Pen-y Thoughts

I went for a jog alone on the beach this morning, though I never felt alone.  The sky was enormous and beautiful.  The temperature was perfect.  It was amazing.  It reminded me of a quick practice write I wrote this summer, so I came home and dug it out.  The prompt was to write of a favorite place: no edits, no corrections, no stops.

As an adult, I seek sanctuary at the beach.  I enjoy it at all hours of the day, alone or with company.  There is something – some change – that occurs as I cross the dunes via boardwalk.  Be I lugging a wagonload, or traveling solo, the world fades to the back burner — no, the warming drawer — by the time I reach the soft, loose, hot sand.  Time slows.  The sun feeds my soul and the waves wash away my stresses and worries.

Daddy used to say that salt water was good for a wound – it has an antiseptic effect and helps it heal.  This is true in more ways than one.

As a teenager, I can remember laying on the beach with my beau and feeling my senses awaken.  Everything is heightened by the radiant heat and rhythmic rolling of the waves.  The flashes of skin and muscle are teasing, taunting, tantalizing.

As a mother, I’m rejuvenated by the joy and energy that oozes from my daughters as they live and play carelessly.

There’s something freeing about sand.  The reversibility and temporariness of it.  Write in it – wash it away.  Build something – knock it down.  Dig in it – fill it in.  As you bury yourself, so you bury your frets.  Lying with your toes piddling with an impression in the sand.  Watch the sand settle in the edges of your toenails and cling scantily to the curve of your calves and the back of your knees.  There’s nothing better.

Focus on the horizon.  Tun it all out.  Quick – see the bird.  Its smooth black head with platinum accents on stark white feathers.  To be that bird.  What must your days encompass?  A brief flight here and there?  Scanning and searching for a few good fish.  A smooth, cool flight; rocking your body to maneuver and maintain.

Close your eyes.  Listen to the radio next to you.  What on Earth are they listening to?  Does it matter?  No.

How long since you thought of something that REALLY matters?

I love the beach.

How frustrating.  My first time trying to share poetry and this darn blog won’t allow me to format it how I’d like.  So, in order to preserve the pausing intended to be created by a stanza break, I’ve inserted lines.  Forgive, please.  It really bothers me to share it this way, but it will just have to do.

They just walked away.

They stood from the table and

walked away.

_______________

Glasses half full.

Food, still on the table.

Napkins haphazardly lain aside their places.

There were to be more courses served.

More to come.

Yet, they turned away.

Silently. And continued alone.

______________

Now, the table sits alone.

Preserved.

______________

Silently.

Independently.

Unaware.

They each return to the table.

Pull out their chair.

And they would softly sit.

Silent.

Still.

Scenes from the past and future play out before their eyes.

_________________

Until,

Just as silently,

They rise to leave again.

Leaving no evidence of their visit.

No trail to be discovered.

Completely unaware of the other’s visit.

The table, still untouched.

_________________

Too much distance now.

Too much time.

The water is warm.  The rush from the faucet numbs my ears to ambient noises, allowing my thoughts my full attention.  Faraway thoughts.  Back and forth my balance shifts,  left and right, as I wash, rinse, lie, wash, rinse, lie.  My center of balance, like a moral compass, a magnetic force within my core.  Through my thoughts rises a song and I release it gently.  There is calm in this simple chore.  In the kitchen, a cool serenity accompanies my solitude.  From the distance, laughter rises up above the television chatter and roaring water.  Childish squeals pull me in from my distant orbit.  I am home again, realizing my journey.  I wonder if they missed me — if they even noticed I was gone. 

Breathe. Breathe.  Slow myself.  Slow my heart from racing.  My mind from spinning.  My Self from tumbling.  This roller coaster has taken an unexpected turn.  My palms sweaty and foot shakey, the motion in my mind coming alive in my limbs.  Where has this fleeting courage come from?  Where was this match that struck my world hiding?  What will be left in the ashes of this growing bonfire for me to sift through?

My, though, how warm it is.  On a cold and frosty eve, how I welcome this familiar glow.  Radiant heat spreading to every corner of my life.  As my heart thaws, it is rejuvenated.  I stretch.  A gentle tug at the seams — careful not to extend too far, fearful to tear the threads.

Be still.  Be patient.  Enjoy.

As promised, here are some late night ramblings.

Exercise: 2 minute memory of my mother

I remember crying to my mother.  Tears running down my face as I tried to speak through my sobs.  She cradled my head, pressing my cheek into her chest.  Stroking the hair away from my face, behind my ears, with the palm of her hand.  Her fingers were soft, cool, familiar.  As she spoke, I heard her voice echo within her chest through my own pulsing head.  The sounds of her love magnified.  Her voice gave me comfort – security in my pain.  Being near to her made it OK to wallow in my own heart.

Exercise: 2 minute sound memory

I remember the roar of the typewriter as mama typed.  The clicking of the keys as her fingers pranced.  The slamming of the ball against the forgiveness of the paper.  The whirring as the paper was pulled from position.  The silence as she read.

Exercise:  2 minute teacher description

Oh, Mrs. Partain, I remember her.  Her glasses and short, brown curls that framed her face.  The face that afforded no approval for me.  Her blouse tucked securely beneath her wide belt and gathered skirt.  The lightness of hte synthetic shirt, unmatched within her temperament.  Her long sleeves covered her wrists, just as her hard exterior covered the softness I craved.

Exercise:  5 minute (ish…I think I went a little long) memory of a meal

I don’t remember anything about that meal except the scene.  The delicate white tablecloth draped graciously over the long table.  The china, silver, and graceful crystal sat royally in wait.  The chairs stood at attention around the table, their backs reaching my chin  The dark woods and their stately curves blended uniquely with the natural, easy flow of the gardens beyond.  The enclosed porch helped the light reach inward — extending itself all the way to the light from the white tablecloth.  Voices boomed in jovial conversation.  Laughs billowed from one heart to another.  The clinks and tinks of glasses and silver on plates.  The feel of linens on your lips, wiping away the traces of words spoken.  The light pressure of my hands on my lap as I sat, ladylike, playing my role well.

Exercise: 2 minute memory of rain

Walking home, my clothes clinging to my body.  Cold.  Water running.  Down my cheeks.  Over my lips.  How much farther?  Please.  Let it stop.  I’m freezing.  How nice a hot shower and dry clothes will feel.

Exercise:  Write about something you don’t think you can write about.  Write about something you SHOULDN’T write about.  Write about something you are afraid to let others read.  (Sorry, mom.  I love you.)

I don’t remember how it felt to hate my mother.  How it felt to hit her — almost missing her face.  Turning to run, wondering how this would all end.  I don’t remember the resentment I felt for the forceful nature of our life.  I don’t remember how disrespectfully she, we, spoke – with spite, hate, anger and challenge in her, our, voices.  I don’t remember sobbing till my temples throbbed. 

Nor do I remember her mother attacking me with her honesty.  I was trying to protect her feelings – telling an, excusable, white lie.  I don’t remember the betrayal of my brother — my last defense in this world so far from home.  The words he spoke sold me to the devil.  It fueled her fire.  It ignited the rage. 

I don’t remember the fear and solitude.  I was alone in a home not my own 1000 miles away from comfort.  I don’t remember lying silent, hearing the arrival of my wardens outside the door as I hid behind my eyelids, shielded only by my covers.

Exercise: Write about what you will miss when you die.  (I held back, I think.  Too much for me.)

I will miss the children – my angels.  Their smiles so bright and warm.  My babies.  Their laughter and love.  Their hands – soft and small as a doll’s hands.  The scent of their breath and drool on their cheeks as they awaken.   Their tushies, perfect and round – fitting in the palm of my hand.  The sound of their sleep — thumbs and pacies in place, singing their special rhythm.  My babies.  Their imaginations and joy so pure.  I will not leave them. 

I will miss laughter when I die.  I will miss Jeff’s giggle – the tears that signal a belly busting laugh. I love how Ian’s voice raises a few octaves when he’s tied up in laughs.  I’ll miss my cheeks hurting and bladder pressing. 

When I die, I’ll miss my home.  Pajamas and movies on a cold, rainy day. 

I’ll miss roaring fires and the smell of green peppers, onions and celery sauteing.  I’ll miss Christmas music and dancing in the den. 

I’ll miss Willie Nelson.  And records.

I’ll miss my friends to talk to — sitting outside in a dark car for hours, just talking.

Kissing in a driveway.

Holding hands.

Feeling small in a warm, strong man’s arms.

I’ll miss the sparkle in a boy’s eyes – the moment before a first kiss.

Hugs.  Good, long, happy hugs – reunion hugs.

Laying my head on your lap.

Cuddling in front of the TV.

Long, late night phone calls that you hope will never end, knowing the phone bill will come soon enough.

That’s all, folks.  For now.

As you may have noticed, if you’re out there, I’ve sort of abandoned this blog.  I’ve not abandoned writing, just this portal to the world.  I dove headfirst into practice writing.  I’ve been toning up my writing muscles, if you will.  Lots of quick writes and discovery exercises.  Now, I’m looking for an audience. 

I also gave birth….to another blog.  Why start a new blog when you can’t seem to update the ones you already have, you might ask?  Different purpose, different audience, different blog.  Neurotic, Yet Classy is all about fun.  It’s recess for my mind.  Pen-y Thoughts is focused on my growth as an author.  This is the REAL work. 

Here’s a few little diddies I’ve been scratchin’ out…enjoy.

Recently, I’ve led my students through a series of quick writes.  During their writing time, I’ve written with the students as a peer.  We write for ten minutes, no edits, no stops.  I provided them with merely this:  “I remember” (on 1/5) and “I am looking at” (on 1/6).

1/5/09:  I remember my friend Danielle’s house.  Her father worked at the beer bottling plant at night and slept during the day, so her house was dark and cool.  The parkay flooring in the hallway leading to the bedrooms clicked under your feet like the sound of high heels.  We played in the backyard in the spring and summer, though it was hot and the grass felt dry on our bare feet.  The day we woke to see snow on her front lawn made me homesick.  Snow seemed like something I should have greeted from my own bedroom window, not hers.  We wrote letters for a while, but eventually lost touch.  She is frozen in my mind as a kind, young, dirty-blonde girl.  A girl who accepted and appreciated me with an open heart.  her face is somewhat of a blur in my memory, but her friendship remains clear and true to this day, as vivid as the day I left.

I wonder what happened to her.  What became of her?  What choices did she make in life?  Where is she now?  What does she look like?  Does she remember me?  Am I, too, frozen in time as she is to me?  I wonder what I would find, should I decide to go looking.

1/6/09:  I’m looking at my classroom, buzzing with life.  The sounds of pencils scratching thoughts onto paper, soft whispers from mind to mouth, chairs creaking as restless bodies move in their hard, stiff seats.  Sweat is in the air and the room is warmer than before.  Recess was long, hard, hot.  Minds and eyes struggle to focus back on our work, away from our play.  Hands dance hesitantly over notebooks, calculating sentences and thoughts.  The clock’s hands move slowly, as if they weigh a ton.  Time is dragging its feet like a tired soldier, marching home in defeat. 

Amazingly, come 3:30, the weariness will lift like a morning fog.  The sun will shine on our day again.  We will run.  We will laugh.  We will play.  Our energy will resurrect itself from the puddle of our weary minds, until, again, we fade.  This time into darkness.  Eyes closed, breathing slowed, our covers cool in the navy blue light.  In our sleep, our dreams will do the running.  We will laugh.  We will play.  We will live free.

I notice as I reread these that my writing changes in class.  I use articles where I would have omitted them at home.  I write fewer incomplete sentences.  I’m not sure how I feel about my subconscious toning down of my style/craft “for the students’ sake”.  Am I right in my mind?  Are they not ready to see rules broken so frequently?  Are certain crafts over their heads?  Should I make a conscious effort to remain true to my mind, aiming higher rather than safer?  This I will stew on for a while…….

Watch for “I am alive.: Part 2″.  I’ll share some samples of at-home practice.  The real me???