Author: Melissa Snyder

Melissa Snyder https://awriterbecoming.wordpress.com Melissa Snyder is an introvert with a flair for the dramatic in her writing. She is a wife, mother, teacher, compulsive writer, voracious reader, and fierce defender of Love and Imagination. She likes to write about faith (her own and faith in general) and self and emotion and society and hobbies, as well as revealing the myriad paracosms that inhabit her mind. These paper bullets of the brain live in her blog and on Facebook where she endeavors to write about life and Imagination boldly and share honestly.

Flash Fiction: The Bride in Blue

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They call her blessed, fortunate, prized among women. They touch her with gentle hands, whisper prayers of blessing, and utter yips of approval. She is set above the salt; she is raised high. She is to be a bride in blue.

She is to be a bride in blue.

A bride in blue is special, set apart, set above. She might not be the first wife, the last wife, or even officially a wife. A bride in blue is something completely different. She is not the lady of the family or the head of the household. She could bear children but, often, precautions were taken to prevent the marring of her form. If she does, they will be placed in the nursery and taken to breast and mother by another, that blessed name never reserved for her. She was the height of the social court. When her lord or duke, warden or councillor will give great feasts or celebrations, bedecked and glittering for their distinguished guests, it is his blue bride who will appear at his side, the shining star on his arm. She will reign supreme, the celestial gem seated enthroned in his court for that night. She is the one about whom the minstrels will sing, the poets will write, and to whom men will swear chivalric fealty and their bravery’s blood.

They call her blessed, fortunate, prized among women. They touch her with gentle hands, whisper prayers of blessing, and utter yips of approval as they brush her locks until they gleam, paint her lips an ember red, and drape the sapphire gossamer over her head. Today, she will be a bride. She will be no wife. She will be no mother. Forever, she will be a bride in blue.

= = = =

This piece was inspired by my daughter running around, my dancing veil of filmy blue sari chiffon draped over her head. I’d really like feedback on this one. Please, feel free to leave me your thoughts in the comments. ^_^

Beautiful Bellies

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This past Sunday, I performed with my belly dance class at the end-of-semester recital for the arts center where our class and others were held. As I watched the other belly dance classes perform their pieces, an idea struck me. I love the bellies that I see in this community of dance. Almost every woman and girl there Sunday bared her belly, proud in her beauty and grace, as she danced, and I found myself observing them as well as enjoying their performances. And I found that I love those bellies.

There are bellies that have borne children, still bearing the marks of that great effort, and have perhaps gone with less or even without so a child’s belly would not.

There are bellies that have seen decades of life, work, changes, and love.

There are bellies still soft with baby fat, barely in their first act of life.

There are bellies slender with vivacity and activity. Bellies strong and muscular with hard work and determination. Bellies voluptuous and curvy. Bellies dimpled and scarred with evidence and proof of life.

There are bellies of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and each and every single one is beautiful, graceful, lovely, and powerful.

It is the magnificence of each woman that makes up the beauty of the dance.

Yallah!

Why I Walk Around Naked

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11150479_630544590414714_184724744336153178_nI frequently walk around the house naked. I know. Big deal, right? Well, for me, it has become quite a big deal. First things first, though: cards on the table. I am 32 years old, a wife of almost a decade, and the mother of a rambunctious two-year-old girl (remember her, she’s the lynchpin here). I am 5’1 and my weight is currently hovering at 135 lbs. Is my body perfect? No. It’s why I work out at home just about every day, try to eat better than I have in the past, and hit Planet Fitness with a friend a few times a week to run and strength train on the weight machines. No, my body isn’t perfect, but it’s healthy and getting stronger as I continue to work. More importantly than even that, I have a daughter to whom I want to teach a positive body image and comfort, as well as healthy habits. I want my girl to grow up at ease with herself, to find her body strong and capable, to find herself beautiful. Who will she learn that from but me? Whose voice will battle all the others that will bombard her from society, television, movies, toys, etc.? Mine. Mine is the voice she hears all day. Mine is the body she sees working, playing, exercising. Mine are the reactions and self-talk she will learn from. Therefore, accepting, working on, and speaking kindly to myself are not only for me for but for my Elizabeth as well.

Not too long ago, I watched a video from my belly dance class that my teacher had posted in the class’s Facebook group. We were drilling portions of choreography and my posture was wrong, terrible even. And I told my husband:

“I hate the way I look in this video! I look like I’m still pregnant!”

I immediately regretted and kicked myself for the unkind statement, as Elizabeth was sitting nearby playing with her toys. I maintain that, though she’s only two, she understands everything that is said to and around her. So I have to check the negative self-talk, both inner and outer. If I want my daughter to learn to accept herself, love herself, and see the beauty in every curve, line, and angle of her unique body, I have to do the same. She won’t learn or develop a sense of body comfort if she hears me constantly bad-mouthing my own body. My unique, maddening, triumphant body.

So I walk around the house naked, and I let Elizabeth run around in her diaper, especially now that the weather is warm again. Together, we work on her learning that everyone has a body beneath their clothes and that it is nothing to be feared but everything to be respected and appreciated. At the same time, I am working on my own comfort level with being naked around her and explaining the differences between my body and hers, even at her young age.

“Yes, those are Mommy’s breasts; some mommies feed their babies that way. Yes, you have nipples, too.”

We teach our children to name the parts of their faces, their arms, legs, fingers, toes, and tummy as a necessary benchmark of their development, but I think that it is also important for children to see, from their parents, what those bodies will look like as they grow. I want to be comfortable enough with my daughter and her with me that she can ask me questions about my body and her own as she grows older. I want her to see her body as beautiful, no matter what the voices around her might say. She is strong and brilliant, energetic and curious. I want her mind and body to exist and work together, not against each other.

When I was a girl, I marveled at my mother’s waist. She had a stunning curve to her waist that her A-line dresses gorgeously accentuated. I would trace my hands over her silhouette and hope to be as lovely as her when I grew. When she’d let her hair down, I would hold its weight in my hands and stand in awe. I saw my mother’s beauty, even when she couldn’t, but I struggled for a long time to find my own. I would dearly love to protect my daughter from that uncertainty and for her to always be assured of her unique loveliness and brilliance. Even better if she will then, in turn, remind others of their own.

So I stand naked before the mirror, deny the negative self-talk, and call myself beautiful. My little girl comes to stand beside me, as tall as my thigh, and leans smiling against my leg. I hug her close and call her beautiful, and, somewhere in that little child brain full of all things new and amazing, I think that she thinks so, too.

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Art Spotlight: “J’ai le coeur reveur”

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J’ai le coeur reveur by Lucia Carriero – http://nonnetta.deviantart.com/ 

I dearly love Lucia’s work! It is delicate, beautiful, imaginative, and heartfelt. I honestly wish I could own a print of every one of her works; I’d plaster my house with them. ^_^ This piece is one of my favorites and rather apropos of my mindset this week.

For the Gaining and Gift of a Dream

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Vulnerability alert! Last night, my husband asked me an innocent question: “What is your dream?” As I sat there and thought, I found myself bursting into tears. I cried. Oh, how I cried. As I thought, I couldn’t find anything that fit what I would call a “dream”.

When I was a little girl, I dreamt of being a teacher. I have done that, in some way, shape, or form, from age 16 to age 29.

When I was older, I dreamt of writing and being published. I have done that. (Though I have never quite been so Jo March to declare, “I shall write great books and make barrels of money.”)

I dreamt of finding deep, understanding love and partnership. I have found it.

I dreamt of holding a child in my arms. I do.

img_2035dreamYet, now, at almost 32 years of age, I do not know what my next dream is, what my next step or my next path in life is. And so I cried for a long time last night. It was a despairing cry; one never wants to think that they are dreamless. Soon, Elizabeth will be old enough for preschool and I will be back to work, but what work? Shall I return to the classroom, shall I search for a position in a library, or shall I try to step into something entirely new? I do not know and not knowing scares me.

It has also been suggested to me that I could make money from my writing. That is also an idea that frightens me, although I know it can be done. It would be a step of faith, a step of courage, one that would lead to some of the hardest work I’ve ever done and perhaps some of the rewarding work I have ever done. However, I’m not sure it is one that my family can afford, with what we are planning for/needing to be done in the future. Not as a sole method of breadwinning, that is. But…could it still be worth a try?

Ben asked me another poignant question then (it was truly the night for them): “Why do you write?” And so I answered honestly, perhaps the most honestly I ever have. I write so that there will be evidence that I existed. I write so that there will be a record that I lived, breathed, felt, thought, learned, created. However selfish it may sound, I write so that there will be proof of me. And maybe, just maybe, someone will find comfort, help, or encouragement from what I have experienced and shared. I did find something that I said in reply to him a touch curious, though. I told him that I do what I do in life because I feel as though they are what I must do. I write, share, post, sing, dance, and talk but I have not necessarily looked at those things as “dreams”. They are just a part of who I am.

Then Ben asked me if I had talked to God about it. When was the last time I asked Him for a new dream? I couldn’t answer, which was an answer in and of itself. And so, in the midst of my tears and clutching of my husband’s hand, I did what I should have done in the first place: I prayed. I thanked God for the dreams He has helped me to achieve and told Him of the despair I was feeling at the thought of not having a dream to aspire to, a path to set foot on. My heart cried out and I asked Him for a dream, for guidance, for light. I know and trust that He will be true to His word as I seek His dream for me. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV)

So I shall continue to pray and quieten my heart continue to listen as I look, hope, wait for, and walk towards a new dream.

Fascinating Facets

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I sit with my daughter in my lap as she indulges in some Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. As she sits quietly (a rare occurrence in and of itself), I take advantage of the opportunity to wrap her lovely pigtail curl around my finger and find myself once again mesmerized as I twirl it again and again and again.

Her hair is soft and glossy and smooth, as soothing as silk as I coil it around my finger. As I do and the curl tightens, I find myself marveling at it. It almost looks like an ombre candy cane, composed of shades of brown sugar and sable, though it is also shot through with bright copper and even honeyed blonde in some spots.

Her hair is smooth like her father’s but also curly like mine naturally is. She gets the shades of brown with red highlights from us both, but the shot of blonde is her father’s, as are her long eyelashes. We deal with the snaggles and tangles and she hates every minute of me combing them out of her hair. When her hair is loose, it is curly and fun and wild; when it is combed into pigtails or a ponytail, it is cute and coquettish. Either way and both, she is brilliantly lovely and I am constantly fascinated by the work of art that is my daughter’s hair. It is beautiful and unique and perfectly suited to her sunshiny, smiling face.

I dream of what that hair will be like some day, falling over her shoulders in abundant, glossy curls that bounce, the most superlative physical complement to my girl’s own buoyant spirit.

Stepping Fierce

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Also posted on The Well Written Woman – “I Walk”

I walk like I own the whole world.

My hips move clouds,

My breath guiding them along,

And water springs where my heels pierce the earth.

I walk like the world is mine to hold.

My steps ring confidence’s battle cry, thrumming wildly in its echoes.

I am a lioness, fierce as hell

But softer than gossamer.

My hands are made of fire,

To light and warm, to smelt and refine,

Though never to harm.

I walk like I own the whole damn world,

Because, right now, I really do.

= = = = =

Several weeks ago, as I walked into a store, I felt strong, confident, and fierce. And these words fluttered and tumbled around in my brain, refusing to leave until they were given a voice. I will admit, sometimes I really like it when that happens.

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Stepping Outside My Zone

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So, today, I did something that absolutely terrified me. I posted some Tweets, three of them actually. Last night, as I lay awake in bed after getting my daughter a drink and settling her back down, I felt a nudge in my back/brain/gut/heart/whatever you want to call it. Ben and I spoke last night about just how heartbroken we feel that people are calling for boycotts of our state. According to the 2014 census, there are roughly 6.597 million people living in the state of Indiana. I understand bold and strong action for what you believe in but how can rally for non-discrimination by calling for the shunning and isolation of an entire state? It just doesn’t compute in my head. It just doesn’t make sense to me.

So, in the middle of the night, I felt that nudge, that insistence to do something, say something. And I had phrases, sentences coalescing in my head, even a hashtag. But I was afraid. I was scared. Terrified. I’ve been watching. I’ve been listening. I was scared about being bold. So I prayed. I laid there in bed and I asked God about it specifically. I asked that, if this was really something I was supposed to do, for it to not let me go. And it didn’t. It didn’t let me go. If anything else, the nudge became more and more urgent, insistent. This was something I had to do, that I needed to do.

I wasn’t been sure, though. Just how many of these thoughts was I to send out into the world, tagged #GiveIndianaGrace? I didn’t know. I also knew thatI wouldn’t know until I began. So I started. I posted one tweet. And then another. And then another. And to say that I waited with fear and trembling would have been accurate, still sort of am, honestly. But, after those three tweets, the urgency lessened and I felt that I was done. I had done what I needed to do. I do not necessarily know why I had to do it, why it had to be me. But I did it, and whatever the result(s) of those tweets will be, it is out of my hands.

I’m not a bold person, at least I don’t consider myself to be. This was way outside of my comfort zone but, as they say, that’s where the growth happens, yes?

What I Choose

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What I did not choose:

My birth

My parentage

My skin color

The place I was raised in

The language I grew up speaking

 

What I did choose:

My faith

My education

My future

My partner and helpmeet

My family

My home

My tribe

My dreams

My child

 

What I will continue to choose:

To hope

To believe

To listen

To hug

To encourage

To pray

To sing

To write

To smile

To dance

To learn

To support

To love

I Wish You Could See…

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Dear World,

I wish you could see what I see.

I wish you could see the beautiful little two-year-old girl twirling in the midst of my living room in her pretty spring dress, church shoes, and winter coat.

I wish you could see the spring sunlight as the rays filter through my living room window and fill my home with light.

I wish you could see my little family at baby’s bedtime, prayers and I love you’s and kisses all round.

I wish you could see the little moments of joy threaded throughout my day. But, even more so, I wish for you to see the ones threaded throughout yours.

Love, Me