writing life creative
I spent time standing in front of the door.
The lock, just beyond me, with marigold
splash, daybreak oozing between the narrow
lip and curve. I could see inside, the bare wood
covered in our years here, shine and scratch,
our comings and goings pressed into each plank.
We could walk away from this place
or stay and fill the bedrooms, listen for laughter,
their young voices along the tree-lined streets.
The eggshell walls temporary, the paintings and furniture
will color and shift. This key, like us, is turning, turning still.
This house, collecting objects and selves, a new beginning.
I originally penned this post in March of 2012. I would like to think that over two years later, these words would have less relevance, less pain, less immediacy. I suppose these words knew better – waited for me to remember, reflect, read them again.
And it seems no matter how much time turns, the fire still shines in all of our eyes. We can close our lids and pretend not to hear the click and pop, but we would be kidding ourselves. The smoke from the barrel, the smell of lifelessness, even from a distance, appears endless or at least the headlines, wail, and tears seem to write, cry themselves restless and closer still.
Originally posted on life and write:
The black and blurry headlines ache as ink bleeds over our eyes and ears. The latest headlines of injustice and tragedy offer little to grieving parents, family, and friends; but the stir from those printed or spoken words gather a memorial and speak for the silenced. These stories of innocent loss of life remind me that we are human. And as adults we were all once children.
When the headlines ache with the echos of gun shots, children lying still on the other end, I think of mothers and fathers that bleed from those dark holes, those empty black notes where a child once sang. Last week I heard gun shots far away in the deserts of Afghanistan; I heard gun shots silence the early morning in France, I heard gun shots in Florida, just south of my own children’s smiles. That pain both near and far sounded like life…
View original 134 more words
On this night I write. It fits between thunder and lightning, between wishful and mourning. The dusty sky has a way of falling into the trees, open branches full of silver and orange. Just before the storm I find words in this muddled space. If I stay still long enough, they will find their way warm in my lap, charming the gray with spit shine and tears.
Last week I spoke with writer Hannah Stephenson about living and working our creative. She crafted our chat into a lovely profile featured in this week’s Columbus Alive.
When you’ve said what you’ve come to say (volumes of poignant memoir, poetry, and writing) and done what you’ve come to do, lift your tongue, your pen, rise… You rest.
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. -Maya Angelou
Just put down on paper everything you can remember… -Anne Lamott
There is truth and fiction, and there are truths in fiction. However, sometimes your memory is less than sharp and so you pull from the soft fuzzy parts in your brain that imagine new truths. This is not permission to lie but encouragement to write about life the way that you remember or imagine. This is sometimes where fiction, the imaginary, the wondrous, looks to truths, tiny speckles of story, experience, happenings, moments, and strings them together like pearl drops, like the blurry beads of memory.
…is revealing to the reader the beauty in something that was so simple you had taken it for granted. -Neil deGrasse Tyson
Neil deGrasse Tyson is an American astrophysicist, host of the Fox Channel’s Cosmos (can also be seen on the National Geographic Channel), and Director of the Hayden Planetarium at the Rose Center for Earth and Space. Find him on Twitter @neiltyson.
Introducing “The Possibility Space”. Many of you know along with my
writing, I am also an educator and have an interest in creative learning and teaching. Inspired by my own museum education practice, parenting, and the collaborative practices of others, “The Possibility Space” is where I will write about topics in creativity, education, parenting, learning, and teaching. Some of this will intersect with topics I write about at “life and write”. Of course I will still post regularly to “life and write” about the writing process and writing craft, but I wanted to invite you to my new body of work at “The Possibility Space”. I invite you to follow this blog if it suits your interests or you are curious. Let me know what you think about the new work. I look forward to connecting with you soon.
Originally posted on The Possibility Space:
My four year old: “Mom, the clouds are squishy. They have holes in them. Are we going to fall through?”
Me: “No, but the sun or the rain might.”
“And that’s what makes the world magical. Every baby’s a seed of wonder – that gets watered or it doesn’t.” ― Dean Koontz
Today my neighbor and I stood under the sky in the late spring mild, inside the echo of early evening rain, to notice the sunset, the patches of gold blue sky, like sepia spilled into the treetops.
There is a piece of quiet
among red light pulse, a pause
between start and stop,
that early or end of day still.
Outside the sky falls
as glitter and fog.
dangle at the edge
of each raindrop.
Rays from the sunrise drew forth the buds and stretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams, opened petals, and sucked out scents in invisible jets and breathings.
Today I passed this gathering of tulips, this surreal field of red in bloom. There were hundreds of petals open under the overcast sky, the sunlight dripping between the waves of gray. I had to stop and marvel at the evidence of spring.
Lately my toddler is talking in shapes. He notices the sides (or non-sides) of things, the angles, and forms that surround him. He names them by color or geometric pattern, and places them in his memory, calls them out when he sees a familiar four-sided, three-sided, eight-sided thing. He sees the shapes I’m sometimes too busy to notice. He’s close to the floor or climbing, or riding in the car just looking and thinking. What else is he supposed do other than notice things, piece together this puzzle in his head with this infinite all around him?
The other day he wondered about these silver squares. “A square and a square and a square,” he said, “one, two, three, four…” I thought about what it’s like to discover something new, to see your reflection in those dozens of silver squares face up on the floor, to find it more interesting than the shiny blue car and the purple block, to notice that the purple and silver have something in common. Watching his wonder, I found myself wondering too.
Do not erase the designs the child makes in the soft wax of his inner life. –Maria Montessori
While writing under the dim light, in early morning, or late at night, I look for poems at the tips of my stinging fingers, worn of typing, working, beating against my warm and slippery cheeks, worrying over something, someone, over words. I search for the shapes of poems in the piles of unopened mail. Listen for letter sounds, low decibel, rhythm sway and shift. I am vulnerable with my tongue, my subjects, the soft bending of the day. I pay attention to the letter crumbs and dust piled in the corner beneath bills, Sunday’s paper, or the dozen books I build as word castle in the corner. I sit with those words full in my sleeve, cool in my pocket. I listen, look, wipe the backs of my fingers along line breaks, push those words along metered plank, watch them rise and fall as tempered waves…
The whites are less clean, even after a hot water soak. I lie them like ghosts along the clothesline, pretend those voices are in my head. The first call, calm, without cry, tumbles from the top of the stairs. The high note lowers pitch as it falls down the old rusty shoot to the cold basement floor. I ignore the second call; grasp the damp clothes, move them from hand to hand, hang them side-by-side. I stand still under the weight of their call; to see me, need me when I disappear. The second and third cries rise in volume but I stay in the shadow, lavender, drape and fold. The laundry room drowns the panic song. I borrow the space between dirty and clean, bid work and plea for five more minutes alone.
“Painting is trying to paint what you cannot paint and writing is writing what you cannot know before you have written: it is preknowing and not knowing, blindly, with words.” -Helene Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing
They spent most of life pressed
inside of joy and sadness, like amber,
melded together smooth and shine
on the outside, inside riddled
with gaps and darkness, hiccups and burps.
No rocks are truly smooth through and through,
and neither is love.
Read a cloud,
decode it, a dense, chilly mass
can shift, flood with light
Journal: Now that the days stretch the light like rubber or web, there is more time to watch the clouds thicken white and gray in the sky, more time to fold your shadow silhouette inside the sun spray under the tree and over a book or journal. Notice the wind, the unsteady twitch of branch with bloom, and the hushed breath of butterfly wing. Write it all down to remember.
Before I could start, he turned 12.5 millimeters of dye-free liquid toward his lips. “This will ease the pain,” I said. I applied pressure, peroxide, ice, and waited. No bubbles or relief. He was brave, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned into me; his fallen tears a circle on my shoulder. I suggested he turn away as I steadied the metal tweezers, tugged at the dark spot under his fingernail. I pulled, watched the sharp tip slip away again and again, the thick splinter, ragged wood chip, embedded and persistent under his swollen skin. He no longer bit his nails so there was just enough growth, flesh, and space for that wood chip jutted and splayed. He cried out at my pull and dig, begged me to stop. “Look away,” I said. He tried to breathe, bear the pain. I tried gentle and swift; shifted the wood toward one side of his thumb. Between his sob and wail, and my dig, the wood finally broke free. I heard the click, then saw the white and pink, listened as he sighed and marveled at the freedom. “Thank you,” he said again and again. His grateful echoed that night and in the morning. Before bed he hugged me tight, held on as the tears dampened a new round patch on my shoulder. We stood there for a moment relieved, emboldened, humbled by the dig.
“I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.” -Khaled Hosseini
Just as swift and nimble the feathering of snow, the discontent with the cold, so too is the felicity of the sun and the return of spring.
This morning at daybreak, the pale gray leaned against the window shades, the moon, a faraway pinprick poked light through a dark scattering, the tree branches crooked and recovering in the turn of day. The ground, soil and green leaves, peeling open with scars from the long winter, the persistent cold stumbling into spring.
This morning I noticed the pleading, the petals in fragile lean, the damp and frozen drops between the needles and conifer. With gilded bloom, that blinding pin wheel tucked inside of horizon and bare branch, there was healing, a bright and faithful birdsong restless in the sun.
…the ground too warm to keep it. And the strange spring snow fell only in that golden moment of dawn, the turning of the page between night and day. -Shannon Hale
This morning it snowed, the flowers bent their stems in the wind and at the weight of the cold and crystal flake. We watched from the window, a disappearing spring.