The Divinity Within...

I like to make things. I love to play with my camera. I adore words. Here are a couple of my most recent collages. The first is a declaration. The second is a journey. Both, at least for me, were necessary. My brain seems most comfortable when it is occupied with creation of some kind. I wonder why that is. What drives one to build, create, imagine? There are those who engage in destruction and have taken even that to an art. I find that confusing as well. What compels some to scatter things, thoughts, people about and others to edify, encourage, mimic the beauty around them? As I peruse the blogs and find amazing creations - imaginations and musings played out for the world to see via poetry, essays, photos, paintings; works of art created with bits of beads, string, voice, I am reminded to be grateful. Grateful for your willingness to share; your ability to express yourself with such eloquence, regardless of the medium with which you communicate; the power you possess within yourself, and your need to share it. 

My Very First, (and only) Very Short Story

I can’t remember her face or the sound of her voice. But I remember her hair. It was long and silky and when she bent down to pick me up or hold me it would fall forward and brush my face. It was so soft, it smelled good. It was warm. It tickled. 

I don’t really remember when or why she left but the house got darker and it closed in on me. The drapes were drawn and a heavy layer of dust fell over the house and us. We moved slower and the music stopped. I remember waking up and skipping into the kitchen expecting to see her there stirring cinnamon and sugar into the grits because that’s the only thing I would eat. She would be wearing her monkey shoes that I don’t actually remember but I’ve been told that they were Curious George slippers. Instead, I was confronted by a toaster that wasn’t plugged in and a few dishes in the sink. 

I started looking for her when I was a teenager, about ten years after she left. I asked a lot of questions and got very few answers. No one knew anything and what they did know, they weren’t telling. “It’s time to move on.”, “Why are you bringing all this up now?”, “Leave it alone.” Everyone wanted me to do what she had done. 

Every moment of every day since she left, I have been looking for her. I look for her face in the crowd, in line at the grocery store, on the back of milk cartons. Every so often, I will see someone going up an escalator and the hair catches my eye. I follow - every time - just to be disappointed - every time. In my head I know it’s not her. She would be older now and if she was nearby, she would come look for me. In my heart hope lives on. 

We moved. A lot. I cried myself to sleep every night because I knew that when she came back, she wouldn’t be able to find us. I begged, pleaded and bargained to stay in that dusty, old, dark house and each one there after, to no avail. I chased people with long, silky hair up escalators and through grocery stores and crowds in many cities. 

Many years have passed since she left. The silence surrounding her sudden disappearance has grown heavy and tedious. Secrets carry their own burdens and wear away at the soul like the ocean against the rocks. So I went home. I am standing in front of the old house. The curtains are no longer drawn. There’s a fresh coat of paint, a new porch with a swing, and a new mailbox with flowers growing in one of those barrels that have been cut in half. It’s smaller than I remember. A bike is laying on it’s side in the grass and you can see depressions where someone with small feet has run through it, ignoring the sidewalk that wraps around to the back of the house. As I walk around to the back, in search of what I remember as a field for a back yard, and I see it. 

Along the back fence wild flowers are growing so thick that you can’t see what’s on the other side and , in the corner, under the tree with the rope swing, is a small well. Fresh, clear, sparkling water runs and feeds the ivy and flowers that surround it. A small bench beckons me to sit, somehow knowing the new family won’t mind. Someone who was loved very much has been remembered here and the new family has reverently revived her garden. 

After a few minutes, a woman with long, silky hair steps out of the house. She watches me for some time before quietly approaching. Not sure what to do, she sits down next to me. Her hair smells good and as I catch the fragrance wafting through the breeze, she asks if I knew the original owner of this garden. “Not very well”, I say. “But I loved her very much.” 



Copyright 2007

The Search is On…write on…

When I was in third grade, Mrs. Powell, the most wonderful teacher in the world would tell her unhappy, scowling students, “You’d better straighten that face up. It’ll stick like that.” Almost always, all the other students would start making the face too, and soon the entire class, including the grumpy kid, would be laughing.  Mrs. Powell always said, “Now THAT’S a face to get stuck with.”

There was a time when all I had to do to find some fabulous blog to read was turn on my machine and go to my favorite web site. There would appear, almost magically, all sorts of conversations, discussions, observations and the like. Some, I would read and ponder a bit. Others, I would comment on or praise for the profound thoughts or creative bent.  There was never a shortage of delightful reads or inspiration.

I don’t know what happened but the current changed. Perhaps the stars misaligned. Or maybe it was me. Whatever caused the shift in the blogosphere, I no longer easily find blogs that inspire me to participate or write. It isn’t that there aren’t millions to choose from. In fact, that may be part of the problem. An infinite number of choices often precludes finding what we are looking for no matter what we seek. Consider trying to choose paint for your walls when faced with and entire wall of paint chips.

My problem is, without interaction or feedback, it’s difficult for me to write. There is no dialogue. I still have words swimming around disrupting the cobwebs on my  brain, sporadically landing on the screen, on napkins at restaurants, on my hand. They don’t lead to anything. They are not edifying. They are not contributing. They are not culminating into something more than they were before I wrote them.

I have often said I write because I must. Audience or no, the words erupt and must be spoken…er…typed lest they crowd out everything else in my brain, preventing me from doing anything else until I set the thoughts free.  The discovery is, however, they will not burst forth. They will simply dry up and blow away until there is nothing left. What’s that phrase? “Use it or lose it.”? I never liked that phrase. Subconsciously, I must have known it’s deeper and more profound meaning. That this love of words and writing, this art form, this gift is not necessarily permanent or mine. That if I neglect or ignore the words, they can be taken from me.  That if I do not search for inspiration, I may not ever find it again. That if the dreaded case of writer’s block lasted too long, it might just get stuck like that.

 

Write on…