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Indigo Vales

~ where the writing comes from

Indigo Vales

Monthly Archives: February 2016

Taking Notes

29 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, evolving, silence

The plan was to write.  The plan was to heal and grow. The plan was to accept the hurt I was about to deal, and the hurts I might feel by the needle and thread in my own hand. Plans change when the noise stops and all you can do is listen.

The silence here has been … well. You don’t know what noise is until you seek out the silence and that is all you ever hear.  I sometimes wonder if I speak to Zephyr, my wax plant, just to break the silence now and then.  Sometimes in the middle of the night the silence is broken by what seems like a giant person slamming a giant door that shakes the entire building. Those times are rare and my eyes open not in fear, but I emerge from mild sleep and look at the pale orange rectangles on the wall that show me nodding tree branch shadows.  Silence returns. The loudest sound I hear is the tinnitus earned from too many concerts without hearing protection. Guess I never believed it could happen to me, this thing where I hear your voice but not your words.  Now the constant sound of raining bells in these two silent rooms are my loudest company.  Sometimes the loudest sounds are my fingers touching keys or hot water pouring from the faucet for my bath. I rarely break the silence with my own voice, and I rarely want the silence broken.  I never knew how much it meant to be able to slide the bedroom window open and hear branches chiming on branches in their midnight wind dance…and nothing else.

The plan was to listen to my body. To hear what it needs to tell me so I can either honor it with good things or pollute it with chemicals, bad habits, negative thoughts, or stasis.  Sometimes I take the entire day stopping to ask my body and senses, “What does this feel like? What does this sound like? How does this taste?  How am I feeling just now? Why?” I write those things down because if I can’t tell you that the clean, bright taste of lemon in cold water makes my mouth pop, how can I ever describe it to anyone else?

All very nice things for a writer to experience in between bouts of laundry or wiping up the stove top after dinner. All very serene, privileged tools in my shed. Until we pick up a book and it challenges everything we thought we understood or wanted to understand.  I wanted to read it so I could know what all the “noise” was about, why was it so important to everyone, it seemed?  I spent the entire day yesterday reading it, and at its conclusion asked myself if I have been asking the right questions all this time. A friend sent me an article that reminds us that a wave breaks at precisely the right moment, that only it knows when it is time.  I doubt I could have read this book with open eyes until now.

I could name drop and say, “Oh it was this book by this author.” It might add a hit or two to my stat counter, make me look all intellectual-like.  That would bother me on so many levels and the bottom line is that it’s less than truthful or helpful–to anyone–to do so.  So why bother bringing it up, anyway, if I’m not going to be candid about it, I mean, it meant enough that I spent a whole day with it, then took the time to blog a few notes here, what was the point? The point is that it gave me perspective. It gave me powerful reading that I hope will lead to powerful writing. I haven’t the sophistication, the intellect, the background, NOTHING in my arsenal, at this moment, that allows me to make a meaningful comment about the book I just read.  However. It allows me to question my perspective and ask if I am asking the right questions.  What might happen when we all start seeking new perspectives, asking better questions, carrying the light so we can see enough to take the log from our own eyes that we might understand how a speck came to be in our neighbors?  Yes, I misquoted just there, but that’s how it feels right now, a log in my own eye, my heart, my understanding.

 

Perfect Writing Room

22 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

amwriting, HoW, inspiration, International Authors, USMC

It’s all so complicated, but we make it so.   Perhaps writers and artists, creatives of any kind, will recognize the idea that they can’t (won’t) get started until everything is just right. Just the right tools at hand, the right weather, the right amount of background noise (or none at all.)  We somehow get it in our minds that we can’t create until everything is juuuust right. Thanks a lot, Goldilocks. I blame it squarely on her, Ms. Folktale, taking away our ability to sit in a chair too hard, sleep in a bed too soft, or eat foods that are too cold. Everything has to be just right, we heard in childhood. Seemed to make sense. Life is all about comfort, innit?

So, not writing is so much easier when I have Goldilocks to blame for my problems. Or the fact that my office is too cold, or there’s too many people in the house, or I haven’t had enough beer yet to be in that comfort zone, that sweet spot that opens and words pour through.

So, to quote a friend, “Bullshit.”  The sweet spot don’t exist, it’s a myth. Successful people, not just writers, but creatives, executives, cubicle creatures, scientists, students, it all applies to them:  They succeed because they worked for it instead of standing around waiting for their coffee to be the perfect temperature, their mood just right, the stars aligned, who the hell knows what the sign is that tells them it’s time to begin.  Successful people just keep at it. They want to, have to, and the truly lucky ones are doing it because they are in love with it. Perhaps a degree is helpful, but how much does it mean if you never use your gift (after polishing the hell out of it since forever.)

I read an article online recently that darkened a shadow that’s lurked behind me for some time.  I allowed the idea to take roost in my head that the best way for my work to be taken seriously when submitting to a poetry contest is to have MFA nestled somewhere in the bio. I looked back at previous winners and felt my sweet spot go right sour. Oh god, there’s no hope for me–or any fledgling writer–how can there be, when the “literary elites” are the ones who dictate what’s great–and publishable.  I shared my ongoing fear with authors and editors whom I respect, trust, and look up to.  The responses were passionate, as expected. One was particularly thrilling for the beautiful language he chose to assuage my concern.  Their responses shared the same message:  Don’t worry about “literary elites.” Just keep working.  Great writing will always find its way to the top, no degree required.  I do believe they blew my MFA shadow away into grains of sand in the wind.

But. There’s always a but. All this writing talk leads me to yet another article found on Literary Hub, shared here for your perusal.  The perfect room. Another myth. What kind of moment it was when I discovered the perfect room to write in is the one I am in right now. Last week it was the library. Two days ago it was in a spiral notebook with my feet in the cold sand, sun warm on my arms, waves wandering in, not especially concerned with fledgling words. The perfect manuscript does not exist. There will always be room for one more nip, one more tuck. Sure, a really great cup ‘o joe and the worlds most comfortable pen (or laptop with silent keys) can make the writing experience easier, more pleasurable. But none of it matters if there’s no thinking, dreaming, or writing going on.  I’m not known for being disciplined. I don’t think Goldilocks was, either, but one of us is going to sit in chair too hard, burn her mouth on something spicy, and put some words together that someday, somebody will really want to read.  I am the perfect room.

Oorah!

Companion

18 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Choose, ocean

Ocean.

Ocean. It seems I am always unprepared and overpowered when I meet you.  When I first met you as a child, I was captivated by what seemed like a true living thing, limitless, frightening, beautiful, this completely unknown world opened to me, but you were only allowed to touch my knees.  We went to the beach so infrequently no one seemed to think it important to learn how to paddle out past harsh waves and swim in the calmer waters, to not be afraid of the rush and roar, the push and pull of this relentless (fun) thing over which we had no control, that might go over our heads. No, no need to learn to swim there.

I met you many times with a friend on long-drive nights, carelessly trespassing on lands with signs that said “park closes at dusk” paying that no mind, only thinking with wild hearts, consequences be damned, it was an adventure! How unprepared we were to post bail on one of those very brief escapades. It hardly seemed worth it after a while.

I was unprepared and overpowered when I met you. I brought only myself and had no idea what would awaken while the world washed away in your high tide, then low. I was unprepared the day I realized that ghosts do exist. They are real. I know because I am one: My holy spirit became ensnared, then chose to moor itself upon damp sands forever. There is no other place but this one.

I was unprepared to meet you tonight, as our meetings have been these last few nights. My clothes cannot keep out the biting wind. Shouldn’t I know better by now how cold your breath will be and put something warmer on so I can walk the long way beside you? Still, it didn’t stop me from coming, obeying the need to see moonlight on little waves.

I’ve walked past many broken shells, whole shells, tangled weed and rocks in all shapes and shades over the years. There are few I care to pick up to keep for myself or share with another. Tonight there was a shell gleaming white under the moon, and I heard very clearly someone say “take this one.” I obeyed, tucking it in my pocket and making way to the oncoming waves, to visit just for a little while.   On the return home I took the shell from my pocket and felt her smooth inside, then outer ridges. I cupped her in my hand and breathed her in deep: the perfume of the sea.  Intoxicating, overwhelming, the power of this scent.  The shell was new to shore, hadn’t been lying long days with her insides exposed, rotting in the sun, fit only for a hungry gull.  She has a clean brine scent that no one can bottle believably.  She is on the window sill now, and I know her perfume will disappear. She will not be pleased when I bathe her in bland water so that I may keep her on the sill. Or maybe she will be pleased that I chose to keep her close, hoping to hear some story she wishes to tell.

I was unprepared to write tonight, but when you catch the true scent of the perfume of the sea, how could I not?

Bon Voyage?

16 Tuesday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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ocean, transition

Indigo Vales took a rowboat and headed for the Atlantic.  The boat was filled to capsizing, just way too much stuff stuffed in there.  Without the aid of technology, she wouldn’t have made it to a marina sheltered in a little spot near Norfolk, Virginia.

Technology has been hard to track down around these parts, as in reliable WiFi connection.  What hopes I brought with me did get kicked around a little bit. I must say, my lack of good perspective and choosing to let myself get down doesn’t help anything at all but I suppose it’s to be expected. Weathering a bit of rain is normal in any transition.

I’ve had help and encouragement from expected and unexpected places. My gratitude is reawakened, a sense of purpose renewed.

I wore winter boots and walked across little dunes covered by an inch of snow. I’ve never seen snow on the sand before. I must have looked like some kind of dork, taking pictures of piddling waves touching snowflakes that rest on their sandy cousins.  It’s been so cold, thrice so, with the wind.  One assumes the sun will always be present on the beach, just like we forget you can freeze to death in the desert.

So the question I have for myself today is, “Did I bring the right tools for this job? Did I bring what it takes to thrive and create?” So far, the answer is shaky. Questionable.  But I got some light in a box, encouraging words from a friend, and I think I’m going to have better answers soon.

My new desk is a black padded card table and nicely padded wooden folding chair. There are photos of people I love, a rose my son made. It rests in the lap of an earth mother statue, a goddess, one whose arms create a circle.

Time to create a circle of love instead of driving this boat around in the same old tired circles.

Blankets

05 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cycles, mother, woman

I carry around the blanket my dad rested beneath on the day he died. They gave it to me at the funeral home, and I stuffed it in the back of my car. I wasn’t ready to do anything with it.  I keep thinking it’s the place where he took his last breaths, let it remain with me as it is, perhaps with a few of his breaths caught in the fibers.  I folded it on Tuesday.

I thought to myself last night how silly it must seem, a grown woman carrying around a blanket like some kind of Linus looking for security?  Not exactly.  But I think I have a purpose for it now.

I asked myself this morning what to keep, what to bring, what to throw away? Why don’t I keep my son’s baby blanket, the one he came home from the hospital, in my purse? I mean, if blankets matter so much, should I keep that in my car, too?

But no.  He’s here. He occupies yards of me, this young man whose feet kicked my ribs, fit in the palm of my hand. He is filled with life and strange noises and beautiful expressions, intelligence that defies his peers and makes it hard for him to walk comfortably in the world.  No blanket is needed to be reminded of the life within him.

I wonder what blanket they’ll cover me with when it’s my time? Will it be the purple one that says “We ❤ You Mom” that my mother had made for me when I carried my son?  The one we don’t use very much because it’s been unraveling slowly, and it’s not quite long enough to cover a full-grown body?  Or maybe they’ll just staple Post-it Notes to my body covered with questions and accusations. No. I will be covered with a blanket I don’t recognize by hands that I do.

Harps and Alarms

02 Tuesday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Choose, evolving

On the days I need to awaken by a certain time instead of sleeping in like a Lazie Mazie Bird, I set an alarm. For most of my life I have been awakened by some rhythmic jabbing honking blatting sound. It jars the sleeping body, it tears the dreaming mind away from its embrace, dislodges me from my sleeping place, that night-shift womb where all is right, even when the dreams are bad, forced to extract my body from a warm blanket, stagger to the clock in a fog and figure out how to toggle a switch and make the bleating stop.

One day I realized that there is another way to awaken.  There is an alarm on my cellphone that allows me to choose a ringtone and it sounds like harps. The notes repeat and get a little louder with each cycle, slowly drawing my attention from dreams into the outside, realer world.

How we choose to awaken each day can make such a difference in the way we spend the rest of the day.   I never want to hear the bleating blatting honking sound of a digital alarm ever again. Instead I can choose to hear a jaunty little jazz thing that gently calls me from sleep and into the waking world, just like I can choose to go to bed early so I can have enough energy to get through (most) of the day.  I can choose to stay up all night and drink four beers with high alcohol content and feel like hell the next morning, or I can choose to have two beers with a water chaser from my favorite plastic cup and know I’ll be better for it.  I can choose to eat too many slices of pizza or a greaseburger, put sugar in my coffee, no veggies, skip a meal, use words like “hate” and “grr” in my daily vernacular… or I can choose to do a better job with the body that remains of this person who was born 40-some-odd years ago and use love words instead of cultivate the hate.   It’s my one and only vessel–I get one shot at this. I haven’t paid my dues to get what I dream of, what I want and need, and by goddess everyone should have within reach, to choose.  The universe is keeping score, see the bone notches, and this isn’t a game I can win, but I damn well better figure out how to love the game and everyone who’s in it with me. And write about it.  Or … what else was all this for?

prayer for a rust farmer

01 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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evolving, inspiration, Mike, thoughts

i want you to throw off the whole world and rise up out of the earth and tower over us all like a sunflower, and then share your shade and your seeds with us, mighty sunflower, icon and anchor of our garden.

and he did.

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