Within The Creases

His DNA is in the creases,

in flecks of skin that fell.

Open the pages and feel a life

that once was here. Tell

me his dreams, crooked symbols

marking fading paper we've both seen-- 

whisper stories of past and present

and futures where our minds have been.

My cells blend with his, 

my finger turns the page, 

waiting for another generation

to join us in imagination. 

I recently got home from a several-week trip to Missouri, where I helped Mom settle into a retirement community. There, she has a beautiful back yard, but one that she isn't responsible for maintaining. Dad died in 2008 and Mom was finally ready to sell the last home they bought together. This one is her house, and I wanted to help her unpack, to lend my love and support to this huge endeavor. May she be happy in her new place.

During the unpacking, we came across a couple of boxes of old books, vintage books. One of the rare things that Dad and I had in common was a love of books. I'm grateful that he had kept these boxed books during the past five decades as he and Mom moved around the country and stored them while they were overseas. A few were familiar, like 1955 copies of Black Beauty and Heidi, those were Mom's, and even the worn Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring published in 1916 by Hildegard G. Frey. I remembered reading those. The unfamiliar in the thirty or so dusty volumes included an 1888 copy of Tom Temple's Career that I cannot imagine reading, and a 1906 edition of Jack London's The Sea-Wolf that I'm looking forward to reading. I'm researching how to keep several dozen of these books from deteriorating further; they aren't of monetary value, rather they are priceless. Mom agreed that both of my brothers would approve of me becoming the Keeper of the Books. So I am. I'm taking it seriously. Until the day that a niece or nephew, or one of their children, might express a devotion to books and ask to be the Keeper.

The dogwoods and redbuds were in full glorious bloom during my visit, a beautifully cool, moist spring. I was born two hours south of where Mom now lives, and when I drive through the Ozarks I smile at the memories.

Writing for Shimmer

I often wander down side paths and find unexpected delights. Especially in reading and writing.

Now that I've finished writing Desert Fire: Befriending the Monster in my Mind*, I'm looking forward to immersing myself again in my novel. However, I've taken a side path in its creation because I found it starting to shimmer with touches of magic. I probably ought to have known that I couldn't write a novel without bits of mysticism or fantasy.

When I was listening to Krista Tippett's conversation with Maria Tatar, for a second time I might add, I realized that a soft voice was whispering to me from a barely visible trail leading into a thicket off the main path that is my manuscript. Is this why I haven't been able to finish it? There was some sparkle missing?

The dialogue between Tippett and Tatar was "The Great Cauldron of Story: Why Fairy Tales Are for Adults Again." (give it a listen, or read the transcript -- I'm sure you'll enjoy it!) Their chat led me to consider not only my interest in adult stories (books, movies, TV) of fantasy and fairy tales but also into my dimly recalled childhood. Unfortunately, while I remember having a passion for reading and books since before I started school, my poor memory leaves a vast vacancy of details. The rare foggy peeks into my early childhood seem to guide me toward Wind in the Willows and, as I wrote about earlier, to Little Burnt-Face. How could I resolve this loss or revive some missing memories?

I have decided to explore children's literature. See if perhaps I could revive some childhood memories and, even if not, create a new association with or appreciation for the stories that I'm sure had an impact upon me -- even if I don't recall the experience. My first step was to buy Maria Tatar's Enchanted Hunters: the power of stories in childhood. Marvelous book! I enjoyed how she wove together the histories of oral storytelling with that of children's literature, and presented a wide range of authors and tales. In addition, she addressed how we think that children may be understanding and using stories differently than adults do, and how the writing itself varies.

I'm going to tip-toe into classic children's literature and see what happens. Maybe my child-self will allow me to wander in wonder for a while … and allow some magic to flow freely through my writing.

"The world of print, like nature, offers many points of entry to feelings of wonder. When we retire to the fabled armchair or turn on electronic devices such as Kindle (the name is telling), we have the chance to enter story worlds constructed by words and images--a second nature that helps us recapture a sense of wonder. Most children in this country begin reading on their own around the time that the real world begins to lose its magic." 
~ Maria Tatar
________________
* Desert Fire will be available in June.

Puzzle Pieces

The puzzle of morning is which piece to start with … 

the frame is so far away that we can’t see it, 

like looking across the vast desert 

and wondering if that is a mirage or a real oasis …

The puzzle of morning is which gorgeous piece to start with. They are all right choices, one cannot go wrong, but some will make a smooth flow while others leave greater confusion for a while. And I like how routine — or sacred ritual — or both — provides a template through the scattered pieces on the table.

The puzzle is begun. Do I want to continue working around the edges or take a chance and create a larger section of detached pieces who create their own whole but sit in the middle or to the side without physically touching the frame? The center morphs and grows, expanding. I know it will touch the frame at some point, and the image is already complete in vibration, on an invisible plane it is whole, but for now I choose the pieces, put one down because it doesn’t quite fit, it doesn’t go “here” but it will fit later — all the pieces will make sense when the puzzle is put back together just as it was originally dreamed into being. 

Meanwhile, enjoy the mystery, the journey, the process of knowing each part of one’s self and all those connections that reassure as well as surprise. 

I can’t remember what it was like not to be writing, not to be working on a creative writing project. I know I spent decades with zero creativity of story or thought — except in sporadic diary entries. Those “Dear Diary” entries that helped me tell “someone” what I was feeling, but I didn’t go the next step into trying to understand on a deeper level what I was feeling or doing.  

That’s why I believe we need to be helping children learn how to process their experiences and themselves and others. Not because I am in a position to physically help kids — I’m not — but because we all have a child inside us who is still confused or wounded. It is that child I seek to connect with, to describe through creative writing that might illuminate a hidden treasure in the dark corner, to help find the pieces of our/their lives that are mishapen and seem not to fit into any larger framework at all. The frame is so far away that we/they can’t see it: it’s like looking across the vast desert and wondering if that is a mirage or a real oasis, a mountain to climb or an illusion in the mind. 

But I am realizing now how one piece of my life fit into another, how saving a creature’s life ended up saving my own, how change created opportunity. And if I can see the connections, so can others. Pieces of the universal puzzle. Putting it all together for healing our planet.

Childhood Friends

My favorite thing about Facebook (which I keep threatening to delete! LOL) is the ability to find friends from long ago. This weekend, I found a childhood friend--she had been my BFF throughout grade school--who I lost touch with when my parents moved us out of state halfway through seventh grade. Her name popped into my head, I searched, and…there she was! Imagine my delight! We've now emailed, even talked on the phone, and the next time I drive up to see my mom I will stop and see said friend (she's blessedly right on the way). I wouldn't have recognized her, of course, if I'd bumped right into her because this is how I remember her:

Do you have long-lost friends you'd love to find?