Whimsical Writing Wednesday- Empty and Still

“You must not ever stop being whimsical.” 

-Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

   Today is Wednesday and I write whimsical pieces on Wednesday. Whimsical means playfully quaint or fanciful, especially in an appealing and amusing way. Though my prompt from AnnDee seems serious I will chase down the playfulness of being empty and still. 

  During an eyes open meditation the other day, I quite fell in love with my kitchen corner in the dark. The house was very still and empty of conversation, uplifting or otherwise. I don't usually meditate with my eyes open but I was trying to be still with only the noting of visual stimuli. I measured the different gradations of dark to light, black to dark brown, dark reddish brown, tan, cream to white. Shapes became visible. There were squares, triangles, circles and rectangles and shadows created by those same shapes. The clock ticked a steady 60mm which made me just a tad sleepy. The emptiness from the steady noise in my mind, assessing, analyzing, justifying seemed to place me in the tableau as merely a dark shape. I had time. Time to be. 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Writing Wednesday- Surprising Myself

I've been around a long time, and life still has a whole lot of surprises for me. 

Loretta Lynn

Sunrise on my "looking place" drew me like bees to nectar. Photographing the light show was becoming second nature. I drove East when the first streaks of orange peaked out over the trees. The last week of January 2017 brought a spectacular display. Reverence filled my soul. 

The Photograph

God really knew how to paint. As the sun emerged the changing light and hue glued me to the spot. I stared and stared, as I would in a museum seeing The Masters. 

First Layer of Paint

 Could I create anything close to reality? I put each tube of paint on the desk, evaluating whether I had the right colors.

Refining the color ribbons and adding the foliage

 Painting in the silhouettes of foliage was my favorite part. At first the images were a little too symmetrical. This painting forced me to be loose. I was surprised with how easily the paint moved and blended. 

Final Version 

   I was also surprised by what it taught me when I finished. There were more things I loved than hated. My intuition was stronger than expected. What I did well came as a gift. Or did it? 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Wednesday Writing- When Your Family Speaks English As a Second Language

Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei.

Everything has an end, only the sausage has two.

When English is your second language you grow up with different nursery rhymes and stories. My German mother loved to read to me. There were always morals to the far-fetched stories. Below is Strubelpeter, who refused to let his mother cut his hair and fingernails. You can see the natural consequences. I marveled at his resistance. I was, and still am a closet rebel.

  The story that haunts me to this day is Der Supenkasper. He refused to eat his soup and each day his mother reheated the soup and served it again. I understood death very little but had visited cemeteries with my parents. The last picture in this story is a fresh grave. How could he be so stubborn? 
   My mother served sweet and sour eggs sometimes. This was a soupy sauce with a poached egg on top. It made me gag. I shudder even now to image the horrible taste. I had it reheated once because I refused to eat it the night before. I relented only because I did not want to die.

    Are we writing better stories for our children now? While teaching Music and Movement to toddlers my partner, Kim, assigned me to find a story for class. I found one I liked called, "Gobble It Up". It was about the food chain in nature and I looked at Kim's face as I merrily read about the alligator who loves to eat the little ducklings walking along the river bank. She said my humor was dark. I thought back at the stories of my childhood and nodded. When do we introduce the child to the dark side? 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Writing Wednesday- Dream Travel

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. 

Marcel Proust

To do my dream travel I don't have to pack a suitcase, take identification, or get time off from work. My car gets me to my destination in minutes. 

When I lived in the desert for thirty years I did my dream travel to the ocean of the Pacific Northwest. My heart burst wide open when I first saw the ocean at sixteen. Here is a poem I wrote shortly after.

The sea was calm that day

but my heart soared 

We stood together letting the wind grasp out mind

Then you were gone

and I

ran along the beach alone 

letting the waves pull me out 

hoping they would pull me to you

I saw you there

standing at the window 

but time put too much space between us

Later

the sea became like me

lonely

The wind whistle through the driftwood

while the ocean

silver with sun

met the sand to leave it damp with remembrance

Now I live minutes from the water and my dream is to see it many times during the week. God provides a palette of breath taking colors. In the early mornings the colors can be pinks, blues, oranges, and reds. Each morning, each moment can be different. I find that endlessly interesting.

At midday the sun turns the sky into steely colors of silver, pewter, gold, and bronze. Add some clouds and wind and it becomes a Turner landscape. 

There must be contrast in all things and black in contrast to color is visually alluring. I find the twilight hours send me into a reverie. What beauty!

When I visit the water's edge I am never alone. The space is full of life. My favorite locals are the birds. They don't tire of the place they live so why should I? I can always tell if I get bored with my life I have not been to the water. 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Writing Wednesday- I Promised And Failed

Living is strife and torment, disappointment and love and sacrifice, golden sunsets and black storms. I said that some time ago, and today I do not think I would add one word. Laurence Olivier

To fail at keeping a promise makes me sad. Nothing rains on my parade more than not living up to my expectations. It happens often and likely will continue happening unless I close off to all hopes and dreams. You see, I make a promise because I am optimistic about what I can do. Everything seems possible in my head and on paper. My intentions seem stellar. Having been raised in a German home I found some words to sound the same in English but have very different meanings. For example, "I will!" sounds somewhat like "Ich will!" In English that statement is packed with strong intention but in German it means "I want to!"

I always want to until doubt, fear, and feeling overwhelmed rise to sap me of my strength. Will my children remember me as the mother who wanted to, but never came through? That sounds harsh. I wanted to throw them beautiful birthday parties until I ran out of steam. I wanted to go to all the basketball games, ballet performances, and piano recitals but sometimes I was tired and frustrated. Now, before I sound too maudlin I want to assure you, dear reader, that I do come through on my promises often. I visit my grandchildren every week, send out birthday cards, and try to be aware of all my family and friends are doing. And one promise I have made, to always remember my Savior, is very important to me. So, I don't always fail at keeping promises and I want to stay hopeful that I can meet my own expectations of myself and those of people I love. 

My happiness grows in direct proportion to my acceptance, and in inverse proportion to my expectations. 

Michael J. Fox

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Wednesday Writings- Addiction

The prompt for today on Ann Dee's site is not the least bit whimsical. But I decided to call my Wednesday posts Whimsical Wednesday Writings. Oh well, today I am writing about being full. 

"Our problem is not really what we eat. It's why we seek fullness in something that will never satisfy. "

  

 I have a food addiction. Food is a quick way to stem off the feelings that leave me anxious. Feeling insecure? Have a brownie to take the edge off. Feeling overwhelmed? More spaghetti will take away the crazy thoughts of scarcity. But the truth is food does not make bad things go away. In excess it dulls the senses for a short duration and then the feelings come back. 

  There are many side effects to my food addiction. The extra weight has compromised my genetic arthritic knees. The extra weigh makes my heart work harder. My feet have taken the load and suffered with alignment issues. 

  Can I come out from under the load? I'm trying to fight the battle with satisfaction, spirituality. Can I petition the spirit of God to aid my struggle? Some days it works. I yield to the prompt that I have enough. My heart feels lighter and I have confidence. Other days I am tempted and give in with relish. Really there is a very rebellious little girl inside who wants what she wants. I am grateful for each day that I am strong. 

  As most addictions I will battle this the rest of my life. The battle may be severe or just a constant reminder that I must be prudent. 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Wednesday Writings- Socks

"I'm also a fan of ridiculously coloured and patterned socks."

Daniel Radcliffe

I don't pretend to understand the secret life of socks. They hang out in pairs but inevitably one or the another dashes off somewhere for a life of it's own. Don't we all have a stash of mis-matched socks? 

Socks are the one fashion statement that I make that reveals my zany side. I may have nicely matched trousers and jacket but under the pants I can be wearing stripes or even better polka dots. 

When my socks are plain, like black, you can be sure that there is writing along the inside. Secret messages parade up my leg reminding me to Keep Breathing or Stay Calm. They inspire, they really do.

On the island where I live there is a little shop that sells the most divine socks. I am salivating just thinking about what could be on their shelves. If Daniel Radcliffe isn't diminshed by his ridiculous socks I think I can keep this little habit and be happy with what lies beneath.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Wednesday Writings- How To Survive Illness

   My writing today is not really whimsical at all. I'm sick with the flu. Between chills there are flashes of sweating. I have a screeching cough and I just feel sorry for myself. Poor me! Here is a list of things to survive illness:

• Don't watch depressing television where everyone's lives fall apart
• Don't read books with complicated plots that expect you to remember who did what
• Do open the windows and doors for a few minutes to change the air
• If you drink 6-8 cups of herbal tea re-use the bags
• Change your sheets
• Think back on how efficient and amazing you are when you are well
• Thank your friend when they offer to bring you more Tylenol and soup
• Remember that nothing ever stays the same 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Wednesday Writing- The Table

“There are times when wisdom cannot be found in the chambers of parliament or the halls of academia but at the unpretentious setting of the kitchen table.”

E.A. Bucchianeri 

Some tables are round, oblong, or rectangular, and I have had one of each. Our rectangle table was purchased by my daughter when she was still home. She felt we needed a nice table and I agreed enough to buy the chairs. This was not the table that had five little children around it but it does have grandchildren,  often enough to feel the sticky, tacky, hand prints of littles. 

     In the winter the eating area is the farthest away from the heat source. The living room can be 75 degrees but the kitchen table is barely reaching 65. So, we don't always eat at the table. I see that as a problem. The graciousness of having a meal together is often non-existent. I tried to solve the issue by placing beautiful placemats and dinnerware on the table early in the day. I wanted that to draw me to it. It worked at first, but the novelty died away. I eat less mindfully in a comfy chair in the living room. I put things in my mouth without tasting them. Then, I eat a little more because I am so comfortable and don't want to get up. It strikes me that traditions that require connection are often inconvenient. Choosing convenience casts a dimmer light on family closeness. I feel interested in choosing more wisely.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Whimsical Writings Wednesday- My Bed

"Your best T-shirt should be like your bed; it just feels like you are home when you are in it".

  Ashton Kutcher

Last July, my husband and I were window shopping and we decided to go into a mattress store. He was playful that day and decided to try out all the mattresses. He climbed on each bed in his camo jacket and boots and patted the bed next to him to induce me to go along. We both knew which ones we liked and they were expensive. Never in a million years did I think we would be coming home with a delivery date of a new luxurious mattress with memory foam and springs. 

   To be honest, the springs on our old mattress were pushing their way into delicate parts of my frame. It was not a luxury but really a necessity. Sometimes in a marriage you get stuck in the cycle of taking care of essential things, not fully understanding what is essential.
   As in all new possessions, I am used to to the bed now. I try to remind myself what I had before to stay appreciative of my great bed.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Eight Minute Memoir- Adventure

                                    July 20, 1969

     While Neil Armstrong was walking on the moon, I was traveling through the Oregon desert on my own adventure. We took a potty break in the middle of the night and looked up at the bright orb of diffused light and thought we saw their footsteps. I was fifteen and traveling with my brother and sister-in-law to their home in Eugene. I was going to see the ocean for the first time.

   My brother enjoyed showing me around but a series of unfortunate events took some of his enthusiasm. I was very eager. While helping them make french toast I tossed a carton of eggs into the trash. Oops, they said put them back into the fridge. 

   Browsing for books one morning at the University Bookstore, I pushed a large, oversized book back onto the shelf, when suddenly the shelf started swaying. I desperately clawed at the falling shelf but to no avail. It hit a ashtray holder on the way down. Kneeling on the floor scooping up sand, I was politely asked to leave. I looked around and noticed my sister-in-law had vanished.

   In the parking lot of the park, where I would see the Pacific Ocean, I broke the car key in the trunk lock. My brother's face indicated that I might have ruined their trip. 
   I talked to a coast guard man at the Heceta Head Lighthouse and promptly fell in love. He was white washing the outside and volunteered to take us up into the prism  I asked my brother if we could get his address from the local coast guard office. He looked dismayed. Hmm......

     Needless to say, when they escorted me to the airport for my flight home, my brother mentioned to the flight attendant that I needed some watchful care. He winked at me and I wondered if I would survive the flight.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record some memoir moments.

Whimsical Writing Wednesdays- Paper Dolls

Memoir

The Memoir is a weekly exercise that builds upon itself. I will divide your life in sections. By answering a "jot list" of questions each week I will trigger vivid memories, discover lost dreams, and find unexpected healing and clarity.

From It's Never Too Late To Begin Again by Julia Cameron

The Entryway- Chapter 1

To enter my childhood house you came through a big door with beveled glass. This gave access to the entryway. To the right, stairs climbed up to the apartment where Mr. Ito lived. To the left was a door which led to another apartment. My brother lived there some of the years with his wife and kids. Straight ahead was a glass door into my home.

This first house, which my father bought in America, came with a tenant. Mr. Ito was Japanese and lived alone upstairs. I believe he lived there for a decade or more before we arrived. Particular smells wafted down from above which were foreign and somewhat repugnant to my young nose. I was fascinated by the sight of him. He descended very rarely so I took up a vigil on the entryway stairs. His pajama-like clothing seemed so strange. 

I played on the stairs most days. This gave me access to all the movements of the inhabitants. I knew when my niece and nephews were going out to play, when my other brothers came home from college, and when my father arrived from work. Paper dolls covered the stairs. Each stair was a place where my dolls lived.

I put them into their stands and changed their clothing over and over again, dependent on the weather. My mother gave me shoe boxes in which I sorted the families of dolls. Cutting carefully was paramount to having good dolls. Many times I mistakenly cut the white tabs off the jacket or pants. Bother! Not good! 

There on the stairs I played for hours, imagining a life far different from mine. Really, my life was extraordinary. I was an immigrant, fluent in German and learning English. The only girl in a family of much older, brilliant brothers, I found my way among adults. Adults who had escaped a world war, survived as refugees, and started over in a new land. And, the smells wafting from my house must have been just as strange as Mr. Ito's.

Join me on Wednesdays for more whimsical writing from my life.