Good Lord deliver me

From the cowardice that dares not face new truths,

From the laziness that is content with half truths,

From the arrogance that thinks it knows all truths,

Good Lord deliver me.


~ A Kenyan prayer

RMS Titanic 100 years

The RMS Titanic 1912 - 2012

The Dangerous I face

“If you don’t face the dangerous in your writing, you won’t change other people, because you’re not changing you.”    ~Naomi Wolf

This quote prompts the eternal question that plagues I hope not just me, but all writers new and experienced.  What is the dangerous in my writing? 

So I thought about it for some time and came to the conclusion that the dangerous I face in my writing would be the self truths that linger just behind a story line and creep in and out of the creative process for someone to enjoy not knowing that somewhere in the deep dark crevices I lay with a ball cap and sunglasses watching and waiting for someone I know to recognize a sentence, a word or an emotion. 

Then it all blows up.

I believe that it will happen for me and my writing will be there for all to see, bare and beautiful.  So what happens when the explosion rings through my ears and the smoke settles?  I continue writing and my sword will be my pen…

An Unseated Moment

The unseated moment for me transpired over a long period of time and was so slow in its existence that I didn’t even realize my life was changing until it was over.  I believe the medical types call it “perimenopause” and it is a not for the faint of heart!  I have spoken about this before in journals, blogs and on paper but never thought of anything good coming from it, until now.

My emotions ebbed and flowed, the stress warped my shoulder muscles and the depression sucked the life out of me.  I struggled with the wine bottle, as it was becoming a deeper friend to me than I had ever intended or wanted.  Then one day as I sat in my darkened living room watching the ever mind numbing sound box for the millionth hour, I watched a woman make a cake and thought I can do that!

It had to be the Prozac that I was told to take for this womanly transition into stage two of my so called life because I could cook pretty well, but to take on baking seemed insane.  I went to the store and bought a cookbook as well as a book of dessert recipes. With my love of reading, I studied these recipes and read them like the fictional tale of my favorite authors. The ingredients, the directions, the music that played while I would mix, whir, stir and fold.  I bought utensils, kitchen accessories, and more cookbooks to perfect my craft.  I would ask Santa every year for a new gadget that I needed because I knew I was on the good girl list!    I was lost in the masterpieces that I created and longed for the solitary movements of the dance that was food creation. 

Birthday cakes, muffins for coworkers, many recipes tried by the friends of my children that I lovingly called my precious guinea pigs as I rubbed my palms back and forth.  Dinner parties came next with friends and family enjoying all that lay before them on the table.  The smells that filled the senses upon entering my home was that of coziness and love.  Menus were the most fun to create, as the food became a Broadway play for all to enjoy. 

It has been about eleven years now and my kitchen is one of beauty with all my gadgets, a fill of herbs and spices and a pantry that has items that one would never think to purchase built from many recipes followed or created.  The menopause? Well the hot flashes still come and go, no more night sweats and a good bottle of Merlot is still my friend and thankfully not my prison.  The art that happens now no longer comes from a place unseated or a medical need to remain the same but a place of love and a craft perfected.

The Poetry of Youth

I have been going through some old boxes and trying to condense all that I brought to Sweet’s house after hastily moving to an apartment from my old life and then moving directly to his house.  I took over two closets and his gym with my crap so after two years, I figured it was time to go through everything.

It was so nice seeing all my old stuff and going through the mementos, pictures and most especially the boxes that I had begun for each child that was to hold all the special moments of their lives growing up!

I went through their boxes and it was melancholy yet without a hint of tears.  Bravo!! It was joyful and happy, it was better than a time machine in an amusement park.  First Born’s kindergarten paintings that I somehow knew to lovingly put in plastic. My daughter’s softball awards, the photo pins and her high school letter jacket.  Youngest’s kids many sunglasses that he had to have and so much more!

Then it was time for my box.  My box contained items from high school, pre and post divorces, relationships, friendships and some family items.  It was a time machine but not like the aforementioned amusement park.  No mine was more like a chronological viewing of what had been.  You know the old saying that some things are better left unsaid?  That’s right, I found all the old diaries.

So I sat for hours that turned to days reading what made me happy, sad, worried, oh so proud (actually said that many times) and all the emoticons that appeared before my eyes as I placed the emotion for that particular entry.

Then sitting between two pages and stuck to one was an attempt at poetry and although I don’t see how I would have written this for the person that had been discussed on either of those pages, I found that some times even bad poetry is timeless. 

 

Enjoy!

When I first met you,

                                    you scattered every emotion

I held throughout the whole of my being.

                                    The charm within your soul

stunned my senses to heights

beyond imagination.

You enticed my will and

anchored my heart and you

have become a special person

in my life.

                                    I cherish the day we met and

I wait to hold you in

my heart again.

Riiiiight?