Webbed feet busy working against the current...I can see them as I look down into the water...two mottled ducks performing a water ballet.
Seaside currents of fresh air
splash on my face
like the water does the earth.
I look out
and am lifted by the very depths of the sea.
I am flying, soaring
though sitting still...
naturally stoned
on a sandy beach.
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We call them gully washers. Torrents of rain with thunder and lightning in a short span of time on a summer day. They're violent, they're dangerous, they're exciting.
They were an integral part of my Florida childhood. The day would always begin with sun and an abundance of cumulus clouds. It was oh so hot and oh so humid. You looked up and you just knew that by afternoon a storm would come. Sure enough, as the day went on the clouds would grow taller and darker and heavier, laden with moisture...the earth's sweat having risen up to them. More and more, hotter and hotter until at last the distant rumblings began. The storm announced its coming: I am strong. Better take cover. I am bigger than you. I am coming, I am coming. Better take cover. In the distance out over the glades you could see the rain...a solid sheet coming out of a cloud. Look to the glades, always from that direction. Still sunny here, but better take cover. The wind picks up, the air becomes electrified, the sky becomes a darkened blanket. You know it's close now. Better take cover. Take cover now! Crank the the windows closed. Spatters of rain striking your face...needles. Tension now crested. I am coming...one last warning. Then...in an instant...relief. I am here. The storm arrives full of power, taking ours. Blowing rain...flashes...cracks of thunder. Over and over until finally gone.
In those times, you could almost set your clock by these storms. They came every day around 4 p.m. and were gone by evening. Now days, it's still hot and you believe it's got to happen just like it used to, but so frequently, it doesn't. Nature's cycle has been disrupted by man's insistence of imposing himself. What once was part of the Florida landscape is now more of an occasional guest.
More Weekend Wordsmith writings here
To have a grudge is to resent...hold against...envy...loathe. To this I say:
Let it out
get it out forever -
it has no place in your sacred soul.
More Weekend Wordsmith writings can be found here.
I think more sad
than the dead faces I see
are the tired ones
still trying - still dying.
The other evening I noticed an elderly woman sitting alone, apparently deep in thought. These words came to me:
I see old people
(I'm becoming one of them)
lost in reflection
of what was and what could have been...
a moment's pause
then on to living.
It's always good to start at the beginning...
Start at the beginning. Yes, but what is the beginning? Where does the beginning begin? I suppose it's wherever the heck you want it to...for all stories real and not.
I'm always fascinated by an author's choice for a beginning. How did he/she come to decide where to start the story? When I read fiction, I become intrigued by this dilemma.
It seems to me that finding
a beginning place with just the right words to hook in the reader has got to be a more difficult task than finding an ending. The ending, by definition is the end. It's got the story leading to it. There might be several possible outcomes, but I suspect only a few that are plausible to choose from. The beginning, on the other hand, can be anything and anywhere.
So what was the tipping point to create the specific picture in the author's mind? Why here and not there? It gets to the very heart of writing.
The other day I made reference to "The Wizard Of Oz" theme that we, not someone else, are the wizards of our lives. We often lose sight of this...if we ever realize it at all. If we're lucky, a parent, a teacher, or a friend can help re-mind us. There are times, though, when we just have to get to it on our own.
Sometimes, we get to it through pain.
Years ago, I was in a relationship turned bad. As it deteriorated, I did too. I slipped into someone who felt invisible, dependent, and worthless. It wasn't until I sank to the bottom of my emotional pit...emptying completely out...that I found my way back. When you get to that point, there isn't much to get in the way.
I can't recall my eureka moment, but I evidently had one because the poem below was written to mark it. The power within me had been awakened and I wanted to declare it:
sometimes I feel you think of me
as three day old bread
or a bottle of soda left open;
but I'm not -
I'm alive and I'm kicking
and soft to the touch still.
I know I am,
and that's what feels the best.
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