"Oh joy! Oh rapture!"

Response to http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2019/11/prompt-57-nontraditional-traditions.html


 Laurie's response to this prompt helped open my mind to something besides typical holiday style traditions. With that in mind, I take you back to a time when gratification was delayed, and the joy that followed held its own magic.

"Oh joy! Oh rapture." (The Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz)

A lot of what I am going to write here is putting together a memory in what I think was the most likely chain of events.

It's about a time when there would be a yearly television event in the spring: a television broadcast of the film The Wizard of Oz. It was always on a Sunday evening. It always involved popcorn and staying up way past our bedtime. It involved a story so dear to my heart, I can barely separate it from myself.

I think it probably started when I was in third grade. My mother told me about one of her favorite films, and said that it would be on television. I was going to be allowed to stay up and watch it. My typical bedtime was at 8:00 p.m., and I am guessing the movie would start around 7:30. Those days, there was a thing called "family hour" when child friendly fare would be offered to the masses.

Immediately I fell in love with Dorothy, the Scarecrow (my favorite), the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion. I'd laugh at the antics of the Munchkins. I was terrified by the witch and the flying monkeys. I loved the journey down the Yellow Brick Road, the field of poppies, the Emerald City, the fraud of the wizard. It enthralled me once a year, year after year.

Let me make this clear: this was despite the fact that we only had a black and white television. My mother, who had seen the film in the theater when she was a kid, told us when the world would turn into color. We would imagine the yellows and greens and blues and pinks in our minds eye. We had no choice. I've come to believe black and white viewing is a certain kind of literacy, and for those of us raised in that world, we are adept in vision.

Then came the year my grandmother purchased a color television. I am thinking it was when I was in 6th grade. We went to her house to watch it from start to finish, so we could experience the color change. The magic was multiplied a hundredfold.

I know that I participated in this yearly ritual with my family up through my senior year in high school. (By then we had our own color TV.) I have documentation in my scrapbook that my friends and I took to creating surveys to find out who watched the show the night it was on, and asked them to identify their favorite characters and scenes. My favorite character by far is the Scarecrow. When he gets his brain and says, Oh joy! Oh rapture! it is such a happy moment! And still, to this day, when Dorothy has to say goodbye to him and says, "I think I'll miss you most of all..." Tears! The most heartbreaking movie scene ever. I often find myself saying these two phrases at poignant moments in my own life. The Scarecrow lives in me as a muse and kindred soul.


There is another aspect to this, however.

With the invention of the VCR, I happily requested a VHS copy of a special 50th year edition of The Wizard of Oz for my very own, with the thought I would continue my own yearly ritual. I chose the day after Christmas, and did watch it the first time. But somehow that was not to be something I did consistently. Once I had possession of the film to watch any time I wanted, it lost a bit of the specialness. I think that I've only watched it 3-4 times in the thirty years since.

For me, The Wizard of Oz was about right-of-passage, family time, enjoying something my mother loved, experiencing new technologies in the world, and even the promise of springtime. Until this prompt came along, I've felt vaguely uneasy about my loss of desire to watch the film on a regular basis. I've almost felt guilty. But once I put this all together, well, it makes perfect sense. It's something I had to learn for myself: nothing lasts forever, but your home and memories are always within you.

The moment in time I lived in had a way of making us wait. In the waiting, we learned to appreciate more deeply.  Still most of the time, I have no desire to return to those times. I like having everything (literally) at my fingertips.

But...it would be kind of nice if there was a way to feel the specialness again.

The anticipation.

The joy.

The coming home.

Wingin' It

Response to #57: Nontraditional Traditions

Buffalo chicken bites with ranch (not blue cheese), tortilla chips and salsa, sometimes guacamole
Ruffles and onion dip, cheese and crackers, or melty gooey mozzarella cheese sticks
mini quiches or maybe spanakopita triangles, sometimes bagel bites or pizza rolls
but always potato skins with cheddar cheese and bacon, and of course plenty of sour cream and scallions,
because even as young as 5 or 6 my son always loved scallions

Miami Dolphins game, a movie we'd seen a hundred times, or even 60 Minutes
episodes of MASH, or Twilight Zone, classic Mickey Mouse Cartoons, or Fairly Odd Parents
sometimes video games, ok lots of video games and Spongebob Squarepants
but always around the coffee table comfortably lounging on the couch or hunched over the table
while sitting on the floor inches away from the screen

A carry over from my childhood days, I remember a random night a once or twice a month
when my mom just wasn't feeling the presence of her domestic goddess
What's for dinner? one of us would ask, to which she would respond "We're winging it tonight."
And out came the snacky finger foods often thought of today as crap
because what kind of mother would put this kind of spread out for a family dinner?

The kind of mother who's tired or who's winging it so she can spend less time slaving in the kitchen and more time hanging out and relaxing with her family who loves her well-rounded, healthy home-cooked meals served nicely around the dinner table each night
but also loves the indulgence of all their favorite snack foods and permission once in awhile to watch TV while eating our own kind of TV dinner.

Tonight from the kitchen, as I prepare my low carb, heart healthy dinner for two
I long for the sounds of the little voice calling out from across the house, "Mom, can we wing it for dinner tonight?"

Prompt #57--Nontraditional Traditions

Recent snapshots posted by Natalie of her adorable boys dressed in Halloween costumes for their Santa pics got me thinking about traditions. Most often, we associate these customs with the holidays, but what about all the other established practices we participate in throughout the year?

I thought it would be fun to explore nontraditional rituals we engage in that may seem commonplace to us, but fly in the face of what other people consider the norm. As always, the genre is up for grabs—whatever inspires you to write a great piece.

Power Thieves

Response to Prompt #56 The Best Gift--Words of Wisdom

"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any." Alice Walker

Power thieves come in many forms.

Some obvious in their insidious natures~

fear 

guilt

   prejudice

Some seemingly innocuous on the surface,

yet our souls still drown in the depths below~

    

              

rules

 norms

    expectations

Dare to stomp the ground like an unruly toddler,

scream "NO!" at the top of your lungs.

Arm yourself against the subtle manipulations--

and the outright emotional blackmail.

For in those brave acts,

You'll find your real power.

Strong

Response to prompt 56: The Best Gift- Words of Wisdom

Strong

What does that even mean? Be strong; you're a Patterson. If I've heard it once, I've heard it a million times. I suppose it is said with good intention; a reminder you're strong and you have the power to lift yourself up. Somehow the words do surface when you need them, though maybe "need" isn't the word. Maybe the intention isn't so clean, maybe it's guilt or pride he's after. Sometimes the words are haunting, rather than helpful. Shaming even. Tarnishing the family name when I feel weak, when I cry. Maybe, just maybe, being strong is understanding when you have no fight left it's ok to concede.

Vinyl

Response to Prompt #56


In late September I had the privilege of hearing poet Mary Biddinger read her poetry and speak on creativity at Florida SouthWestern College. It was an unforgettable day, one that inspired me and brought me back to some internal creative pieces I've been missing.

When I first considered the prompt for this month, I was going to use Mary's idea of a "beacon"--something that reminds you to be creative. Then I came across the quote prompt, and liked that a lot, so went with that one. I thought at the time I knew what quote I would work with, since I had just read Educated, and there was one in there that caught my imagination.

But that was not to be. Once a week I read a poem from Mary's book of prose poems Partial Genius. When I read one called "Apology Tour" I found this line:

Let's listen to Black Sabbath and inhale the rage of vinyl seats.

Immediately a story formed in my mind. I knew I had the right quote.

Since I like playing with structures, I decided to model the prose narrative much like Mary is doing with her prose poems, which are divided into five sections. To push myself further, I decided there would just be five sentences per section.  I enjoyed the challenge of creating more complex lines.

Here it is.  Enjoy.


Vinyl

I remember that day just after graduation 1971 when it was urgent I leave my house, the place with an abusive brother and disbelieving parents. I called my girlfriends frantically, but not one was at home to save me. In a desperate move I called you, simply because I had your number handy. “Be there in five, Kathy,” was all you said when you heard my plea, and soon you arrived in your Chevy Nova, music blasting. When I got in the car you didn’t ask what was wrong, why I called or anything else: you simply said, “Let’s listen to Black Sabbath and inhale the rage of vinyl car seats,” immediately deflating my inner terror like a balloon.

Those words became a beacon for me as from that moment on we lived our lives together. High school gave way to the workforce: kids like us didn’t go to college. When the calendar turned 1980, the words from that night became part of your marriage proposal, and we wedded without telling a living soul. It always felt like it was us against the world, a compact unit, held together by rock and roll record albums, used cars, and cheap rent. We found it hard to let anyone else in, but eventually our tight unit would expand.

Then came that cold night in 1982 when our son came too early; we sat in my hospital room, shocked and hollowed out, wondering if he would survive, terrified he would not. There were no words. Days later, good news came, and weeks later we brought Tommy home. Climbing into our 1977 Chevelle, you said those magic words once again, the ones that always made me feel less afraid, and we carried our baby home on those vinyl seats, music quietly playing in the background. It would be a long time before you felt the need to say those words to me again.

The summer of 2006 Tommy brought Lisa to meet us, the girl he intended to marry, the one I felt was from a family way too much like my estranged one. My rejection served no purpose except to motivate them to elope in secret. When we received the news, I stood in the kitchen and sobbed for that loss, and so many others. You, Eddie, wrapped your arms around me and suggested we go for a ride. Once in the car, one decked out in leather seats, you cued “Paranoid,” and I knew that somehow everything would be okay.

Then the June day just after you retired, we knew something was wrong. We sat stunned in the doctor’s office, trying to absorb the news of an inoperable brain tumor. You vowed to fight, and I vowed to fight with you, no matter what it might take. The sun was setting as we walked across the clinic parking lot to our car, the lights coming on, a brilliant yellow moon rising above the trees, when I realized it was exactly 48 years to the day you first came to me. Unlocking the door, I leaned close to you and whispered, Let’s listen to Black Sabbath and inhale the rage of vinyl seats.

And your smile was a

Beacon in the night

Healing the terror

I felt inside.

Remember: A Collaborative Poem

Inspired by Joy Harjo
https://poets.org/poem/remember-0



REMEMBER

Remember when the moonlight filtered in through the bedroom window
bathing you in the confirming light of your decision. You knew if the
moon said yes, it had to be right.
Remember that moon and those evenings which sparkled
with wine, conversation, planning, and developing bonds.
Remember the glow lighting your way home,
a beacon of hope erasing the frustrations eating away at your soul,
creeping into those dark places where you were lost.
Remember that rainy Saturday morning when you felt
your creativity flowing and energy returning. The lightning
and thunder sparked bursts of brilliance and buoyancy.
Remember that Sunday when rays of sun punched through the black clouds,
inviting you to squeeze in a brisk walk before the sky turned dark again. You knew if the
sun said come out and play, you would heed the call.
Remember that moment you got news that rocked you to your very core,
but don't let yourself forget you came through it all, much like the
sun fighting to emerge from behind the thick clouds.
Remember too the time you received news that lifted your spirits, words you longed to hear
giving you the gifts of contentment and peace.
Remember you are the one who controls your action your energy your giving and receiving of love, the embodiment of all you want to be.
Remember you are one, a single being in an interdependent system of all living things, and you have the power to affect so much and so many.
Remember the syntax of spirit, the grammar of gratitude,
the rhythm of your footsteps on the path,
the pen scrawling across the page.
Remember you are all writers and all writers
are you.
Remember you are this story and this
story is you.
Remember to write it.

#56 The Best Gift -- Words of Wisdom

Here is the original prompt as written in Poets and Writers (July/August 2019).  Below it I wrote some suggested variations.

Fiction: The Best Gift
"We must believe in our souls that we are somebody, that we are significant, that we are worthful, and we must walk the streets of life every day with this sense of dignity and this sense of somebody-ness." In Colson Whitehead's seventh novel, The Nickel Boys, the protagonist, Elwood Curtis, replays these powerful words by Martin Luther King Jr. from a record album he received as a young boy in the early 1960s, which he considers "the best gift of his life." Throughout the book Elwood repeatedly refers to King's words as a source of guidance, inspiration, and morality. Write a short story in which your main character is similarly inspired by an important historical figure's words -- words of wisdom written or spoken by an artist, author, or activist. How did you character first come across the words? Are they comforting or provocative? Does the meaning or significance of the words change over time as the character evolves? #

Variations on the Theme
As Trail Brazens, I think we've already established that we never had to write in a specified genre. Feel free to parlay this into a memoir or poem or any other form that inspires you.

I encourage you to find a quote you have never worked with before. It does not have to be a super famous person. It can be any words spoken that could be useful wisdom.

I almost passed on this idea because I feel we have done things like this a lot. But I am hoping we can stretch in new directions.  Here is an example:

The other day Laurie posted a poem about words of wisdom that Mr. Williams used to speak to the girls at PACE. If someone wanted to use these words, there are many ways to approach. It could be a story about a girl who was inspired and lived her life better because of the words.  Or the opposite -- someone who forgot, suffered, and came back to the words later in life. It could be a memoir of how these words matter to you. Or it could be a narrative poem imagining a story about how Mr. Williams came to believe these words to be important, perhaps a childhood experience with the women in his life. There are so many different ways to take it. The words of wisdom might also be misinterpreted or misconstrued as a way to create kind of an anti-wisdom conflict. #

So even though I was concerned that this prompt might seem too ordinary to us, the more I thought about it the more I realized it could push us a little deeper.

Find the perfect quote. Get creative. Have fun!

Ishq

Response to prompt #55: A Word of Inspiration

Ishq

Hollywood always brings me back...
not your Hollywood;
no walk of fame, no red carpets, no Rodeo drive
just a South Florida city with the park, the beach,
an airport, and a less than dazzling downtown,
ever gentrifying like so many others
but it's our town, even 15 years after we left

And as we causally cruised through, rolling
20 mph, searching the diagonally slotted cars
parked along the storefronts,
once a magic shop and a gentleman's golf apparel store
now a Latin night club and shabby chic boutique
I went back in time

Did you know when you wanted to marry me
all the way back then, before you left?
Oh yeah, he replied without question
I wondered how he knew,
how he was so sure even then

And I thought about our wedding day
I can't be certain when I first knew
but on that day I did, and with every passing day
I still do, I'm more sure every day and every year

How has the time passed so quickly?
we are still teenagers, living the life
strolling downtown like big shots

I guess maybe I did know then
deep inside I always knew

My love, my friend, my partner

Two Japanese Words

Response to prompt #55 A Word of Inspiration

Immediately after Laurie posted this prompt, I sent for the book What a Wonderful Word, knowing it would be a wonderful resource for me and my creative writers. I look forward to designing ways for them to use these words.

Today I had the writing bug, so decided it was time to get serious about this prompt. I looked back through the book and settled on two possibilities. Then I noticed they were both Japanese, and decided to attend to both of them through short pieces.

The first word is Kawaakari -- the gleam of last light on a river's surface at dusk. I decided on the 100 word format, this time as a memoir, in honor of Natalie's students getting published.

The second is Nakama -- friends who are like family. Ever since all our family members have left the area, I sometimes feel very vulnerable and afraid. Then I remember my Trail Brazens and for the moment, I feel better.  I did a poem in our time-honored acrostic form for this word.

KAWAAKARI

The last gleam of light on the New River. The loons calling into the October night, a sorrow-filled goodbye tone.

In my mind I’m sitting with Uncle Dick. We both had deep appreciation for the 400-year-old elm tree within reach from this porch, and the trio of silver birch trees, flashing gem-like in the mountain breeze. We believed God was in nature, and trees communicated with us. Many decades older than I, we were kindred spirits.

Two years gone.

Today I’m alone, thinking of how much he’d love this Kawaakari, the light breathing its last breath. Something we all do…eventually.

NAKAMA

Natalie, Laurie and

Annmarie, their consistent

Kindness and inclusion,

Always going beyond simple friendship

Meals shared and our writing, of course

A place for me in this lonely world.

Koyaanisqatsi

Response to Prompt #55, A Word of Inspiration

When Laurie posted this prompt, I didn't exactly examine each word, even though it piqued my interest. Too many non-negotiables clouded my vision, kept me from being close to ready to attack not only this prompt, but the previous one.

On a second, more in-depth glance, the  word "koyaanisqatsi" leapt off the page. It is the Hopi word for "nature out of balance or a way of life that is so crazy, it cannot continue long-term" (Edwards, 2018).

If ever a word was created for me at this moment, this is it.

Having just returned home from a hair appointment filled with much needed hugs and an extra long scalp rub from my hairstylist turned friend, followed by a Target run for groceries and paper goods, I had my list of things to do next scrolling non-stop in my head: laundry, cleaning, food prep, workout, catch up on some work...

But, thankfully, I needed to eat. I hadn't had breakfast after a fitful night with stomach pains,  and my body was telling me I needed to sit down and eat. The banana I pinched from my produce bag didn't cut it, so a Greek-inspired grain bowl make with leftovers and some lemon orzo soup it was (well, is--I'm taking bites in between the typing). I decided instead of flicking on the TV, I'd flip open my laptop instead.

Koyaanisqatsi. It's not like I live a crazy party life, but my life has been its own brand of crazy as of late. Some self-induced, some imposed upon me by others. I am out of balance, the scales tipping so heavily on the obligations side that I'm surprised I'm standing upright.

I decided to look up the word for "life in balance" and found "suyanisqatsi." As Helen reminded us on Facebook today, it is the New Moon, a time to set our intentions. Suyanisqatsi is my goal, a life in balance. That doesn't mean it won't be crazy as I finish my master's degree, juggle a job with overwhelming amounts of work (and very little time after meetings and school visits), and gear up for Alyssa's wedding, but my intention is to balance it with downtime, give myself time to reflect upon and appreciate the blessings in my life.

I'm sad about the reason I will have more time, the death of my dear little dog, Semi, but I think he would approve of how I plan to spend it: taking longer and faster walks than his little legs and advanced legs could handle, going to the gym, getting massages more regularly, reading, writing, spending more time with friends, being more attentive to John in the evenings, and staying just a tad later at work so I won't have to bring work home (it's amazing how much you can accomplish when everyone else is gone). If there's a few things that little ball of fur and sass taught me, it is that I am worthy of unconditional love, that the things I do are appreciated by those around me, that I have more patience than I give myself credit for, and that I have a lot of love to give. Those are gifts I don't have to reserve for others, but can extend to myself.

I cannot continue to function (or function well) under my current level of stress long-term. But, I am the only one who can bring that into balance, tip the scales in my favor.

And that's what I intend to do.


P.S. I just ordered the book.



















Reference

Edwards, N. (2018). What a wonderful word: A collection of untranslatables from around the world.

Burned Out

In response to Prompt 54: Writer's Block

Writer's block feels like lots of ideas stuck in your head but only temporarily because you've got so many non-negotiables and worries about deadlines out of your control that you cannot think straight and you want to write so badly but you really cannot find the time not as in you're not making time but you have every waking moment of every day including weekends booked just to meet obligations and basic necessities like getting gas and grocery shopping and trying to choke down meals that get stuck in your throat or come up later because of the searing heartburn caused by eating when stressed.

Writer's block feels like your creativity is being sucked out of you by an industrial-sized vacuum, every tickety tap of your keyboard devoted to work or school--not the kind of writing you long to do but the writing you must do--just to keep up but just barely and turning in what you consider mediocre work but getting kudos or an A on it anyway secretly grateful that your "good enough" is impressive to some people even though you're not sure how or why.

Writer's block feels like an oppressive heat bearing down on you, leaving you nearly breathless, every inhale a burden so you take shallow breaths just to conserve your energy ever though you know you need to breath d-e-e-p-l-y but you're body just isn't allowing it.


Writer's block feels like stepping in dog shit in your dress shoes as you are already running late like your dog peeing on the elevator for the umpteenth time in a week even though you walk him religiously every two hours or less but then you feel bad for scolding him as he tries to make you out through thick cataracts and you watch his legs shake as he tries to steady himself to do his business one leg up like usual but then gives up and girl pees.

Writer's block feels like a lame excuse, an annoying family member you can't escape, an acquaintance that sucks the life out of you the irritation you feel every time someone asks you for something because you want to scream, "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO HELP YOU RIGHT NOW!" not believing they can't make the fucking inference as you are running around like a crazy person trying to get it all done burning
the proverbial candle at both ends.

Prompt #55: A Word of Inspiration

This lovely book is available on Amazon

I was drawn to this book on my shelf this morning. I pulled it down and tried to recall where or from whom I got it. There is no note inside the cover indicating it was a gift, but I have to admit I don't remember for sure. It's just the kind of book I would purchase on my own impulsively; I am a logophile. I think I may recall standing in an actual book store looking at it, so it's possible I bought it myself. Then again, this may be a false memory.

Anyway, I sat with my Cold Brew coffee this morning and read the entire book. It's a delightful collection of 29 "untranslatable" words from around the world. Many of them represent recognizable feelings and concepts, but do not have direct translations in other languages. I giggled at the two English words included in the book, gobbledygook and whimsy. I think these are interesting choices, given English is the language with the greatest number of words (about 250, 000 according to the book). Gobbledygook has American origin (Texas, 1944) and though it wasn't directly stated as so, it seems whimsy comes from England.

For this month's prompt, we will use words from around the world to inspire our writing; genre of your choice as always. I have selected five, and included them as photos because they are presented so beautifully in the book. Enjoy!

The illustration on this one was so beautiful, I had to include it.

Ready, Set, Go!

Writer's Block  Response to Prompt #54

Writer's block feels like...procrastination

Years and years of thinking about (and doing very little) writing has brought me to this lovely place where I write on a fairly regular basis.

I know how to fill the well. I know how to find inspiration. I have means of sharing.

I have no designs on publishing a great novel, or even a collection of short stories.

I write for my own pleasure.

Yet...there is room for improvement!

In 2013 we began this writing group. At the time I was leaving high school teaching for a more desirable work schedule. At the same time I was quitting a second job. I felt the world was opening up and my creativity would soar.

And, frankly, I have accomplished a lot.  In particular, a daily blog in 2015 and a school year project of writing a poem for every one of my 135 students. I've written short stories and too many poems to count. I've experimented with tons of forms, and gained a great deal of knowledge by attending the Sanibel Island Writer's Conference. All good.

So...you may be thinking, where lies this so-called procrastination?

I have three things that I want to move forward on, but something stops me. Or, I set a goal and take some steps, but never quite finish.

The first is a story I outlined in June 2013 while floating in my sister's pool when they were out of town. It's working title is "Summer Rain." Sometimes I think it is a story. Sometimes I think it's a novel. I've never written a word of it.

The second is what is now called "Invincible." It began in the spring of 2014 when I saw two girls playing with a horseshoe crab at the beach. I decided it was a story, and I was going to attempt episodic fiction. Procrastination fiction is more like it! I had at one point built this story into a novel in my mind, and then last summer I moved it back to an episodic story. I even realized a new ending in July and spent some time on it. In my memory I got farther along on it than I actually did. I looked at it yesterday and realized I have not even gotten to the part that is going to inspire the ending. There it sits.

The third is the "Wing and the Wheel" story I drafted a good portion of during spring break 2018. This one I hit a brick wall on when I realized that the structure I was using probably wasn't going to work. Through my reading I found a way to approach it that might work, but have never gone back to even begin to figure it out. There it sits.

I calm myself by thinking some of the following thoughts, all which I think have some validity, but also can be overcome:

1. I get to know my characters because I'm "living" with them. But do I need to live with them THAT long?

2. Some things just need the space to grow into what they are to be. I'm good at allowing that, which is a positive thing.

3. Teaching gobbles up so much of my creative thinking time, and breaks are a time to rest. These are facts. But not really an excuse.

And here's an additional thing: I get some kind of satisfaction in this. I really do. There is some kind of payoff to holding on to anticipation of what could be. Something is happening -- when will I know what it really is?

That's all well and good. But I figured something out on "Invincible" last summer, and still did not follow through.

Procrastination. With benefits.

Here's another thing about me -- I like starting things. I like the global picture. I usually get bored with the details --- BUT...when I put myself into it, I love the revision process, working out the kinks, finding the right words. I really do. That is a satisfaction I deny myself when I procrastinate.

To throw something else into the mix here, I'm actually thinking of starting another project. But this one will have a deadline built right in. November is National Novel Writing Month, and I have not even considered it the last several years, mostly because of the Sanibel Conference. This year there is no conference, and I have the entire week of Thanksgiving off with absolutely no plans in sight. I'm thinking it might be a time to go back to the "Summer Rain" story and make it a generational novel. I will be forced to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days, or be a miserable failure.

No time for procrastination. No time for anticipation.

What I know about NaNoWriMo, having done it successfully in 2003 and 2007, is that it is an incredible way to write with wild abandon, to allow my story and characters to stay alive in my brain, and keep my creative life on center stage. That is the purpose of doing it. And I'm doing it with thousands of people all over the world, so it is a little less lonely. If I never do anything else with the novel -- no difference to me. I'm seeking satisfaction. I'm seeking pushing beyond procrastination.

So writer's block feels like waking up and finding a way to make my writing life work in full.  My first step will be to expand on my notes, revisit No Plot, No Problem written by the founder of NaNoWriMo Chris Baty,  and check out the website.

As far as the episodic "Invincible" goes, I have a tentative plan for it as well. I have a class full of students who have been writing random stories, always in "chapter" form. Like 100 word chapters. I'm thinking of introducing the concept of episodic story to them, so they can work with a form they already seem to like, but grow in how to approach it. While they write, I can be working on "Invincible."

Win-fuckin'-win.

Having said all that, I think I've moved in a positive direction. Natalie, thank you for this prompt. It has been a motivator! And now that I publicly stated all this stuff...well...expect to hear more.

Blocks

Response to Prompt#54: Writer's Block

Block

a large piece of hard material
usable with flat edges
rock, stone, wood

building or part of a complex,
used for a particular purpose

obstacle to the normal progress
or functioning of something

a set of sheets of paper
glued along one edge
used for sketching or writing

large piece of text
processed as a unit

a starting block
ready, set, go!



A note: I was doing an exploratory activity to inspire a response to this prompt. I was thinking about the difference between simply not feeling like or wanting to write, and the experience of writer's block, usually afflicted on those needing or wanting to write, but feel they can't. I found myself reading definitions of the word block and was somewhat taken by the various definitions, a few of which related to writing, not writer's block. I found this connotation of the word in some of the other definitions and phrases. However, "writer's block" was not included in any of the dictionary entries. 

This found poem feels a little like writer's block... the building up of expectations and solid ideas, maybe with a structure or a purpose. But then something gets in the way. A blank tablet stares you in the face, the idea comes to you, and finally the starting gun shot and you're off!

Hitting the Reset

Response to Prompt #53: Getting into a Groove by Making a Move

I have no shortage of moves in my life to write about... career moves, home moves, you name it. I could write about my big move over from East Coast Florida to West Coast Florida, and how 150 miles or two hours can seem like worlds away from each other. I could write about the unexpected career move I made this year, when I was recruited by an old work buddy who sought me out after 12 years. But these are stories I have told before, in part or in various forms. No, the timing of this prompt made it pretty clear to me it was a different move I would write about this time.

Ever since I pulled past 40, my body has been changing. It seems like all. the. time. I have struggled to maintain a healthy and satisfying weight long-term since well, forever. I'm not talking about the self-conscious teenager kind of struggle, or the complain to your friends even though everyone knows you don't need to lose any weight kind of "struggle." I'm talking always cute, never gorgeous, because chunky or plump or chubby girls were never described by others as anything but cute. And that was only if they had great hair, a not so bad to look at face, and a sense of humor. All chubby girls have a sense of humor, usually the self-deprecating kind. But I digress. I mentioned my weight because it's always been a thing. When I was younger, I put it on easily, but could almost as quickly take it off with a few weeks of strict adjustment. I was an athlete. Not so much anyone. Really, not at all anymore. I probably eat healthier than I have most anytime in my life, but the weight has been pounding on the last few years.

My husband and I started making changes, just as much for health reasons as weight. We stopped buying, and soon after stopped drinking soda altogether, even diet. I cut out most dairy from my diet to help with my allergies. We started buying organics and higher quality meats and fish, and stopped buying most packaged foods and breads. After a diagnosis of diverticulitis and some serious gut health issues, my husband began to read a lot and make some additional changes. We had both long sworn off artificial sweeteners, and I was never a big drinker. He cut out most carbs (not beer) and dropped 20 pounds (men!) and I was convinced I wasn't eating that many carbs anyway.

Last October, I played around with what I've now learned is called "the Dirty30," which is a slack off version of Whole30. There was a Whole30 challenge at work, and by the time I learned about what all was involved, the ship had sailed so I went along with part of it. I played with some of the recipes, followed some of the easier aspects that aligned with the changes my husband and I were already making or trying to make. I enjoyed cooking and sharing recipes with coworkers, and the Dirty30 seemed easy enough. I also started walking 3-5 miles a day. That month I lost almost 10 pounds, and I won a steps challenge at work.

In May and June I started to have some scary episodes on airplanes while traveling for work. I won't get into the details, but suffice to say I was feeling intensely sick while in the air and I couldn't figure out why. As I visited a slew of doctors who tested my blood, looked at my heart, MRI'ed my brain, I was both relieved and frustrated. Relieved because I'm in great health according to all the tests, but frustrated because I didn't know what was causing the episodes and neither did the doctors. My job requires regular travel, so I had to figure something out. Once a seasoned and easy flyer, now I was feeling anxious and apprehensive.

While I was awaiting results from all these tests, I started to research a little on my own. I wanted to know if other people experienced the kinds of things I was, and if they determined any cause. Many of those who reported similar symptoms had inner ear problems (one of the doctors I saw was an ENT who said it's not my ears). Others had heart problems the doctor was already ruling out for me. And then I found two other issues; one was anemia and the other was blood sugar. At various times in my life, including pregnancy, my blood tests have returned low iron. I have also experienced dizziness and fainting in the past from what I thought was low blood sugar. There were lots of comments about diabetes too, and I started to get scared.

The other fun thing about seeing all of these doctors was getting on the scale (yay), and I noticed I had gained a few pounds since the last time I weighed myself. It's not like it was the first time I weighed more than I thought I did, but combined with these other health concerns I was getting in a weird headspace. It was like I thought I could cut it all off before it got to me if I could make some sort of change. I decided not to wait for the blood test and I pulled down all the information for Whole30. I decided this time there would be no "dirty," this time I was doing it for real. (I won't get into the details of the plan here. There's plenty of info online if you want the deets.) Within the first few days of my Whole30 journey, my blood tests all came back clean, as did my EKG, Heart Sonogram, and MRI of my brain.  But I was committed to making this change so I kept going.

I'm now on day 20 of 30. I had some rough days, pretty consistent with what the trends are in their literature. But I feel really good, both physically and emotionally. I don't want to be one of those people who feels the need to preach to everyone and talk about this change in a way that sounds cultish, like so many others.

That said, I think it has changed my life. I'm learning so much about how many carbs I was eating in the way of sugars. I had long cut almost all pasta out of my diet and a lot of the bread. But I was eating yogurt with granola everyday for breakfast, I was drinking sugar in my coffee (this, I must admit I still miss), and coconut milk ice cream was a regular night time snack in our home. And boy was I completely unaware of how much added sugar almost EVERYTHING has. Check the label on any product you buy: Salad dressing- yup. Bacon- yup. Broth, tomato sauce, fruit juice- yup, yup, yup. You name it, they add sugar to it. Even if it's naturally sweet, like juice! And what I've come to realize, is I was eating way more sugar than I realized. Whole30 has helped me detox. I have had no sugar or any natural (no honey, no agave, nothing of the sort) or artificial sweetener in three weeks. Start looking through your fridge and pantry, and you'll see what a feat this is. Are you a drinker? Doesn't matter whether it's a fruity cocktail or a vodka martini. All alcohol is a form of sugar.

Ok, I'm done with the lecture. As I said, I don't want to be that person. So I won't be. But here's what I learned. Whole30 was designed to be just that 30. They specifically tell you it's not supposed to be Whole365. It's a sort of elimination diet, and when the 30 days are over, you gradually introduce things back in. This reintroduction is done in a way that you can pay attention to the way your body is responding to the foods. It also gives you tools for helping you to be intentional about your food choices. I swore off this kind of thing a couple of years ago, because I didn't want to obsessively think about food all the time. But thinking about it is what helps you choose the right foods to fuel your body. Your body. It's about what makes your body run well and feel good. It's about creating a sustainable plan that's healthy for you. Oh, and I didn't have to pay for it. There are products you can buy, but you don't need them. The plan is available for free.

As someone who cooks, I have learned a lot about healthy alternatives to things that should be left out of food most of the time, and used for recipes when you really need them in order to make the dish you want to make. Splurging on something that doesn't make you feel great is ok once in awhile, if you think it's worth it. Scratch made is usually best (duh) and keeping to a healthy and comfortable plan in your everyday lifestyle leaves room for the treats you just don't want to pass up and shouldn't have to. Whole30 is always there to return to for an extreme detox, like after a vacation. I'm in

I feel great- mind, body, and spirit. This has been a big move for me.

Small Step

As I reflected on Prompt #53, Getting In (or out of) a Groove by Making a Move, I knew I didn't want to write about the 4 moves I made in the short span of 11 months a couple of years ago. That time--so exhausting both mentally and physically--seems so distant now, a blip on the screen in the movie of my life. I knew I didn't want to talk about job moves or going back to school--lots of people do that, so there is nothing special to explore there.

I knew I wanted to write about a mental move, one that seemed so small that it would be inconsequential, but ended up having a positive impact on my life. 

Enter therapy.

I was pretty open about going with people around me. I didn't try to hide it. I didn't feel ashamed of it. I did get a lot of surprised reactions:

Why do you need therapy? You have it all together! 

What? Therapy? What do you have to complain about? Your life is pretty great. 

I'm surprised you need therapy. You don't act like you would. 

Don't you have friends you can talk to?

I didn't really want to explain myself, but inside I ticked off my answers:

Yes, I am a fairly together person. 

Having problems doesn't mean you're a complainer. 

I'm so glad I can fake it well enough, but not everyone who seeks therapy has serious mental health issues. That's precisely what I'm trying to avoid. 

And, yes, I have a fantastically supportive web of friends and family who will gladly listen to me. But, I don't always want to burden them with that. Plus, I want an objective perspective. 

I grew up in an environment where issues stayed "in house" and where "handing it over to God" was the modus operandi, even though my father worked in the social work and mental health arena. Stoicism reigned supreme. Worrying was a sign you didn't have enough faith; crying and falling apart was quickly shut down. I'm not bemoaning the way I was raised or laying blame on my parents for anything. They did what they knew to do at the time. I turned out OK, so why complain?  I'm also not going to pretend I didn't gain some pretty solid coping skills from that upbringing, but I also internalized some pretty damaging coping mechanisms. The latter is what therapy helped me recognize and overcome. 

Here is what I have learned: There is a monumental difference between sucking it up in the moment and processing later versus squashing your emotions permanently, denying their validity.  Therapy has taught me those emotions will bubble--sometimes explode--to the surface eventually. Life has taught me those moments usually occur at really inconvenient times. 

I cried that day I reached out to the therapist to set my first appointment. I'm crying just remembering that moment. It was such a relief to finally allow myself to reach out for help. I knew there were things I need to work on: my self-diagnosed martyr complex being at the top of my list followed by being anxious about things out of my control, getting angry over inconsequential things, not knowing how to handle aging parents, not knowing how to be empathetic without taking on the weight of the world, and not knowing how to remove myself from situations and mindsets that no longer fulfilled or served me. 

I cried a lot during the first dozen or so sessions, but I did my best not to. That little voice, Don't be a big baby, chided me as I felt the tears well up. It was the question posed by my therapist, Why do you always suppress your tears? that gave me permission to let them flow.  

Why indeed. She taught me tears are cleansing, tears are soothing, tears allow you to comfort yourself, tears allow that release that begins the path to healing. She taught me that path is frequently rocky, but to enjoy the smooth sections. 

She also reinforced what I suspected about myself all along: I'm a very self-aware and reflective person. I just needed to harness those characteristics and allow them to guide me down a more positive path. Instead of reflecting on all the things I don't like about myself, I can now recognize them without letting them define me. I can focus on my strengths and admit my weaknesses without shame or blame. It's so incredibly freeing.  

That one small step--picking up the phone and dialing a number--changed my life in so many ways. And, now, I'm moving toward a better version of myself. 

The Balance Sheet

Response to  Prompt #53 Getting into or out of the groove

I had already decided to write about this "move" I made a year ago, and then today I realized that more than ever I needed to write it...or something.

How did I know? The Balance Sheet told me!

I spontaneously started this practice last summer, although I don't know exactly when or why.  I just know I began to track my activities to keep myself in balance. At first I called it my "Practices for Soul and Spirit."  But now I think of it more as a way to keep on an even keel.

The way it works is pretty simple. At the top I have the things I do every morning.  I drink coffee and write my Morning Pages.  I have certain prayers and readings I do. I read a poem a day, and write something in response. My physical practice is a series of yoga-related stretches and some arm exercises. This is required every day, and that is why the days of the week are listed.

Healing Practices consists of things like walking, cycling, massages, pedicures -- anything that keeps my body in some kind of shape. Soul Practices are anything I feel that feeds my soul: dinner with friends, podcasts, playing mandolin or guitar, art shows, movies, or concerts. Even putting music on and closing my eyes goes in this category. Anything that grounds me.

Reading Practices is where I keep track of books I read. I note the page I'm on daily, as well as make note on when I finish one. Writing Practices is similar, of course. Whenever I write something original and publish it (that isn't part of my morning routine at top) or work toward a larger project by note-taking, outlining -- all the things writers do to prepare.

Benefits

What I found once I started this is it definitely helps keep me in balance. If I start feeling a little wonky, I look at the page and usually I can see immediately where the issue lies. Perhaps I'm not keeping up with healing practice, or soul practices. It is a reminder immediately that there is a move I can make to help myself.

Today is a case in point. Somehow, starting yesterday, I had a tightening in my chest.  I knew immediately it was anxiety. I haven't felt this all summer, and I'm not sure what was bringing it on. When I went to bed last night it hurt a lot!  I used some Rescue Remedy, and that helped, but I still felt it a bit today.

But one look at my balance sheet from last week and this week revealed that I have not been doing any writing. The last thing I published on my blog was on July 14th.  Usually I write when I'm on vacation, but somehow it never happened this time.  I have been feeling rather lethargic today, and not wanting to do much.  I did manage to get myself out to the grocery store, and when I got home I KNEW the only thing that would make me feel better is to get back to writing.

Thank you, Balance Sheet.  Not sure if I would have figured it out so quickly otherwise.

I mean -- seriously. The anxiety is already lifting. What a great little move I gave myself last year, one that has served me well. It keeps me focused on what I know works for me. As we move toward a new school year, I will rely on this little tool to keep me in tip-top shape for my students -- and myself!

Prompt #53: Getting into (or out of) a Groove by Making a Move

It's an inevitable part of life: Every once in a while, you have to make a move to mix things up. Whether it's moving along, moving out, moving in, moving up, or moving on, a huge move, or a micro move, these changes have a profound impact on our lives. The results may be immediate: You get outside and take a bike ride or walk and gain a fresh perspective or get inspired. They may be far off: You leave someone or something not feeding your soul, and that propels you on a path to a more fulfilling life.

Write about a time when you made some kind of move that is memorable and the after-effects. You could juxtapose a micro move that changed the trajectory of your life, or a big move that changed your life in a small, yet significant way. The move can be physical, or it could be a mental shift.

Whatever you choose, I know we will all be moved (sorry, not sorry) by your words.

Long Drive

Response to Prompt #52: Road Trip!

I've sat on this prompt for quite some time, not because I've struggled with it but really just the opposite. I love music. So. So. Much. Any time I have the opportunity to go down a thematic exploration through music, I relish every minute. Every lyrical minute.

Instinctively, I think I knew from the start I'd end up here, at least emotionally. What I didn't know was that I would be inspired to write fiction, a bit of a rarity in my writing collection. Perhaps I was inspired by Natalie's brilliant piece. Maybe it was the music or my own experiences. Maybe it was all of these things.

I began with a journey in line with some of the songs mentioned in the prompt post. Who doesn't think of Willie's Nelson's "On the Road Again" or Tom Cochrane's, "Life is a Highway" (the latter of which was pretty much ruined by Rascal Flats and the Cars movie, if you ask me) when they think of open road traveling by car? But we all have our own memories of the soundtracks behind our personal road trips. I have written about a couple of mine already in past posts on this and my personal blogs. Road-tripping with my mom and sister from New York to Florida when we moved here, an almost fatal car accident I experienced in college on a road trip with some friends... and I found myself focusing more on the everyday road songs.

There are lots of driving or road songs in my music library, so many of them country songs I haven't listened to in quite some time. There is great movie magic in these for me. I find myself going to these places, riding along with the singers, almost in a daydream with them. You know those cheesy montage scenes in old TV shows and soap operas, the ones when the character is off in their daydreams reliving moments or creating fantasies. That's kind of what happens to me. Take for instance "Who Wouldn't Want to Be Me?" by Keith Urban:

The sun in shining
this road is winding
through the prettiest country
from Georgia to Tennessee

I got the one I love beside me
My troubles behind me
I'm alive and I'm free
Who wouldn't wanna be me

There there's "Summertime" by Kenny Chesney:

It's two bare feet on the dashboard
young love in an old Ford
cheap shades and a tattoo 
and a Yoo-Hoo bottle on the floorboards

Man I could just imagine riding down the highway during summer in an old car with my feet up and the windows open. As I continued to scroll I got into the James Taylor songs too, like "Country Road"

Take to the highway 
won't you lend me your name...

But most of these songs were as much about place and time, as they were about the road trip. And then I got to "Free"by ZBB. This song is really about the journey. Or is it? It starts that way.

So we live out in our old van
travel all across this land
me and you...

...We'll drive until the city lights
dissolve into a country sky  (don't you just love this line?)
just me and you..

But it too, is about time and place and love.

No we don't have a lot of money
No we don't have a lot of money
All we need is love...

It's really just about romanticizing the freedom in having love and no money, and being ok with that. Nothing wrong with the sentiment, but I don't think the song is really about the freedom of the road as much as it is about the freedom of and from jobs and money and the responsibilities that come with them; the sunny side of having no money but "at least we have each other."

And as I scrolled through my music, and I got from F to H, I came to another ZBB song, "Highway 20 Ride." I thought this is a really different kind of road song. It's a bit of a painful one, the kind that comes from the thoughts of anguish that can haunt a lonely driver on the open road. And it led me here. I've shared the video rather than the lyrics, because as with most songs, the power comes from hearing the music and the lyrics together. You can read what Zac's co-writer says about the song here.

Long Drive

It was Friday night. A mixed blessing of sorts. Two days off and time with Justin, but the drive across Georgia gave Mark plenty of time on the open road to remind him of how far away he was, and why. He loved his little boy but couldn't help but wonder how different things would be if he didn't have to settle for weekends once a month. It had been two years since he and Jessie split up, and Justin was almost five now. At this age they changed so quickly, and each time he climbed into his truck to make the trip, he wondered hopelessly if this would be the month Justin didn't want to see him, or heaven forbid didn't recognize him. This wasn't the way he imagined fatherhood would be. Once a month just isn't enough.

He stopped at Race Trac to fill up the truck and grabbed a bag of gummy bears, Justin's favorite. He never showed up without them. It was one of those seemingly inconsequential things, but to Mark it was important. It was his way of showing Justin he never forgets. He plugged in his phone, cued up his iTunes, and he was off. This time of year he was lucky if he could make it all the way to Justin by dark. It was a lonely ride, but not as lonely as the ride home on Sunday.

The open road might seem freeing to some. But the highway drive gave Mark too much time in his own head. He wasn't the one who set the series of events in motion, but ultimately he was the one who chose to leave. And he spent these rides beating himself up over how things could have been different. What did I do to drive her away? It was easy to talk shit about her around the guys. She was the one who stepped out. She was the "whore" who cheated. But he was haunted. When he was alone, all he could think is why? 

And then he'd think about Justin and how much he missed his little boy. How much he wanted to be there to help him with his homework and to coach little league. Maybe he should have given Jessie another chance, forgiven her. She begged him to stay. Tried to make him understand. Promised it would never happen again. It was just so hard to trust her. It hurt. It still does. But Justin doesn't know that. He doesn't understand. All he knows is Daddy got a job far away, and he can't be there all the time. Even Mark wasn't buying the charade anymore.

Maybe it was time to talk it out with Jessie. Maybe two years was time enough to heal. He hadn't been in any lasting relationships since they split up. A couple of dates, a meaningless screw or two. He had to find a way to fill in the time, but nothing was working. There was just something about Jessie. She was the love of his life and the mother of his precious little boy.

He was distracted by memories of the three of them together, and his mind started to wander. He was almost smiling when the old geezer behind him passed him on the right, honking and giving him the finger. "Screw you, buddy!" he yelled out loud to the old guy before flooring it to bring his speed back up enough to cruise in the fast lane. Every song had a memory, every memory brought back the emotion, and his heart felt full. But he was probably kidding himself. Who is to say she would even want to get back together. So much time had passed.

"Whatever It Is" began to play as he passed Columbus, the halfway point. Somehow with all the cleaning out- the dumping of photos from his phone, the boxes thrown into storage- he just couldn't delete this song. As painful as it was to hear, it was the kind of pain that almost felt right. The kind that reminds you of how good it once was so you can hold onto a little bit of that joy for a few minutes now and then. Sometimes he skipped it when he wasn't feeling strong enough. Mostly he just let it play, especially on these long drives.

Mark allowed himself the three minutes and twenty-eight seconds of the song to take him to the place that hurts so good, as they say. When it was over, he decided that's it. No more. The relationship is over, and he didn't want to go back. If nothing else, he and Jessie were meant to be together for a moment in time so Justin could be born. Soulmates with the purpose of bringing this very special human being into the world...

Worth every minute of the long and lonely drive

That January Saturday, 1982

Response to Prompt #52 Road Trip!

Well...

I put up this prompt not having any idea what I'd write about. As I started thinking about it and working through the suggested exercises,  I was fairly certain I was going to write the road trip part of a planned story, and submit it. I made great strides in forming the story and coming to agreement on how a conflict would be handled, and it all looked good.

But I kept putting off writing it. Somewhere inside of me, I kept hearing a little voice tell me that I was supposed to base this prompt on a song. For the life of me, I had no idea what that meant.

Today I was determined to write before I went to yoga. That's when my previous idea completely evaporated. I knew what I had planned was not what I was to submit here. Yes, I need to get that story written -- but this wasn't the platform.

I went to yoga with the question on my mind -- what road trip could I write about? I seemed to know after all the work I put into the fiction piece I wasn't up to coming up with another fiction idea.  Leave it to yoga to help clear the space. Something came to me right away, and I knew it was right.  And yes -- a song is involved.

That January Saturday, 1982

You took to the road with husband and friends

In their minivan, small children left at home

This was a day for adults, the aim to enter a winter

Wonderland, road trip to Sandusky for some kind

Of winter festival, a way to pass the time in the

Dreary mid-winter Ohio freezing cold numbness

Early on in the trip a pop-rock song by a popular

Cleveland band came on the radio, and it would

Be the harbinger of so much to come for you…

When your heart says it’s right

You gotta listen to what it’s saying

And in the back seat of that minivan

Somehow all the years of holding back,

Being fearful, not wanting to rock any boats

Or upset any apple carts or any other clichés

That kept women from living their full lives,

Anchored to the shore, unable to step out

And away, discouraged from being brave,

Melted away with the words of the song

It had been a way of life for you, yet here you were

On this cold January day, surrounded by white space

And music and the words that entered your heart

At that moment and have never left, even today

When your heart says it’s right

You gotta listen to what it’s saying

Just let it lead you to love

Love of self, love of freedom, love of release

Love of seeing yourself differently. It all

Happened so quickly, so unexpectedly

A feeling so warm and powerful you felt like you

Must be glowing right there in the car

You hummed that tune all day

When your heart says it’s right

Not knowing why

Just feeling happy happy

(Which means more happiness than

One word can contain)

That Saturday, that winter day

You recall nothing more than the Universe

speaking the words directly into your soul

Which would begin to lift you, change you…

You gotta listen to what it’s saying

You didn’t even know what it was saying,

You just knew it was right, perfect

And the façade was cracking right there

In that minivan, although the actual break

Was still weeks away

Let it lead you to love

Love of momentum, love of newness

Love of re-creation, love of strength

Dropping all those binding expectations

Not willing to cry anymore or wait

You took a step inside yourself that day

On the road to Sandusky and back

You carry no other memory of that day,

Of meals or activities or conversations

All you have left is the feeling

The everlasting happy happy feeling

The Excited

       Majestic

       Glorious

       Up-lifting feeling

Of letting go of something yet undefined

That January Saturday in 1982

You gave yourself permission to

Listen to your heart no matter what

The freedom of trust in yourself to write a

New life, new experiences, set your own

Parameters, own what’s inside you

Live a life you had never dared dream before

One in which you would learn to always

Let the universe play its part and

Lead you to love

Open Road

Response to Prompt #52,  Road Trip!

I'm usually not a fan of road trips, maybe because my childhood vacations consisted of 24-hour drives from Pontiac to Clearwater and then from Clearwater to Pontiac, with a few brief stops to pee and eat. But, a couple of summers stick with me: one summer driving down the Pacific Coast Highway and another driving the coast and forests of Oregon. Those are two drives I'll never forget. Both were filled with breathtaking scenery and surprising stops along the way. But, the thing that really made them special was experiencing new things with John. It made me feel like a kid again, or maybe made me feel like the kid I never was.  The found poem below is a tribute to those two summers and an appreciation for the experiences I've yet to have with my forever guy.

Sidenote: I included links to the videos for the songs I used to create this found poem below.


Open Road

You and me together, we could do anything,
our arms as wide as the sky.

I don't shine if you don't shine,
stars blazing like rebel diamonds.

Time will always try to make us old, but
growin' up doesn't mean getting older.

Let's go. I don't care--anywhere.
I feel like taking chances.

Who knows what we'll find,
keep an open mind.

Doesn't matter where we're going,
the thought of arriving kind of feels like dying.

Your hand on my hand
with magic soaking my spine.

As long as I'm with you,
we could take the long way.

Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there
with open arms and open eyes. 

Like a heartbeat skip, like an open page.
Can you read my mind?

Songs
Drive Acoustic Version and Official Video (Ben Rector)
Brand New (Ben Rector)
Drive by Incubus
Read My Mind by the Killers
Long Drive  by Jason Mraz
You and Me by Dave Matthews