I would also like input, por favor. :)

Okay, this is part one of a three-part essay... sort-of random, but it's been floating around in my brain for a while, and I'm trying to get it to come together. Any input is great! Especially the ending: Does it end too abruptly? Do those last sentences make a point without me adding exposition afterward? If so, what point do you think they're making (just so I'm sure it's the point I'm trying to get across)? Anything at all is helpful. Thanks! Oh, and like all of mine, it's long, sorry! IF you don't want to/can't spend the time for such long-windedness, that's totally fine!

Feminists of the World: In Defense/Attack of Disney
Part I: When Did Cinderella Take Precedence Over Mommy?

Ladies, feminists, we need to have a chat.

It has come to my attention lately that I am now the proud owner of a three year-old daughter. This three year-old model has a few upgrades from my most recent two year-old model. First, she speaks (translate argues) rationally now…. Or at least with her own version of rational. She asks endless (endless, oh so endless) questions about the world around her. And she pretends she is—well, everything that a three year-old fantasizes about being: Tinkerbell or some other generic fairy, a mom, a dog kennel owner, a pirate, a dog/cat, a monster, She-Hulk (and this one came unprompted by mom, brother, or media, to my enormous pride)...and, yes, a princess. My three year-old pretends she is a princess.

And does she ever love princesses! Now, my girl is subtle, stoic, with a poker face to mystify even the greatest cons out there. So she doesn’t flounce her love of princess much: No demands for big, pink, frilly dresses; no asking us to call her “Your Highness” (though she definitely commands and expects that deference in other ways); no wishing to be sparkly, dainty or proper, per se. But her regular tea parties are important. She needs her bling, from crown to jewels to painted toenails. She gets herself married to her prince (aka her brother, mom, or the nearest stuffed animal) on an almost daily basis. On Tuesday she is “Tangled” and Friday she is “Brave” and Monday next she is Cinderella. Yes, she has bought into the princess charm/fame/phase/whatever you want to call it. It’s a big new part of her three year-old worldview.

And now may I confess something, dear feminists: I actually don’t mind. Not a bit. I love her twirling around on my living room rug, telling me how she is about to get married. I love her stepping out of her room in twelve necklaces, sixty bracelets and something from the toy box she diy’ed to resemble a head-covering. I love her gasp and her grin when she spots a Merida nightgown or an Ariel lunchbox at the store. And I am more than happy to sit and watch Sleeping Beauty or Beauty and the Beast at her request (and, yep, you guessed it, often at my own). Because the truth is (here it comes, brace yourselves) I want her to know and love all the Disney classics I grew up with. I hope she thrills in them as I still do, twenty-something years after they were introduced to me. I hope she has favorites that will obviously change over the years. I wish her to suspend her disbelief—my three year-old—and fall headlong in love with fairy tales, in all their ultra-simplistic, magical glory.

Why, You gasp? Why on earth?! Why subject your daughter to such stereotypical, old-fashioned notions of women and feminism?

Reason #1: Because I am a serious reader!...and fairy tales are our first introduction to stories. Because fairy tales—with their one-dimensional heroes and heroines and villains—are our first steps into the concepts of storyline and human motivation and human weakness and dark vs. light and striving against odds and underdogs succeeding through wit and talent. One of my favorite quotes is from Einstein—you know Einstein? That scientist-genius-physicist who has really nothing to do with literature or fairy tales or this entire conversation, right? Anyway, here’s what he said once: “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” Not that I need Albert Einstein’s endorsements, but hey, I’ll take ‘em! The archetypes of fairy tales are woven into the fabric of our modern, everyday life. You just try to tell me they’re not. Tell me we don’t think of three as a magic number (three wishes, three strikes you’re out, three stoplight colors, for the love….). Tell me we don’t make wishes at wells. Tell me we don’t commonly make references to kissing frogs, wicked stepmothers, and glass slippers. Fairy tales are part of our cultural history, and frankly, a beautiful part I’d like to hold on to forever, thank you very much.

Now, Reason #2, and the point of this first part of my three-part tirade…and just beware, because I think this is the part we don’t like to hear: Cinderella is not my daughter’s mother. She is not her nanny, her teacher, or her mentor. I am. I am the guardian of the hearth. I am the nurturer. I am the example and the trendsetter and the greatest influence over my children’s lives. The greatest. Or at least I should be. And therein lies my problem with the whole Disney princess/weak feminine example argument. Yes, I agree 100% with the notion that we are influenced by the media we expose ourselves to; no doubt about it. But if the pull of the media within my home is the strongest influence within these walls, I have obviously clocked out of parenting, because in order for an 80 minute cartoon to become my daughter’s sole reference to the world, I would have to have stopped being her mother. Seriously. For this to happen, I’d have to stop having conversations with her; stop reading her non-Disney books; stop taking her on walks to see the world around her; stop having family nights where we play games and make projects; stop telling her about why Daddy goes to work, why I am doing laundry, why we have to go to the grocery store, etc; stop limiting her time in front of the screen, instead letting her bask in hours and hours of those 80 minute cartoons a day; stop disciplining her when she makes sad choices and explaining to her why it was a sad choice….

Does this sound a little exaggerated? A little far-fetched? It’s because it is, but not on my end. When we feminists claim that Aurora or Snow White or Cinderella are a significant negative influence on our girls  (significant, mind you--everything has an influence, great or small), we are essentially saying that we have relinquished our responsibility to be the first, the most powerful builders of our child’s worldview. And if we were talking about teenagers, this might not be such a stretch, when a teenager’s daily world has expanded to myriad voices and influences. But when we make such claims in reference to a three year-old, a four year-old, or a six-year old, the only cause for such usurpation of power is a total and complete cop-out on our side. I’m sorry to say it so bluntly, but there it is. The only way my three-year old daughter—who spends all but one or two of her waking hours with me as her companion—forms the idea that she should listen to and emulate Cinderella above all others is if I am spending those many daily hours ignoring and neglecting her. It is the only way! Because the minute I engage with her, she is introduced to a different—hopefully healthier—worldview. And every day is a chance for minutes upon minutes of new worldviews. And those minutes turn into hours and days and months and years and…. Oh yeah, remember that cute movie about that princess whose fairy godmother gives her glass slippers and she wins the hand of a prince? Wasn’t that a cute story? Let’s go watch it again, honey. And then we can finish your homework. And when Dad gets home, you can tell him about your newest long-jump record and that boy that wants to take you out this weekend and how you decided not to cheat on your math test today, even when your friend offered you the chance.

Input por favor!

Can I get your input on something I have been writing last night / this morning? It is in response to the prompt: What story does my body tell? -- I am most concerned that it is scattered around a bit-- which I think could be okay, if it still flows alright. Thoughts?

----

Perception

19: I remember feeling anxiety when a boy put his arm around my waist, being keenly aware of the crease in fat where my body curved. I remember building a wardrobe of empire waisted shirts to hide my little tummy pooch. I remember buying shirts and jeans a size too big, because the next size down felt too tight against my skin. I remember beginning to buy more half-sleeved shirts because I didn't like the way my arms looked in pictures.

I saw chubby, and I hid my body accordingly.

When I was 22, the stress and anxiety of a new situation took its toll and I gained about 20 pounds in a matter of months. And honestly, I was fine. I didn't think much of it. I didn't have time to think much of it.

When I was 23, I returned home. The weight started coming off naturally-- until a medication change (read: hormone change) spiked my weight back up. I learned acceptance. I bought new clothes that weren't necessarily form fitting, but weren't necessarily baggy either. I focused on taking care of myself for my mental and physical well being, to heal from the previous year's wear. I didn't think I would be able to lose the weight, just because extreme dieting was never my thing-- extreme anything isn't my thing. And that was okay.

Adaptation

I remember my brother cooking the squash he grew in his garden. I decided to eat when I was hungry, not eat when I wasn't. I ate what my body asked for, in moderation.

I remember late night bursts of energy and runs around the block, or cycling on a stationary bike in the dead of winter to sort things out in my mind. My body craved movement, so I gave it freely.

I remember gripping my abdomen in pain, curling and stretching my body, trying to find relief. It had never been that bad before. I remember feeling fear in anticipation of the next cycle.

I remember a boy's arms wrapped around my torso, pulling me so terribly close, obeying no constraints. Terrible greed on his part, and in time, a heavy understanding of particular aspects of my physical and mental being.

I remember squatting down into a plank to show a friend that no, I cannot do real push ups, only a lot of "girl" push ups-- and then doing a set of real push ups. I had never tried, so I never knew.

I remember the feeling of the sun burning my chest and arms with the first hint of springtime, and deciding that half-sleeves just weren't going to satisfy my cravings for fresh air and warmth.

I remember cleaning out my childhood bedroom and finding a pair of jeans from when I was a teenager-- and fitting them. Then altering them from boot cut to skinny jeans (styles change, ya know?) and bringing them back to Utah with me.

Contentment

A couple weeks ago a friend and I were flipping through pictures from when I was 22. We got to one when I was probably at the highest weight I had ever been, and he paused to chat about something. I had to pause the conversation and flip to the next picture. He perceived it as me being insecure about my body, but I don't think that was it. (I learned to accept my body, if you recall). I simply did not relate to that person in the picture. I do not look like that person anymore-- I'm 20 pounds lighter, my hair is longer, and even the way I live my life, the way I understand the world and myself has changed.

My body is comparable to my 19-year-old body, but my entire perception of my body has been refined. My butt looks amazing in that tight black skirt. I like the way my collarbone looks in my favorite t-shirt, and the way it drapes around the curves in my waist. And my mid-rise dark wash jeans feel so divine around my legs and hips-- and they fit like a dream.

I've learned that my body is strong, and it is sacred. My body knows what it needs, and I have learned how to hear what it tells me. And if you slide your arms around my waist, my body will rejoice and love you right back, with not even a hint of hesitation.

Writing Prompt #7

Make up as many metaphors or similes as you can for a common object (light bulb, fireplug, telephone pole, flower petal, mailbox, show, cat's eye, leaf, stars, etc). Keep going until you run out of steam. Cross out all the obvious ones. Circle your most original or engaging. If you're feeling ambitious write a piece about the object using some of the metaphors, along with other exposition.


This prompt was taken from Writing Poems by Robert Wallace and Michelle Boisseau.

Prompt #6

This is the first couple pages of a story I started writing. It was originally intended to be a very short story, but my brain kept coming up with wonderful things to add and I got all caught up in what might end up being a much grander tale than originally intended. Then again, that would mean I need to actually continue writing, so we'll see. Fingers crossed. Also, any criticism or pointers or opinions would be welcomed and greatly appreciated.

The Good Life

(it's a working title for now)

“Hello, this is Ibrahim Ahmedani calling on behalf of Good Life Medical Insurance. May I please talk to Bettie Anderson?”

He sat and listened for a good long moment, but the only reply was a click followed by that repetitive beep; the one that let him know that Bettie would not be taking his survey. Ibrahim hung up the phone, only to pick it back up and try again and press 10 more buttons, hoping these ones might allow him some sort of human contact. After only a couple of rings, a gruff voice came through the phone. “Hello?”

He began, “Hello, this is Ibrahim Ahmedani calling on behalf of Good Life Medical Insurance, May I please talk to Janet Billings?”

“We’re already members of your insurance, but thanks.”

“Actually, I’m calling today on behalf of Good Life Medical Insurance to ask a few questions in order to provide you with…” cut off again by that beeping. He keyed the proper code into the computer then pressed enter. The top of the screen informed him that that had been his 200^th call of the day. He had been able to complete twenty-four customer service surveys. This was definitely nothing to frown at. Steve, in the cubicle next to his, had only completed fifteen so far, and Jen across the aisle had finished seventeen. No, it wasn’t the number of completed surveys that added to the growing pit in Ibrahim’s stomach; it was the number of calls. That “200” staring him in the face. Had he really spent the last five hours calling 200 people only to talk to twenty-four of them? And those twenty-four phone calls couldn’t even be considered conversations. He had very few moments when he got to speak with somebody on the phone and he spent them asking strange and awkward questions about the persons’ hygiene, diet, and medical history. It was all too much for him to think about at the moment. So he stood up and started to walk down the aisle toward the bathroom when he was stopped by an oddly excited blast to his ears. It seemed so out of place in this drab, grey world.

“Where are you going?” Jen asked, almost looking concerned.

“I’m gonna go take my break. Why?”

“Didn’t you already take a break?”

“No.” He said, a little aggravated that this was such a big deal to his coworker. Where did she get off policing him anyway? He never really had a problem with his colleagues, but this wasn’t the best day for him. He had just had an obnoxiously self-aware moment, and had to go shake that feeling otherwise he was not going to make it through the rest of the day. Suddenly it hit him. He had taken a half-hour lunch just before noon. He hadn’t had time to eat that morning before leaving for work, so he took an earlier lunch than usual. Somewhere between the constant repetition of the phone beeping and him reciting the same introduction over and over he had lost that lunch somewhere in his mind. This did not help his situation at all. He now felt the agony of what the early stages of depression must surely feel like, and now had no way of ridding himself of those feelings. Unless, he thought, I can piss them away. So he continued down the aisle.

He stood an easy two feet above the 4-foot cubicle walls. His suit hung handsomely on his thin body. It was a little large for him, but not so much that it looked ridiculous or anything. He bobbed across the sea of office workers; just a small brown buoy on the waves of business-appropriate hair and attire.

After the relief that comes with a much needed urination, Ibrahim washed his hands and checked his hair and his whole demeanor. It was as if this clean shaven, Indian man was staring at him with some sort of derision, laughing at his very existence. Then he realized that this was probably not a very healthy state of mind, so he splashed some water into his face, rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was just him. The same face as before but this time it wasn’t dripping with ridicule.

“Every journey begins with a single step.” He recited the same thing to himself every day. It wasn’t because he felt he belonged on some grand adventure, but something about this proverb always made him feel like there was something to look forward to in life. Like he could go somewhere beyond that stupid little cubicle and find some real sense of joy out of life. All he had to do was take that one step. But for now, let’s get through the rest of the day.  He turned off the sink and dried his hands. As he stepped through the door that lead back to the office he was greeted by an ear splitting crack so loud it seemed like his ear had split open. Dazed, he clutched his ears and felt something sticky and warm running down his fingers. He looked at his left hand, covered in blood. He panicked. What was happening? Where was everybody? Why does the office suddenly look like it had been completely ransacked? And most importantly, why was he being shot at? He started to run, but after only a few steps he heard another crack accompanied by an explosion of pain shooting through his right leg. He dropped. He was helpless. His vision faded. Am I dying?

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

The warmth of a fire relaxed him, and the smell of cooking meat filled his nostrils. He felt a sense of comfort and…Wait, is that me!? His eyes flew open and he found himself falling from a small cot or makeshift bed of some sort. He let out a small and somewhat girlish shout. He was relieved to find that it was not his own flesh he smelled, but some sort of red meat cooking over a fire. It looked delicious and he was famished. He looked around and saw nobody. After waiting a minute or so, he decided it would be a shame to let such a tasty smelling morsel become dry and overcooked. He grabbed it from the spit over the fire and began to feast.

 As he satisfied the more urgent of his needs, he realized that there was now a whole new set of problems to work out. Where was he? How did he get there? Who built the fire? Had he actually been shot?  He looked down at his leg and saw it wrapped in what looked like strips of cloth torn from a t-shirt. He jammed his finger into the middle of the blood stain. A fire raged instantly from that one point on his thigh all the way down to his toes. Yes, he had really been shot. So who had dressed his wounds? Those and so many other questions rattled through his mind and he wasn’t sure where to start. He couldn’t focus on any one question long enough to find an answer. The panic started to build again and he found himself beginning to question his own sanity. Then he noticed something he hadn’t until now, or rather, someone.

A Double Whammy

I will be answering two prompts with this. Number six will be answered in a new post because apparently I can't create an attachment.

As for prompt 5, I would like to answer that one as well, because it seems like something I should be asking myself.


Part A:
I am a much larger and heavier person than most people I meet, yet I am fairly certain that I have biked farther than many of them.

I am one of the quietest people in your class, yet I am one of the loudest and possibly obnoxious people in my apartment.

I am completely comfortable talking with and befriending married women, but I can't ask a single girl for her number if my life depended on it.

I am a very smart young man, yet there are times I feel so confused that there is no way anybody could know how to help me.

I have friends that I would trust with my life and family that I trust even more than that, but I cannot allow any one person to know everything about me

I'm not sure how to explain these oddities, but I do know that they are a huge part of what makes me me. I don't point these out because I feel like it makes me sound intellectual or deep (heck, sometimes I am one of the shallowest people I know). These are all just interesting observations about myself that I have never really put together. When I see them all listed out like this I wonder if other people see the same things in themselves. I love the ideas I come up with but feel like I almost never can convey them in coherent words and sentences. That's where

Part B
comes in. I want to share my stories, and ideas and thoughts with so many people. So I need to work on it. I need to keep practicing and keep reading and build my vocabulary so that I can tell you guys and everybody else that I'm feeling ecstatic today rather than just saying I'm really happy I don't have work. I need to realize the importance of continuing with this hobby and see if I can't make it a career because in all honesty, I feel better today after writing a couple blog entries than I have in the last couple months.

#6, "Fall Fall Fall"

I don't know if this will go anywhere, but this is what I've been working on the last couple of days:

---

hold me down-- winter with her bitter gaze,

and all the shadows that surrounded

and the demons with their lingering arms

and all my sorrow with the lingering scars, leading me to fall-- fall-- fall

It's like-- coming out of my haze, to the rest of my days

feel the shimmering light cross the wicked tides

calm me down-- when i stumble over - lost and founds

the show and tells, I linger, like I 

love him again and again,

like i'd die to be weightless again-- watch me fall.

It's like-- coming out of my haze, to the rest of my days

feel the shimmering light cross the wicked tides

i am. full of an energy, beneath my stride-- keep me going, keep me on time--

coming out of my haze, I'm a million miles- from where i landed

Writing Prompt #6

For this prompt, share something you are working on... or something you have been wanting to work on but for whatever reason have not. Share your short story, your poems or new song, or even that book review you have been wanting to write. Just share!

Prompt 5

A.

I was my mother’s third. Third of seven. I came behind a character and an example. And the third time was not a charm for my mother. At one point, she says she shoved her nurse across the room for pressing on her stomach too hard. She was given a new drug, she said. She felt like she couldn’t find her control, she said. The third time, and yet so different. Unique circumstances, she said.

Fitting, too, because I was born a unique child. A girl with wild hair and a wild imagination. Different than the previous two… There was my brother, the goofball; born with his fist wrapped tightly around his geek flag. And my sister, the child-adult; who, like Athena, emerged fully grown and fully wise. And then there was me, a head-in-the-clouds child, chasing raindrops and talking to unicorns and laying on the carpet of my bedroom, arms outstretched, waiting for gravity to release, because I knew I was about to fly for the first time.

I have always understood this about myself. This unique, this dreamworld-y, this very different core that I own, that I keep glowing in my center. And, thanks to parents who declared my utter singularity in matter-of-fact tones lined with obvious affection, I was always secure in it. I loved it. I owned it.

But thirty years into life—in the middle of suburbia and motherhood and established adulthood—I wonder if others ever catch a glimpse of my singular core. I wonder if I am now, simply, not unlike every neighbor I greet on the sidewalk and every friend I chat with on the porch. And I think I am, now, simply one of them.

And I think now, thirty years into life, that because I am like everyone, everyone is like me. And this (despite what it looks like on the page here) is a hopeful thought. I begin to wonder if everyone is a raindrop-chaser and a dragon-hunter, a silver-blooded heart beater hoping to fly. I think they are. I think they live here, with me, in the middle of suburbia and parenthood and established adulthood, and share with me secret identities and curiosities. I am singular in a world of singularity. And I still look for the pale shimmer of unicorns when fog drops over the world.

B.

Herein lies the beauty—and the curse—of my same differences…. Or my different sameness (take your pick): My own rainbow-chasing story, like hers and his and theirs, is worthy of telling. I chase rainbows in my own particular way. And when I step into the woods and begin my dragon hunt, I am equipped with my own loyal sidekick, cynical minstrel and lurking villain. And it is their story too. And somehow… somehow…. I had better prove they are my own! I must own them wholly and completely and unabashedly. They cannot be Grimm’s or Andersen’s… or Bradbury’s or McCarthy’s or Valente’s.

And if my husband has come to hear my voice better than I hear it myself, then it is my own sidekick that weeps over my torn body at the end of the adventure, “but minimally, because your characters don’t over-emote in your writing.” And it is my own cynical minstrel that picks up bar wenches with charismatic pick-up lines “like ‘fancy’ and ‘tender’, because you couldn’t use a normal interjection, hon.” And it is my own lurking villain that springs the trap for me just before the story’s climax, “and let’s be honest, honey, he’d probably be wearing white instead of black, just to throw people off. And someone good will die. And your hero wouldn’t come out unscathed, because you don’t believe those heroes. And some things would be left unresolved. But you would never do a trilogy, honey, because you think…..”

And as these conversations almost always end in my home, my husband would say, “When are you just going to start?”

"When we write we are anthropologists of the soul--digging and digging 
until we've pieced together our personal mysteries."  
- C. Jane Kendrick (here)

7 pm

In response to writing prompt #4 & #5

I drive down the street, catching the sun winking at me from behind the trees.  There are sprinklers skittering across manicured lawns, an older couple walking a small, white dog, passed by joggers who are charging up on endorphins.  I pass apartment buildings, cul-de-sacs, and parks.  All well kept, because I live in Bountiful.  A city that is all crisp edges and as proper and upstanding as it's citizens.  It is the white collared cousin to blue collared Salt Lake City located only a scant 15 minutes south.  White picket fences, and carefully tended gardens are blooming with purple sylvia, pink lupine, and confetti-colored petunias.  There are blazing red flowers on a bush that I don't know the name of, but it is so full, that it is drooping under their weight.  The color becomes emblazoned in my mind's eye.  I become drunk with the rich golden light that is casting an amber glow on everything.  This is my favorite time of day, at this specific time of year: early summer, 7 pm.  There is nothing that compares to the leaves as they shine like polished jade from the light of the sun.  Or the long, dramatic shadows that are reaching across to gently close the valley's eyes for night.  

For some reason I can't explain, at this time of day I always smell the subtle, wild perfume of willows and water.  A scent that calms me.  I picture myself sitting on a river's edge with my feet submerged in an icy, tittering creek, daring myself to see how long I can stand the thrill it gives me.  I want to laugh.  I want to scream.  I am surrounded by a wild, verdant wood, alive and creaking, and murmuring secrets in my ear.  But mostly, it whispers a song from long ago.  A honeyed melody that floats past my ear, and splinters on a soft breeze.

"So won't you come with me where the wood willow grows,

And watch it meander slowly as the sky turns from light to dark?"

Finally the dregs of the day are gone as the sun is sipped below the horizon.   As I come back to myself, I am left only with the throaty sound of crickets as they sing a in a nearby field.

#5 Response

It really shouldn't be a hard question to answer: who am I? That is the sort of thing ones asks in high school and college, when everything is jumbled up and to feel lost just feels a little normal. But now? Still? And yet I am still not sure what really makes me… me. Slowly I find things out about myself that I didn't know (and some that I just didn't realize): I like working with soil and flowers, I am terrible at sticking to schedules and organization (though I wish I could), I love art, the mess in our house is primarily a product of my own laziness, I like bird watching and too much talking and interesting cooking. I see some of the roles I play and how they are a part of who I am: wife, mother, friend, companion, etc. Then I see things I wish I was; things that at this moment in my life I just can’t do. I can only be and do so much. Right now I am a baby maker, a one car family victim, a tired wife, a tired mama, a book reader (though not always a book finisher). Time will pass and those things will change. I will not always be pregnant and sick. I will not always have little ones here at home. Sometimes that gives me hope, though it breaks my heart too.

I truly feel that if I want to improve my writing, to find my own voice, and to be happy in where I am, I need to stop worrying about writing what I think other people want me to write. Instead to embrace the roles and places I am in my life RIGHT NOW. To let those things be part of my writing instead of pushing them away for one reason or another. Maybe then I wouldn't be at such a loss of what to write. Maybe then I would find the voice that is uniquely mine.

"Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper."

Ray Bradbury

making a difference.

Part A. What makes you you? What are the things that make you unique or different or the same?

We are all the same ... in that we all need to feel loved and wanted. I've discovered through personal observation and interpersonal relationships that those two things are all anybody really needs, and we're just all here trying to help each other out.
In that way, we are all the same. All wanting and needing the same things.

And we're all different in the way that we help each other take care of these needs. I've been thinking about this a lot recenty - how I, Kylie, can make a difference to someone else. What can I offer to anyone?

You can only offer yourself. Somehow, somewhere in the nebulus components of your mind and body, you can touch others' souls in a unique way, because you are unique and the way you'll discover to reach them is unique.

Part B. How can you challenge yourself to become better writers, storytellers, poets? How can you infuse who you are with your desire to write? Have you done steps one and two and are you ready to really just into step three?

Challenging myself? All I can do is a self-depricating snort of laughter. I'm infamous for making millions of goals...and never finishing anything. Challenge to write? Sure, but to what end? A challenge to be a better writer? Ah, that will only come with a goal to practice, a goal to experiment. I want to touch people, I want to make a difference in their lives. I feel that maybe writing is a way I can do that...I just have to allow myself to see that by allowing myself to indulge in writing that maybe, just maybe, I might make a difference.

#5

Part A of the prompt:

     What makes you you? What are the things that make you unique or different or the same?

The words pounded through my body like no other. “I am disappointed in you,” she said. And I cried for three days straight. Even the man I sometimes loved did not have time to calm my heaving sobs. This deafening loneliness returns periodically to remind me that sometimes I am not worth much (or so my mind deceitfully tells me).

A therapist once told me that I seem to have a fear of people leaving and hurting me, and unfortunately I have experiences to back that up.

And yet there is a mask sculpted from my flesh that hides those fears. The corners of my mouth lift to a toothy smile. And sometimes that mask is true to my present state of being. Sometimes the most vibrant energy pulses through my soul, leaving no doubt in my mind that God is good, that all is well.

But sometimes the mask hides every intimate detail of my soul so beautifully, and deceives even the closest acquaintance.

I am fragile, but I am also strong. I take those fears and privately let them go, one by one. Then I work fiercely to become more than I was before, to find a grace and refinement that I so desperately desire in my life.

Part B of the prompt:

      How can you challenge yourself to become better writers, storytellers, poets? How can you infuse who you are with your desire to write? Have you done steps one and two and are you ready to really just into step three?

I try to be honest when I write. But I also try to write in a vague, seemingly exaggerated way. I try to hide in my writing, not only to maintain some privacy, but to hopefully let my experiences stretch to become relatable to others. This is not always easy, and I think that is how I push myself, just by continuing on in this practice.

I love the goal of step three: “Infusing the work you are doing with the specific things that make you you.” And I think I capture glimpses of that idea every so often in the things I create-- which sometimes seems quite devastating. But I hope that grace and refinement show through.

Writing Prompt #5

Click the link and watch this video of Sarah Kay:

Do it. Really. It is good and you will like it.

http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html

Now... think about the steps she shared.

Step One: The moment you say "I can. I can do this."

Step Two: The moment you say "I will. I will continue... I will keep coming back week after week."

Step Three: "It's not enough to just teach that you can express yourself. You have to grow and explore and take risks and challenge yourself. And that is step three: infusing the work you are doing with the specific things that make you you, even while those things are always changing."

Part A of the prompt:

      What makes you you? What are the things that make you unique or different or the same?

Part B of the prompt:

       How can you challenge yourself to become better writers, storytellers, poets? How can you infuse who you are with your desire to write? Have you done steps one and two and are you ready to really jump into step three?

the town in which i live

When we first moved here, people would ask how we liked it.

“It’s a small town without the small town charm.”

That seemed the nicest way to say the truth: I didn't like it. Not because the distance to the freeway or the lack of grocery store, though those things do make everything a little difficult. No. The real reason was the overflow of houses, all seeming the same. There are no houses that were 70 years old with their walnut trees with swings in them. Then there was the mountains. Oh how far away they seemed, leaving us out here with the desolate sagebrush and dry tumble weeds stuck in fences. There are no bookstores for us to peruse on quiet Friday nights. And even though there is a library, it is too far to walk to so what use is it to me? No cafes for buying French sodas and writing away in quiet corners. I wondered how we had found ourselves out here.

Like turning on a light after sitting in a dark room, my eyes slowly began adjusting to the small world I found myself in. I think it began in my own front yard, with our small apple tree that yields large, sweet apples. Then it was the blossoming pear tree that cools us with its lazy shade and that houses our little bird feeder. Then I saw around the corner where my neighbors wild flowers grow happy and free.

I began seeing that the houses and their gardens were unique, just like their owners. I fell in love with the house with the weeping willow, with its front room full of books. Or the two houses a couple blocks away, one wild and untamed and the other planned and particular, yet both so full and happy with color and flowers and birds.

We learned that the gas station has the most decadent, moist Dunford Donuts so who needs a grocery store. And the library, which is still growing, has story time for our little ones to enjoy. There is the little Chinese restaurant and the pizza place with their family deals and food that makes my mouth water. And a little ice cream shop within walking distance. There are winding pathways where runners, walkers, bikers, families, and individuals share the love of fresh air and movement.

And then finally I saw it, as the sun goes to sleep and I look up into the night sky. With no street lights to crowd them, the stars dance and sing for us on clear nights. Oh yes, this town in which I live holds little secrets of beauty and wonder, even if I still hate the sage brush.

These Streets

Ah, tonight. Tonight is a good night to write about these streets. Tonight, with clarity come by rain, and more pregnant clouds hanging low overhead, and the air heavy with the scent of blossoms. I breathe deeply as I pass each popcorned tree. Yes, tonight I love these streets.

But when I am honest, I must tell you, I cannot always say this. If you had asked me three months ago, I would have withered you with a single look. These streets?! I would scoff. These?! And folded inside my sweatshirt-blanket-mukluks-beanie, I would focus my hateful stare on the scene outside--the snow and the ice and the single-digit temperature--as if the heat of my anger could thaw the gray-scaled world back into warm color. I would curse the actions of slipping on boots and hat and jacket to walk the fifty feet to the mailbox; the penguin shuffle across frozen asphalt to prevent bruises and broken bones; the futility of keeping one's temper when you are held in captivity month after frozen month with three restless pixies--who by February have shed sparkling fairy skins and become imps, full of dark mischief for want of the tempering sun. No, three months ago I cursed these streets and held wistful, heavy, covetous dreams of California in my heart.

Ah, but tonight! Tonight these streets remember their beauty, have begun climbing back into their robes of grandeur. I feel a chill, but I feel it on bare arms. Clear of its smothering white blankets, the ground is raising her colors again. I see green, and that one color alone breathes life back into me. I send my pixies out into the greenness; and as they dash between tree and hill and sky, the last patches of the sinking sun catch new sparkles across noses and hands and strands of hair. Tonight I can look at the stars and remind myself that no streetlights interrupt my looking. I can sit untouched by the mad rushing that belongs to city streets. I can breathe deep blossom scents. I can welcome quiet raindrops. I can touch earth and feel a tug, a connection. And I can say, honestly, that tonight I love these streets.

“Write while the heat is in you. … The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with.”

~Henry David Thoreau

#5

My sweet mother, bless her heart, instilled in me a sort of paranoia-- which was surely instilled in her from her own mother. The “lock the doors,” “don’t hike alone,” “be careful when you’re walking downtown at night,” “carry your pepper spray,” “keep a quilt in your car, just in case” sort of paranoia. And as I left for college, I did have my pepper spray and quilt in tow, because I didn’t think to question it.

If I did venture out alone, there was a hint of anxiety just below the surface, keeping my guard up. There still is.

But some nights, there is an inescapable energy that builds within me-- a mix of pain, frustration, and restlessness-- and I have to go. So I throw on a tank top, shove my feet into running shoes, and go.

It was summertime when I truly learned to love my city. The days were almost unbearably warm, but the nights were divine. I began to learn of myself as I meditated to the beat of my feet on the pavement, as I let the cool air rush around my arms and neck, and as I ran around the blocks that carried a much different feel with darkness and street light. Yes, I still carried pepper spray, but I also carried a strength that I had never known before. My city gave that to me. It still does.

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.”

~Neil Gaiman

The Grid

The streets in Rexburg are a grid, much like the streets in many other american cities. There are two center streets perpendicular and other streets that run parallel to those. 1st East, 2nd East, 3rd East and so on. Then west. Then North. Then South. Not all that exciting if you were to look at them from google maps satellite view. But if you look closer, you can see a lot more. They are rough, covered in gravel from the winter just passed. The oil from the tires of students' cars breaking too late and too often. The cars passing by every so often carrying families to Wal Mart or Sammy's. So many different people from so many places. College students, mothers, high-schoolers, children playing, a man walking his dog. I walk alone to class but never feel lonely.

Writing Prompt #5

Write about the streets in your city.

You Are My Sunshine

SIDE NOTE: I have been really struggling to write lately. Even with a prompt I just didn't know what to write. I decided I could either keep ignoring the prompts until something made me just have to write or I could force it. Sometimes you have to fake it til you feel it. So I picked a song, set a timer for 10 minutes and wrote. Nothing spectacular came out but I wrote. And for that I am happy.

****************************************************************************

The other night dear as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke dear, I was mistaken, and I hung my head and cried.

Melancholy. Loneliness. Longing.

This song is so full of sadness it is almost overwhelming. A lover gone to another. A child no longer a child anymore. The death of one so dear. And yet I sing it to my little one as the sun disappears and her eyes droop. I love it, in all it’s gloom and loneliness.

When my grandma died I was still young. Only 14. I didn’t know her as well as I should have. But I could see the pain of real loss in my grandpa. His love had moved on and left him there. And oh how my heart broke for him. He loved her so.

You are my sunshine my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Devotion. Adoration. Dependence.

Growing up I declared I would be dependent on no man. Oh how things have changed. While I strongly value my education, my ability to think for myself, and, if need be, take care of myself, I savor my co-dependence with my husband. I need him and he needs me. I do not wish to go through life, doing everything myself. We work side by side, caring for a house that we chose together, raising the child(ren) we created together in love and longing. He brings balance to a life that was unbalanced before he entered it. I adore my Sunshine.

Prompt #4

Then you had to bring up reincarnation over a couple of beers the other night.

And now I’m serving time for mistakes made by another in another lifetime.

                                                            -“Galileo” by the Indigo Girls

I think back to just last weekend, when my sister asked, “Man, can you even imagine having to go back and do it again? Be a teenager again?! Have to grow up again??”

“No thanks!”

We laughed, but a childish terror peeked out from behind our laughing words. To do it again….

x             x             x

The tears I couldn’t stop while my sister, all worry and regret, stroked my hair. “I shouldn’t have told you. But I was so mad, and I wanted to make sure you knew, so he won’t be able to do it to you again.”

“Did he…really…say it? …Really?” Sobs broke my words.

“’Told you I could get any girl to think I liked her. Any girl.  I win.’ Just like that. And I could have slapped him. I should have.” And her voice was full of sorrow.

And I thought I would never stop crying.

x             x             x

A weary night. I knelt in meditation, listening and not listening to the answer to my heavy petition.

I took a deep breath and said to the heavens, “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m just too tired.”

And I knew it was wrong, but I was so tired. So heavy.

And I fell asleep to heaviness and dreamed of the friend I would let down, of her future that would fork and digress and never be so peaceful again. Because I was too tired and heavy to bear her peace and mine. And I awoke unyielding and full of shame.

x             x             x

A startling hammer in my chest, sitting next to him. A pounding that was new, that had never been there before, in all of our hours of talking and sewing and driving and movies. A pounding that increased as I listened to the words behind his words.

“So you’re leaving for sure? And you know I’m leaving? That I won’t be here—here—in a year and a half? I’ll be on the east coast. I guess I just thought, I don’t know… Well, I guess I’ll be watching the foreign films alone from now on.”

And his look—a look that was uncertain of itself, of what even he wanted. A look that was half a goodbye, half an invitation. And I saw another road wind through the look—a road without my Chad and my Coren and my Risa and my Haakon, my fairy children as yet unknown to me. And I was afraid of a road without Chad, afraid to admit that this other road could be just as beautiful, that either road was a good choice. A beautiful choice.

And I opened the jeep door. Because I could not face the choice.

x             x             x

An egg, half dyed blue, trembling on the spoon in my hand. I saw her—ashen skin, mouth slightly open—and I didn’t see her. She wasn’t there anymore.

But a body was. And my dad, holding the hand on that body, stroking it, kissing it, weeping saltwater rivers. Brothers and sisters everywhere in the room—literally everywhere—the vast numbers of us, first watching, then understanding, then ducking heads into shoulders, into pillows, into hands.

And I felt it—the heave from the swell of the wave, the rush forward, the break, the break, the break… Oh, a break that wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t ever, ever stop! One wave and another and another, so fast upon each other that there was not even time for breathing. Just the waves, just the saltwater. And in the blur of my vision a father holding a hand on a body. Just a body. But no mother anymore.

x             x             x

And the mark of the handprint on his face. That angry red that I see every time I close my eyes. And I think, That handprint alone sentences me back to a mosquito’s life for a thousand days. A thousand lifetimes as a bloodsucking pest, to be cursed and hated and crushed endlessly. That one hand print. A thousand lifetimes to pay.

x             x             x

 “No,” I whisper. Then “NO,” loud and firm this time, so that Shiva hears me, wherever he lies with Parvati in the cosmos, in their endless practice of the kama sutra. So that he hears the finality in my voice. So that he knows that when I am laid to rest full five fathoms down, I will not answer the call of the universe.

Not again.

I will yawn and stretch, look up at him and tsk-tsk, “Now, my cosmic dancer, you know better. So if you please.”

And I will turn and curl back into my own immortal beloved, close my eyes, and sleep. 

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”

—Enid Bagnold

#4: The Glow / Boys Around Here

"Can you tell me your happiest memory?" he asked. And I pondered, and I thought, and I considered, and there was nothing.

But there was your face, head on my lap, my lap on your couch, ankles on the coffee table, glow from the credits of a film on the television screen. And your eyes, as transparent as the sea, looking up at me, a small space between your lips, and the glow as I told you that yes, I was yours.

You were mine.

And the space between your lips stretched into a smile. Years later and I can still see it, a look of awe, a look that I have yet to see on another's face. And I smiled too, and laughed, and turned away, shy.

-----

"Boys Around Here" by Fences:

These mighty eyes, they look at me with no intention. They hit me twice, at first glance, and then a second time.

She said to me, "that sh*t you say can really hurt me. I wrote this note, I'll read it once. I feel like giving up."

The boys around here don't respect a thing, respect a thing at all.

The boys around here don't respect me, don't respect me at all.

It's been a while since the night that I first met you. I still got dusty shoes, fear of love, fear of losing you.

I'll be alright if I can just stay in tonight. I don't want to talk. Just let me drink, tomorrow we'll give up.