Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

Yesterday, I drove over to my dad's place in Indiana and spent the afternoon with him as well as four of my five siblings and their spouses. Not long after I arrived, one of my brothers pointed to a family photo and asked me how old I was at the time it was taken. That photo is my all-time favorite of me. It shows my mom leaning against a tree with us six kids lined up beside her. I am at the end of the line, with about two feet separating me from the rest of my siblings. I'm standing kind of silly, and my face shows nothing but happiness. To me, that image says volumes about me and how I've always felt a little outside my family. Anyways, back to the question of my age there. I told my brother I thought I was four in that photo. He just nodded. Long story short: there had been a discussion about our little brother and how old he was in that same photo. The brother who had asked me my age insisted our little brother was only one year old in the photo. Everyone else was sa

I know it's lofty saying today has been the perfect Christmas, but truly, I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful, fun-filled day. Though a frigid wind blew, the sun was bright and the snow glittered. I sat for a while, before anyone else was up and ready to open gifts, watching the birds at the feeder while a fire burned in the fireplace. Right after we opened presents, Lovely Beautiful Daughter and I made our way to the kitchen to get the meal going. I made bread stuffing for the turkey, the bread stuffing I grew up eating every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Mom's bread stuffing. I snagged a bite as I made it, just like I used to when Mom made it. That stuffing is Christmas through and through. The turkey roasted in the oven for just over four hours, and during that four hour period, I made a couple of mincemeat turnovers to take to Dad tomorrow. He's the only one who liked the mincemeat pies that Mom made, so I thought I'd make a couple of turnovers just for h

I went to bed last night with the hope snow would fall for Christmas. This morning, around 5:30, I woke up. Through the lace curtains over my desk, I could see how bright it seemed outside, and I knew snow had fallen. I got up with Ado, went to the living room, and we both stood at the windows, peering out. Snow covered the back deck and lawn. Now, it is 8:30 am, and the snow is still falling. The pine outside my window is snow-laden. Every now and then, a slight gust of wind will push the snow and an angle instead of it floating gently down. The feeders have seen lots of action this morning. A few days ago, I counted 8 male cardinals at the feeders. This morning, I've only seen four. They definitely stand out in the white and gray world of my backyard. I could sit in my oversized chair by the window and watch all day. So beautiful. Mr. and Mrs. enjoying breakfast together Watching over the feeders Buddha turtle serene in a cloak of snow Wishing everyone a beau

The semester has officially come to a close, so technically my sabbatical has as well. The time away from prepping for classes, grading paper after paper, committee work, and everything else work-related was incredible. Not having to follow that routine came at a time in my life when I truly needed space to just see what happened. What happened was lots writing, lots of reading, lots of long walks with Ado, and sometimes just sitting to watch life swirl around me. One step I took recently was to deactivate my FB page. While I find myself missing seeing what a few people are doing, I don't miss the whole of FB at all. At this point, I've whittled my social media down to the blog and the site I post my writing to for critique. Even with both of these places, though, my involvement is minimal (as you can see from the date of my last post here). I'd much rather put my time into writing the pieces that will be a part, hopefully, of my chapbook.  This week, I've writt

Over the weekend I went shopping with Lovely Beautiful Daughter. I really hadn't intended to buy anything, but since we ended up at one of my favorite stores, I thought why not look for a dress ? I made the decision to change up my wardrobe quite a bit: in with dresses and out with jeans (though I must confess I did just buy a very comfortable, just-want-to-wear-all-the-time pair of overalls). So I checked the dress rack and found four to try on (which is also a new thing for me per orders of Lovely Beautiful Daughter; no more buying an article of clothing and taking it home without trying it on). When LBD saw I had four dresses she was quite impressed though she did laugh at the range in sizes: one small, two medium, and one large. She's the one who also told me to stop selecting a piece based only on size, so I took her advice. When I walked out of the dressing room, I found Lovely Beautiful Daughter waiting to get in line to pay for her purchases, so I joined her. "

So, funny story. Last Christmas my husband gave me a wedding band, one that matched his, even though from day one of our marriage I said ix-nay on the wedding band. Trying to be a good sport because it was Christmas after all, I slipped the band on my index finger as that was the only finger it would somewhat stay on. Three days after Christmas, after Lovely Beautiful Daughter and I had gone to the mall where I'd tried on clothes and walked around several stores, after I had removed all the greenery from the window boxes and tossed it to the curb for trash pickup, and after taking down and boxing up all the decorations in the house, I looked down to see the ring was gone. It could have slipped off my finger during any of these activities. Not wanting to say anything to my husband, I went about my day. I called the mall stores to ask if a ring had been found in the changing rooms. I retraced all my steps around the yard to see if I might find the ring glittering in the sun. Be

I've been working on a poem the last four days, and while I'm making progress, that progress has been excruciatingly slow. I decided to take on this particular subject in response to a poem I read on the site I submit my work for critique. Yeah, probably not the best reason to write a poem, but seriously, that poem made me want to stab my eyes out with one of the many black ink pens I have scattered across my desk. Sometimes I just don't understand what motivates people to write what they do. I take that back. I do know what motivates them: love or sex or both at the same time. It's like there aren't any other subjects worth writing about. So this poem I'm working on, in addition to it being brought about in response to the poem that made me want to stab my eyes out, is also for a contest sponsored by the site where my work is posted for feedback. The general idea is to "graphically feature the preparation and/or eating of delicious food," specifical

I am so in love with Michael Kiwanuka. His music, for whatever reason, strikes a chord in me. I can listen to his songs over and over and over. Not many singer/songwriters do this to me. My love affair with Kiwanuka's music started a couple of weeks ago when I had a mix streaming on YouTube. His song "Cold Little Heart" came on while I was in the kitchen doing dishes. When his voice started, I had to stop and go watch the video and listen to the song. I must have been in a fragile place that day -- the tears started slipping down my cheeks as I listened. Maybe it was the lyrics. Maybe the style took me back to my childhood. Maybe the young man dancing in the video made me feel the despair that comes from trying but not making headway. Could have been all of this that struck me that day. Ever since, I've been listening to Kiwanuka and really enjoying his work. I didn't realize at the time that this song is from Big Little Lies , which I watched earlier this yea

An interesting aspect of living in this house with its one wall of large windows is the number of birds that fly into the glass. About a week or so ago, I was here at my computer and Angel Baby was sitting on the couch looking through some videos before heading off to class. I heard a very loud thunk and thought maybe he had dropped his phone. After a few seconds, Angel Baby called out, "Ummm, Mom, a bird just smacked against the window and there's a huge hawk sitting on top of the bird feeder." I dashed to the living room, wanting to see the hawk, but it was gone by the time I got there. The little bird, though, was crumpled on the deck. I went out to check on the bird. It was still breathing, very quickly, and its beaked opened then closed as if it was gasping for breath. I cradled it in my hands for some time then took it over to the edge of the yard and set it down in a bed of fallen leaves. For the next 45 minutes, I checked on it to be sure it was hanging in there

After long thought (seriously long, like more than a year long), I finally decided to step away from Facebook. I almost did so in June, but Funny Delightful Son suggested I stay on for a bit longer. I did, but I keep coming back to wanting to simplify my life even further, with social media being the area I want to work on most. I had closed my LinkedIn and Twitter accounts earlier this year, so the last big step is Facebook. After talking briefly with a friend yesterday about him deactivating his FB account and being all the happier because of it, I was inspired to take the leap and deactivate mine. I posted a note letting friends and family know of my intentions, and in a day or so I'll go in to hit the Deactivate button to complete the process. For many years I've wanted to simplify my life. I thought, though, this meant finding that dream farm and having the milking cow, chickens, and a large garden. Then, my husband and I separated. I moved into a rental with no garden t

Today is a happy day for me. My first ever published poem is out there. Honestly, I don't care if I don't get anything else done today. I just want to keep opening the website where my poem has been offered alongside many other wonderful poems for all to read. I feel very honored to have been granted this opportunity. If you'd like to read "Shivering in the Passenger Seat," click here . You'll be taken to the latest issue of Tipton Poetry Journal . Read all of the poems. I know you'll find one, maybe two, perhaps even ten that will move you. With just a little over a month left of my sabbatical, I'm feeling a bit sad. The time off from prepping for five classes, from grading 100+ essays several times a semester, from committee work, etc. has been just wonderful. I finally got a sense for what it's like to be a full-time writer. I've always wondered what this kind of life would be like, and now I know a little bit better. I wish I could live t

Last night, just as I was shutting things down to call it a day, I checked in at my email account to see if anything new came in. The only new item was from a poetry journal I had sent a couple of poems to. As is wont to happen these days, I felt that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I asked myself: do you really want to open that now? Self replied: well, no, but now or tomorrow, it's all the same.  I really didn't want to go to bed disappointed, but my curiosity got the best of me and I opened the email. The first thing I noticed was how long the email was compared to the previous rejection emails. So I started from the beginning, kept reading, and learned one of the poems had been selected for publication in this poetry journal. Then, I started crying. Yep. I cry over the Thanks but no thanks emails, and I cry over the Congratulations emails. I am that person. Funny Delightful Son came in as I was sitting at my desk, still basking in the feeling of hav

As I was writing this morning, I used the word melancholy . I've always loved this word. Not only does it get at a deeper sense of sadness, but the sound of the word lends itself to the sensuous nature, the depth of which this kind of sadness can be felt. All the sudden, I realized the word holy is part of melancholy. Not in the etymological sense. Just in letters spelling the word inside another word sense. And now I'm all excited, finding myself working up a piece that hopefully will hint at the connection between being holy and feeling a profound sadness. Along with being really excited about seeing a word inside another word, I'm also totally in love with the idea of duende, a concept Federico Garcia Lorca explored in depth. I've been reading whatever I can find that addresses duende and Lorca's thoughts about it. His lecture "Theory and Play of the Duende " offers many examples to help shed light on what duende is and how it plays a role in wri

A couple of days ago, Funny Delightful Son came in from work and sat in the overstuffed chair in front of the windows overlooking the backyard. I had been lounging on the couch most of the afternoon, binging a program I didn't have to give much attention to keep up with what was going on. Mostly I was simmering in self-pity over receiving yet another rejection. "What're you doing?" Funny Delightful Son asked. "Soothing my sobbing soul," I said. "Hmmm. Is that right? Why is it sobbing?" I could see Funny Delightful Son trying really hard not to laugh at me. "Another editor telling me my writing sucks." "So Mom . . .." This is what Funny Delightful Son always says just before he launches into his practical, matter-of-fact take on a situation. " . . .why is it so important to you to have someone else tell you your writing is good, or at least good enough for whatever publication they are putting out?" All I co

At this point, I'm not sure what to think about the pieces I'm writing. I remind myself all the time, I mean All. The. Time., not to be emotionally attached. I keep in mind how writing, especially fiction and poetry it seems to me, is incredibly subjective. Both of these notes-to-self notwithstanding, I still wonder if I'll ever produce anything that will be deemed publish-worthy. If the feedback I'm getting from the readers at the site I joined is any indication, I won't ever make the cut. A more recent piece is one in which I'm exploring the juxtaposition between enjoying a life of exploration, being able to experience the feelings brought about through travel and being able to make the calls versus not having this kind of freedom. The title of the poem is "Rift," which I was hoping would help the reader see there is a line/break/hole/chasm/difference of opinion that separates the two. The way the poem is set up, I thought, also gets at this idea o

I wrote a poem the other day from an idea that I've been batting around for about two months. Whenever an idea occurs to me, I jot it down in one of my far too many journals scattered around the desk, or I open a Word doc and write down the basic idea. I returned to the idea a few days ago, set to work, and after several hours of what felt like slogging through ankle-deep mud, I had a draft in place. I tinkered with it, got up to take Ado for a walk, came back to tinker a bit more, then closed out the file. I felt like the poem was taking shape, but could feel something more needed to be done. Today I returned to the poem and the something more appeared to me as if it had been right in front of me all along. I slashed about six lines. I changed a word that made me stop every single time I read the poem. It's amazing to me how one little word can have such a huge impact on reading. At that point, I decided to post the work to the online site for feedback. After typing in the t

Today I moved between writing, reading, vet, landlord, more writing, and sitting in front of the fire just watching the flame while listening to the rain patter against the roof, accompanied by a favorite jazz album playing softly. It was truly the kind of day to stay inside, snuggle into comfy clothes, and sip on hot chocolate. Although, to be honest, my choice of beverage this evening was a very delicious warm and fuzzy apple cider. Just lovely to sip on. The toughest part of the day definitely had to be the writing. I have three new pieces going at the same time while trying to revise two pieces that are closer to being "finished." I had one of the pieces workshopped by members of the online site I recently joined, and the critiques have been mixed. Several readers weren't able to make the connection to the time element working, which I thought might be problematic. That being said, the last person to critique did pick up on the lapse in time. A couple of other issue

So I signed up to be a member of a writer's group online. One where I can read others' works and offer feedback. I can also put myself in the hot seat by uploading my work for feedback. I've become totally consumed by reading others' poems and offering critiques. Seriously, I could spend my entire day just sitting here reading not only the poems but also the critiques others are offering. Even though the critiques are not in response to anything I've submitted, I still find them extremely helpful when looking at my own writing. With this site, I have had to gain karma points before I can submit anything for a critique (since I'm tight with a nickel as Angel Baby is fond of saying, and went with the free version of this site). The karma points come from reading and critiquing poems submitted by other members. They also come from the writers of those poems responding to the feedback in a positive way. I earned enough karma points today to submit one of my more

Last week, I shared a write-up about Andrea Wilches, one of the cyclists on the Northern Tier ride, summer 2016. I had the pleasure of riding with Andrea again this summer, both of us completing the Pacific coast, and I was able to sit with Andrea to catch up, get some insight into how the rides have impacted her life. The Beautiful Face of Andrea, Part II “I think the ride last year almost changed me completely.” The ride Wilches refers to is being a cyclist for Bike the US for MS , an organization based in Blacksburg, VA. For Andrea Wilches, the change she experienced affected her view of having MS, of what it means to be strong, and about life in general. Though Wilches was four years beyond the diagnosis of MS the summer of 2016, she was still grappling with how it fit into her life. Right up to the point when her application to be a cyclist with the organization was accepted, she’d not told many friends and co-workers she has MS. The acceptance forced her hand. If she

Last year, during one of the final days of the Northern Tier ride, I sat down with Andrea Wilches, one of the cyclists with the Northern Tier group, and talked at length with her about how the ride impacted her life. Andrea joined the group when we reached Minneapolis, which is where we also enjoyed a rest day. During our stay there, we went to the Minneapolis MS Center to meet those who participated in the programs made possible in part because of the donation given by Bike the US for MS. My memories from that day I’ll always treasure; the people I met, both those with MS as well as those who care for them, the beautiful garden, and witnessing Andrea begin her journey to finding a way to accept that she, too, has MS. Each day until the end of the ride last summer, I was constantly amazed by Andrea’s perseverance. She went into the ride with very little experience cycling long distance, and on the first day of cycling, not being completely comfortable with clipping into her pedals

I've read many books about writing. How to get started and write until a full-length novel can be spit out from the printer. How to mine memories to find ideas that could be turned into either a poem, a short story, or even a novel. How to get past writer's block. How to craft beautiful sentences. How to. How to. How to. In the end, most of the books come to the same conclusion: write a lot, read a lot, and write even more.  Today, I found a bit of advice I'd never heard before, and I had to sit back to let the words digest. I then went to my desk, pulled out a neon-green index card and wrote the advice on it, propping the card next to my monitor so I can see it all the time. Write Into, Not About I'm so guilty of saying, "I'm writing about . . .." when someone asks me what my project or anything I may be working on at the moment is. Today, keeping in mind the idea of writing into rather than about the idea I have been chewing on the past few da

I am such a dork at times. I just sent three poems to a literary magazine, and almost as soon as I hit the submit button of the program I use, I realized I'd not put my last name as part of the closing. I just put my first. I guess I could plead my case, saying I only now go by my first name. Or I could tell the truth--I was mulling over the idea of typing my maiden name, and in the process of considering this, I went ahead and attached the file I wanted to submit. Once the file was attached, the very natural next step is to click on Submit. So that's exactly what I did. Hopefully, the editors won't hold my lack of a last name against me. I've been thinking a lot about returning to my maiden name. In a way, doing so will take me all the way back to the day I went to the DMV and the Social Security office to change my name after marrying my husband. I was angry that day. I didn't want to change my name. I resented having to go to these agencies and having to show d

Yet another rejection. At least this one only took just over two months to show up in my inbox. I have two other pieces out, one that's been hanging for over five months, the other almost at the year point now. To be honest, I'd forgotten about the one that's been out for a year, so I sent an inquiry email today, asking about its status. I'm figuring since I've not heard anything, the answer will be a no. When Funny Delightful Son came in and asked what I'd been doing all morning, I answered, "Crying in my coffee over being rejected again." He thought my comment funny. I was being serious. Well, just a little bit, anyway. But I just marked the submission off the list I've been keeping, made note of the pieces that are open to being sent somewhere else, and researched more possible publications. I read some more poetry, hoping to soak up what it is about them that got them published, but more often than not I found myself sitting back in my chair

My desk is right under two large windows, affording me a view of our neighbor's large backyard. There are several pine trees on the property line, so I put up a shepherd's hook and hung the bird feeder between two of the trees. Now, as I sit and work at my desk, I can watch the Cardinals at the feeder and the squirrels chasing each other in the neighbor's yard. Today, a mama Cardinal busied herself by helping two of her young manage the feeder. She'd fly in, and the two young ones would try to follow. They didn't quite get the gist of how to perch on the feeder, so she would take seeds to them as they waited in the honeysuckle bush. The squirrels are like kids playing tag. I watched one just the other day lay on its back and play with a stick, much like a cat would do. This while a hawk swooped in to try and grab up the squirrel. The squirrel pretty much just batted at the hawk and went on with what it was doing. The hawk landed in the grass about ten feet away and