Pen-y Thoughts

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???

Here’s another recent practice writing inspired by Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones:  Freeing the Writer Within.  (Did I mention that I liked that book?)  Again, I found myself writing in the car.  I didn’t have much stamina at this point — fussy children, radio playing, portable DVD players blaring the Holly Hobby movie in my ear, my husband calling out license plates from various states for me to record.  It’s a brief entry, but interesting.  Hope you like it!

Why do I want to write?

I love to write.  I love the feel of the pen’s graceful dance on the page and the lively hopping of my fingertips on the keyboard.  The flow of my ideas and words as they pour from my mind.  The sense of reflection as I stare at and reread my product.  I am challenged each time, like a hunter or trapper, to capture the moment, the essence.  My writing is a communication to the world.  It is a connection with my fellow readers, writers, mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, teachers, — with humanity.  My writing is a presentation of myself.  I stand bare before the world, awaiting judgment.

I’m loving my spiral notebook. I took the suggestion of Natalie Goldberg, one of my newest mentors, and picked up a cheap, basic spiral notebook to use as a writer’s notebook. Why? She suggests we avoid choosing a writer’s notebook “worthy of the great American novel”, but rather, select a notebook that will permit you to write junk. It relieves pressure! I’m loving it.

I’m also loving her suggestion to “keep your hand moving”. It is an amazingly emancipating experience.

Allow me to share another piece of “junk”. This was something I scribbled out in the car on my way home from a road trip to Louisiana to visit my grandmother.

Going Home

It’s amazing how quickly you go from enjoying a trip to ready for it to be over. I’m not sure when it happened — sometime on the endless stretch of road. Or perhaps at the most recent stop at a dirty fast food restaurant with abhorrible service and sticky floors. Perhaps it was later — as my weary body began to grow increasingly homesick for my bed, my soft, worn sheets, my own cool pillow, my own shower and closet full of clothes. Perhaps, I most miss the effortless ease of my kitchen — the homey snacks and familiar meals. I miss my desk — cluttered as it may be. But it’s my clutter. I can’t wait to see Bo — though I’m sure he’ll hold a grudge for a while; he, too, weary from his own, sad adventure. As the car carries us toward our familiar destination, I begin to realize it is the rhythm and routines I may miss the most. Awakening in a dark, cool bedroom. Emerging into a sunny, cheery den, greeted by precious, tired faces. My day driven by my own agenda — on my own (relative) terms. My children resting peacefully in their own beds & napping places. Lunch at the kitchen table — of coffee table. Solitude. I haven’t been alone in a week! Perhaps that is the secret. I can’t wait to be at home again.

It may be junk — but it’s my junk.

Keep reading and writing!

This is harder than it looks.

What do I write? When do I find time? How do I juggle my life — responsibilities, children, job, house, husband, energy, everything — with my interests and dreams? I’d love to be a writer…but I also want to practice French, and read a book, and watch a movie, and go to the beach, and work out. When the balls are in the air, which one would you drop?

It’s been a while, yes. Have I written? Yes. Have I published? No. (Hence…this is a writer’s notebook.) Flaw number one with this venue: If an entry is not published, readers lose interest. But, realistically, a writer rarely publishes!

Here’s a thought. My sister-in-law, and fellow budding writer, introduced me to my latest read, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, by Natalie Goldberg. I’m loving it. It has already been freeing, and I’m only on page 30. Originally published in 1986, I worried, as I read an excerpt online, that the advice might be somewhat dated. She spoke of using pen and paper vs. typewriters. WHAT? A TYPEWRITER???

“I have not worked very much with a computer, but I can imagine using a Macintosh, where the keyboard can be put on my lap, closing my eyes and just typing away. The computer automatically returns the carriage. The device is called “wrap-around.” You can rap nonstop. You don’t have to worry about the typewriter ringing a little bell at the end of a line.”

Goldberg’s description of a typewriter is very vivid to me, summoning the sound of my mother typing away at an intimidating speed on the keys of our old, heavy typewriter. It wore its own custom dust cover as it waited patiently in the corner for its call to duty. When the need arose for an updated resume, business letter, book report, or research paper, Mother would resurrect her trusty friend, place it in the place of honor at the head of the dining room table and position herself properly for the task at hand. The noise from the keys and metal sphere laiden with letters, symbols and various characters busily striking the page would drown out the sound of television and conversations.

The primitive Mac she refers to is also familiar. I see the beat-up, dusty machines in my first classroom. Monitor and CPU shared a shell, with only a separate keyboard and mouse. Their tall, lean, gray plastic cases and often monochromatic monitors. Imagining these dinosaurs as new opportunities for a writer causes me to question this author’s lessons. Does this book really have something to offer me?

I quickly changed my mind. Goldberg relates writing to running, something else with which I’ve struggled. She speaks to me as she writes of the practice involved in writing. Her words strike a familiar chord with me as she suggests writers create a list of topics for the days think you have nothing to say. (Practice what you teach, Jenny!) Her talk of discipline and setting goals are very applicable to my situation.

As a good student, I followed her directions when she prompted me to “Sit down right now. Give me this moment. Write whatever’s running through you.” I heeded her advice and kept my hand moving, without crossing out, without considering spelling, punctuation, grammar. I tried not to think or get logical. I tried to allow myself to lose control of my writing, prevent my mind from holding me back or stalling. I did not censor myself. I gave myself permission to write something bad…to write junk.

I wrote.

“In this moment I’m listening to my family talk, Max & Ruby on TV and the delicate, light clicking of my dog’s nails on the linoleum floor in my kitchen. A small light shines brightly at my eye from across the den as Laura shines a mini-Mag light at me. Jeff and Jon are packing for their hiking week. “I see you, Mommy.” “Come with me, Laura,” Emma merrily calls as she hops, skips out of the room. Bo scratches at the door, anxiously awaiting his outside endeavors. The merry music of the children’s cartoon is reminiscent of earlier, more wholesome eras. Emma and Laura are like Max & Ruby in many ways. Sweet. Innocent. Well-meaning. Exploring. Fun-loving. Caring. How lucky I am. Their love for their family is so pure and sweet. As I hear them talk to their Uncle Jonathan, my heart aches fort he loss they feel each time distance pulls them away from loved ones. Geography is a bitch. Children, in many ways, are such victims of adult lives. They innocently try to help their grown-ups with any chore — with little thanks & often scoldings. They seek love and attention when they need it — many times to be put off due to chores, responsibilities, duties, fatigue, distraction, selfishness, etc. We, no matter how thankful we are, can not always be grateful and appreciative enough. Those nasty “little things” that masquerade as mountains can tear holes of space in our relationships, be we uncareful. We must keep wide-eyed. Preserve our innocence. Maintain our quest for love, attention, closeness, security, connections. to be a child again. Make the big things big and the little things disappear. How I wish to learn this from my little people.”

I have not reread this until this moment. I restrained myself. I did not correct errors as I typed. I did not revise or add thoughts to improve. I was surprised to see my handwriting barely legible in places — with many a “t” uncrossed and “i” undotted. After I frustrated with the delay in writing and thinking as I turned the first page, I learned to disregard the margins, delaying and reducing the interruptions.

This was my first attempt at freeing myself to write bad stuff. It was fun. I loved it. I look forward to writing more. Just as at the end of a good run, I feel I could write forever. I look forward to jumping on the treadmill once again, opening up, and running free.

There are days you wonder why you got out of bed.  The world beats you, tromps on you, kicks you when you are down.  You pull yourself up from a fall only to fall down and get hurt again.  On days like these, it hurts to take a breath.  Your stomach feels like a raisin, your heart has a charlie horse, and you feel at any moment your spine just might dissolve, leaving you in a lifeless pool of flesh.

Then there are good days.  Days when you are surprised by one good fortune after another.  Your team makes it to the play-offs.  Your hair looks just so.  You wake up on time and your children have smiles on their faces.  You get hugs from your friends and a card in the mail.  The clouds look like cotton balls and the sky is a brilliant blue.  Your mind sings as you flutter about your daily chores.  You laugh at common things and smile at people as you pass them. 

 Don’t you wish you could bottle these days?  Wouldn’t it just be nice to cut a little, tiny corner out of a glorious day and tuck it into your pocket to save for later?  Like a security blanket, you could use this scrap of happiness to dry your tears as you sob over losing a precious student, the bill you can’t pay, the grandmother you’ll never hug again.  At night, when your worries grow loud, you could cuddle with the hope of future blessings.

Instead, I suppose, what we can do is revel in these days.  We must explode and rejoice in these fleeting moments; stretch them thin to cover our days as thoroughly as possible.  Rather than living paycheck to paycheck, we could live smile to smile. 

It takes courage and strength to find good in bad.  Pushing aside our self pity requires discipline.  With practice, at this, too, we shall excel.  I am not an expert.  I hope, though, one day, to live as one.

 Thank you, world, for smiles.  For kindness.  For hugs.  For friends.  For family.  For kisses.  For children.  For Mommies and Daddies.  For pretty dresses and pedicures.  For free rides.  For chocolate.  For good jokes.  For romantic comedies and movie popcorn.  For gentlemen.  For puppy love.  For giggle boxes that easily turn.  For wedding dresses.  For dogs greeting you with a wiggly tail and quick little feet.  For babies sleeping in your lap, breathing softly, slowly.  For good days.

I remember hearing that phrase as a child, though I cannot place where I heard it.  I’m not sure if I read it in a story; perhaps my father spoke it to my brother one time…I don’t recall. 

 What I do recall is how, as a child, it seemed impossible.  Explaining to a child how you, the punisher, can possibly be hurting more than them, with their tanned hides and bruised feelings, is like trying to convert the devil to Catholicism.  In their eyes you are awful and mean and cruel and heartless and horrible and hateful and unfair!

Now, as a mother and teacher, that is the thought that just came to my mind.  I’m sitting in “detention” with four of my sweetest students.  They were caught passing notes during a test.  Innocent notes…but my partners and I felt it necessary to send them (and their classmates) a message, loud and clear.  So, here I am, in detention. 

 My heart hurts.  I hate doing this.  I hate being the bad guy.  I hate seeing children — my children — suffer.  At times, you can feel such anger, frustration, rage inside that you want to fly off the handle and scream at the world.  Then, a sweet little thing from across the room says to me, “Mrs. Nash, you look pretty.”  They’re just babies!  They’re so sweet and innocent — even at 9!

 My daughters are beautiful, wonderful children.  Occasionally, though, they have needed time out to “regroup” and regain control of their behavior, to help define limits and expectations.  I’ll never forget the first time I heard my daughter scream from the confines of her bedroom, “You’re mean!  I hate you!”  There’s a first for everything…whether you like it or not. 

One minute she’s crying out, “I want my mommy!” and the next moment it is, “I hate you!”  I want my baby back!  I want to hold her and rock her and tell her I love her.  Can’t I just take it all back?  Did she really deserve this?

Unfortunately, yes.  I guess, so did I.  I get it now.  “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”

A few weeks ago I had an amazing experience. It was one of those experiences after which you keep wondering, “Did that really happen?” In some ways it really wasn’t a big deal at all, but in other ways it was totally stunning.

On Sunday morning, my husband rolled into the garage after pulling a 48-hour weekend shift. I had enjoyed my time alone with my babies, but knowing he was heading out that evening for a four-day trip to the fire college, I was itching to get out alone! I had big plans for the day: a trip to the gym, a few necessary errands, a visit to the nail salon, and maybe a little fun shopping. All alone. It’s amazing how rewarding a little bit of solitude can become!

I decided to branch out and try a new group fitness class at a friend’s recommendation: Boot Camp. OK. I’ll kick butt, right? I’ll leave this class 10 pounds lighter, right? This is going to help me turn over that leaf I’ve been fighting. Give me a jump start.

I was cutting it close, but after a quick drive and a dash up the stairs, I saw a small group in the classroom. A handful of women appeared to be setting up steps and Bosu balls. Was this the right class? Was I too late? Should I? Perhaps I’ll just hop on the treadmill, take it easy today…NO! I’ve got to stop putting it off and do it! No more excuses! No more “tomorrows”.

The ladies were quiet and unhelpful as I attempted to join the group. As the instructor busily led the group in preparing the room, she described the “track” we should be creating around the perimeter. OK…Remember, this is “Boot Camp”. You can run, Jenny, you’ll be fine. You’ll do just fine. Just ask someone what you can do to help…maybe someone else is new, too.

“Excuse me, I just came in and didn’t hear the directions. Are we setting up all the steps in one row or anywhere?”

As she replied, I couldn’t help thinking how oddly familiar she looked. Her face was just like someone I knew. Nah. I wonder what did happen to her.

My lofty goals of “kicking butt” — or even keeping up — turned out to be impossible dreams. I blamed it on a recent sinus infection and chest congestion; I was dragging. My body was heavy and my chest was shallow. Water did nothing but nauseate me further. Well, look at the bright side, I’m burning calories! I’m gonna feel this tomorrow!

As the instructor adjusted her plans on the fly, (hopefully she’ll have mercy on me) a few ladies left the room, some taking longer than others to return. I tried desperately to catch my breath and refresh myself so I could survive the remainder of the class. How much longer till cool down?

Unfortunately, if she did have mercy it wasn’t enough! I felt my body shutting down and my mind allowing it! The nausea outgrew my stomach and sweat flooded my brow. An uncomfortable sense of anxiety and dread took over my mind as I considered my options: play tough? run to the restroom? fain a scheduling conflict and leave class early? CRY?

After a brief attempt at bucking up, it became apparent that I wasn’t just being a wimp — I was going to puke. I excused myself to the restroom and spent a bit of time with my head between my knees. The smell of the pink, perpetual toilet bowl cleaner hanging from the rim only furthered my nausea. Cool water on my face felt good, but being vertical didn’t. How embarrassing. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I cannot let myself throw up in the gym. Adults do not puke in public. As I alternated sink, toilet, sink, toilet, the woman’s face was on my mind. They say everyone has a twin.

By the time I regained composure securely enough to gather my things upstairs and make it to my car, the class was over and my fellow torturees were stacking platforms and risers, hand weights and Bosu balls. The dark room seemed cooler and more tolerable. Maybe I should have stayed. Cool down would have been rewarding. I’m a loser. I failed Boot Camp.

The twin approached me and spoke. “Did you ever go to UF?” It’s her. It’s actually her.

“Are you Ambrosia?” I asked, knowing the answer would be yes.

It had been thirteen years since I last saw or spoke to my first college roommate. She had been frozen in my mind, standing in our Fletcher dorm room, wearing her usual tight t-shirt and baggy, short overalls as the summer sun flooded the room around her through our uncommonly large windows. Memories of Dr. Pepper and Burger King replayed in my mind faster than I could keep up.

I hadn’t forgotten the sight of the two cheesy, construction paper gators on our door, announcing the names of those who would soon live behind it, as I reached the top of the third flight of stairs that first time. How many miles had we walked that summer? The crazy bus ride to a Publix way too far away. The even crazier return, groceries spilling from our arms as we enjoyed a bit of air conditioning on the bus that seemed to be touring the city before returning us to the safety of our little room. Baskin Robbins and mosquitoes. Shaving your legs in a shoe box of a shower. Coloring our hair in the gang bath down the hall. Fire alarms, fire alarms, and more fire alarms in the middle of the night. The laundry room. The mail boxes. Leonardo’s Pizza. Denny’s. The Florida Book Store. Temporary checks. Creepy homeless guys hanging out at ATMs. Missing home. Sitting at the pool and highlighting EVERYTHING in my textbook. Feeling scared. Feeling lost. Feeling lonely.

My first time ever away from home. My first time sharing a room. I was so lucky to be paired with Ambrosia, though the sight of her name on that little gator had been a bit worrisome. Ambrosia? What kind of a person is named “Ambrosia”?

As it turned out, Ambrosia was just what I needed. She was an open book who accepted me immediately. She could talk to a wall, and that made me feel right at home. We spent hours telling each other about our homes, high schools, families, pets, part-time jobs, you name it!

Throughout the years, I thought of Ambrosia often. I thought of her, and her cat that went crazy after surviving Hurricane Andrew, all throughout the summer of 2004 when we boarded and reboarded our house as a succession of approaching hurricanes threatened our state. I remember hearing of her high school job at the movie theater whenever I eat movie popcorn. I think of her when I see girls smoking Marlboro red or when I drink flat Dr. Pepper.

As I hugged her, questions came to my mind faster than I could ask them. It was all such a blur that I don’t really recall all of the answers. As it turns out, I can count on one hand the number of miles between her house and mine. What’s more, we’ve both been in these homes for nearly five years. All these years and she’s been right under my nose?

I had long since realized that I would probably never see her again or hear where her path had taken her. Ambrosia existed only in my mind and a single picture of us that was buried in a shoebox, inside of an 18-gallon Rubbermaid container, somewhere deep in a closet.

I had predicted that one day I would tell my daughters tales of our first days of freedom. They would know her name. Perhaps, one day, they would roll their eyes as they listened to me tell, once again, a story they had long ago memorized. I had never predicted that they would, perhaps, meet her one day.

What if I had not gone in? I had been a fraction of a second away from choosing the treadmill! I might have run miles with only a few yards and a wall separating me from this friend from the past. What if I had stayed home and given myself more time to recover from my sinus infection? I might have gone my entire life without ever knowing her again — never knowing how history could have been different.

The more I thought about this, the more it grew to feel like an out-of-body experience. I imagined myself hovering over my body in Target and Publix. Who was on the other side of the aisle? What about Chili’s? Who was sitting in the booth over there? Who had been sitting at that corner table and strolled past my vacant seat while I was in the restroom? Who else travels the roads I travel? How many near misses will forever remain secret?

This world is smaller than we think.

As I confessed to Ambrosia that I was near vomit, her reply was classic Ambrosia. During the class, she had been one of the ladies that left the room. She was one who took longer than others to return. “Yeah, it’s the class. I had to go downstairs and puke, too.”

The world is smaller than we think.

I asked my students, today, to start thinking about and planning a short story for Mother’s Day. As I helped the students brainstorm ideas to write about, I began to think, “What would I write about my mother?”

There’s something intangible about mothers, isn’t there? The aura of familiarity, warmth, and love that surrounds them is hard to describe. There is a power that the relationship commands over a person emotionally.

No one can save you like your mother. On particularly trying days, the sound of my mother’s voice, even over a long-distance phone connection, can take me back to my childhood in an instant. I’m swept back to my parents’ bedside in a dark, cool bedroom; teary-eyed and sniffly after a bad dream. I yearn to crawl in bed between my parents, tuck under their soft sheets, and relax to the familiar, soothing sound of their night breathing. Tucked between them, I can hide from my fears and worries. I’m safe from the world and my demons, be they imaginary or real.

At the same time, no one can get you like your mother. As a child, a disapproving glare from your mother, even from across a crowded room, can scare you to attention! Even into your adulthood, the tone of your mother’s voice can bruise your ego, enrage you, and bring you to tears faster than anyone else’s. There are some people to whom your skin will never thicken. A mother’s approval, and lack thereof, has pervasive effects.

Nevertheless, no one will love you like your mother. Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go. Even husbands and wives aren’t always permanent. A mother is a mother forever. Decades and decades into our adult lives, our mothers will call us “baby”, kissing and doting on us as though we could crawl up into their laps and rock once again.

As a mother, now, myself, I understand this relationship differently. One moment I find myself wanting my mother: needing her security, needing her reassurance, needing her love. The next moment I find myself being the mother: providing the security, providing the reassurance, providing the love. These experiences, so different and alike, are like a braid in our hearts. Our relationship with our mother is affected by our relationship with our children, and vice versa.

So, what would I write about my mother? I guess it would all boil down to this…

I love her. I miss her. I need her. I am her.

Ralph Fletcher describes a writer’s notebook as a ditch. It makes sense when you read the story from his childhood about a ditch dug in his yard one day by utility workers. His young eyes were amazed to find the variety of “treasures” trapped in the trench the next day. To you or I the frogs and other creatures he found that day might not seem like treasures at all. However, to him, they were a pirate’s loot.

A writer’s notebook should ultimately have the same effect. It should capture simple thoughts, observations, ideas that may or may not seem golden at the time. However, collected together they may shine. Or, perhaps, they just lead you, the scavenging writer, to your greatest find.

I read a book yesterday to my daughters. It’s a cute book, Indescribably Arabella by Jane Gilbert. For the first time, I read the flap of the dust cover and was surprised by what I read. It tells the story of how the author kept a writer’s notebook as a child. She wrote short stories and poems about things she loved to do — and a doll, Arabella Anastasia. She wrote this story in 1947, but was unable to get it published at the time due to a paper shortage resulting from the Korean War. However, a friend convinced her to submit one final time in 2001, and the rest is history!

Earlier this year, I attended a local book signing. The mother of one of my fellow teachers published a book. It was one of those “aha” moments for me. Perhaps this mountain isn’t so unsurmountable…perhaps I can find my way to becoming a writer.

And so…here I am today. Sitting at my desk. My baby sleeping. My older daughter watching Diego, eating Fruit Loops. My dog’s collar tinkles as he mozies towards his water dish.

Welcome to my writer’s notebook.