stories, photographs, adventures…the next chapter
This post inspired by Frank at Dutch goes the Photo
The prompt: Layer
One very windy November afternoon in 2016…
Layer upon layer of loud angry waves crashed toward shore
Lining up one right after the other…
Relentless.
Matching rhythm with my steps
As I paced up and down the beach
That day.
Head down bracing for the gusts
As I pounded through the sand
Relentless.
Trying to make sense
Of the path ahead.
The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.
Muriel Rukeyser
Stories.
Beginning with…
Mother Goose Rhymes, Grandma Moses’ poems, Little Golden Books, Nancy Drew’s many adventures, the Bobbsey Twins, Trixie Belden, Pippi Longstocking….
All stories I craved as a child. Gobbling them up one after the other.
Why?
Curiosity. Escape. Imagination.
Or maybe because I loved to read.
Storybooks drew me in as nothing else could.
My public elementary school was part of the Scholastic Books program. Students could order paperback books for 25¢ or 35¢ each. Sized just right for a 10 year old with titles such as Encyclopedia Brown…Danny Dunn and the Homework Machine…Just Plain Maggie. To name just a few. Piled high on tables in the gym on delivery day. I couldn’t wait.
The school library drew me to its stories as well. Shelves of biographies…”Childhoods of Famous Americans”…were a magnet. Hardcover books mostly about boys (Nathan Hale & Abe Lincoln come to mind), but I did find some about girls. Clara Barton. Helen Keller. Dolly Madison. I didn’t discriminate at the age of 10 or 11 or 12. I read them all. Fascinated by their life stories.
Only famous people had their stories told…at least that’s what I may have assumed. But perhaps it sparked my own urge for story telling. At least in the privacy of my diaries. And letters. Later, the journals kept in college and beyond. Recording my story such as it was. Often painful. And hard to believe. Even upon reading years later. The telling…written for my eyes only…crucial. Therapeutic. I see that now. Important…even though I certainly wasn’t famous.
Years later I filled notebooks with anecdotes, observations…and stories yet again. But this time about my own children. And our family, as it grew and changed…and then grew and changed some more. A natural continuation of my childhood storytelling. About what happened.
This time, though, joyful. Still striving to capture the essence in a quick pair of sentences…or a paragraph. One page. Maybe two. The setting. The conversation. The humor. The love. The challenges. The delight.
Catching the stories on the page before one day wove into the next. Leaving me breathless to get it on paper. Their imaginations. Their curiosity. And uniqueness. From foot stomping “do by self” episodes to impromptu conversations about “where do babies come from?” To shopping for clothes. Playing with imaginary basketball teams in the driveway. Getting ready for school. Accidentally shaving off half an eyebrow. Navigating the minefield that is adolescence. How a seven year old plans the future. In her own imaginative way.
Endless stories every day. I wrote when I could. So glad I did.
We are, after all, our stories.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #37: Story
How hard it is to escape from places! However carefully one goes, they hold you — you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences, little rags and shreds of your very life.
Katherine Mansfield
~~~
And so it goes.
The places that define you.
House you. Comfort you.
Where you play. Where you learn.
Where you work. Where you love.
Climb. Fall. Get up. Explore.
Write.
Ones that remain
Ones you enjoy
All add up.
To the next.
One year ago today I published my first post on this blog.
I had recently moved to a new home. For the first time, I had a small room of my own. Complete with windows to let the sun shine in.
A new place to write. Reflect. Remember. Read. Share. Plan. Challenge.
And the best part?
…meeting other writers across the world in blogging land.
In anticipation of Spring…
My contribution to Cee’s Flower of the Day Challenge
Towards the end of February and the beginning of March, I always looked for signs of crocuses in our front yard. A first sign of Spring. After tramping through the soggy grass, I’d discover them poking up out of the ground despite the cold weather or lingering patches of snow. It wasn’t long before they were in full bloom.
A family of crocuses appeared every March right next to the maple tree. A hardy little bunch, they managed to muscle their way through massive amounts of roots, thatch, rock hard soil and mulch. Year after year.
No gardening effort required on my part.
Very independent.
I liked that.
Nancy Merrill is hosting a photo challenge. The theme this week – Black & White
IN A NEW POST CREATED FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A BLACK AND WHITE PHOTO OR TWO (OR MORE).
College visits.
Many years ago, my son and I spent a week together driving from one southern state to another. Visiting potential colleges.
One college campus per day. Tours. Info sessions. More questions than answers. Trying to decide which one was best…for him.
Not an easy time in a teenager’s life.
Or his parents’.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #36: Wild Card
…Go back over the last week’s worth of posts or so, and notice any words or phrases that repeat themselves. I’m talking adjectives, or verbs, maybe nouns.
Long ago at the age of 9, I received
…a small red diary with a key.
I was one among many children
Armed with a powerful place,
To preserve what happened…
in the illusion of privacy.
Safely locked up tight with a tiny key
Hung on a tiny ribbon.
So long ago
And so it began.
This writing life.
For me and many others
A lifetime ago.
Pouring out our secrets. The ups and downs.
Today I went to school…After school I played outside...I collected bees in a jar…I poked holes in the lid…I did my homework…it was hard.
Scrawled sentences tucked in at day’s end…I got in trouble…I cleaned up the playroom…Nobody loves me…It is boiling hot out.
or
Today was an exciting day…we had hamburgers…went to the Dairy Queen.
I watched: The Addams Family…Valentine’s Day and Gomer Pyle.
Important pages to a young writer
Who never imagined
They’d be such a treasure
Many years later
When the age of 9 would be…
Such a long time ago…
Cee’s Challenge topic this week is Texture
Some textures just say Crunch. As well as Deliciousness.
As they did amid the whooping and hollering and cheering during the Super Bowl game a few weeks ago. With friends. In front of the television. Wearing the appropriate team gear.
Such textures were necessary stress relievers during this momentous game watching experience.
Empathy is the antidote to shame…The two most powerful words when we’re in struggle: me too.
Brené Brown
There is no shame in feeling broken…Sometimes it is the breaking that leads us to the source of our own becoming. But we need not suffer alone. When you feel trauma or shame, if you feel depressed or alone — speak your truth, ask for help, insist without ceasing on the support that you need.
Jeanette LeBlanc
To mark today…February 20th…
To grow up bathed in shame.
Each sunrise
Struggling to crawl out to you.
Hope slipping back
I always wondered why.
Cracks appeared
Despite stretching
To reach you
Through the fog
Left alone. Numb.
I always wondered why.
Until running bare
Into the dark
Finding every door
Slammed
Sealed shut.
I stopped wondering why.
The only path
For survival
Finding
A new truth
Of my own.
…for my mother, who would have been 90 years old today.
one letter UP ~ diary 2.0 