"When you're present, the world is truly alive."

"When you're present, the world is truly alive."

How much time I spend lingering in the past, and either agonizing or daydreaming about the future. To be truly present in each moment, to grasp the very moment for itself, in its entirety, without regard for what has happened already or the speculation - either positive or negative - of what may happen. This is rare. Animals innately have this gift, as they do not utilize logic in the same manner as humans. They are smart, and remember, and may even seem clever or cunning, but the chain of consequence is not developed in a logical progression. Humans contemplate their circumstances, and plan their actions accordingly (depending on the human, of course.) Animal simply exist.

As a chronic worrier, I struggle to let go of the "what if's" that haunt me. The meditation practices that bring focus to the "here and now" are so challenging for my scattered mind collecting all the data and playing out all the treads of possibility.

I remember a college writing assignment to write about your present moment, and I wrote about having stale Top Ramen for all three meals that day, as that was all I had left to eat. It wasn't poetic or beautiful, and even a bit whiny, but that was my current experience. While unpacking the boxes at the new apartment, I've been uncovering old writing, published poems, and even one that I won a $50 Honorable Mention (a much greater-seeming fortune when four measly quarters bought clean, if not DRY, laundry!)

I wrote a collection of poems about a diorama, and suddenly after nearly 20 years, the words still invoked the memories of tawny fur and frozen expressions of the animals in the display cases. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but thousands of words may still be needed regardless.

A single moment colored with my thoughts, emotions, feelings, expressions. Digging into the detailed richness of my human experience flowing through my pen.

A Poem of Textures

A Poem of Textures

I slip between the rich chocolate brown 700-thread count microfiber sheets,
the smoothly silky fabric slipping along the contours of my body.
A dusty blue soft-as-new-grass blanket coddles me,
and there is a metallic sheen to the coverlet,
swirling, intricate patterns reflecting the light
in glints of sea foam and coppery bronze.

The Only Way To Write Is To Write

The only way to write is to write.

Stephen King purportedly was once asked what the secret was to his success. He answered back rather cryptically, "B.I.C." The inquisitive audience pressed for more detail. "Butt.In.Chair."

The only way to write, and to write well, is to practice. Practice writing. Write a lot. Write anything. Write everything! Write outside your preferred style, genre, or location. Write often, and give yourself permission to write utter garbage just to clear out your mind for the good stuff. I took on this writing challenge, setting myself a goal to write for every day. I am not putting a word count, a story limit, or any other restriction on myself, other than to simply sit and ACTUALLY write. Write about my life, write about my characters, write a poem about salad, if it inspires. But to actually write.

The other goal is to read, and with a critical eye. What works? What draws me as a reader into the story? Do I read the chapter headings? What hooks me in to keep turning the pages, and not turn on a mindless DVD instead? How is the author using the voice of the characters to show and not simply tell the story? What turn of phrase gets me? What parts do I have to re-read in order to understand and why? Is it because I want to glean more meaning, or simply because the author was unclear? How could it be changed to add clarity? What descriptions leave me with a high-def picture in my head so tangible that I can taste the meal, see the glow on the burnished wood, and smell the fuel used on the torches casting such a flickering light?

I admit, reading the work of the amazing writers, of which I hold George R.R. Martin in highest esteem, this is difficult for me because I fall so deeply into the writing that my critical brain shuts off, and I lose myself in the story entirely. But it's precisely that complete absorption, that compelling need to finish just ONE more chapter, that whole being experience that I want my own readers to experience. So in studying a master who invokes such a reaction in ME is definitely worth dissecting and emulating.

I have said repeatedly that I've forgotten more about my book than I've ever gotten down onto paper. (Or into computer, as modern life takes over....) These characters have lived inside the boundaries of my imagination for pushing two decades. When I am truly tuned into my writing, they live, and I am a mere observer to their story.

A long time back, I set a rule for myself that I wouldn't write "boring." If I wasn't interested in writing it, then readers wouldn't be interested in reading it. Unfortunately, this left chronological storylines in shambles, but a lot of great ideas and some rather decent writing came out of this approach. Re-reading some of that work, I am in awe that it came from my pen, my brain, my character's lives. (Though sometimes equally I grimace at the amount of re-writing and editing that needs to be done. For example, it is far different writing a love scene as a 15-year old virgin than a married 36 year old woman....)

But why I am driven to even write at all remains somewhat of a mystery. I am not documenting important matters, crimes against the human race, the future of women's liberation, or the positions of proponents of animal rights.

For me, reading has always been a release. A place for my overactive mind to find a respite, a realm where all the daily struggles, heartaches and pains somehow fade, if temporarily, and for me to live vicariously through the lives of other people in other places who don't fret over the grocery budget, the property taxes going up, or the odd noise coming from the fan in the refrigerator. And isn't that precisely the power of storytelling? To take a reader from the mundane to the extraordinary through the lines of your pen, or the strokes of your keyboard.

However, there is only one way to accomplish all these high and lofty aspirations.

As Stephen King so eloquently and simply stated, "Butt.In.Chair."

HAPPY WRITING!

To the unkind boy in the white car

To the unkind boy in the white car

Who are you to call out hurtful words,
slung carelessly out the window,
fueled by your peers riding alongside,
the cowardice of your insult
hurled as a verbal slingshot
as you drive by, bashing me.

I walked on, head high to brush off the hurt,
my footsteps concentrated to cover the hammer of my heart.
"I've been called worse," I quip,
trying to dismiss the words away,
though naggingly, they trail behind.

What sad state of world we have come to,
the infantile jab, a verbal assault by a boy,
less than half my age,
no friendly small-town America here,
no respect, nor even common decency.

Idiot boy, don't you know there are no camels here?

Diving Into Detail - Spring

Yellow pollen spills
into a goblet of petals
stretching, velvety-soft
to brightening April sun.

Wet, stamens poke out,
turgid and beckoning,
thrusting up,
eager to be touched.

Shyly, the bees circle,
tulips nodding in anticipation,
insects dancing their way,
legs heavy with other flowers' pollen.

Losing Myself

(A love poem to my husband)

Losing Myself

You, with your soft, kind eyes,
your gentle hands,
your patient ways -
have done what I would not believe.

Stone by stone
you disassembled my wall
crumbling the mortar of fear -
of the past, of the future,
into your careful fingers.

With your open arms
you carried away the bricks,
the piles I barricaded myself behind,
the defense to keep others at a distance.

As I lay, broken, hapless, helpless
you believed that another me hid beneath
a pupae waiting to emerge,
a butterfly with as-yet sodden wings.

That unshakable faith of purpose,
a hand to lift me again,
the hesitance as wings unfurl
and together now we soar.
In losing myself
I found ever so much more.

Tonight I found... myself

Tonight I found
a box of memories
newspaper clippings
photos of half a lifetime ago.

I reflect on them
the girl burgeoning into a woman
who stepped off the threshhold of home
and into the abyss of unknown lands.

Who was I then?
This eager, timid thing
bursting with energy, sexual, vibrant, alive
waiting to tear into the freedom of choice.

Who am I now?
18 years and several wrinkles show
the experience of living
grooved into my bones and sinews.

Who will I become?
18 years more
And older, more vibrant and assured
version of the me who now holds a pen, wondering?

Time, inexorable.
Life, inescapable.
Experience, attainable.
Joy, achievable.