded he was just pondering self-worth and great wisdoms, so I didn't take it personally. Well, poor Socrates. I sit down in my car a bit ago, heated by the warm Autumn sun (what?) and notice a large sheet resting on my windshield. I hop out and grab the paper; Lord, please say the owner wasn't watching, because Socrates' picture was largely in the middle of the flyer, with a huge "LOST" stated above and...well, I laughed. The letters "l o s t" even have a sad face in the "o", and ya know, it is upsetting. Poor Socrates, all alone in the streets of Racine that are full of hoodlums, possums and very sexually active dragonflies (I felt like I was in the book of Exodus for a while--the locusts substituted for dragonflies, everywhere). To my defense, such laughter was unavoidable! Socrates had the same grumpy look in the picture, as if he was frowning at the very thought of my existence! His eyebrows (if cats have such a thing?) are hanging low over his bulging blue eyes and he looked as i f he might attack if you get too close to his thought bubble. I doubt Socrates is lost. I bet he's chosen to go on a walk-about through the streets, teaching and lecturing those thirsty for knowledge.

As I'm chuckling to myself on my drive away from this piece of paper and Socrates's former home, I wonder if anyone else would find these events funny?

There are "two peas in a pod"; there are 2 nuts in a shell, normally. But, there are lots of peas in a pod actually, and I don't think there are ANY peas in my pod. And sometimes the nuts I cracked open at Lonestar only housed one nut. Am I that one nut? Insane and giggling to myself; Incredibly content and amused, yet oblivious to the petrified on-lookers. I'm not bothered by the thought, but I have noticed I'm the only laughing in my classes at things I perceive to be blatantly humorous. I laugh, alone. It doesn't take away from the humor, but I do think hilarity would strengthen, should other bah ha ha's be added to my own.

Oh well. Farewell Socrates. I hope you make it home.

Over and out.

Coping Mechanisms

I live in a state over a thousands miles away from my hospitable and beach-y hometown. I no longer hear crowds roar as "TOUCHDOWN - PIRAAATES" is proclaimed from the football stadium, not too far from my home. My parents are not a drive away and "Salmon Wednesdays" at their large wooden table are not listed in my day planner. My sister and brother-in-law aren't around the corner to tell jokes or steal my clothes. I never pass the neighborhood where I totalled my first car, my ever-growing elementary school is too far to catch a glimpse of and my favorite sushi place only tempts me in my mind-never because of its nearness.

I live in a new home now. I attend a university much different than the one I attended before, mainly because the one I first attended I saw every day for 20 years before I sat as student in its classrooms. I used to work in the office I visited as a young girl, and instead now I drive to a brick building void of memories. I have friends, but I'm not sure I could pick them out in baby pictures or name their 12-year-old woes.

I am surrounded by unfamiliarity. Nothing feels known or experienced, just...new. The food on my plates feels funny on my tongue, and my winter clothes feel odd layered on my body. I'm used to watermelon and sundresses, and now I have soup and heavy jackets. I love these new tastes and sounds, but sometimes I shockingly recall- this isn't what I've always known.

My brain plays tricks on me. I hear a raspy voice, and I turn around to see my old highschool friend. A car in the distance approaches, and I wait patiently for it to come close enough so I can wave to my Dad's ol' golfing buddy. Certain flips of hair, laughs and hippie shoes often assure me I'm seeing visions of home, but here's the thing: It's never my old buddy. It's never my third grade teacher or my gymnastics coach. It's a cold stranger, to which I hold no bond or memory.

I know I live in Wisconsin, and I know I don't have scrapbooks filled with the people and sounds of this winter wonderland, but my mind always seeks to familiarize the unknown around me. I can't seem to leave the adventure a mystery, or men and woman as strangers. Instead, I subconsciously cope by giving memories to the nameless immigrants walking this land. It's a sort of mental "blankie" I suppose; imaginary friends to help me feel secure when I realise all that's around me is foreign.

Yes, without my command, my mind chooses to cope by filtering the unknown into my only realm of known. I wonder when the day will come that I feel safe without recognizing what surrounds me, or is it I'll always live in this discomfort until I form a ground-work of memories that suffice for my desire for familiarity. I wonder...

Over and out.