Good Things Are Coming

IMG_5125 resized for blogWhat a Long Time It’s Been.

Roughly three years. That’s how long it’s been since I have posted anything on this site. There was a lot of personal stuff happening that just sort of blew my writing efforts out of the water. But somehow, things seem to be unlocking for me now and I am back to writing. I am so grateful.

I have another blog that hasn’t been so dormant. It’s more about life and personal stuff. If you are interested, you can check it out at www.weatheringthejourney.com.

Here it’s about my writing. The struggles, growth, conferences, poetry, vignettes, stuff like that. I’ve been working at it for a while, so I’m not so much of a newbie, but I haven’t taken steps to get published yet, either. Maybe soon.

 

Writing Exercise: I Am From…

I Am From…

I am from a sandbox in a desert town

A-B-C-D-E-F-G with Big Bird.

I’m from blackberry brambles,

blackberry pie, blackberry fingers.

I’m from Grape Grandma’s flowery dress, purple, white, green.

I am from rain, rain, rain,

mudball fights and fortress doors

caterpillars in jars, ferns in the forest,

frogs, climbing trees, and pine sap on my sweater.

I’m from a bicycle with daisies on a banana seat,

from a wrinkly, winky grandma holding on behind

and letting go,

playing truck driver at the closed gas station,

going 65.

I’m from doorbell ditching at Buster Brown’s mansion.

I am from salty, sulfur swimming in summer heat and winter fog.

From eating too many sunflower seeds, hulls and all,

getting sick, sick, sick, and cut wide, wide open.

I’m from teachers who spoke Spanish,

books of whangdoodles, cottages, orphans, castles,

and Mrs. Mike.

I am from Swedish fish at Bell’s Market, buying

illicit Sen-Sen to eat in the backyard before

“No Bears Come Out Tonight”.

I’m from friends who tried suicide

and survived. And the ones who didn’t.

I’m from babies, bedtime stories, family camping

never catching a fish.

I am from a solar eclipse, the Pleiades,

wishing on a shooting star.

I’m from puppies, kittens, hamsters,

funerals for old pets.

I’m from China,

tears for my children,

fear of police,

bargaining for scarves,

oranges in January,

shamrocks in February and March,

more rain, rain, rain.

I am from America,

Free to shout,

Free to argue,

Free to play,

Free to worship,

I Am Free to be Who I Am.

 

The Earthy Colors of Sunrise

The wall behind my desk is scattered with photos of the rusty, red-orange desert stone formations near where I live. I love those photos. If sunrises melted into hard, tangible earth, they would streak across the landscape just like that. A red watercolor with vertical drips that puddled at the bottom and orange horizontal streaks running below the horizon; the blue of the sky so intense you feel the heat of the sand, taste the grit in the dust stirred up by your feet, and know there could not possibly be any orange or red left for another sunset. Until evening comes, when the formations are cast into blackening shadow and the sky steals back it’s color from the earth to create a fire-show streaking across the western sky. Finally all the colors fade and the world  is plunged into cooling darkness until morning, when the earth steals the sunrise colors and makes them solid again.