Writing – back roads & blue higways

Ivy. The last will be first

The last of the litter
an uncertain future confirmed
more with each sibling removed
by an eager adopter, pet lovers.
Not her this time
or the next or the next
what should happen? When is it her turn?
she shakes when I take her and her sister
covered in fleas, that weave
through her fur and puppy pink skin
an itchy reality for this little runt
Her sister crawls on my lap in the car
and I comfort her.
Ivy sits shivering, brave but worried, confused
she whimpers for attention that I don’t yet offer
trying to drive, but knowing
her future is secure, she wasn’t left behind
I couldn’t do that
Her sister, intended for another mother
as a gift, needed my assurance first
Ivy, the unchosen
would have my affection at last
and always thereafter
a reward for us both
Grace, an gift undeserved but hoped for

Writing

Her Robe

I wouldn’t say I get overly attached to “things”. But I notice that some “things” have been around for a long time and I like knowing they are still there. My robe is (was?) one of them. I haven’t tossed it yet because it is such a part of my routine, but I will because it is an absolute rag at this point. Still, it is oddly not that easy. As I contemplate letting this go, I determined to write some things down about it. As I looked at what I wrote, I noticed that this is really a metaphor about my faith… both the robe and what I wrote. I hope you enjoy or maybe relate a little to an attachment that seems nonsensical. My faith isn’t nonsensical, but sometimes it feels worn out.

Her Robe

Her robe, now ragged
dates back
to when mauve was a
color people wore
on purpose

Her robe
was a present
one she noticed
as thoughtful and sturdy
a long-term item
graciously accepted

Her robe
wrapped her body
whether thick or thin
without judgement or preference
serving in pink,
a noble purpose

Her robe
with no concern ever
for appearance, an apology
or its outdated hue
only trapping the warmth
between itself and her skin

Her robe
a steadfast eyewitness
to every word written
of the take-all-the-timers
the beat-up-brokens
and the some-day summits
she wants to see

Her robe
bruised and beloved
stoic and secure
as she loves and cries
sits and thinks
and sometimes makes
another plan

Her robe
faithful in her,
or in something
to provide simple warmth
and gracious acceptance
what her aging body
needs most

Her robe
worn so thin
needs replaced
but how?

Writing

Finding Connection

I recently drove 2,500 miles pulling a tiny cabin on wheels from Washington to Ohio crossing Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana. I am compelled to name all of those states because it was a long, long drive as you can imagine. Due to the weight of the tiny cabin we could only drive 50mph the whole way! It is a beautiful country (I have now seen every square inch of it), and at least there was no hurrying! The piece below describes the night that the truck broke down. I was pretty terrified. If I learned anything it is that I am too independent and I need people; connections are really important. This is creative non-fiction if I have to call it something. I tried to do something called “ultra talk” which is a kind of story or poetry that wraps a couple stories together at one time. I didn’t nail it or anything, but I hope you like it. And if you can or would, let me know who you would call or who you would remember in your heart when you need assurance? Please enjoy!

Connected:

Our pickup truck broke down one night in Wyoming about 50 miles from the nearest place with people or lights. Our movement forward was swallowed, suddenly and wholly, by the complete darkness and the howling wind. The truck’s draining headlights offered very little relief as I pulled crookedly off the road. I had about 10 feet of dim vision before me, where the dark blended with the nothing. I could not tell if I was sitting next to a mountain or an open field, that’s how dark it was. I began to panic.

I quickly turned off the radio thinking that might help. The static-filled sound of Pat Benatar losing a piece of her heart only amplified my anxiety. I needed to think, or worry, or take action and that required immediate silence. The sound of her voice was replaced by the wind though, which reminded me of my position at this point: I am small, powerless and insignificant. I had to fight against all of this to get out of the truck. A squall pushed me sideways as I tried to join my friend who was already looking under the hood. Continue reading…

Writing

difficult words

dictionary of difficult words

I found a book called the Dictionary of Difficult Words in my friend’s truck, there is such a book. I didn’t open it. I know what a lot of them are already. Committed, cheated, rejected, obligated, shame, guilt, repent….reciprocal (good Lord). These words have to be in there. Committed for example. Does this mean determined to stick with your decision? Or does it mean sentenced to a mental hospital, imprisoned? And if you commit to a thing that becomes hellish and you go crazy, like if you are in a bad friendship or marriage, does it mean both things? There are so many difficult words to be honest. But I’d really like to see the Dictionary of Wonderful Words instead. I can guess a bunch of those too. Familiar, enough, curious, launch, exhale, subtle and supple, quiet, content, conscious…all wonderful. It would be good to have both books – they should sell them in a set.

Do you have a difficult or wonderful word to add? Please let me know.

Category: Writing