Writing Prompt 12: Volleyball

Wednesday night is volleyball night. 8:45 rolls around and I grab my keys and head out to the car. It's still hot because sometimes it seems like Murrieta only has two seasons: not too hot and way too hot, and in August it's way too hot. The dark leather interior of my car still holds onto the heat of the day even though the sun ducked behind the mountains an hour ago. I climb in, start the car and roll down the windows. Cool air swirls and rushes around me as I press the gas pedal. My radio is on by now and is scanning from station to station until I can find the right song; a steady, pulsing bass or a rich and wild guitar line to get my heart pumping as I sing along and make the seven minute drive from my house to the Stake Center.

First through the glass doors that open up to a quiet and reverent foyer, then down the hall to the wooden doors that open up to a loud and thick atmosphere, complete with the slight odor of sweat. Somewhere between 25 and 35 young single adults are at their places, some in the courts playing the first games of the night, others standing and talking by the stage at the east end. My first steps always seem to be filled with confidence. They land just where I want them to and each foot pushes off of the ground like a spring. People greet me and like me and I like them. This is the night I look forward to most every week. We all line up at 9:00 and count off, 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4...and so on until we have four teams of roughly equal size.

The next three hours seem to come and go as fast as those first fifteen minutes. Tennis shoes squeak and squeal as they slide on the hardwood flooring. People are shouting for all to hear, whether they're in my court or the other. My hair is wet with sweat and my shirt is worse. I can feel the blood rush to my ears and my face turn red as I swing for the ball after a perfect set but my feet never leave the ground. I bashfully watch as what would've been a perfect spike for some of the others turns into an easily returned hit from the other team. Later I forget any trace of that embarrassment and feel a flood of pride fill my chest when I save a wild hit from a teammate from going out of bounds and costing us a point. The night is filled with these ups and downs until midnight comes along and boots all of us out of the church. By the end there is only a handful of us left.

We meet at In-n-Out just up the street. Some just get a drink while others go all out for a double-double with fries and a shake. It's another hour or two of talking and laughing and enjoying the night for us. We compare how early we have to wake up for work the next day and who is going to be the most tired. I can hear Lione's contagious laugh after Jerry cracks a smart remark. I can feel the sweat in my shirt, now cold from the air conditioning. I can taste the sweet and sour lemonade as it runs down my throat and cools my whole body. By the time I make it home it's already 1 or 2 in the morning and I rinse myself off in a cool shower. I lie down in my soft bed with my fuzzy, fleece blanket only covering half of me and I sleep better that night than any other night that week.

photo via Life Magazine

"The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing."

~Walt Disney

Writing Prompt #14

Pick one emotion you felt today. Set a timer for 5 minutes. Write down every single synonym you can think of. Then open a thesaurus and find as many synonyms that you love. Pick two from the list that you normally would not use. Now spend the next week trying to insert those words in your speech, emails, text messages, anywhere.

"Curiosity about life in all of its aspects, I think, is still the secret of great creative people."

~Leo Burnett

Writing Prompt #13

Write about a person your greatly admire.

"Start where you are.

Use what you have.

Do what you can."

~Arthur Ashe

Writing Prompt #12

"Don't tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of the light on broken glass."

~Anton Chekhov

Take a thing, experience, place, anything and paint a picture. Show others the details of your life and help them see the extraordinary and remarkable in it too.

This prompt was inspired by Martha Dansie.

"If I'm going to sing like someone else, then I don't need to sing at all."

~Billie Holiday

#10 - The Matriarch

There were tremors in her body and an emptiness in her eyes. She looked straight ahead, pursing her lips carefully, breathing with a heaviness that dared to make each breath her last. And yet she pulled herself out of the recliner, cane held firmly in her right hand, and slowly walked me to the door. I slid my right hand into her left and held it lightly. If these were our last moments together, I would give her all of my love, all of my heart, and all of the tenderness I could offer. The Matriarch.

-

Her smooth hand slid into mine as we made our way to the door. Does she know what I only vaguely know? Is this the moment that she fears is the last? I move slowly. "We sure do miss you," I say. "We hope you come home soon." She hugs me twice—her body that has changed into womanhood now stronger than my own—and I wonder. I can see her outline, I know her voice, and I am not quite ready.

I am not quite ready.

Writing Prompt #11

"I write to give myself strength. I write to be the characters that I am not. I write to explore all the things I'm afraid of."

~Joss Whedon

Choose one (or multiple) to write about:

A character that has a trait you wish you had.

A character that does not possess a fear that you personally have.

Something you are afraid of that you can explore through writing.

"You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream..."

~C.S. Lewis

Writing Prompt #10

Write a memory that you have about a grandparent.

Now write about it from your grandparents perspective.

#9: Redo

If you could visit anyone on the planet right now, who would it be?

---

“Can I rephrase that?” I’d say, standing in the doorway of 1994 by my grandfather’s hospital bed— but this time as an adult, in an adult body, and with a more fully developed adult mind and understanding of the situation and its repercussions.

I would go stand beside my younger self and beside that hospital bed where my grandfather lay, broken but peaceful, a mixture of chemicals keeping him sedate. With one hand on my younger self’s shoulder, I would stroke my grandfather’s cheek. I would tell him I love him—and mean it—and of the moments I wish I could remember and the home videos I wish I could make real—and not just fiction—in my mind again.

I would tell him that Grandma is still here with as much life as ever, though she is slowing down, and there seems to be a bit of sadness and quietness in her eyes now. She’s going blind and she fell down a couple weeks ago, but she’s okay. 

She still keeps his photo by her bedside.

Then I would sing to him. I hope he can hear me—the nurses said he could hear me.

In real life, I am not there. But years of loss and grief, I hope, have shaped the way I approach such pain and sadness. I wish I could take that moment just one more time.

My mother once told me that, as that timid and uncertain little girl, I had reached out and held my grandfather's hand. "When you took his hand, he tried to open his eyes," my mother told me. "He wanted to open his eyes so badly."

I remember nothing.

I yearn for a redo—I yearn to love more fully and with more intention. And I hope my grandfather, in his heavenly home, heard me rephrase that.

"Thatched Cottages at Cordeville" by Vincent Van Gogh

"I've just kept on ceaselessly painting in order to learn painting."

~Vincent Van Gogh

Prompt #9

First, it is cool. Much cooler even just a few feet lower than ground level. It smells of damp dirt, rich soil, cut grass, but all intensified—the way the clean earth smell rises after rain has come and gone. It smells of relaxation and release. And that is fitting. I am in a graveyard, after all. And I am here to rest.

But before I explain myself to you, why I am lying in a cemetery, a plot, to be precise—you, who are presently furrowing your brows and wondering what good can come of graveyard wishes and really as adults haven’t we moved past the self-satisfying death scenes? (And I assure you, I am alive and well and happy for it)—I should first explain, well, me….or the Me of 2014:

I wade through toys and diapers and sticky juice puddles. I wear my workout clothes all day, for three days, before I find a minute to climb into the shower. I am the constant referee of physical and vocal showdowns. I no longer own a shirt without paint, puke, or grease stains. I have heard the word “mom” in every possible tone and volume, and more often in a never-ending loop of atonal cacophonies. I wake every morning to the imperial demand for breakfast; and I fall into bed every night just as my newborn wakes up and demands her midnight snack. I cannot finish a load of laundry without distraction. I cannot finish a sentence of a book without interruption. I cannot finish a thought in my own head with disruption. The Me of 2014 cannot remember what it was like to not be bone-tired; to have a home I wasn’t embarrassed about; to have moments of peace and relaxation; to remember that I’m actually a living entity with a singular consciousness; to take a single breath unfettered; to not be drowning.   

And so I run here, to lie next to my mother’s bones. To be with her. Not to die. Just to have silence; just to lie here, in the cool ground, the smell of good earth around me. To look up and see white wisps of cirrus moving across dusty blue Californian skies. To breathe in and out. Again. Again. To hear nothing but my breathing; to close my eyes and hear my own thoughts. And then, okay, yes, indulge me here, my tolerant audience, to sigh and ask how.

“How?” I say. “How can I do it?”

And to hear a sigh next to me. “Mm.” Her bones cloak themselves in the living image of my mother—not small and sunken as she was that final year. But plump and warm, as she was before I left home for school. And she nods. “Yes, that is a fine question, isn’t it?”

And I keep looking at the sky, keep reveling in my breaths, and in the silence. “I don’t think…” my voice trembles, “I don’t know if I can. Or if I want to. There isn’t enough of you left inside.” I close my eyes against the shame of this.

“You didn’t know me at thirty,” is all she says.

We lay here together, watching clouds and the shadows of trees as the evening breeze moves through them. We savor our silence. I breathe deeply.

“I got lost.”

She turns to watch me. “We all do, I think.”

“I still need you.”

She rolls onto her side, puts her warm hand on my cheek. She looks at me wistfully, allowing herself this one small moment of maternal selfishness. And then she grins, with her crow’s feet and the crinkle on the bridge of her nose.

“You’re cheating, you know? Only a part of me is on the planet right now. If you want to ask a mother how it’s done, go see your sister.” 

Wishes - Writing Prompt #9

My grandmother is a half-Filipino woman who stands a staunch 4'10".  Every inch spunk.  I come from a long line of strong women, and she is at the front.  She practically raised six children, five of which were rambunctious boys, single-handedly.  My grandpa was in the Air Force, and gone a big part of their married life.  He didn't see my mother, his first born, until she was 18 months old.  He served two tours in the Vietnam war, and earned a flying cross for his bravery.  My grandmother once wrote him a letter accusing him of cowardice and running away from all of the children.  Like I said, spunk.  

She isn't doing well.  I have seen her age ten years in the last two.  Her salt & pepper hair is falling out.  Her gait is brittle.  Her long fingers, wrapped in paper-thin, cafe-Au-lait skin, shake constantly.  The other day I watched as my sister took my grandmother's frail, worn hands in her vibrant, smooth ones.  Her hands are a younger version of my grandmothers.  It struck me as odd, to see the same pair of hands at different times in its life holding onto each other.  She methodically clipped fingernails, and smoothed ridges with a faded emery board.  Then, dipping the brush, she painstakingly painted them the color of blushing, brown silk.  The color of summer sighing into fall.  A dying rose.  All the while, my sister murmured a string of questions in a soothing voice.  How is Uncle Andy?  Have you been to any good movies?   Have you seen baby Scarlet lately?  Her voice was answered by my grandmother's signature smoky-sweet one.  

 I sat by, watching the dust mites spin in the late afternoon sun that unapologetically entered the little kitchen.  My gaze finally settled on the ceiling fan that has at least twenty unbroken wishbones dangling from it.  It took me years to figure out why they were there.  I'd just chalked it up to being a charming family tradition.  Then one day, I stumbled across a magazine article about the tradition of WWI doughboys hanging wishbones from a gas lamp in an East Village restaurant.  This ritual is rumored to go back to the Civil War.  It is a good luck charm, of sorts.  They are kept up there so that all of the soldiers will come back safely.   Our relics have yellowed and curled.  Were I sacrilegious enough, I know that I could break one with a hard snap.  I'm certain that when time runs out,  I will have a sound fill my mind.  Not shattering glass, or tearing cloth, but a precise sound of a bone cracking, causing me to bleed internally.  Heartbreak is a sound.

Prompt #9: Decisions, Decisions

If I could visit anybody in the world right now, who would it be?

I'm honestly not sure. Part of me wants to give the heartfelt answer, like one of my siblings or an old friend or something like that, but I don't think that's my answer. I see my family quite a bit. Sure I miss them when it's been longer than a few months, but that's because that's how often I get to see them, and I love it every time. So don't get me wrong, I love seeing my sibling, but I see them often enough that I wouldn't want to use up a wish/hypothetical opportunity such as this. As for my old friends, meh. I am pretty good about keeping in contact with the ones that are close enough for me to care to visit, and the others likely haven't crossed my mind for quite some time, so I wouldn't say any of them. I hope that doesn't make me sound evil.

Next choice would be somebody like a movie producer or somebody. I have dreams and ideas for that industry, I just need connections. So that might be a good choice, except for the fact that just visiting with them doesn't necessarily ensure a deal, and therefore I would be using this scenario up for a gamble. That doesn't sound very appealing.

I really didn't think it would be this tough to answer this question. I'm probably just over-thinking it. 

Hmmmm.....

I've got it. It kind of goes back to the family thing, which is probably for the better. If I were given the opportunity to visit anybody in the world, I think answering that with a family member is something I can feel good about. I got a text from my oldest sister, Tera, just a couple days ago saying that her daughter, Megan, randomly mentioned how much she missed me. She's almost eight years old (I believe) and Tera had just picked her up from school and she went into this random story that went something like, "What if I got called out of class and got picked up, but instead of my usual ride, it was Uncle Corbin picking me up? That would be so cool." Then she went on to say how awesome I am. Reading a text like that from my sister made me smile more genuinely than anything for a good while. So I would say my family. Like a reunion, but if I had to prune it down to only one person, I would have a super fun visit with my niece, Megan.

Some Thoughts on Symbolism

I don't know how many of you struggle with the idea of symbolism in your work. It's been something that gets to me every once in a while. I feel like when I write, I lack the thought and care it takes to put important things like symbolism in my stories. Sometimes I sit there and wonder if I should go back and rewrite something because it's just too shallow, especially since I am not a huge reader (not yet anyway, but working on it), so most of the things I have read have been for school and therefore are always followed by classroom discussion about symbols and themes and motifs and other scholastic things. This is mainly what intimidates me; I know I write things with an intended theme, and I can include motifs if I like, but those are much easier to think about. Symbols, at least the way they have been taught to me, just seem so much harder to consciously include and work with.
If this is something that sounds familiar to you, you might like this cool little article thing that I found. It is A short survey from a young man to a bunch of famous authors about symbolism in their writing. Their answers were really rather entertaining and helpful. I personally found Bradbury's responses to be particularly reassuring.
I hope this helps others the way it helped me. If it's not something you feel you need help with, it's still a pretty neat read, and short, too. Enjoy!

Writing Prompt #9

If you could visit anyone on the planet right now, who would it be?

This prompt was taken from oneminutewriter.blogspot.com

Prompt #8: People are Good

This is not going to be nearly as philosophical as some of you might be hoping (or dreading). I do not intend to go into a great and inspirational speech about the nature of man and how people are decent and blah blah blah. Do I think that stuff is interesting and thought-provoking? Yes. Do I feel that other people really want to hear my thoughts on it? No, at least, not in this setting.
The title is referring to my feeling on having people around. It is good (for me). I am currently house sitting for my sister and her husband while they adventure in South America. My responsibilities include feeding cats, fish and a dog. Cleaning the litter box, taking Ruby (the dog) out to do her business and to go for walks. Also, cleaning the place so that it isn't gross and covered in animal hair, moving cars in the street so they don't get towed, and running them for a few minutes every few days so that they so just sit for two weeks. All this is rather easy to stay on top of, so I made sure to bring my computer and a couple books. I could do some job-finding (because job-hunting is so disappointing), get some writing done, finish a couple books that I've needed to finish for a while, and use their game systems and Netflix and Hulu.
All in all it's a pretty sweet setup for a couple weeks, but here's the thing, I am by myself. I figured all the stuff I just listed would keep my brain busy, and it does, but I still get kind of stir crazy by the end of the day. I've had some good conversations with Ruby. She's a great listener but there's only so much you can talk with a dog about. I never really thought it would be that big of a deal for me to be alone like this. I mean, I spend most of my time watching movies and TV anyway, so why should this be much different? Because I can't pause it and say anything to my Dad or roommate or friend. There is nobody, and I don't live in the area, so I don't have anybody to invite over. I have really come to appreciate living with other people. Sure, it can be annoying when bathroom schedules conflict, or dishes don't get done, or your food gets eaten, but being alone for too long is much worse. I don't want to complain, because it's not too bad (I've had some good phone conversations), it's just not something I would like to do for much longer than a couple weeks.

"Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity and change."

~Brene Brown

https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability

I've Got (Mothering) Skills-Writing Prompt #8

"Mommy, what will happen if I eat all the olives off my pizza?"  My four year-old asks with innocent, trusting, hazel eyes.

"The world will spontaneously combust."

"What?!"

I derive sick enjoyment from her reaction, and teaching my girls complicated phrases.  I take their education very seriously.  The other day I taught my two-year old, 'delayed gratification'. 

"Lay-ed  at-tuh-kay-shun,"  She lisped with her brown-sugar voice.  It was adorable.  If only teaching the principle were so easy.  Then maybe she wouldn't have nicknames like, "Girl-Who-Runs-Screaming".  Although, now that I think about it, that might be more attributed to her being excited, rather than angry.  Scratch that.

My eyes and mind turn back to Adelei and her question.

"Or maybe you'll grow a third eye?" I ask.  Adelei grins, and  scrunches up her nose.  "No!"

She's onto me.

"Maybe your belly button will turn purple." I give her a sideways glance.

"Naaw!"  She's shaking her head emphatically.  

"How do you know?  You still have olives on your pizza," I point out.

Adelei quickly plucks off the remainder and pops them in her mouth.  Then she  tests my theory, pulling up her shirt a few inches to reveal her cute little belly.  All the while, looking at me with a confident expression on her face.  My eyes widen.  "Your belly's purple!" I yelp.  Adelei gasps and her eyes snap down to her stomach, terrified for a split second that it has changed colors.  I laugh out loud at her genuine shock.  Four year-olds are da bomb.
"Eatyourpizza,"  I command, voice dead pan.  It sounds like I'm channeling Little Caesar.  Little Caesar, if he were a mom who was trying to get his super-skinny, purple belly-buttoned kid to eat.  Although, if I want help with that, perhaps I'm channeling the wrong Caesar here.  Veni vidi vici.
 It occurs to me that my mothering skills could use some help.  They seem to be setting up camp in the wilderness of my survival skills. 

Heart Studies (Writing Prompt #8)

Write about something you have learned in the last few days.

-

I view love on a linear scale, which allows me to freely love many people and not limit my love to certain relations or labels.

It also apparently means that, while teasing my friend as he was leaving my home last week then yelling “Love you! Bye!” to him as he left—which he called back in return— I cannot adequately express my affection to the other man I actually adore and hope to love in an even greater way. And while the former situation was not a big deal, it became a big deal in my mind as I considered the latter.

Maybe my heart— the heart I have studied so carefully and have trusted in vain so many times— is wrong.

We whispered about our hearts that night and I told you the vulnerability that mine felt, how I need you to know it is open and so willing, but there are also walls being built. I am scared, and that is justified. But as we laid beside each other, your fingertips lingering and playing along my arm, my heart beat against those walls so passionately.

She’s yours if you want her.

Writing Prompt #8

Write about something you have learned in the last few days.

This prompt was taken from oneminutewriter.blogspot.com

Self Portrait by Vincent Van Gogh

"In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing."

~Vincent Van Gogh

Seeking help from Editors

After a ridiculously long absence from writing, I have written an essay for a friends blog. She has many more readers than I am used to so I am feeling a lot of pressure. I was hoping that I could get some feed back on this rough draft that I just finished. (Dare I admit this is the 5th try in tow weeks and the only one that seemed any good.) The beginning and the end feel weak to me. Any help would be wonderful!

Long before I had babies of my own I had friends who had experienced postpartum depression. They struggled with the sadness and loneliness. So after my Millie was born and the emptiness crept in, I knew to get help. The doctor gave me some short term medication that would help me “get through the worst of it.” It helped take away the deep sadness I felt but I still felt different than what I had once been. I felt full of anger, resentment and loneliness. And the anxiety, oh the anxiety. It was like a dark cloud filled my mind and body and I hated this new me.

Eventually the cloud dissolved and my body cleared of all the muck and I felt like myself again. But it took eleven months. Eleven months that ate away at my marriage and my self-esteem. It clouded my memories of those first months of Millie’s life. But at the time, I didn’t know to get help. Only after it had cleared did I understand that it wasn’t who I was but the hormones and chemicals that had been out of balance.

When I was pregnant with my second baby, I made plans that would help if the same nothingness took over. I made lists full of exercise expectations, healthy meals, and plans of writing my way through emotional changes. Knowing what was happening to me would give me the upper hand. And it did. But it didn’t stop the darkness from creeping in. Every night as I went to bed I would cry, dreading the coming day. I set alarms and made plans for daily exercise but could only will myself to turn on a cartoon for my toddler and crumble into bed until the baby woke up. I told myself it was the hormones when I would have an anxiety attack after a conversation with friend or when I would hate myself for being a terrible writer, mom, and wife, but the darkness never seemed to loosen its hold.

Oh and the writing; the essays and blog posts that were going to help me clear my brain and work through it all. Nothing came. The words were gone. They were choked out, deprived of oxygen so that even the thought of writing made me curl under heavy blankets and berate myself for ever thinking I could be a writer.

My husband suggested therapy. Friends gave me names of therapists and phone numbers to call. But I diligently piled the excuses high on my night stand. Some were silly and some were deeper fears that I was too afraid to face. Anytime I thought to call one of those numbers, I would reach for my phone but instead grab a reason not to. Money, distance, insurance, time. What if they told me nothing was really wrong? What if I was just a terrible, lazy mom?

In the end I was just scared to admit how lost and hollow I felt. How could I explain that I was overflowing with love for my daughters and yet there was a heaviness that pressed on my heart and nibbled away at my soul. I didn’t want to admit that I felt disconnected to my husband who gave of himself and loved so fully. No one would understand. They would question my love for my family. If you loved your family enough, you could overcome the sadness. You just have to try.

One night I was wandering through photos of the past months: Millie running down the sidewalk, cape flapping in the wind, Lottie swaddled tight, smiling as she dreamed, and Billy tenderly holding both our daughters tight. I realized that I didn’t want to miss out on those moments. I had been present physically but there had been a haze that separated me from being there fully. Maybe that dark haze would dissipate by itself just like it did last time. Maybe this time it wouldn’t even take eleven months. But I didn’t want to miss out on enjoying these little moments that made up the beginning of my children’s lives with us. I wanted to be a part of it, body and heart. I knew that if that is what I wanted then I would need help beyond what I could offer myself.

That is when I took the steps to see a therapist. I was terrified when I first walked through those doors but now I relish the hour I get to spend there. The moment I walk into the office, my senses come alive and I am enveloped in kindness and acceptance.  I have learned so much and feel more capable, hopeful and content.

And I have remembered that I deserve to be happy. My children and husband are wonderful, perfect reasons for me to seek help. But so am I. My serenity and my happiness alone are reason enough to seek support and guidance. I am worth the time and the money and the effort.