blessed

readers & writers, welcome! thank you for stopping in. this will likely be my last post until january 3, though i may be able to pop in while our family's on vacation. while i'm away, feel free to read or write on this or any photo in the archives. 

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for this week, a blessing to go with this photo of a painting done by my husband's grandmother Constance ~ long gone to be with the angels. the words of this blessing, drawn from the daily prayer of a celtic community in chatton, ireland, sing out my wish for you, and for the whole wide world.

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May the peace of the Lord go with you,

wherever he may send you.

May he guide you through the wilderness,

protect you through the storm.

May he bring you home rejoicing

at the wonders he has shown you.

May he bring you home rejoicing

once again into your doors.

freckled

readers & writers, welcome!

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writers, join me in writing about today's photo prompt. click on comments below to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response. cheers!

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"Would you like another, miss?" Adin shaded her eyes, squinting to see the waiter standing over her in his white polo shirt and khaki shorts, holding an empty pina colada glass in his hand. "Please," she said, propping herself up on her elbows. He nodded, tossing her a wink as he turned away. 

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She sat up, stretching her fingers toward the sky and her toes in the general direction of the ocean, which rolled and shhhussshhheed just yards beyond the resort pool. She examined her arms and legs for signs of sunburn, supposing that she should put on some more sunscreen. "You'll freckle, dear..." Her mother's voice scolded faintly in her mind. How many years had Adin spent, at her mother's urging, confined to the shade circle of a beach umbrella or nearly suffocating in a 'lightweight' cotton wrap. And still she'd end her vacation covered with tiny freckles, a smattering across the nose, many more on her body, scattered like so much glitter across the surface of a Christmas ornament. They'd last a month or two then recede under the milky surface of her skin until next time. 

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But now, one week post finals, six months to college graduation, she'd finally realized that mother's voice, though it would always bob around in her sea of thoughts, no longer had a place as the voice heard above all others. Adin flipped onto her belly, resting her cheek against her soft nubby towel. "The thing of it is," she drawled, more relaxed than she remembered being for years, "I like my freckles." 

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wanted

readers & writers, welcome!!

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come write with me, my writing friends. short story, poem or creative non-fiction, warm your writing self up and give your creativity a boost for the day... just click on comments below to share.  

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wanted

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one jolly old elf

oft' seen on twelve twenty-five

shouting, 'good night all!'

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seen this man? please call:

the North Pole, Mrs. Kringle

"it's near time," says she

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with twinkling eyes

"my Kris always goes fishing.

to relax, unwind.

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the sleigh is lubed up

ready to fly. all we need

now papa is you!"

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topped

writers & readers, welcome!

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writers, care to join me in a writing warm up about today's photo prompt?  click on comments below to share your short story, poem or creative non-fiction piece.

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Kyra fiddled with the backing of the glossy bow, struggling to peel it back despite the fact that she had no fingernails (chewed to the quick). She'd turn forty next week, New Year's eve. She marveled at the fact that, twenty-five years later, she couldn't wrap a gift without thinking of that one Christmas, when her true love showered her with a gift every day. Not partridges or pear trees, mind you, but mixed tapes and simple trinkets fraught with meaning. And on Christmas day, her first ring (which she would, sometime in college - when the drama of their relationship had wended its way to a peak - mail it back to him in an envelope stuffed with poetry and dreams and recriminations and ultimatums).  Then it all had fizzled and dispersed like the smoke after fireworks. At the time of the great gifting she thought that every boy was so sweet, that every boy would shower her with gifts and compliments and undying love. She chuckled now. That hadn't been the case. Not in the least. But life had brought her so many good gifts, simple and complicated, each one fraught with meaning.       

passed

welcome, readers & writers... i'm sick as a dog here, and coughing, as they say, to beat the band. need a full night's sleep. hope your week is treating you better than mine is treating me!

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today's photo prompt is another close up. this little box belonged to my dear old friend "aunt" ruth, who passed on two years ago this month at the fiesty, warm, and wonderful age of 89 years old. she is our oldest son's godmother (his first name for her was "aunt joop"). she loved sweet little knick-knacks like this, and often she'd have a few treasures tucked in her handbag to pass along to my boys or to me. writers, come write with me! poem, creative non-fiction or short story - just click on comments below to share. readers, comments are open to you as well.

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5. 7. 5. (x2)

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through the wardrobe door

Joop has gone to see old friends

beloved family

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she comes back sometimes

it's true,  she comes to see you

to whisper love, hope

hitched

readers & writers, welcome! thank you for stopping by. hope you had a chance to rest & play this weekend. we enjoyed a couple of beautiful days out in the country with some friends.

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writers, how about some writing play around today's photo prompt? click on comments to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to the photo. writers, comments are open to you as well. here's my spin on the photo:

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Happy unanniversary, my sweet. Happy old ordinary day. Happy scrambling around to make sure all the kids have clean socks to wear today. Happy bowl of soggy cereal because you poured it before remembering another lunch had to be made. Happy sitting up listening to me cough half the night, and thank you for snuggling close anyway. Happy day packed with meetings and I won't see you until late, after the homework is done and dinner is made and stories are read. Happy sopping up the puddle of water on the kitchen floor hoping the refrigerator might hobble through on its last chilly legs until January. Happy I'll do the dishes, you set the breakfast table, and then we'll do it all again tomorrow. We're in it. I love you. Happy unnanniversary. Happy old ordinary day, my sweet.

surrounded

welcome, readers & writers

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hope you've had a good week and that your weekend plans are shaping up nicely. how about a writing warm up for you writers out there? poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to today's photo prompt, just click on comments below to send it in. see below for my short story spin on the photo. readers, the comments section is open to you as well. thanks for stopping in!

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Lil is taking her boys and leaving for the holiday. Leaving me here, in their wreck of a house. Alone. I know I should be happy for her, finding someone to love after so many years on her own. I know I have no claim on her and the boys, no reason to be resentful. I'm just a boarder. And a friend. But first a boarder. I mean, I always pay my rent on the first of the month, if not a day early. Don't I? I keep my belongings contained in my room, and my food on my shelf in the fridge. I take care that nothing spill over because if it did I might never find it again. 

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When I can no longer hear their car on the street, I jump up from my place on the couch and peek out the window to be sure they're gone. I giggle and my breath warms the moisture on the window, causing two drops to race to the windowsill. I flip on the TV, clicking through all the channels until I find the family Christmas movie channel.  It's a marathon of movies today, which is good. A mess like this will take hours to conquer. 

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And it does. Not only picking up the clutter and carrying it away to the bedrooms, trying hard to guess to which boy each thing belongs. But the trash. And layer upon layer of dust and dirt and the gritty dry puddles of spills never quite cleaned up all the way. At last, when I look around and feel I'm in another house altogether, I go to the garage and dig through their Christmas bins. They hadn't bothered since they knew they'd be leaving. I find a tabletop tree, the kind with the lights wired into it and the ornaments glued on it. I plug it in and take a seat. It's well past nine. 

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Too tired to think of cooking, I pull on my coat and go for fast food, bringing it back to the couch to inhale it. The Coke is so cold it's almost frozen. The lights on the little tree are blinking. McCauley Caulkin is hugging his mother. Another movie will begin soon. I sigh and cuddle up in the chenille blanket I'd found, and washed, and arranged with care on the back of the couch. It's not until I drag the final crusty french fry through the last streaks of the ketchup on my plate that my heart misses a beat. I sit up and look around. She's going to hate that I did this. This will not feel like a gift to her. It will feel like judgment.

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"But what am I supposed to do?" I say to the scrolling credits. "Put it all back?" I seriously consider the possibility, then dismiss it. It will have to be my gift to myself. A clean room in which to spend Christmas alone. I prepare myself for the likelihood that she won't say thank you.

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And she never does. She never says a word.

    

dreamed

welcome, readers & writers!

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writers, are you ready for a writing warm up? you can go my direction on today's photo prompt (and write about dreams that have been floating around in the night at your place) or you can go your own direction all together. poem, short story or creative non-fiction, share by clicking on comments below. readers, your comments are welcome, too. thanks to all for stopping by!

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After having a kind of strange and kind of wonderful dream last night, I took an unofficial poll this morning among my family members.  Our various dreams were too vivid, scary, lovely or bizarre not to share.  

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In my dream two dear but distant friends, Presbyterians (this seemed to matter for some odd reason) showed up. One wrote out a 'prescription for wellness' which included hand drawn pictures of apples and the presence of another child in our lives. The other friend stopped by and just so happened to leave a small child behind... a beautiful boy with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes who took to us all immediately and, when I met him, wrapped his little arms around my neck for a big hug. We couldn't figure out who he was or how long he was staying. But I kinda loved him. 

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My littlest son woke up crying this morning. Being that he's five and doesn't usually do that anymore (thanks be), I rushed to his room and found him sound asleep. I asked him if he was okay. He woke up and looked at me like I was crazy, "I'm fine, Mom." He didn't remember crying out, but a little while later he came to tell me that he had a dream in which red ants were biting his hands and feet, and when he tried to pick them off their legs got stuck inside of him :(  I believe I'd cry about that, too.

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This prompted me to ask my husband if he'd had any dreams he could remember. He said he'd dreamt that he had to critique people's writing (ahem) as it came up on the display of a gas tank. He said the grammatical mistakes and errors kept coming and were endless. (This is not as antagonistic toward his wife as it might sound, as he is a professor and this is grading season). Still.

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Son number two said that his dream involved his brothers, an abandoned house, and chipmunks with wings and bird feet. Cool.

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My oldest couldn't remember any of his dreams from the night...  So that's the news from our house in Austin, TX - where, to steal borrow Garrison Keillior's description of Lake Woebegone, "the men are good looking, the women are strong and all the children are above average."

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come write with me!

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mended

readers & writers, hello & welcome! 

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as the weather grows colder i'm noticing a tendency to draw closer to things, for warmth maybe. today's photo prompt is a close up of denim fabric. writers, if you're up for a writing warm up, join me! poem, short story or creative non-fiction - submit it below by clicking on comments. readers, comments are open to you as well. thanks to all for stopping by, and have a great monday.

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5. 7. 5. (x2)

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sad "blue jean baby"

heavy-hearted, rent, alone

torn apart, lost, dark

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in wisdom she seeks

women friends to knit her strong

soon now, whole again 

trimmed

welcome writers & readers - happy friday! 

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i'm so thankful it's the weekend, though a little overwhelmed at how jam-packed it is with things to do. one cheery task is that the tree, which currently resides in our living room, must be lighted and trimmed. though i'm not thrilled with the blurry edge of the photo, i love how we can see individual needles clinging to the branch. the intricate beauty of this inspires me, and i hope it inspires you writers as well.  come write with me! poem, short story or creative non-fiction - 300(ish) words or less. share it by clicking on comments below. readers, comments are open to you, too. thanks to all for stopping by  = )  

In a few short hours my family will gather around this tree and cover it with beautiful things: lights that pierce the darkness, an angel to watch over us and direct our gaze upward sometimes over the next busy weeks, and ornaments that mark fourteen years of family life.  
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A grinning Nutcracker ornament from the very first Christmas I dated my sweetie, when we saw a production of the musical at the Fox theater in midtown Atlanta.  An adorable handcrafted clay snowman ornament bought on a weekend in Asheville, NC the same as we gave to our wedding party as thank you gifts for our (almost) Christmas wedding. 
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Baby's first Christmas x3. A dog bone with Maddy's name inscribed on it (still brings tears when we pull it from the tissue paper five years after she went to Dog Heaven). A ceramic Santa ornament from our second honeymoon trip, the one where we fought half the time and spent the other half in the sunken bathtub next to the blazing fireplace. 
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Fancy crystal ornaments from the in-laws, one for each year, that cost more than a day's wages and catch every bit of light in the room, never failing to enchant my boys, even though they're no longer babies. One ornament for each boy, for each year, some hastily bought on Christmas eve from the grocery store, some chosen with care and lovingly inscribed with their names - depending on how hectic life was that year. 
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I'm taken with this lovely tree, who in all of its natural beauty, will stand patiently with us through the holiday, bearing the many blessings and thankfully few burdens of our years together. 

misted

welcome, readers & writers 

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i'm so excited about today! write away every day is celebrating our first guest post. for those who might not know, a guest post is when a blogger invites another blogger to be the host of her/his blog for a day. i invited one of my favorite bloggers (and authors) Kathryn Magendie to do a guest post for us today and she graciously agreed. so today's lovely photo prompt was taken by Kat, and the written response is hers as well. visit Kat's wonderful website by clicking here, and be sure to take a look at her published books, Tender Graces, Secret Graces, and Sweetie (just out this November!) as well; she is a gifted writer. thank you, Kat, for hanging out with us today on write away every day.

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writers, write along with Kat by clicking on comments below to submit your short story, poem or creative non-fiction piece. readers, comments are open to you as well. see below for Kat's lovely reflection on the photo:

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When it is cold, I sit with a throw over me, as if I'm an old woman, and I rock and drink strong black coffee. The mists come and go like ocean waves, recede and arrive, recede and arrive, breathing in and out, out and in. When the fog covers me, I am alone in the cloud, and I can think of nowhere else I'd rather be. The mists are ghosts, ethereal visitors, a great glowing white hand whose fingers reach across the mountains.

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The Blue Ridge/Appalachian/Smoky mountains, blue-gray in the distance, have stood for thousands of a thousand more years; some of the oldest in the world. No man could ever tread upon every living thing here, and no man would care to. I can see myself on that highest peek in the far distance—can you see it? I can see myself there, with my arms outstretched, and the wind will rush right through me and I let it and I am not afraid of what is below or behind or above; I just am. Nothing would discover me on the peak, but I would discover myself.

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And as night falls, and I become the wolf, I will howl once, twice, three times. Then, with my glorious snout raised in salute to the ancient ones, I will lope down down the mountain, into the woods, my paws leaving prints in the North Carolina soil. Sniffing the air as I run, I can smell the ones who love me, who wait for me. And under a buckeye tree I stop to rest, lick my wounds, for the night has been harsh, but I know no other way but to go forward. And I let loose one last long reaching ever-heard howl that says, "It is; this is; I just am."

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