A Last Dance

They were but strangers meeting,
shared a passing glance,
summoned courage to ask for a dance,
their smiles lighted as feet moved,
swinging through familiar tune,
eyes meeting with a longing glance,
only to part with the fading song,
their shared moment gone,
as the last dance ended.



Prompt: Write about a brief encounter.

Someone's Playing the Piano

Small pudgy fingers carefully press one white key at a time, jumping and skipping from one to the next, but being careful never to land on more than one key at a time. Not always so careful, they've learned not to pound or hit all the keys at once, if they wish to keep playing. The rule of the house is to only hit one key at a time, except when the big kids that take lessons are there and their fingers fly across the keys, mixing notes in a beautiful song.

This is Not About...

This is not about you. It's about me. It's about me and where I'm going, where I'm stuck, what I need, and what I want. It's about trying to find what fits into my life and what I want to do. It's about being me without catering to preconceived ideas about who I am and what I'm supposed to be like.

I'm not who you think I am. It's all a lie, except more like I've just outgrown who you see me as and haven't yet had the courage to tell you who I am now. I've changed and grown, and I feel good about who I am and what I believe, yet it feels like a lie to keep my thoughts to myself.

I wonder sometimes if I should be more blunt to come out and say what I believe and feel. Often it's not really anybody else's business - what I believe, what I feel, how I meet God, my thoughts on this or that, who I happen to think is cute, or what I see as meaningless ritual is all a matter of who I am and really have nothing to do with you. Yet I can't help wonder... Would you see me differently if you knew the truth about me? Would you be bothered that I'm no longer the kid you think I am? Or would you still accept me, grown up and changed as I may be?

Things I Saved

Prompt: These are the things I saved.

Bits and projects,

stones and shells,

a stack of tee shirts,

I won't ever wear again,

a million papers,

my best artwork,

middle school essays,

my high school portfolio,

“important stuff”

that means nothing to me

- tax forms and pay stubs

from old jobs

snips of writing,

quotes from random places

- most I've forgotten why I saved,

but still make me smile,

relics of childhood,

and teenage years,

stuff in itself unimportant,

yet glued to precious memories.

Sea Glass

Sea glass,

or river glass, if you will,

bits of broken bottles,

scattered on the gravel,

washed upon the shore,

from unknown origin,

green, pale blue,

white frosted clear,

and once in a while,

rich bright true blue,

if luck will let you find it.

The Dust I Know

When the dust settles,

what will be left?

Will we still remember,

the clash of sticks,

scratching at ground,

the fascinating ability,

to find the fun in anything,

or will we be wired,

inseparably tied,

to electronic beep,

and flashing light?

When the dust settles,

will we still know how,

to play in the dirt,

make mud pies,

make cookies from scratch,

and laugh at a poof of flour?

Or will we forget,

what it means to get dirty,

how to sustain ourselves,

the taste of homemade bread,

and the thrill of waiting,

as it's smell fills the house?

When my kids are grown,

will dust mean the same thing,

or will the only dust they know,

be stirred up by power,

outside of themselves,

a race car's wake,

or the danger filled cloud,

whisked up by the buzz,

of a rotary saw,

big boys toys,

to be carefully guarded?

When the dust settles,

will we still be human?

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: When the dust settles.

Letter to Myself

Dear Self,

One day you will see how important you are. One day you will believe it when someone says “I love you” or “you're beautiful” or “you're worth it.”

I know you mean it when you say those things, but sometimes it's so hard to believe. I want to be the smart, strong, beautiful woman you say I am. I want to be confident in myself. But...

I know it's hard to believe now, but one day you will see. You're already starting to. You know you want to believe it, to understand yourself that way, and that's the first step to getting there. One day you'll realize you don't just want to believe it; you'll know it's true.

You are strong. You're smart. You're beautiful. You're powerful. You might not believe it, but it's true. And, if you look deep enough, you're confident too. You know you are all these things and more. You deny it, but you know it.

I can be... but...

I don't feel worth it. I want to be. I want to be worth it. I want to love myself as much as you say I deserve to be loved. I want to be happy with myself. I want to celebrate who I am, but so often I can't until someone tells me to.

But you are worth it. You know you are. Right now you need someone to tell you you are important, but one day you'll know it and believe it all on your own. One day you will tell yourself that and it will be true. One day you will stop doubting yourself, and then you will be truly free, truly alive, and whole.

I like the sound of “one day.” I want to tell it to come faster, but some how I think that would slow it down.

So smile and enjoy the journey. You're worth it, and I'm here if you need me.

Love,

Me

This post was inspired by the daily prompt "One day, . . . " and a suggestion to write a letter about why writing is important to you/a letter of encouragement to yourself (both from A Writer's Book of Days). I thought it was just an odd reflection on myself and no one else would really relate to it, but after a couple of my writing buddies told me they could relate to it I decided I should post it.

I Can't Remember

I can't remember,

ironically,

I remember,

and I laugh,

cause she remembers,

and yet we write,

I can't remember.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: I can't remember

Praying Through My Pen

Through out Lent I participated in a small group called "Praying Through My Pen." The group was led by Rachel Hackenberg, author of Faith and Water, and focused on using creative writing as a form of prayer. Below are the creative writing and prayer prompts used in that group and links to most of what I wrote in the group.

February 20, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

Scripture: Mark 1:11-13

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for the wilderness.

February 27, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about fireworks.

Scripture: Psalm 148

Prayer prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

March 6, 2010

Warm-up: Write a haiku about someone important to you.

Creative writing prompt: Write about someone who left.

Scripture: Luke 23:34

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for forgiveness.

March 13, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about a longing.

Scripture: Psalm 114

Prayer prompt: You are my sanctuary.

March 20, 2010

Creative writing prompt: This is a map to where I live.

Scripture: Isaiah (I didn't get the chapter or verse written down) and Numbers 11

Prayer prompt: Think about images of God as mother or another non-traditional image of God, and write a prayer to God in that image.

March 27, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about memories underfoot.

Scripture: Jeremiah 32: 38-41

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for discernment or call to action.

The creative writing prompts used were borrowed from A Writer's Book of Days. The prayer prompts were created to be used in this group.

Memories Underfoot.

My feet remember walking.

Walking bare-foot through a labyrinth in the cold.

It was a chilly morning.

We'd gotten lost on the way there,

missed a road and had to turn around

after calling someone for directions,

but that was exactly the kind of adventure we needed.

We had a place to go,

and a deadline for getting back,

but the point was more about the wandering,

than the destination.

There was irony

in getting lost going to a labrynth,

a maze we could follow

to lose our own path and follow God's.

Eventually we arrived.

Despite shivering a little in the cold

I couldn't resist

taking off my shoes.

Something about bare feet

touching the ground

calls me to be present

in a way I can't be fully present

without feeling the ground beneath me.

The grass was cold and damp that day,

softly cushioning my feet,

a striking contrast from the crunch

of hot black sharp stones underfoot

at the last labyrinth I walked.

It was strange

not to hear the footsteps

of the person walking with me

and yet,

I could sense where she was

in the winding path around me.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about memories underfoot.

This is a map to where I live.

This is a map to where I live.

didn't I write that for school last semester?

or something like that...

I think I live in confusion.

If there was a map of my head,

it would make life easier.

I live on the edge of school,

where one step to the left

means my life depends on getting good grades,

but half a step to the right

means I could just not care,

because none of it is really, about real life anyway.

At the crossroad of work,

where I love my job,

and I love my kids,

and I have fun with my coworkers,

but I hate the values,

and can't believe the lack of parenting

some of my kids get,

and I want so bad to do what I feel is right,

but have to fit the system,

and hate it when I can't

even speak my mind to coworkers

because to really speak out

could cost me my job

or at best cost me,

any respect I've earned there.

I can't afford to lose that respect,

not when I need it to continue

to advance my career,

but sometimes I wonder,

if even that is worth it.

I live across the street from the ideal social life,

from some sort of popular in crowd,

that invites me into their circle,

and welcomes me as I am.

I live on the edge of town,

within earshot of the church bells ringing

with calls to tradition and conformity,

and within sight of the woods

calling new songs,

and even older songs,

a different winding path to faith.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: This is a map to where I live.

Fireworks

I cannot think of fireworks without remembering long afternoons with family waiting for the fireworks at Long's Park. Going to the fireworks is always a family affair. When we go it looks like we're packing for a week. We pack a cooler or two full of drinks, and dips, and cheese spread and chicken kabobs, bags of chips and crackers, stacks of blankets, dice games, trains, and perhaps a board game, always a deck of cards and of course books. We bring a huge canopy and stake out our claim on the hill with a tarp and blankets, but the best thing is the twenty foot bamboo pole. Every year we strap a bamboo pole to the roof of our car and then carry it into the park to mark our spot with a kite or a flag or a windsock. Then we chuckle to ourselves as we hear people saying on their cell phones "yeah, I'm by the big pole, where are you?" Course then there was the year we sat beside the sofa....

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about fireworks.

Close Your Eyes

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

It's hard to write with your eyes closed.

When I close my eyes I see faces. I see my kids begging me to play, and the little girl I held in Africa. I see friends, I see the guy I like, and I see the person I pretend to be, when nobody is looking.

When I close my eyes I see some place warm and comforting. I see the comforting pale brown of warm milky tea. I see the bustle of busy people, oblivious to me, moving about their day. I see a market place, with people working, the smell of exotic foods and familiar comforts, at lunch hour.

I see a confusing crowd with everybody knowing where their they're going, except for me. I see business and colors. I see red. I see energy. I see noisy.

I hear a million voices at once. I'm torn in a billion directions, and find myself grasping desperately for a single idea to chase down or simply a moment of peace. I see nothing in particular and every thing at once, and find myself wanting the blissful peace of nothing on my mind.

It's like at night when I try to sleep but my mind won't let me. As soon as I close my eyes my mind is racing, showing off its speed, dancing from thought to thought as if I could forget how quick it is, as if I really want to race the million threads of color darting through my head.

Ladybug

Forgotten signs,

of past lives,

scratched into walls,

and swept into corners,

reminder these walls,

hold unknown stories,

someone who played,

with a spotted red bug,

in the ladybug house,

before it was mine.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're moving into a new house; write about the people or person who lived there before you.

Sepia

A black and white photo,

shades of sepia, really,

capturing memories,

of nervous giggles,

childishly sophisticated,

declaring myself grown-up,

sharing intimate giggles,

loosened up by drinks,

blurred shades creating,

false closeness among strangers,

and yet it feels just right.

Does it count if it's late?

It's been almost exactly a month since I started working on my writing goal for the year. So far I've been pretty successful. I missed one prompt completely (January 9: Write about a ceremony.), but I had other writing I was working on that day.

Some of my writing has really sucked, but it's been SOMETHING on paper (or computer as the case maybe). I'm also pleased to say I'm really proud of some of the things I've written.

Though initially my goal included posting what I wrote I quickly realized I limited my writing when I wrote with the intention of sharing, so having nixed that part of the goal I'm finding I'm writing a surprising amount of stuff I can't even share with my writing buddies.

Earlier this week I was disappointed when there was a day I didn't find inspiration for the prompt, or any other writing, and couldn't "catch up" for the prompt I missed in the next few days either, but a conversation this afternoon inspired an answer to that prompt.


My belated response to that prompt:

Outside my window,
lightning flashes,
streaking blazes,
as thunder rolls,
gray clouds grumbling,
across purple sky,
to the pounding pulse,
of torrential rain.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Look out your window; write what you see. (Jan. 20)

Dancing Shoes

Imagine stepping,
onto sleek wood floor,
in suede soled shoes,
made for dancing.
The swoosh of fabric,
as you twirl in your skirt,
paired with the shoes,
ordered by mail,
to make you feel pretty,
sophisticated and sexy,
as you twirl the night away.
Dance your best,
cheeks flushing,
as you move to each touch,
intimately connected,
despite just meeting.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about something you bought mail order.

Acceptable Losses

What loss is ok?

Perhaps you'll say,
the loss of time,
as you laugh for hours,
living in the moment,
with that kid who adores you,
or your best friend,
who you never see enough.

Maybe you'll say,
the loss of a guy,
who is a loser,
just playing you,
trying to get laid.

Maybe the best loss,
is the lost sleep,
when a friend says,
“I need you,”
and you sit up for hours,
holding them,
until they're ok,
or as ok as they'll be,
and the next day you smile,
unfazed by the tired,
because friends are worth,
more than sleep.

Maybe the only,
acceptable loss,
is losing the shield,
the thing that divides,
whatever separates you,
from God,
and from people,
the ones you could love,
if only you lost that wall.

Perhaps an acceptable loss,
isn't really a loss,
but a gain,
hidden in,
the taking away,
of that security blanket,
that keeps out the world.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about acceptable losses.

The Moon's Smile

Look,
it's the moon,
like the shadow of,
a Cheshire Cat,
she comes to watch,
on perfect days,
a warm day in winter,
or cool summer day,
with clear blue sky,
and soft sun shine,
she comes and smiles,
she's happy to see us,
happy to be,
part of a beautiful day,
and I wonder,
why she hides,
when the day could use a smile.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about a day moon.


P.S. I didn't miss yesterday's prompt; I just haven't decided whether I'm posting any of it. The prompt was: "A year after your death,..." (after Czeslaw Milosz)

Wonderful Weekend Craziness

This weekend was fabulous. I spent the whole weekend at a Leadership Now Justice Summit and reunion with some of my favorite people. It was awesome - great conversations, great workshops, great people, and just the right mix of meaningful and funny moments. It kept me busy and gave me a lot to think about, but I'm happy to say I some how managed to keep up with my writing in between everything else.

I won't subject anybody to my in-cohesive rambling in response to Friday's prompt (Write about Sunday afternoon). I've also decided my writing from Saturday (Write about a time someone said no) is too personal to share. Today's writing is also really random, rambling and in-cohesive, but I'm going to share it anyway since it's vaguely related to this weekend..


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're standing in a doorway.

I'm standing in the doorway. Waiting for something. A push to move forward. An invitation in. it's like I'm on the edge of living. Not confident enough to step into the room, but wanting to enjoy the party. Like there's an invisible wall, a bubble keeping me out. I can look through the doorway, but I don't know how to step through, or maybe I'm not sure which way I'm goin, which side of the door I want to be on, I could step to one side or the other, but I don't know which to go to, or maybe I'm at the end of the hall where I'm surround by doors and I don't know which to take. I could stand up boldly for justice and sacrifice everything, if I could be brave enough. Or I could wonder along on the edge of things, subtlely hinting I believe there could be better for the world but never loud enough or brave enough to scream it from the roof tops. I could say the world is more important than me, or I could put myself, my education, my learning first for now, and hope someday I can pay it forward and more. I could step through the door and declare my faith, announce what I believe and try to impact the world, but maybe I like it in the hall, listening in to six conversations, pulling what I need from each. Maybe my place is in the hall, reaching a hand into each room, connecting people who would never step out of their four sided box rooms. Maybe if I stand in the hall and talk to the children as they're funneled towards their parents closed off rooms they'll see what I see from the hall and maybe some day the walls will fall. Maybe the doorway is the place to be.