I’m not going to lie, finding “me” time was already difficult before COVID-19. When the kids were in school, I was “just” juggling their school, bus, after school activities, while … Continue reading Finding Time for Me in the Age of COVID-19
Whoa! This initially was all set to go in December, but… there were some technical issues and frankly, I just ran out of steam. So, the new version with a … Continue reading Second Edition
We live each day Still devoted to our ideology that we are free that we live in the Land of Justice, of Liberty, that we are better, stronger, and informed … Continue reading In the Desert Still?
A hate-filled house – Anger dripping from its beams – Is a decrepit house Rotting at the seams. That selfish wrath we spew All the “I haves, mine, and this is only for me” All … Continue reading A House Built on Hate
These are angry times. These are hate-filled times. They are perilous and rocky, but none of this is new to us or our generation. History is doomed to repeat itself, … Continue reading Choosing Hope
In the quiet of the night That billowy deep silence Where the creaks creaking And the distant horns beeping Are shadows of sounds That deepen The lulling Quiet And in … Continue reading In the Quiet
I had to share this post from one of my favorite bloggers, Behind the White Coat, because it so perfectly mirrored my own thoughts as I watched my daughter plunge ahead of me on the sidewalk yesterday. She doesn’t want to hold my hand any more, but wants to forge her own way through the world, armed with her knowledge to stop at driveways and look for cars, and to always, always stop at the street and wait for me or her daddy to hold hands.
I want to hold her hand forever. I want to feel her little hand, so warm and soft in my own, with the knowledge that if her hand is in mine, I can keep her safe.
But little girls get bigger, and little girls want to learn how to stand on their own two feet, and to see their moms looking back at them with a smile, not a constant look of terror.
Because when she runs ahead, with a carefree bounce in step, I am constantly imagining a car coming from nowhere, jumping the curb and taking her from me. I’m imagine her bobbing hair, her head turning and those innocent happy eyes looking into mine as she’s ripped from my world. I imagine her broken, dying, in my arms, and all the terrible things that could happen in that moment when’s she just out of my reach, and I’m plunged into a dark place. I want to run to her, pick her up, caution her that the world is a scary place, and she must always be careful of all the terrible things that could happen in that moment when she turns her head to beam at her mommy. But then I think, if she’s obeying the rules, if she’s close to me, why should I put my own fear of all the things that COULD happen into her?
I see her joy and it lifts my spirits, but my fear of letting go of that little precious hand and letting her discover the world on her own, with her own two hands, not just one – that terrifies me.
I let go, I smile and laugh and enjoy her exploration of the world around her, point at the things we’re learning at together, but each time I feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting for the moment when she comes back to me. When her hand is in mine, or I’m carrying her, her head resting on my shoulder.
Okay, so I put this out there in my post on being a med student’s wife, but something that I didn’t mention about the hardship of being a med student’s … Continue reading On Showing Up
I have had this poem sitting on the back-burner for a while, as I contemplated how fear stifles creativity and positivity. Through a collaboration with a friend and artist, Pieter Karlik, I now have a couple of visual representations.
I want this poem to speak for itself, so I won’t give it a long introduction, although a part of me would like very much to do just that. Without further ado, here it is, first in chalk:
And in watercolor:
As always, thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day.
Finding my voice has been an odd kind of journey. Taking criticism is hard, but it’s an absolute must for any writer or artist, because it helps you grow and learn what kind of criticism is constructive and will help you grow, and what you can leave at the door for what it is.
I am not a perfect writer. I am not a great poet. But do I like writing? Hell, yes. Am I going to continue writing? Hell, yes, again! And, if one other person enjoys the ride, then I feel like it’s worth it. So I can say I don’t find it funny when I read diatribes directed at bloggers and Facebookers, the ones that pose as witty critiques but are really directed critiques of people struggling to find a way to express themselves through social media.
Communication is difficult. People use words and images in different ways. Will our language skills grow and evolve as we age and truly find not only ourselves, but our voices? Definitely. But haranguing, ridiculing (however subtly) or otherwise making people afraid to speak is not the way to do it. The only thing that promoting silence and staunching self-expression does is staunch creativity and fan the fires of fear and self-reproach.
We can’t become better writers, better artists, hell, better human beings if we do not hone our modes of self-expression.
So, with all this in mind, I wrote another poem this week. I hope you enjoy it!
|This photo is copyrighted by Cole Thompson. Permission to use the photo was granted by the artist – please visit Cole Thompson Photography and Cole Thompson Photography Blog to learn and see more of his creative work.|
Peace and a day with courage and love to you all.