Milestones are always a welcome surprise

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I was busy at work today and couldn’t take the time to write anything earlier.  Sad, but true.  My usual routine allows me time in the wee hours of the morning to be creative but this morning my brain put forth zero effort and the page remained blank.  When that situation arises my neurons are ready to fire at lunch and I am able to quickly formulate thoughts and post later in the day.  That was not the case either.

I came home after a tremendously frustrating day of work, poured a glass of wine and opened my laptop to discover two things – this will be my 300th post and, in a few short views, I will have reached 20,000 views on my blog.  Those two things made the horror of my day wash away with the stream of leftover rain cascading across my lawn and made the throbbing in my head ebb ever so slightly.

fireworks

(image credit: en.wikipedia.org)

I am still amazed how words can travel through cyber space and reach people in countries that I have never heard of or knew existed.  The small window of my world opens wider each time a reader chooses to spend the time ingesting the words I long to share.  My words make my existence make sense.  They satisfy me in a way no other passion could and they allow me the freedom to speak from a place of honesty and acceptance.

Thank you all for joining me on this journey through language and life.  I appreciate each and every view, like and comment and look forward to continuing this pilgrimage for a very long time.

Setting aside the time

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Finding time to set aside precious hours, or even minutes, for those things we truly love to do seems to be more difficult as we get older.  Responsibilities pressure us into doing the right thing and prioritizing family, work and chores leaving little time to do the things we yearn to do.  Hobby items collect dust and ideas for great stories become trapped in the vault of our mind waiting for that large iron door to swing open and let the ideas tumble into the forefront of our thoughts.

vault

(image courtesy of Google)

I am learning to make more time for myself.  In the winter months it is much easier to make that time since I work the normal Monday to Friday hours that an office job dictates.  However, when the resort opens for the season, I am back to six days a week and generally my work days start at 7:00 am and ends at 6:00 pm, if I’m lucky.  The summer affords me one day off a week which is spent catching up on the aforementioned priorities, leaving little time for recreation or writing.  I am an avid golfer and at the end of last summer had not even played one full round of golf.  My gazebo waved at me from my front lawn as I passed it on my way to work and simply sighed as I dragged my weary body into the house on my way back from work.

This summer will be different.  Life is far to short to spend all of my time making someone else happy and forgetting about my own happiness.  Changing patterns and routines is difficult, but I have already begun the process to alter my patterns.  With the help and advice of friends I am slowly learning to make myself my first priority.  My alarm encourages me to rise an hour earlier than normal and my laptop is eagerly awaiting the gentle touch of my fingers on its keyboard.  My golf bag smiles knowingly at me every time I pass it on my way to work, somehow sensing that this golf season will be the pendulum swing our relationship needs to get back on track.  And my gazebo seems more inviting than ever.

I have finally come to realize that the change can only begin with me.  If I don’t make time to do the things I love to do, nobody else is going to make that time for me.  I am going to print this post and put it on the wall in my office to remind me that life is not all about work.  Although I enjoy my job, work is a means to an income.  Nothing will ever be as satisfying as writing a paragraph rich in imagery or hitting that perfect drive down the middle of the fairway.

Do you make a point to set aside time for the things you love?

Held Captive – Trifecta challenge

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This is my entry for the Trifecta Challenge, which is this:  For the weekend challenge we’re asking for exactly thirty-three words written in first person narrative. Have fun with it and we’ll meet you back here on 3/3! 

(image courtesy of Google)

brain

I am afraid.  Not of being alone, or of being sick, but afraid my words will not adequately express my thoughts.  I am afraid my brain will betray me.  I am its captive.

Losing sight of what is important

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For all intents and purposes, I am a still somewhat of a virgin in the blogging world.  I started this journey in August and have been doing my best to stay true to what really means something to me.  But as it is in many cases, I felt somewhat lost along the way.  I spent a great portion of my time watching the stats on my blog instead of focusing on what was truly important – the honesty and sense of self in the words that I write.

I began this journey because of a deep yearning to free the ideas in my mind, to let loose the writing demon that was trapped in the confines of my cranial matter.  I spent my days off this past weekend utterly disconnected from the outside world.  I turned off my phone, ignored my television, refrained from playing any music and just lived in the silence.  And within that silence, I found my inner voice.  I connected with what it was that brought me to the blog world in the first place – the love of writing.  I finally allowed myself the chance to be what I desperately yearned to be – a writer.  Although there was no looming deadline and no urgency to put ideas on a page, I fervently followed a passion that has recently been rekindled.  I conceded to the power of the words so desperately trying to form themselves into ideas and let them paint the landscapes of my prose.

For me, watching the stats on my blog almost made me forget why I began this journey in the first place.  I don’t write for anybody other than myself.  That may sound like an extremely selfish statement, but it is based in pure truth.  I write because I want to, not because I feel pressured to write.  The fact that other people enjoy what I write makes me utterly ecstatic and urges me to continue along that path of creativity.  Throughout this journey I have met a great many people who not only share the same passion, but who are becoming friends in the process.  They are people who have found a forum to let their inner voices escape and meet in a place where they are not only accepted, but adored and applauded.

Losing sight of what is important to me may have momentarily altered my bigger picture, but spending a day listening to the writer in me brought me back to reality.  It refocused my yearning to write, if for nothing else, than to put words to a page and to connect with others who can translate my voice into their own words.

I had the rare opportunity to regain my vision and recapture what holds a true place in my heart.  My writing is my passion and I will never lose sight of that again.  The otters in the video below remind me that it is not about the people who are watching, it really is about getting back to the things that are truly important to us and forgetting what is happening in the world around us.  It is holding true to the things we value the most.

All is “write” with the world again

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When I was eleven years old the writing Gods opened the heavens, the sky rained idioms and I was saturated with words.  I stood in the downpour with my arms in the air, letting myself become soaked in their beauty and I was drenched in a freshly watered passion. The seeds of creativity took root and steadily began to grow.  The garden of ideas was a portrait of spectral beauty and has continued to blossom in my imagination.

Perhaps I didn’t realize the depth of that passion until I was old enough to understand the true gift of being able to express myself from somewhere deep within my mind.  At that tender age of eleven I began writing silly poems, at least I thought they were silly, but the words just wouldn’t stop.  I began carrying a notebook everywhere and would jot down each idea as it came to me.  During slumber parties with the girls, they would all sit in a circle on the floor giggling about the boys, and I would be in a comfy chair writing poems about them.  Eventually I just stopped going to the parties because their incessant giggling was too distracting.  We were twelve, I don’t think I missed much.

Teenage angst and unrequited love only fueled the creative fires when I reached high school.  What teenage girl doesn’t write reams of hopeless thoughts about boys, loves lost to the mean girls and the ones that got away?  My pubescent phase was a match made in heaven for the endless stream of sorrow filled words that tripped over themselves to be freed.  I still read some of those old scribblings and am transported back to those ugly braces and bad 80’s haircuts, but I still can remember exactly how I felt when I wrote those words.

quill and inkwell

I lost that passion for a while.  Perhaps it was losing myself in a bad relationship, or perhaps it was just life in general that drained my will to create, but during that period I felt empty.  The voices that used to tell me their stories had fallen silent and I was alone with nothing more than my reality.  When the fog eventually lifted, I began writing my novel a few years ago, but it didn’t access all of voices that had been quelled.  It felt constrictive in a way because it followed one idea, and so it sat and the characters became idle once again.

This blog has helped to lift those voices into song and I am able to hear those choirs and the beautiful harmony they have been waiting to share.  I even feel compelled to write poetry again which I have not done in a long time.  The book now has new life being breathed into it and characters that were once cryogenically frozen in the tundra of my muted brain are now becoming reanimated.  Perhaps they too feel the freedom to speak their mind because they are no longer in the spotlight.  They have the will to move in and out of my consciousness and speak when they feel compelled to say something.  We are dating again, getting to know each other which is sometimes awkward because there are currently three of them and one of me, but the conversation is never boring.  We will continue our ritual dance of the double entendres and I will wait for the day that they are able to pick up the tab.

Don’t get too close – I have vernacular diarrhea

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I’m not sure if it’s contagious, but I opened a floodgate of language and I don’t know how to shut it off.  It flows like a white water river and I am clinging on for dear life while I am plunged into the next swirl of words.  It invades my body like a virus.  It attacks my cells and leaves me listless at times. It feeds on my energy and drains the words from my head. It enters my dreams, controls my waking thoughts and it saturates my veins.  Symptoms of this particular strain include dry eyes, insomnia, gnarled fingers and the side effect of being addicted to electronic devices.  Upon researching this disease, I have come to realize that the language spores are mutating and this outbreak of writing has gone pandemic.

words

Throughout my brief journey in the blogosphere, I realized I am among many like me – people who are affected by this fever, people who have things to say, so many things to say and I really feel like I’ve found a place where I belong, a place where we can begin to find a cure this affliction.  We all have different ways of expressing our thoughts, but the common thread of loving words is woven among us and pulls us together forming a healing blanket of creativity. Expressive thoughts are voiced through poetry, humor, honesty and raw emotion and we are drawn into the same vortex of grammar, syntax and synonyms.

This particular plague can strike when you least suspect it and keep you computer-ridden for days at a time.  The only cure for this malady is large doses of imagination at regular intervals.  If the symptoms persist, please consult your thesaurus.

The revenge of the rhymes

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This was written several years ago, but I have been thinking about it lately for some strange reason.

Rhymes of Passion

When inspiration urges my thoughts and feelings hidden within,

I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of words and ideas that begin

to flow forth from the keyboard caressed gently by my hand.

Such a spontaneous collection of flowing phrase and rhymes that I command.

I understand a passion that’s not easily defined.

Only when my keys are idle, imagination is confined

to whimsical thoughts of whirling words trapped in such small space.

Only when I script my rhymes, my thoughts have found their place.

For passion seeks to free itself, the means are not rehearsed,

The many ways it manifests, the many different verse.

I accept the visions I have not seen, I am blind from word to word.

But when I read my thoughts aloud, what imagery I have heard.

The splendor that is created, the feelings that I may share,

when poems, dreams and promises, magically fill the air.

I open my soul for all to see when my prose is read,

and allow the rhymes to define the words that could never before have been said.

I am a prisoner of my passion, a victim of its grace and style.

Spoken words will never fulfill, they last but only a while.

The rhyme flows on and with its touch, embraces a gentle whim,

and embarks on a journey of bringing forth, creative thoughts from within.