WoW 2/9

The Write on Wednesday Spark:  Possessing Beauty
Write about a collection. Write about something you or ,someone you know, collects. Think about the "why" behind the collection - why is it important to collect this particular thing? How does it make the person feel to add another piece to their collection? Is the group of objects there to be seen, to be studied or simply kept together? Write a real life story or a piece of fiction. Wherever the prompt takes you...Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links. Oh, and enjoy!

She collects hurts like children collect pretty stones.  As she walks along she picks each one up, carefully shining it on her shirt to give it the best luster and shine.  She takes them home in her breast pocket, cuddled close to her heart, and places them on the shelf so that the cracks and fissures a best displayed in the murky light. And I know they must be heavy, these rows and rows of offenses, real or percieved.  I know that they must be tearing down her walls.  Yet, she cannot seem to pass one by.

The Courage to Turn it Off

I once heard a quote, and I can't find it no w to credit it but I'm sure that whomever said it was brilliant, that went something like; "I used to have zero children and a lot of theories.  Now I find that I have four children and zero theories."I love that. Similarly, my husband and I often talk about the times when we were perfect parents. You know, before we had kids.  I had a lot of theories back then. They were great theories, too, firmly rooted in the best information that child development experts, parenting books and articles, and the perfectly coiffed and adorned moms in the checkout lines had to offer.  What they were not, though, is based in reality.  One of these theories is that I would NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES allow television to babysit my children.  I really truly believed that this was the best decision for the children I would someday have.  Fast forward several years to what we refer to as the catastrophic twos of my oldest son.  My oldest, whom we'll refer to as Diesel is my whole heart.  He is a source of endless joy and quirkiness.  He too, though, is a hard kid, and until we were able to put our finger on the issues that were leaving him in a constant state of frustrated rage I would spend more days than I care to admit doing the kind of crying that makes your face blotchy and snotty and makes your contacts fall out.  But, man, the kid loved TV.  I found that if I would turn on the noisy light box I could, in effect, just turn the volume down for an hour and a half at a time.  At first, that's just what it was; a way every now and then to give him, and me, a break.  But, like any drug and let's not kid ourselves, television is a drug, we found ourselves slipping.  Then we moved,and while we were packing and unpacking it was just easier to leave the TV on more.  Then I had a rough last trimester and couldn't move around much and so we left it on more.  Then I had a newborn, and then and then and then until I looked around and realized that, even when the boys were asleep, our TV was rarely off.  Ever.  I think I knew, even then, that things were going to have to change, but I just turned up the volume and moved on.  You see, turning the TV off was scary.   If I did that, I was going to have to actually parent.  I was going to have to address some issues, with my children, with my marriage, that I just didn't want to deal with.  Plus, I was just so motherlovin' TIRED, y'all.  But, God wasn't about to quit; He had a plan for our family.  It started with a feeling of shame.  I was afraid to have friends over; you see, we would have to turn the TV off and Diesel would get overstimulated.  Or we would have to leave it on and people might know how much that thing rant in our house.  Then I started noticing that most of Diesel's communication is lines from TV shows.  And it's great, you know, because he IS communicating, but I want to hear his thoughts, not Daffy Duck's, which brings us to the next point.  Even in kids' shows, those cats are MOUTHY.  It's hardly fair to punish him for parroting what is modeled as okay, but at the same time, man that stuff is ugly coming out of my little dude's mouth.  Still, though, it wasn't enough.  We were addicts, remember, and addicts are notoriously thick when it comes to hearing why they should give up their drug of choice.  So, God decided to be a little more clear.  I remember when it happened. The boys were in the playroom watching something, and I was rocking the baby and engaging in what was supposed to have been a half hour of mommy time (two hours ago).  I was watching the pretty vapid girls argue on America's Next Top Model and I heard God as clearly as if He'd been on the screen.  "So, this is what you think glorifies Me. This is what you choose to spend your time on?"  Yes, God, used a preposition at the end of his sentence, which is just further proof to me that American English is spawned by the devil, but I digress.  And that was it.  I turned off mine.  I turned off theirs.  It was just as scary as I thought it would be.  I hadn't taught my kids to play without me, so at first it was superhard

The Write on Wednesday Spark: Agent Chin- Wag
Pay attention to the conversations around you: at the dinner table, in the supermarket, while DVD Returning, wherever. You are looking for one line, one tiny sentence of dialogue. You may find your words lurking in a D&M or perhaps you will choose a phrase from everyday chatter. Write down your line. Use it to inspire your Write on Wednesday post. Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links. Oh and enjoy.

REMEMBER: Creative writing is still on the WoW cards in 2012 but consider exploring other writing styles as well. Write fact or fiction. Link up a real life piece, a blog post, a Haiku, a letter, a poem, even a photography narrative. Tell us a STORY, by whatever means you fancy. Wherever the prompt takes you...

The linky will be open each week from Monday to Friday. If you are playing the game, try to visit the other linkers, at least three of four would be nice. Encourage, critique and support your fellow writers.

OVERHEARD:  So then you get hooked up to tubes and you can't really feel your legs and it doesn't hurt.  Otherwise you just push the baby out.

This caught my attention first because I'm a midwife and that was an interesting description of the difference between a natural birth and one with interventions.  Also, because it was the first time I'd heard the birthing process referred to as "just push it out," which struck me as hugely oversimplified.  Finally because of the body language; the two women were the same age, same size, but the pregnant woman's (who already had a child) body language and tonr of voice were all different: more confident, older, wiser, more relaxed, more aware of her body.  So, this little poem is what came to mind.

After all the waiting.
After all the pain.
After all the work.
After all.
I watched her stomach heave as she rode another wave,
beautifully (though she'd never believe me).
I watched the baby push through
bruised and tender flesh.
Not the first pain of motherhood, but the worst
yet encountered.
And I saw in that moment
in the sweat slicked brow
in the strength she didn't know she had
in the core of iron
in the boundless love
in the spurt of blood
in the two wails that join as one
the birth.
Not of a child, but a woman.

Weaving Together the Threads

I am a wearer of hats.  They are myriad, these hats, enough to send the fabled hatter into a frenzy.  Mother. Wife. Daughter. Midwife. Writer. Friend. Leader. Teacher. The list goes on and on.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  Long ago, though, in a coping mechanism, I taught myself to compartmentalize.  I have more compartments, and they are more watertight, than the Titanic.  When I would transition from one role to another I could almost hear the sccccrraatcch THUNNNNKKK of the door slamming shut and the pressure valve spinning.  But, lately I realized something.  Much like the Titanic, I was going under.  I was sinking.  The hats I mentioned?  Suddenly they didn't seem to fit correctly.  You see, life is not so well defined as the roles I was trying to play.  Life colors outside of the lines.  So I had former clients who wanted to be friends and I couldn't...quite...do it.  I didn't know how to engage in that kind of exchange.  I began to be very uncomfortable with touch.  After all, I massage and hug others as part of caregiving.  To receive a hug is to receive care and as a perpetual careGIVER I could no longer receive a hug.  Also, I was always working at the eleventh hour because I couldn't bring myself to start one project until I'd completed the last.  As big as my head is, I couldn't seem to fit more than one hat at a time.  My websites reflected this; one for my writing, one for my business, one for my hobby and never the mane shall tweet as the joke goes.  Sometimes there were things I wanted to say, but I couldn't; I didn't have a forum for random thoughts after all.  I've been thinking and praying quite a lot lately and one of the things that has been revealed to me is that it is time to start weaving the strands of my life together (have we hit maximum metaphor density yet?).  It's time to take those roles and turn them into a wife.  This website is part of that; a little bit of everything, like me.  I used to make macrame necklaces, now I'm trying with my life; take the strands, wrap them around each other and make something beautiful.

WoW 12/5

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 27 -  Mel suggested that we look at the "12 Days of Christmas" poem/song and select one of the days/lines for our writing inspiration. So, whether a Partridge in a Pear Tree or Five Golden Rings, write your line at the top of your page, set your timer for 5 minutes and write the first words that come into your head.
12 drummers drumming – kind of
This story is part of my magnum opus, a work that has beenin progress for nearly a decade.  It is  a children’s fantasy novel, and you can read the first chapter here.  Finally, finallyI have written to the point where I introduce the last of the three characterswho inspired it all and I’m writing with a fervor that I haven’t had in a longtime. I have to admit, any prompt would have probably led me somewhere in thestory.  P.S. “Fezzant” isn’t misspelled;it’s a different creature than our ph kind.
The festival reached them long before they arrived.  The sound of the drums was first, “THUD badaThud bada THUD” it enveloped them like a huge benevolent heartbeat, a sound that they could feel as well as hear. Next, was smell, an amazing aroma that made the trios' mouths water.  Roasting fezzant, honey soaked sun pears, and fish pies beckoned.  “Come,celebrate the harvest, rest your weary bones, give thanks to the King” they whispered.  Our travelers were more than happy to comply, and Albert found himself having to twine his fingers in JubJub's coarse hair as the bear’s giant wings bear faster, faster.  Even Malarkey, though still visibly scared, had a smile on his face.

Poetry

Blog

Poetry

I dont' write poetry much anymore.  I find that odd, because that's all that I used to write and most of what I used to read.  Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Louis MacNeice just to begin.  Lately, while I've not felt motivated to write poetry at all, I've been reading it again and revisitng some of what I wrote a couple of years back.  I thought that I'd post a few here.  I'd love some input. 
Prolonged Winter
Shuffling through a melancholy fog,
milk and eggs on my arm and a blister on my heel,
the slush sucked at my shoes.
A flash of fuchsia pushed through the grey,
an unexpected birth from a crackin the sidewalk,
premature child of spring.
I nearly tripped trying not to crush it;
squatted, examined, and plucked it.
Not knowing what it was, I calledit “Pinkus Two-leafus,”
and clutched it to my breast.
Back at home, I put it in my favorite coffee mug;
the one with the witty saying and pencil sketch that makes me smile
even in the morning.
Displayed in the window, the flower shone a bit,
as she danced and flirted in thedraft.
Humming idly, I packed away mysweaters,
put on a pink sundress, opened all the windows.
The air felt crisp and green.
Sleeping that night was easy at last,
wrapped up in blankets, cocooned in the knowledge
that spring would come again.
Waking, I stretched languorously,
and padded to the room where thetiny pink whisper
sagged, frozen by the wind.
Bitter diamonds crushed the frail blossom.
The two proud leaved were shriveled and wrinkled;
crone’s hands offering an apple.
The wind cackled and moaned through the blinds.
I eyed the sky warily on my way to the garage,
and unpacked three thick sweaters.


Loss
My son, Roland, was a wonderful blessing to our family.  He lived for 30 hours.  I wrote this shortly after we went home from the hospital.
Lying awake, counting ceiling tiles.
There are thirteen rows of twenty-two each,
Which makes two hundred eighty something, I think.
Tethered to the bed, breathing pre-digested air
My life is measured, not in coffee spoons, but it
Infomercials and the rhythmic ache
In my arm, clamped upon ruthlessly again and again.

Nurses flit busily, a hive of bees in
Sensible shoes, I wilting flower.
They hum their mantra, “get some rest, get some rest.”
Pollen sacks filled with oblivion in
Handy tablet form: Percocet, vicodon.
Their smocks are garish, desperately cheerful
In the stark fluorescent light of this demented garden.

“We must control your pain,” they say
When I deny relief once again.  Jaw locked,
Fists clenched, my breasts weep the tears that I cannot.
Leave me in solitude with my pain, the throbbing
And the aches.
 Give me that gift;
The pain and the scar are all that I have to hold,
Mocking substitutes for the weight,
Thebreath, the sweet powdered smell of my beautiful little boy

There is a third, but I think we will leave it here for now.  I'd welcome any critiques/criticisms/comments/compliments

I didn't kill him...

he was dead when I got there."  Stephen King said that once, in response to a reader who was dismayed at the death of a favorite character.  For the longest time, I thought that was a cop out.  After all, who is in control of the story if not the writer?  Then, just last week, I did it.  I killed a carousel horse.  It was a bad death, too; ambushed in the middle of the night by giant arachnids, wrapped in silk, guts sucked out.  Granted, I didn't go into that much detail - this is a children's novel after all - but, well, it was implied.  The strange thing was, though I knew from the beginning that one of my characters ran a carousel horse ranch, and have known for quite a while that he would gift my weary travelers with one of said creatures, I really didn't think that it would die.  But, as I got closer and closer to this scene I discovered it was really the only answer.  I put off writing this scene for a long time, even worked on other pursuits to not have to do this, but finally I couldn't put it off any longer.  My travelers had a place to go and as I procrastinated I couldn't help but picture them stuck in place, bored, checking their watches every now and then to see when I might come back.  So, I girded my loins as it were, sharpened my pencil, and killed the poor beast who never hurt anybody.  I'm not going to lie, I cried.  I also understood what King meant when he said what he did.  You know what the worst thing was?  As the character that was one of three that started this adventure in my head FINALLY appeared, flamingo pink wings and deafining roar bursting from one of the spider's capsules, it was absolutely worth it.