Category: Writing

Writing class “flash” prompt; 10 minutes.

The stubbly grass dusted with overnight snow

Powdered sugar on a crumb coffee cake

The sun struggling for freedom against a pall of clouds

A tongue of light darting out for a taste

I know it’s not the same

That a dog is not a person

But when my dog

(Elderly, diabetic, so diminished)

Unable once again to rise up from his bed

His legs spayed uselessly akimbo

Raised his eyes to mine

I knew what he was saying

And a few days later

On the last day

When he did rise and stagger to me

And laid his forehead against my leg

I knew what he was saying

There was a large statue of Mary, the Blessed Mother, in the main hallway, and smaller statues of Mary in all the classrooms.  It was the custom to keep offerings of fresh flowers in front of these shrines.  Not from the florist, but from people’s gardens.

Early in my second-grade career, I wanted to partake in this tribute.  As I waited at the school bus stop one day, I saw my chance.  There was an empty lot nearby that was abloom with what I thought were the most marvelous flowers.  My family having recently moved to this suburb from the city, I had no garden and had never seen flowers growing in such abandon — tiny, brilliant yellow, arrayed up-and-down on long bristly stems, looking like brooms that a witch in a fairy tale might use.  Witches held no negative meaning for me, so I meant no disrespect to Mary.  (I now know such brooms have a a name: “besoms”.) 

Somehow — I wouldn’t have had scissors nor a knife — I pulled together an armload of flowers and hauled it onto the bus.  The theatrical shrieks from the other students began almost immediately.  Seems that my beautiful flowers were called “goldenrod” and no one liked them because they made you sneeze.  

In my mind’s eye, I see little-girl me, watching my teacher stick my offering — which had already begun to wilt — into a large vase.  She scurried out to the hallway statue and, over her shoulder, told me not to bring wildflowers to school anymore.

A truncated version of this, titled “The”, appeared on VineLeavesPress.com (“50 Words Give or Take”).

As a little child, I felt what I now know to be awe and excitement when the little shapes that clustered on the pages of the simple books my parents read aloud to me, began to fall into meaning.  The earliest word I recognized was “the”.  It seemed to float serenely amid a sea of angular and rounded shapes.  That realization was profound, and I was happy whenever and wherever I found my new word-friend.  I was fortunate that the world of reading, as well as writing, opened quickly for me.  When I entered first grade at age five, I already knew how to read.  

Writing class assignment for the prompt “gift”.

Many husbands like to buy gifts of jewelry for their wives.  Nothing remarkable about that, right?  I may be biased, but here’s a lovely story about my husband and two such gifts to me

The first gift took place when my son Alex was leaving for college.  That time is an emotionally fraught time for so many of us; it certainly was for me.  I was full of conflict that September so many years ago, and very sad.  I wanted to project confidence and enthusiasm and happiness.  I was not confident and enthusiastic and happy, and I have come to know that Alex was not either.  

But both of us put on a façade.  Unconsciously, I think now, we were modeling such qualities for each other, perhaps to convince ourselves, like that cliché of “whistling past the graveyard” that all would be well.  An additional factor for me (not for him, though) was that Alex’s 18^th birthday would coincide with his departure.  The outside world, our culture, would see him as an adult, but he was still my little boy.  As I said, I was conflicted and sad.

Into this morass stepped my husband John.  For Alex’s birthday, John gave me a gift:  a pair of stud earrings, small textured balls of white gold imbedded with tiny tiny tiny sapphires — Alex’s September birthstone; nine in each earring.  

Need I say more?  I wear the earrings often.  I’m wearing them today!  See?  They are so discrete, yet they convey a powerful and very personal message.  They bring me back to a very tricky time, yet they free me to reflect on where I am now, where Alex is and where we are.  

As you see me wearing these earrings today, you can also see an additional earring — another stud featuring a precious stone, this time a small emerald.  And that’s the second gift.

When Dad died seven years ago, I was shipwrecked.  It was no surprise that he had died– age 90, so frail — but still, it was utterly shocking to me.  I grieved mightily.  One day, when I felt at rock-bottom in my loss, John gave me a gift … out of the blue … a very simple pair of emerald earrings, the emerald being Dad’s May birthstone.  The tears I wept over this gift were tears of joy.  They began to wash away the bitter tears that had been threatening to drown me. 

I often wear the sapphires and one emerald, or the two emeralds and one sapphire.  Having three ear piercings gives me a lot of freedom!  And it’s fun to have my son and my father with me.

And sometimes I go wild with one emerald and one sapphire and one amethyst, this last from the pair of studs that I bought as a gift to myself many years ago, at another very trying time in my life.  Not only is the amethyst my February birthstone, it’s Dad’s deathstone, if you know what I mean.  

Hmmmm.  What do you think about the concept of a deathstone?  

Published on VineLeavesPress.com (“50 Words Give or Take”).

I’m four years old.  Dad is scrubbing my face with a washcloth.  He keeps scrubbing just under my lower lip, just above my chin.  “It won’t come off,” he says.  I giggle because I know why.  “It’s a freckle, not a dirt spot!”  It’s still there, along with the memory.

Everything inspires me.  Everyone inspires me. Everything and everyone come from God. Therefore, God inspires me.

It’s inspiring to know that there are many ways to think about inspiration.

In physical terms, “inspiration” is part of “respiration”, the breathing process that sustains life.  Without inspiration, there would be no “exhalation,” the other half of that vital process.  Inspiration nourishes me with oxygen, exhalation cleanses me of carbon dioxide.  Inspiration and exhalation cannot exist without each other.

In imaginative terms, inspiration draws God’s essence into my essence, into my very being.  Exhalation sends our co-mingled essences out into the world, where they can act in concert to bring about … oh, all manner of things that are full of truth, beauty and goodness. 

In spiritual terms, inspiration points me towards God, who does not need to be drawn into, or depend on, anything.  God is in and of everything.  Even so, the respiration process I have just described reminds me that I am a co-creator with God, a role I try to cultivate, in everything I do, in how I live and why I live.

In creative terms, inspiration gives me the impetus to fulfill the ideas that come to me through every experience in my life.  Inspiration helps me turn my ideas into realities. 

***

A few weeks after the March 2023 elementary school shooting in Nashville, I was at Sunday Mass.  In the pew in front of me was a family with four children who looked to be the age of those dead children in Tennessee or even younger.  I was stricken, not for the first time but somehow as if for the first time, by the horror of what has become epidemic in our country.  Those innocent little children.  

But what could I do?  Over the years, I had angst-ed with my friends, I had prayed, I had educated myself.  I had signed petitions, I had marched, I had written to my congresspeople, I had mailed postcards to voters when gun-control measures were on the ballot.  I thought I had gone as far as I could.  But my good works were intellectual, performed at a distance.  “Think global, act local” goes the saying.  Again, what could I do?

Clear as a ringing bell, it came to me.  “Gradually and then suddenly,” to borrow a phrase from Hemingway.  The inspiration was sudden, but also the culmination of much rumination and reflection.  I had held the lock in my hands for a long time, but now I had the key that would allow me to “act local”: my lifelong love of reading.  

Fast forward.  I joined a program of adults trained to be “reading friends” in our community’s elementary schools.  Once a week now, I spend 90 minutes at “my” assigned school; a half-hour in the library reading aloud with each of “my” three students — two first-grade girls and a second-grade boy.  These children all like to read but just need a little extra one-on-one attention.  With literacy at grade three being a marker for future success in almost all aspects of life, “my” kids are at a vulnerable stage … maybe I can make a bit of difference.  Maybe I can inspire them.

***

Each year, three days after Christmas, the Catholic Church observes the Feast of the Holy Innocents … those children murdered by King Herod in an attempt to eliminate the Baby Jesus, the “newborn King of the Jews”.  This past Christmas season, such “ancient history” became relevant to me, because “holy innocents” were murdered in that Tennessee school last spring.  

That ironically inspirational event is never far from my mind these days.  When I make my weekly reading trip to school, I need to be buzzed through two locked doors to gain entry … and then sign in … and then get the badge that says I’ve passed a background check and am a trusted visitor.  Finally, I can head to the library to meet up with my three “holy innocents”.  On the way, I offer a little prayer for our safety.

Writing class exercise, 10 minutes, no revisions, to the prompt “flat tire”.

Any nail or screw in any road will find its way into any one of my car’s tires.  Thank God, I have never had a blow-out.  But I know well that sinking feeling of coming into the garage in the morning, prepared to rush off somewhere, and seeing my car literally sinking slightly in one direction or another.  The tell-tale signs of a slow leak … phphphph … We don’t live far from a Les Schwab place, so I scrap my morning’s plans, drive carefully to the tire shop and … wait … while a repair is made.  The guys there are always so cheerful and accommodating, which makes up for my spoiled plans.

This piece appeared on March 11, 2024 on CatholicArtistConnection.com, as part of that website’s Lenten Reflections series.

Mid-way through the penitential season of Lent came yesterday’s bright spot of hope and joy: Laetare Sunday.  The liturgical color of the day — rose — shone like a beacon against the unrelenting purple of Lent, a visual sign to the faithful that Easter is within our sight.

Today, as we embark on the fourth week of our Lenten journey, donning purple once again, we remain heartened.  As always, God’s grace, mercy and unconditional love surround us.  New energy underlies our seasonal practices of prayer, fasting and almsgiving.  We sharpen our focus on how to live in right relationship with God, ourselves and others.  

In the First Reading for today’s Mass, Isaiah (65:17-21) speaks of the joy, happiness and delight of God’s creation, and assures us that “no longer shall the sound of weeping be heard there, or the sound of crying”.  The Responsorial Psalm (30) continues the theme: “You changed my mourning into dancing.”  And the royal official in the Gospel (John 4:43-54) could be any one of us, “who believed what Jesus said to him”, after he pleaded with Jesus and then experienced the healing of his son.  

Yes, the sorrow of Christ’s suffering, crucifixion and death loom ahead of us.  And yes, we are living in a great big world seemingly drowning in war, violence, tragedy, discord, uncertainty, grief and gloom.  In our smaller personal world, we may be living with circumstances that are deeply troubling.

But the hope and the joy of Laetare Sunday are still fresh for us this day.  We are reminded that sorrow is not the end of the story.  From sorrow will rise the salvific reality of Christ’s Resurrection, with the assurance that we all share in the miracle of eternal life and light, of redemption. 

With our faith thus strengthened, we can resume our Lenten observances over the next three weeks with renewed commitment.  By leavening sorrow with the gifts of hope and joy that God bestows so generously, we can face any challenges that the world and our individual lives bring us. 

***

As a Benedictine Oblate, I (try to) live according to the Rule of St. Benedict.   Chapter 49 of the Rule begins with this instruction: “The life of a monk ought to be a continuous Lent.”  I (try to) reach that state by allowing the meaning of Lent, with its intertwined sorrow and joy and its promise of redemption, to remain relevant throughout the year, in every liturgical season. 

Here is a practice that helps me: Often, daily if I can, I compose two litanies — two prayerful lists — on the facing pages of a notebook so I can easily toggle back and forth between them.  One page is headed “Blessings Noted” and the other “Prayers Needed”.  I bring these litanies to God, giving thanks and praise and asking for help.  Every time I compose my litanies, I start fresh on new pages with new blessings and needs.  This practice helps me appreciate the sacred rhythms of my life, fosters my growth in prayer and brings me closer to God.

The apartment in Bayside.  Perhaps I am three or four.  I am sitting, crouching, squatting, whatever posture I need to be in, on the kitchen floor.  I am drawing with crayons on paper.  The only light is in the kitchen, where Dad is fixing his breakfast.  It is dark everywhere else.  Quiet, too, as Mom and Owen, and John if he has been born yet, are asleep.  Dad and I do not speak.

Am I drawing what I remember to be my first images?  Attempts to depict what it was like to be in the car and drive under the big towers of what I now know to be either the Whitestone or the Throgs Neck Bridge.  I remember trying to show, in a static drawing, what motion felt like — approaching the first tower, being under it, turning around to look up through the back window to see it recede, then turning forward to approach the next tower and repeat the experience.  Perhaps I should have been making a motion picture, not a drawing.  As if!

I wish I had those images.  Where did they go?  Crumpled up in the day’s trash, when Dad had finished his breakfast and gone to work, and Mom was up and starting her day with two or three of us?  Or filed away somewhere in a manila envelope that eventually got lost?  Or maybe still in the house in Connecticut?