Writing 101: To Whom it May Concern

Writing Challenge: Pick up the nearest book and flip to page 29. What jumps out at you? Start there, and try a twist: write in the form of a letter.

A letter to Joy

Dear Joy,

I found you on page 29 of a book. The writing challenge, “To whom it may concern,” was the map that led me to you.

Can I connect with you outside of page 29? You are needed everywhere and in every heart.

Word on the street is that a Carpenter has you in an unlimited supply. One of His family members, a half-brother from His mother, even encourages us to think of the trials of life as occasions for joy.

Is such a mindset possible?  Is perspective the key to locating you outside of the boundaries of page 29? Umm… I think I need to reflect on this more.

Also, do you know anyone who can tell me where to find the Carpenter? I would appreciate any help you can provide.

Sincerely,

E

Writing 101: Happy (Insert Special Occasion Here)!

The Daily Post Writing Assignment: Today, be inspired by a favorite childhood meal. For the twist, focus on infusing the post with your unique voice — even if that makes you a little nervous.

My favorite meal from childhood? Fried green plantains and dried fish sautéed with onions, eschallot,  and tomatoes come to mind; however, I am having difficulty remembering if it was a childhood favorite. One factor in the struggle to remember is this meal has been one of my favorite meals for decades. As such it is easy to assume this love affair began in my childhood.

Let us consider if there is any supporting evidence. I could ask my siblings but since plantains are a family favorite, they will likely have the same difficulty. I cannot recall a family gathering in which this meal was not on the menu. We have joked at times that our family has a plantain gene that we have passed on to the next generation, for even children who were born in other countries also love fried green plantains.

One of my favorite plantain stories is of one of my nephews, who was no more than four years old when the story unfolded. He was visiting from Canada and woke up one of my sisters and requested fried plantains. Mind you, his request was made during the pre-dawn hours. She, being one of the most sweet-spirited persons I know, did as he requested. I was told he asked to stand on a chair so that he could watch the cooking process.

After they were cooked, she cut up the plantains into bite size pieces, cooling them in the process, so that he could enjoy the treat. Next, she placed the plate with the pieces on the dining room table. As she was about to turn on the light, he informed her that he did not need the light. He ate the entire portion in the dark and returned to bed.

It is very likely that he has no memory of the experience. All the same, the next time I see him, I will ask if he was dreaming of plantains, much like the children in, “Twas the night before Christmas,” who “were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.”

Writing 101: Death to adverbs

The Daily Post writing challenge: Go to a public location and make a detailed report of what you see. The twist of the day? Write the post without adverbs.

He rules the courtyard, talons curled, wings outspread, perched atop a base composed of one layer of iron and the second of stone. A fountain gushes from the middle of the base.  One spout aims for the top of the base but, failing in its endeavor, falls and slips into the circular pool below. Another spout trickles over the left side to join the first in the pool.The sound of the water energizes more than soothes. Four boulders crouch in the pool: two paired and one on each side of the couple.

The six foot, charcoal colored, iron eagle gazes down at the pool but seems oblivious to the surroundings. His visage is fierce as if his thoughts are on matters that will require force and precision. As if there is an enemy who had dared to challenge the eagle’s authority and has to be annihilated. His curved beak rests on his chest.

The courtyard has eight benches, including the one on which I sit. The seat of each bench appears rusted but the finger I swiped across the seat bears no evidence of rust. The frame of each bench is black in some areas and a mixture of grey and black in others, where the elements have taken a toll. The benches are also in pairs with varying distances between each partner, as if the partners share different levels of intimacy.

The benches are on the border of a path composed of embedded river pebbles, framed by a combination of red pavers and brick.  A garbage can is housed in a container constructed with the same river pebbles as the path. Its half dome-shaped, light grey plastic cover has a front opening.

Shrubs and plants of different kinds, reside in beds covered with light brown mulch in the middle, and edged with small rocks.

The blazing heat of the midday sun and the end of my lunch break bring this writing episode to an end. Their combined powers boot me out of this courtyard and order me back to my office.

The Daily Prompt: Litmus, Litmus on the Wall

The Daily Prompt from The Daily Post: If you had to come up with one question, the answer to which would determine whether or not you could be friends with a person you’ve just met, what would it be? What would the right answer be?

“The Question“

One question that will determine if we will be friends?

Such an operating system seems destined to produce a premature outcome

For friendship is a journey of discovery

Initial impressions may not be representative of the person’s character

A character that, with exploration over time, I may come to value dearly

Or discover one that matches the scariness of a Dean Koontz novel

The first question opens the door

Subsequent questions guided by open hearted curiosity and good listening skills

Bring me further into the house and rooms

What I find in the process is what determines whether a stranger will become an acquaintance

An acquaintance become a friend

I have no litmus question

Writing 101: Give and take

Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else. Today’s twist: write your post in the form of a dialogue.

“How was your day?”

“You look worn out, Babe,” John noted as JoAnn dropped into the passenger seat with a sigh that seemed to come from her toes, and give him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Tough day?”

JoAnn, eyes closed, head and neck wilting against the back of the seat, moaned, “Try hellish!”

John gently squeezed her left shoulder and murmured, “What happened?” his eyes fixed on the road as he attempted to merge onto the 405 S freeway.

His touch and sympathy seemed to revive JoAnn. She opened her eyes, turned to face him and began venting. “Do you remember that presentation that I was scheduled to make today to the team visiting from our head office in Chicago? The presentation I worked on for two weeks and emailed to Carla on Monday  so that a hard copy could be included in the folder of documents for each team member?

“Uhh,” John replied, slightly distracted.

JoAnn continued,”This morning, seconds after I sat at my desk, Carla buzzed me and asked me to come to her office. Immediately after I shut the door, she informed me that there had been a change of plans and she would make the presentation to the team. I was stunned and could only stutter, ‘Excuse me?’ Without missing a beat and looking me dead in the eyes, she stated, ‘This presentation is very important for our office and knowing that you are a team player, I knew you would not mind if someone with more experience made the presentation. Of course you will receive appropriate credit for your work.’ With that she turned to her computer and began typing. I stood in front of her desk, feet rooted to the carpet. She looked up and with eyebrows arched, as if surprised to see me still standing there, asked, ‘Is there something you need?’ I muttered, ‘No,’ and returned to my office, where I passed the morning in a daze. It was not until Susan asked me about the presentation during lunch in her office, that the daze vanished, consumed by blazing indignation. When I eventually calmed down, I agreed with Susan that I needed to do something but neither of us could come up with a plan that did not hold the risk of JoAnn exacting her pound of flesh in some manner. I am tired of thinking about it and am so glad we are going away for the rest of the week. I think I will choke her if I had to see her smirking face right now and you know, bright orange is not a flattering color on me.  Anyway, enough about me. How was your day?

John replied, “The usual.”

“What do you mean, ‘the usual?”

Shrugging, he replied, “You know. Meetings. Reports. Phone calls. Lunch. You know. The usual. Do you want us to pick-up dinner on the way home?”

JoAnn, feeling too drained to push for more details as she typically did, sighed, “Sure. Sushi?”

Writing 101: Be brief

You discover a letter on a path that affects you deeply. Today, write about this encounter. And your twist? Be as succinct as possible.

“Sarah Elizabeth, It does not matter. I love you. Please come home. Papa.”

Who was Sarah Elizabeth? What did she do? Did she ever receive the letter? Did she go home? The words and questions had spun around repeatedly in my mind from the moment I read the letter, a week earlier.

I looked at it, held upright by a vase on my mantle place,  trying to decide once again what to do. Returning it was not an option. No address. And I could not bring myself to discard it. Sighing, I turned away hoping that inspiration would come soon.

Writing 101: Serially Lost

Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more.

(I opted for a fictional approach).

“The woman was crazy. No other explanation. How else could you explain,” M.J. muttered to herself, “that she could be so ‘tore-up-from-the floor-up’ and be so serene and, for heavens’ sake, happy! Smiling as if she had a million dollars in her raggedy pocket book.” Recalling a story she heard on the news once, M.J. cautioned herself, “Then again, you never know. She just might.”

Although some of the details of the story escaped her at the moment, M.J. remembered that, upon her death, it was discovered that a seemingly destitute, homeless woman had thousands of dollars squirreled away in bags and other containers in her grocery cart, and even on her body. “Umm. I am sure I can find the facts if Googled it,” thought M.J, unaware of how much time she had invested in thinking about the story and that woman, Suzanne.

At first, M.J. was startled, then deeply offended, when the then nameless woman, head looking like a birds nest, at least in comparison to M.J.’s smooth coiffure, had walked up to her, introduced herself, and then had the nerve to sit next to her on the park bench. “This is what I get for acting on the impulse to pull into the park on my way back from that awful business lunch,” she had grumbled silently. “Me, the guru of life planned to the second. Okay. Okay. Fifteen minute intervals. Good heavens! Why am I arguing with myself? I must still be more rattled that I realize by the encounter.”

Not only had Suzanne introduced herself verbally, with a serene look on her face she had extended her hand to M.J. After quickly scanning it, thankful that the nails were short and dirt free, M.J. had shaken Suzanne’s hand. As an impressionable 10 year old, she had heard a story once about people entertaining angels unawares. Since then, she had been careful to be polite, although not overly friendly, to strangers. From her “it is better to be safe than sorry” perspective, being rude to someone who could be a divine messenger in disguise would never be a good choice for anyone. She was pretty sure God had struck someone dumb once for not believing what an angel told him. “Was it David?” she wondered. “No, his punishment had gone far beyond temporary loss of speech after taking another man’s wife and murdering the man to cover the affair. His dirty linen had been hung out to dry in ways newspapers like the Enquirer would envy. And, why are these old stories I know I have outgrown coming back to me now, anyway? Goodnight! My last visit to church was almost 4 years ago to see then 5 year old, Montgomery Jackson, in a nativity play.” Montgomery, her beloved nephew, would die 6 months later of complications from a ruptured appendix. Thoughts of him still pierced her heart like a red hot poker. “Will the pain never go away?” she sighed, brushing tears from her eyes.

After shaking Suzanne’s hand, M.J. had started gathering her belongings in preparation for the most rapid retreat in the history of unplanned encounters in a public place. Remembering her intended action, M wondered, “Did they have records of such escapes? Probably. Someone seems to keep record of the strangest things.” Suddenly, she realized she was, as she had done several times recently, taking another mental trip down a ‘rabbit trail.’ “What is wrong with me? Am I developing adult onset ADD? I had better check with my doctor on Friday.”

Turning her attention back to the encounter with Suzanne, M.J. remembered Suzanne’s soft but clearly spoken words, which had frozen her in place. “God knows you are still hurting over the death of Montgomery Jackson. He knows that you blame yourself for not recognizing immediately that the tummy ache he had complained of while staying with you overnight, was not just a tummy ache. It is true you would have given your life for him but you could not possibly have known what was wrong.” Suzanne, eyes full of tears and compassion, then walked away. M.J., thoughts of escape forgotten, had dropped to the bench, eyes fixed on Suzanne’s back until she vanished from her sight around a curve in the path. The persistent chiming of her cell phone had reoriented her to time and place, and the tears streaming down her face.

Now, days later, M.J. acknowledged that her contemptuous mental attacks on Suzanne were a rouse to distract her from her experience and the question it birthed: With the loss of Montgomery, she had also lost her spiritual moorings but God had sent a messenger to her. How was she going to respond?

Writing 101: Commit to a writing practice

“Write about the three most important songs in your life — what do they mean to you? Today, try free writing. To begin, empty your mind onto the page. Don’t censor yourself; don’t think. Just let go. Let the emotions or memories connected to your three songs carry you.”

Several weeks ago, in response to an exercise designed to help participants build up their top strengths identified through an assessment on the Authentic Happiness website, I asked my colleagues to identify the most beautiful music they have ever heard. One colleague noted that this varies with the season of life.

I have a similar response to today’s prompt asking me to list the three most important songs in my life. What I will list are three songs that are particularly meaningful to me in this season when I am making one of the most significant transitions of my life. These are “10,000 reasons” by Matt Redman, “Be still my soul,” a classic hymn (lyrics by Ka­tha­ri­na A. von Schle­gel), and “It is well,” written by Horatio Spafford, in the 1800s after a series of heart shattering losses that culminated in the death of his four daughters.

What do these three songs mean to me? They speak of trust and pain. They speak of continuing to trust through the pain. Although there is much that I do not understand. They speak of resolution and focus. They speak of a decision or is it several decisions? One of them is to see things as out of control of my human hands but not out of the control of His. The idea of not being in control can be scary if I consider that other humans have control. But how can I be scared if I believe all is in His hands, nothing is outside of His purview, and all His actions are motivated by love and complete knowledge? Getting to this place of trust is an ongoing process that seems to ebb and flow although I desire it to be constant. What helps trust? Knowledge. How does the knowledge come? With relationship. Relationship that grows in intimacy. A relationship in which time is invested. A relationship that is given priority. One that is nurtured and fed and one that also feeds and nurtures me. I think of the resolution that Matt Redman talks about in “10,000 reasons,” “Whatever may pass and whatever lives before me, let me singing when the evening comes.” When the evening comes…. The evening that is time based as well as the ones that are a metaphor for the dark moments of life. “Whatever may pass and whatever lives before me, let me be singing when the evening comes.” “He goes on to say, ‘Bless the Lord, o my soul, worship His holy Name, sing like never before…” My singing can be different because I know more about myself as a result of my experiences during this period of transition. I also know more about Him as a result of this transition. This knowledge is also reflected, I believe, in the hymn, “Be still my soul.” The instruction implies that there are things or something present that is causing turmoil or disquiet and has the power to do so. During these times, my soul can only be quiet if I know and truly believe that I am not facing whatever I am facing alone. It is also based on the knowledge that God is on my side. He is not angry with me, playing games, or the like. Regardless of what evidence it may appear supports such a perception. Coming along with the question of, “If He is on your side, why are all these things happening? Why does He not stop them?” Be still my soul. That is where trust in the evidence of His love. Acceptance of my limited human knowledge. Recognition that He is trustworthy and praise is due Him always. Is not be to held ransom by my demand that He explain Himself. Would I even understand if He did? Trust. Pain. Trust in pain. Trust through the pain. Ultimately, what I say in faith now, will be reality. “It is well with my soul.”

Writing 101, Day Twenty: The Things We Treasure

The possessions I treasure are a collection of items: letters and journals. Letters and letter writing have been a part of my life from childhood. I believe the first letter I received was from one of my brothers. I was a child when he wrote me for the first time; he had migrated to the U.S.A. earlier that year. I recall feeling valued as I held his letter. What I remember best about the content of his letters was the questions he asked; they indicated genuine interest in what I thought, although I was a child, a style of interacting that continues to this day.

Although my letter writing practice has waned over the years, I still enjoy writing and receiving letters and among those I hold dear are letters from my parents. The exchange of letters between my parents and I began after I left home to reside in the U.S.A. They wrote me individually. I can recall birthday and Christmas cards that came from both of them, but never a letter. It was as if each was nurturing our unique relationship and, as I reflect on their letters now, I recognize that my father and mother each focused on different matters in his or her letters. My mother spoke more of spiritual things, encouraging me to give priority to my relationship with God. She would speak of other matters but, as in face to face conversations, spiritual concerns were a staple in her letters. My father’s letters were an interesting mixture of updates about everyone I knew and about everything, from the family dog to the fruit trees in the yard. I recognize now that it was a way of sharing his life with me and helping me remain connected to the world and people I had left behind. His letters also conveyed curiosity about my experiences here, woven together by love for and pride in me. My parents have been gone from this earth for decades. “All kinds of everything,” as the song goes, remind me of them but rereading their letters connects me with them in a unique manner.

As mentioned earlier, my journals are the second of my possessions that I treasure. I had an “ah ha” moment when I recognized that both of my treasured possessions involve the written word. I have engaged in journal writing for at least two decades. I stopped briefly once when a now former intimate read several of my journals without my permission. This brief estrangement with journal writing ended when I decided to not let the unprecedented violation of my privacy rob me of the emotional, mental, and spiritual space that journal writing is for me. Initially, after I began writing again I had to fight to not censer myself; thankfully, that struggle was short.
 
My journals vary in color and size but most are in the vicinity of 8 ½” by 4.” Nothing existential or deep determines the size. Just my preference.

Letters from loved ones and my journals are the collection of items that I treasure. Unlike other items I own, these are irreplaceable. I would feel their loss deeply but given that I continue to live and grow after the deaths of my parents, I know I would cope with the loss of these treasured items.

Writing 101, Day Eighteen: Hone your point of view

“Aimee, honey, you know things do not make the person,” her mother scolded gently, her slim hands, resting on both of Aimee’s shoulders.

“I know, Mama. I know,” Aimee sighed, looking down so her mother would not see the tears in her eyes. “But I am tired of Chantel always being the first to have everything,” she mumbled.

“Look at me, Aimee,” her mother said, her tone still gentle but firm. Aimee knew better than to disobey.

Looking up into the dark brown eyes of her mother, Aimee note in surprise that her mother had a few grey hairs at her temple. “Have I caused them?” she wondered, recalling her grandmother’s comment to her mother, after Aimee had asked a series of “But why?” questions, “My grandbaby will turn your hair gray as you did mine.”

Cupping Aimee’s face in her hands, her mother said, “Your father and I understand, Baby, but we will not buy you a cell phone, and an iphone to boot, just because Chantel’s parents bought one for her.”

“But, Mama,” Aimee whined, unwilling to give up too quickly. She thought, “I still have the money from my 12^th birthday last week. Perhaps if I remind Mama, she will …”

Her mother’s stern, “Do not ‘But, Mama,’ me, Aimee Grace,” interrupted her thoughts and Aimee’s heart sank, knowing she had crossed the line.

“Sorry, Mama,” Aimee whispered.

“Get ready for bed and I will come into to pray with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aimee replied and turned away, her head and shoulders down, her steps slow but not dragging, wanting to spare herself another lecture.

A few minutes later, dressed in white cotton pajamas, Aimee dragged into her bathroom which her parents had painted yellow and white for her 11^th birthday, still feeling sorry for herself. Aimee did not pay any attention to the shower curtain with the big sunflowers, or the matching floor rugs. Looking into the mirror but not really seeing her eyes that looked so much like her Mama’s or the cheek bones that everyone said, marked her as her Daddy’s daughter, Aimee began brushing her teeth.

Her thoughts returned to Chantel. “Mama, just doesn’t understand what a show-off Chantel is.” She had felt so jealous that morning when Chantel pulled out her phone at the bus stop. Everyone had crowed around her, oohing and aahing, and saying things like, “You’re so lucky, Chantel. I wish I had an iphone.” Then, to make matters worse, when Aimee had asked to see it, Chantel had said, “No!” and returned the phone to her purse.

Aimee knew Mama would talk to her again about being thankful and also tell Daddy what had happened, when he called that night. How she wished her Daddy was home. He would tell her the same things Mama had said but he would also enfold her in a hug and whisper, “Do you know you are an apple, Baby girl?” To which, Aimee always giggled in response, “Yes, Daddy. I am the Apple of your eye.”

Suddenly, the serious face of Chantel’s father came to mind. Aimee had never seen him smile, not once.    Aimee looked at herself in the mirror, grinned, and then crowed, “I know her serious faced daddy does not hug her and say nice things to her like my Daddy says to me.” She finished preparing for bed, her dejection a thing of the past.