I look around me here in my own personal library and I think of all the words in here. Books written by souls like mine; souls that want to write, to share, to encourage, inspire, create. I was driven to write from a young age. When I graduated high school my goal was to move to Colorado and write poetry. I did not want a job or a career. The only thing I wanted was writing, Colorado and happiness. Needless to say, all these years later, here I am at my computer, typing my thoughts and feelings, trying to come closer to being a paid writer. I don't need to make a living at it, although it would be nice. Just to be paid something might be nice. But I don't write for pay. I write for my heart, for my soul. I write, like last night, for my sanity. There have been long patches in my life where I did not write anything; a journal, poetry. Nothing. The happy years, I guess you could say. But those are the years I would have been able to maybe take the time to produce, to polish, to send off. I spent them being a wife. Being a homemaker, working jobs I had no passion for; just a job to make money. Now I know I have passion for my job and money to pay my own bills, but I am not in my "happy" years. Not to say I am unhappy; I am not. But I am not in the lap of luxury, I am not safe in the knowledge that my heart loves another and that is my be-all-end-all.
I am not living my dream of being a published author. I did not feel the urge to write in those years; I basically put my dreams on hold. First, because my parents said I had to. To them, college was the only option. I have never regretted that, although it ended up taking me a lot longer than I ever dreamed to finally get a Masters Degree. I don't regret the college years, and I am very grateful to them for the life path they sent me on. But, there are lots of side tracks in the road to life. Lots of diversions in those "happy" years. I don't regret much in life, and I don't regret those years. I don't regret putting every bit of me into my marriage, into my life with Steve. I was mostly happy and I think that I could have stayed in that marriage forever, just making it through life entangled lives always together. But it was not to be, and reflecting back I can see that I was not always happy; it was not a blissful time. There was a lot I gave up to be who I was then. My writing dream. A life different than the one I had - that Colorado dream. I can't express the love. We had love. A lot of it. We had respect, and fun, and caring and consideration. Until we didn't. I can look back and see the imperfections in myself. I can see them in Steve and in our life, too, but I can see them in me. I can remember the days I would be cleaning or cooking and working really hard to just exist; and I can remember crying, longing, desiring some other life and just not sure what that looked like. I remember knowing I settled when I settled into life with Steve; that I put my own dreams and heart aside to be joined forever. I can see his flaws, although I am not here to pick them apart; that is not what this is about. It is about how easy it easy to give away your dreams so carelessly.
I still go back to my thoughts about alternative world; parallel universes; how I wonder if they exist, and how comforting it is to believe that they do. That somewhere in time along another plane, the me that I really wanted, the poet with the Rocky Mountain High - I hope she is happy pursuing her dream; that somewhere she is poet laureate to the world; the Robert Frost of her time. I hope that she is living a Bohemian life style, un-tethered to any one soul, answering only to the call of her heart. That she dresses in flowing linen and gauze and she wears beautiful clanking bracelets given to her by a lover madly desiring her. I hope she dances naked in the moonlight under the stars and that she washes her face in mountain streams when the mood strikes. I hope she paints color portraits of her world with her words - and maybe, also in oil paints on canvas too. I hope somewhere sometime she and I can meet, share notes and discover that we wanted what the other has. I hope, that in my parallel universe, somewhere, one of me did achieve the dreams we wanted for ourselves.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
The gray house
Driving home today I watched the trees and houses; sometimes springtime here in Florida is so crisp and clear, it just makes the heart soar. There is this one particular house on the edge of the historic district in Plant City. It is gray and kept very well. It has a beautiful paint job, shining many-paned windows. The yard is kept clipped, the white frames of the windows look nice; the trees are trimmed. There is something about that house that makes my heart ache. It has a sweet soul, I can tell. It has been there a long time, and yet it has such a pretty timeless, clean quality to it. I am not sure what it is that makes such a mark on my heart. It's a house I'd like to live in - not the location. I would not want to be in town on such a busy street. I would like the back yard to open up to a beautiful pond or a pasture with a mountain in the distance, maybe. But the house does speak to me.
I think about where I want to live next. Someplace cooler, less humid, less crowded; with less people wanting to move into the state. It is too much for me here - too much traffic, too much noise, too much chaos, too backwards ways of thinking, yet too many people wanting to change things to their own way of thinking. I remember reading something about Italy or France once and how it is important, should you decide to move there, that you definitely learn the language and the customs of the land. That it is expected. And it makes sense - French and Italian cultures have survived much over the long years. The inhabitants go with the flow, but they maintain their own core values. Moving to such a place implies to me that you learn the customs of the land. Why move to a new, wonderful adventure and bring your old ways and expectations with you? What is the point? You might just as well stay put if you want things to always remain the same. People originally moved here to America for a new, better way of life; to escape oppression, tyranny and so on. They brought their customs with them and they discovered that was not enough. It is not a debate about what happened to the natives already here; yes, that was a tragedy, but that is not exactly what I mean. Or, maybe it is. A whole culture, a whole way of life was desecrated. Still, back then, those new not-yet Americans did have to change, to adapt, to learn to live in the new land and to create a new culture, different from what they left. It seems to me that now what happens in today's society is that people move and expect things to be exactly the way they were in their old home. And they push for changes without really thinking them through. Others listen, and soon you have a lack of regard for old ways, old houses, the why's of what make a place special, and it becomes a hodge-podge of chaos and confusion, and it seems that no one is happy.
When I moved here I kept the parts of me that were me - I kept my language and my education, but I understood the language of being here; southern is different than upstate New York, for sure. I learned, grew, changed, and I accepted life as being different from what I knew. I don't always like it, and in fact I look forward to moving, but back then, I accepted that being here was different and some of the old ways had purpose and meaning; especially to those already established here. What happens now is that developers see empty land and they see the need to develop for money; take the money and run. Cities see the developers as a way to generate more revenue in the form of taxes, and to improve their community - interestingly, not always in the best way. It seems to me that it has to stop somewhere before it all goes by the wayside. It is kind of what is going on now - too many personalities from too many places stirring the pot and not liking the stew that is created; that melting pot society. Still. There are places here and there that are still reminiscent of the way things were once - this sweet gray house at the edge of the historic district. Life has built up around it, but somehow it has maintained it's dignity, innocence and heritage. That must be what draws me to it.
I think about where I want to live next. Someplace cooler, less humid, less crowded; with less people wanting to move into the state. It is too much for me here - too much traffic, too much noise, too much chaos, too backwards ways of thinking, yet too many people wanting to change things to their own way of thinking. I remember reading something about Italy or France once and how it is important, should you decide to move there, that you definitely learn the language and the customs of the land. That it is expected. And it makes sense - French and Italian cultures have survived much over the long years. The inhabitants go with the flow, but they maintain their own core values. Moving to such a place implies to me that you learn the customs of the land. Why move to a new, wonderful adventure and bring your old ways and expectations with you? What is the point? You might just as well stay put if you want things to always remain the same. People originally moved here to America for a new, better way of life; to escape oppression, tyranny and so on. They brought their customs with them and they discovered that was not enough. It is not a debate about what happened to the natives already here; yes, that was a tragedy, but that is not exactly what I mean. Or, maybe it is. A whole culture, a whole way of life was desecrated. Still, back then, those new not-yet Americans did have to change, to adapt, to learn to live in the new land and to create a new culture, different from what they left. It seems to me that now what happens in today's society is that people move and expect things to be exactly the way they were in their old home. And they push for changes without really thinking them through. Others listen, and soon you have a lack of regard for old ways, old houses, the why's of what make a place special, and it becomes a hodge-podge of chaos and confusion, and it seems that no one is happy.
When I moved here I kept the parts of me that were me - I kept my language and my education, but I understood the language of being here; southern is different than upstate New York, for sure. I learned, grew, changed, and I accepted life as being different from what I knew. I don't always like it, and in fact I look forward to moving, but back then, I accepted that being here was different and some of the old ways had purpose and meaning; especially to those already established here. What happens now is that developers see empty land and they see the need to develop for money; take the money and run. Cities see the developers as a way to generate more revenue in the form of taxes, and to improve their community - interestingly, not always in the best way. It seems to me that it has to stop somewhere before it all goes by the wayside. It is kind of what is going on now - too many personalities from too many places stirring the pot and not liking the stew that is created; that melting pot society. Still. There are places here and there that are still reminiscent of the way things were once - this sweet gray house at the edge of the historic district. Life has built up around it, but somehow it has maintained it's dignity, innocence and heritage. That must be what draws me to it.
Monday, March 5, 2018
750 Words a Day
I started a new quest for writing. It's been my life for so long, being a writer (paid or not I know I am a true writer at heart) but I have found myself at odds the last few years. I've let living life take over my writing. I used to write in the dead of night, when I laughed, when I cried; when I was happy or sad. I would write stories, or starts of them; I would write poetry; pages and pages of it. I have neglected that part of me, though. Too busy - what a terrible word and terrible excuse. I have words to share with the world and they are not getting shared when I am too busy, too tired, just not in the mood. Today I saw this link to a site that intrigued me; 750words.com. It is private, and encourages daily writing, and helps log it, track it with points and badges; you basically compete with yourself. 750 Words came about because the creator read Julia Cameron's The Artist Way. I read that too, and was so intrigued by writing morning pages that I gave that a go for many months. But I have been unable to successfully keep it up. I already get up so early, and although I managed it for awhile, I just tapered off. The idea of morning pages is to purge your thoughts first thing in the morning before you really start your day. With purged thoughts, your creativity can come out easier. It's great and I loved doing it, but I also hated doing it, because it just was not practical for me.
Driving home I am often so inspired by sights, sounds, smells in the air. My mind wanders and I find myself wanting to write it all down. But when I get home a million things wait, and there go my 750 words again. For the last three years I have been on a committee reading and approving kids books fo the state of Florida. After this week my time on the committee is done, and my time will once again be spent doing what I want, reading what I want, and now, hopefully, writing what I want to free my creative soul. I'd get home over the last few months and I would see this huge pile of books waiting to be read and I'd know that I had to do the right thing, writing on my mind or not. So. Here I am signed up for 750words.com and today was my first day. I hope I can continue and finally inspire my own self to make my dreams come true.
Monday March 05, 2018
On the way home tonight I saw two young boys fishing off a bridge. They were pre-teen, scruffy, barefoot, one without a shirt, pants riding low on skinny hips, underwear showing, but not in the hip-hop, gangster style. This was just a casual, don't care about my appearance kind-of clothing. It was around 3 pm; the kids in Plant City today, did not have school, so it was an out-of-school moment for them, I am sure. Next week is spring break; maybe more time for these boys to fish, I hope. The trees are all in bloom - the oaks, grand in their newly budded bright spring cloaks, the air almost shimmering with it. The young boys stirred my heart. I cannot help but consider Steve at that age, probably dressed in a similar fashion. It teases my soul. I don't love Steve with all my heart now, but I did for a long time, and it makes my heart happy to see little boys with their futures stretching out in front of them, as was Steve’s once. They are still too young to see mistakes they might make; still too young to be of much harm to anyone but themselves. Their lives really are shiny and new; regardless of what they might end up as; today, they are young boys fishing off a bridge, enjoying a warm spring afternoon away from school and doing what boys love to do best. They can be a mess, look a mess, get dirty, wet, fishy. It doesn't matter. It's a wonderful way for them to while away the time; innocent, yet grown-up enough to be out of sight of parents. They might have siblings; a lot, just one. They might be from a split home; living with either parent seeing the other on the weekends, or not. Their stories can be played out in any direction, any number of truths possible. For today, they are just two young boys fishing off a bridge on a beautiful, warm, blooming spring afternoon.
Farther down the road I passed a house on the other side of the road. Chipped green paint, wooden frame, azaleas in riotous bloom all around the house in tall bushes. That's the way azalea's should grow and bloom, not trimmed into perfectly round balls, beaten into submission. They are naturally rangy, tall bushes in a variety of colors, although these were a deep fuchsia pink. It was an older house; no telling just how old, but an old frame house, the way houses were when they were built here in Florida until recent years. Now houses in this area tend to be concrete block, fancy stucco, mission style with rounded windows and archways. There is nothing wrong with those type houses; mine is a ranch stucco, but the old houses have such character. Built on concrete blocks, like feet, the air could pass through under the home and keep the house cooler in the summer, although in the winter it does nothing to keep heat in. Most were not insulated, were without central heat and air, and some even without original plumbing. They were fodder for termites, especially with the damp and moist heat we live with so much in Florida. So this house I passed was an old frame house built up on blocks, but also framed in around the bottom with what looked like wooden siding. The window frames were an odd brownish-green color that looked like it wanted to offset the chipping paint, and it really did so successfully. One framed window screen, however was slightly askew. My mind found itself wondering just what set that screen askew. Some teenager sneaking out at night, sliding open the window, lifting the screen, sneaking out into the night, clandestine meetings planned with friends; a boyfriend or girlfriend? Just for the thrill of getting away with it? Entirely possible; the window with the tilted screen faced west; if mom and dad came home from the east each day they would never see it. No yards really need mowing now, so chances are dad won't catch it while mowing. I remember seeing it askew as far back as last week, so who knows the truth of that wonky window?
All we have to do is watch where we travel; when driving, walking, wherever and however we get there. There are stories everywhere. We can imagine each and every detail, we can make them up ourselves; it doesn't matter the truth, really. What does matter is our curiosity, our observations, and the stories our own mind comes up with. I've always known I was a writer because of my inherent curiosity of the world around me. I've always wanted to know the lives lived in tumble-down, abandoned houses, in old barns with their roofs caving in; in the old tractor equipment left to pasture. It peaks my imagination, my curiosity, and it makes my storyteller mind come to life.
Driving home I am often so inspired by sights, sounds, smells in the air. My mind wanders and I find myself wanting to write it all down. But when I get home a million things wait, and there go my 750 words again. For the last three years I have been on a committee reading and approving kids books fo the state of Florida. After this week my time on the committee is done, and my time will once again be spent doing what I want, reading what I want, and now, hopefully, writing what I want to free my creative soul. I'd get home over the last few months and I would see this huge pile of books waiting to be read and I'd know that I had to do the right thing, writing on my mind or not. So. Here I am signed up for 750words.com and today was my first day. I hope I can continue and finally inspire my own self to make my dreams come true.
Monday March 05, 2018
On the way home tonight I saw two young boys fishing off a bridge. They were pre-teen, scruffy, barefoot, one without a shirt, pants riding low on skinny hips, underwear showing, but not in the hip-hop, gangster style. This was just a casual, don't care about my appearance kind-of clothing. It was around 3 pm; the kids in Plant City today, did not have school, so it was an out-of-school moment for them, I am sure. Next week is spring break; maybe more time for these boys to fish, I hope. The trees are all in bloom - the oaks, grand in their newly budded bright spring cloaks, the air almost shimmering with it. The young boys stirred my heart. I cannot help but consider Steve at that age, probably dressed in a similar fashion. It teases my soul. I don't love Steve with all my heart now, but I did for a long time, and it makes my heart happy to see little boys with their futures stretching out in front of them, as was Steve’s once. They are still too young to see mistakes they might make; still too young to be of much harm to anyone but themselves. Their lives really are shiny and new; regardless of what they might end up as; today, they are young boys fishing off a bridge, enjoying a warm spring afternoon away from school and doing what boys love to do best. They can be a mess, look a mess, get dirty, wet, fishy. It doesn't matter. It's a wonderful way for them to while away the time; innocent, yet grown-up enough to be out of sight of parents. They might have siblings; a lot, just one. They might be from a split home; living with either parent seeing the other on the weekends, or not. Their stories can be played out in any direction, any number of truths possible. For today, they are just two young boys fishing off a bridge on a beautiful, warm, blooming spring afternoon.
Farther down the road I passed a house on the other side of the road. Chipped green paint, wooden frame, azaleas in riotous bloom all around the house in tall bushes. That's the way azalea's should grow and bloom, not trimmed into perfectly round balls, beaten into submission. They are naturally rangy, tall bushes in a variety of colors, although these were a deep fuchsia pink. It was an older house; no telling just how old, but an old frame house, the way houses were when they were built here in Florida until recent years. Now houses in this area tend to be concrete block, fancy stucco, mission style with rounded windows and archways. There is nothing wrong with those type houses; mine is a ranch stucco, but the old houses have such character. Built on concrete blocks, like feet, the air could pass through under the home and keep the house cooler in the summer, although in the winter it does nothing to keep heat in. Most were not insulated, were without central heat and air, and some even without original plumbing. They were fodder for termites, especially with the damp and moist heat we live with so much in Florida. So this house I passed was an old frame house built up on blocks, but also framed in around the bottom with what looked like wooden siding. The window frames were an odd brownish-green color that looked like it wanted to offset the chipping paint, and it really did so successfully. One framed window screen, however was slightly askew. My mind found itself wondering just what set that screen askew. Some teenager sneaking out at night, sliding open the window, lifting the screen, sneaking out into the night, clandestine meetings planned with friends; a boyfriend or girlfriend? Just for the thrill of getting away with it? Entirely possible; the window with the tilted screen faced west; if mom and dad came home from the east each day they would never see it. No yards really need mowing now, so chances are dad won't catch it while mowing. I remember seeing it askew as far back as last week, so who knows the truth of that wonky window?
All we have to do is watch where we travel; when driving, walking, wherever and however we get there. There are stories everywhere. We can imagine each and every detail, we can make them up ourselves; it doesn't matter the truth, really. What does matter is our curiosity, our observations, and the stories our own mind comes up with. I've always known I was a writer because of my inherent curiosity of the world around me. I've always wanted to know the lives lived in tumble-down, abandoned houses, in old barns with their roofs caving in; in the old tractor equipment left to pasture. It peaks my imagination, my curiosity, and it makes my storyteller mind come to life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)