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.

Fashion: I Will Rock It

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Credit – http://pulsosocial.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/fashion-online.jpg

Over the past few weeks, I have noticed a surge in a particular type of article and it makes me unhappy. Now, don’t get me wrong, I used to enjoy watching “The Fashion Police”, just like anyone else, mostly because I got to see pretty outfits and dresses and not really because of the hosts/”experts”. However, I have now found myself so very tired of articles that wags fingers and opine, “Don’t wear if you’re over (insert number here) age”. This piece or type of clothing or that shoe or this item for your hair. More than once, I have asked myself if I should just grow up and “dress my age”. And then I slap myself and come to my senses.

Oh, please! Fashion changes, CONSTANTLY! What makes you or anyone an expert on what I or anyone else should wear? Where’s the personal preference or taste? We may disagree with what people choose to wear but, ultimately, we do not have a say in anything but our own I am a grown woman, I will be 32 years old in two months, and I am fully capable of making my own decisions. If I like it, watch me rock it (see below)!

This article, though, has some excellent advice, which I think is quite apropos and awesome:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michelle-combs/what-not-to-wear-after-ag_b_6656902.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063   ^_^ *climbs down from soapbox*

Examples of My Personal Fashion in Recent Years:

Pink top, black cardigan, denim skirtPink sweater, cream beret and jeansGreen top, black pencil skirt, and black fascinator 2 Fall School Outfit Dove_character_photo Black and white halter and white skirt
Cream corset, blue and cream lace bustle, cream skirt, lace cuffs, cream-pink flower fascinator, blue ribbon chokerRed Sea dress Yellow tank and jeans

Fan-fiction: The Daughter of the King

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Author’s Note: Based on the television show Forever, starring Ioan Gruffud,. This is written from the perspective of a female character as she rides in an ambulance towards the end of the episode “The King of Colombus Circle”.

“Courage. You are the daughter of a king.”

The daughter of a king. I certainly didn’t feel like the daughter of a king. I was lying in the back of an ambulance, the klaxons whirring and whining overhead, drilling into my temples, my blood leaking out onto the gurney. And he sat over me, reminding me that I was the daughter of a king.

A dead king.

A king who was assassinated. By an assassin who had now come for me. And for my son.

My son!

My baby!

There I lay, shot and bleeding. Soon, I would be dead. The dead daughter of a dead king. Soon, my son would be as I had been: an orphan. Shuffled back and forth through the system all his life. My precious, beautiful, black-haired baby boy.

I felt the tears on my face but I couldn’t tell if they were hot or cool, whether the world was loud or quiet. All I could feel was the weight of fear on my chest.

I couldn’t leave my boy an orphan. I couldn’t let him grow up like I had: shuffled between foster, group homes, and CPS facilities all his life until he aged out, never cared for, never loved. I thought I had found love, once, in the arms of his father. A man with a wife and family of his own, but I convinced myself that he loved me. He didn’t.

But he gave me my son. And I loved him. My son who would soon be motherless.

No. I couldn’t let my son grow up like I had: wondering every day where he came from, why he was given up, why no one loves him. I couldn’t let him go through that.

I could not die.

I would not die!

He held my hand, that man from the police, with the lilting British accent. The man who had told this Cinderella that she was a princess. He told me to have courage, that I was a king’s daughter.

And the world slipped to the left, darkness flipping over my head.

= = =

When I woke again, I saw my son. He was in the Queen’s arms. She smiled and, seeing me awake, came over to the side of the bed.

“I hope you do not mind me holding him,” she said, “It’s just that he looks so much like his grandfather.”

Grandfather. Father. Gone. But I had not been forgotten. My son would not be forgotten. He would be raised with a family, with love. A grandmother and a mother who adore him.

Princess or not, I would give him a legacy.

Redux: Hiding Behind a Valentine

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Author’s Note: This was my first article that I wrote for The Well Written Woman, posted a year ago today. And it only came about because of my wonderful husband!

Valentine

Last night, the eve of Valentine’s Day, my husband came into the living room and up to me saying, “Elizabeth wanted me to make sure that you got your Valentine. Do you want it?” I looked at him with a rather “huh” look on my face so he repeated himself, tacking “Do you want it now?” to the end. When I still couldn’t think of what to answer, he explained, “She left it on your chair. She’s fourteen months old and has no idea about where to place things.” Complete with that exasperated roll of his eyes that he affects so badly.

Then I got it; he wanted me to open my Valentine from our toddler daughter. I smiled and answered, “Sure, I’d like it. I don’t want to sit on it in the middle of the night.”

So off my husband went, returning with my Valentine in hand. It consisted of an envelope assembled from two stapled pieces of brown construction paper, “Happy Valentine’s Day” written in red crayon across the front. Inside was a pink construction paper card with a red heart on the front, the sweetest poem on the inside, and Elizabeth’s “signature” (Bizzy) on the back, complete with a corner bitten off, as my daughter is wont to do with paper. I started to cry. I mean, really cry. I hugged my husband and he just held me and let me cry for a long while. My heart was so full, though perhaps not for the reason that you would think.

I was not crying because the Valentine was from my daughter, because it really wasn’t. What wrung the tears from my eyes and poured them over my smile was Ben’s heart showing through my first construction paper Valentine. It was his hand that had cut out the heart on the front, his mind and heart that had composed the poem, and his arms that had held our daughter and helped her sign her name to the back of the card. That Valentine might bear Elizabeth’s name but it was a construct of my husband’s loving soul, one that touched me to my core.

While our child is dear and sweet and holds parts of ourselves, Ben and I made the decision together a long time ago that we are a team, we are in this together, and each other comes first. While we love our daughter deeply and fully, we choose to love each other first and best. That may sound horrible to some people but it is a strategy that I have witnessed the success of rather close to home. If we are weak and unloving as a husband and wife, how could we possibly hope to be strong and loving parents to Elizabeth? Ben is my first, and I am his. And I was reminded of that in his little skit and gorgeous Valentine. It was funny, cute, adorable, and amazing. It was created out of love and care for my heart, not because it was something that was expected or had to be done. Ben wanted to remind me that what I do for our Elizabeth and our home is noticed and appreciated, which, for a stay-at-home mom with a toddler, is a great heart-soother. So my most treasured Valentine today is a handmade one on construction paper that bears my daughter’s name, but that is her father’s noble and loving heart on the front of the card. You can’t hide behind her, dear. She’s only two and a half feet tall.

An Existence Woven in Words

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I didn’t exist in your world until you started reading this sentence of mine.

Did you know that? I didn’t exist in your world until a moment ago. Ta da! How do you do? Nice to meet you in this big old universe of ours.

This is one of the reasons I write (send letters, journal, blog, tweet, update, etc.): to send my words out into the world, into the universe, and to join my world with that of others’. My words are proof that I did indeed exist in this universe that we call our own; they are also proof of my existence in the worlds and lives of others.

One year ago, a new avenue of world-reaching opened up for me when the wonderful ladies of The Well Written Woman welcomed me as a contributor to their fabulous site. Over the course of 2014, TWWW was kind enough to publish seven of my articles/stories, giving me a safe place to share some of my most deeply felt and vulnerable writings with the world. There really is a sense of fear and foreboding at sending what basically amounts to a piece of your heart and self out into the world. Those soul-written words alert the world to your existence, not to mention your opinions and thoughts, and that can be dangerous, as well as wonderful, as many recent events have revealed to us. It has scared me to death on more than one occasion, but I have not regretted it. Even if I thought I did at the time, the truth is that, when it comes down to it, I really haven’t. When I have doubted myself the most, there always comes a kind, encouraging word from someone (whether friend or stranger) that reminds me of the aforementioned reason why I do this, why I write.

So this thought is a very profound one to me; the thought that, when people read my writing, I then exist in their world and in their lives, even if only for the brief amount of time it takes them to read my words. There are people who have become dearly important parts of my life, my relationships with whom began with words on a screen. Over time, those words have been exchanged in person, along with hugs and smiles and wonderful memories. But, until I first read their words, that person didn’t exist in my universe, and now I do not know what I would do without them. There are people whose words and teachings have affected my mind and the way I think about myself, others, and life. Words that I have taken to heart and incorporated into my own way of living and making the world around me better.

So thank you. Yes, thank YOU. You, who have read my words and allowed me into your world, even if just for a little while. You, who have opened doors and allowed my words to flow through them. You, who have shared your words and your world with me. I hope and pray that the thoughts, sentences, opinions, and reflections that I have woven my existence with have been and will be, in some measure, of help, encouragement, or inspiration to someone whose world I have touched and who has touched mine in return.

Again, nice to meet you.

Writing is Hard

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Credit – http://cdn.prnewsonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/writing.jpg

It is. Everyone knows it, but it bears repeating. Writing is hard.

Even as I sit here, writing in my notebook with the loveliest of all instruments, a fountain pen, it’s hard and even annoying to have to admit how difficult writing can be. I have had an idea drifting around in my head for the past week, at least, that I just cannot seem to get translated into words on a page or screen. I hate it when writing is difficult. I despise it when the bifrost between my mind and my hands feels fractured and cracked, preventing me from weaving my thoughts into reality. I get frustrated and irritated, like trying to make a square peg fit  into a round hole.

I know that, sometimes, just writing is the answer, whether it feels “right” or not but I truly dislike forcing words out. It feels just that: forced. I know that writing is work and work is hard. I’m not disputing it. I just…*stamps foot*

Come on, brain, work!

Memories That Follow

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From my personal journals, nine years ago today:

2-1-06

Ben called me this morning at 7:40 and told me that I needed to see the sunrise today. So I went downstairs to the computer lab and looked out the eastern windows there. It was simply gorgeous! All shades of fire and twilight – reds, oranges, purples, and pinks. ‘Twas a beautiful thing to share with Ben. I loved it!

Credit – http://mayawhite.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/beautiful-sunrise.jpg

Crucial Conversations

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“There are moments of disproportionate influence, moments where how someone behaves has an enormous effect on every result they care about.” – Joseph Grenny, co-author of Crucial Conversations

Let’s be blunt here: crucial conversations are hard, very hard. “When it matters most, we often tend to do our worst.” This has been a large struggle for me in my lifetime. When I sit down face-to-face with someone to have a crucial conversation, it can sometimes be difficult for me to keep my emotions in check and that can derail a conversation quickly. I often fare better in having written conversations because I am able to write out my thoughts and see what I am going to say BEFORE I open my metaphoric mouth. But that is not always an option, nor what is best for the other person or the conversation.

As a child, at some point, I bought wholesale into the myth that you have to choose between telling the truth and keeping a friend/relationship. It has been and continues to be a struggle for me to choose truth when I know that it could possibly cause difficulty in my friendships and relationships. I know that honesty can birth incredible intimacy, deeper bonds, and sharpening relationships, and I have definitely experienced that, thank God! But we all face those situations where we can fear those crucial conversations. I have had quite a few of them over the past several years, and I have been able to see a change in my strength in those conversations. I am still in process, yes, but I have been able to have some crucial conversations, be honest and respectful throughout, and I think that it worked to good effect on both sides.

One of my biggest fears/worries is what people will think of me, if I am being totally honest. One of the statements that Joseph Grenny makes, in his book and in his public speaking, is this: “People never become defensive about what you are saying. They become defensive because of why they think you are saying it.” My mind is such that I catch myself worrying about what other people possibly think of me or my motivations, imagining their thoughts or what they might say to others of me. I try to make sure that people know my intent for a conversation but it is hard even then at times. I want to be able to create a sense of safety so that I can have these crucial conversations. But how? How can I create that sense of safety if there has been any emotion/pain/misunderstanding between myself and others in the past? Or if I have already attempted to create that safety, that mutual purpose and respect, in other ways with what seems to have been minimal effect? That deeply discourages me from conversation, to be frank. If previous attempts at fostering safety haven’t seemed to work, how can I put myself out even more for a conversation that may not even be desired? When do I stop being someone who is trying and become just a nuisance? These are the questions that I am asking myself as I continue to try to work and grow through this process we call life, which no one can fully prepare you for.

Crucial conversations are hard and, in my particular case, they are a lifelong process.

What My Voice Was Made For

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I love to sing. Love to sing. I croon lullabies to soothe minds and tears. I will belt musicals in the car. I will sing Glee duets with my husband and mingle our voice as we have mingled our lives. On Sunday, though, as I stood and sang in worship service, I came to a realization: my voice was made for hymns.

I grew up in the Wesleyan Holiness Church and have sung hymns my entire life and have most of them memorized. I have sung them, played them on the piano and flute, translated them, and written about them for English assignments. My voice was made for the soaring triumphs of hymns like “I Will Praise Him”, the broken need of “Fill My Cup, Lord”, and the deep remembrance of “Man of Sorrows”. My voice was made for hymns and it makes my heart soar to sing them. It reminds me of the lessons I learned of Jesus as a young woman, of sweet moments of God’s comfort and help, moments of brokenness and revelation.

My husband says frequently that one of the things that spurred his love for me was when he took me to his home church for the first time and I knew every hymn that was sung by heart. TO him, it was a reminder that I understood his past, his upbringing, that I knew how much it meant to him. I understood his life, and knew what it would mean for me to be part of it, to share in it.

As a child, the hymn “Jesus Loves Me” was my lullaby, sung and hummed to me by my mother every night. It soothed my soul and my heart at the end of each day. It also was the first song I ever sang to my daughter, becoming her main lullaby as well. I hummed it into the tiny body that laid on my chest, murmured it through exhausted tears, sang it through smiling lips at the sight of a peacefully sleeping infant in my arms.

There are days when I find myself singing hymns while I stand at the sink washing dishes or folding clothes, and I just smile. They are what my voice was made for – for praise and blessings, for intercession and brokenness, for joy and gratitude. Of all the songs I shall ever sing, these will forever remain the closest, for they bolster my heart and my faith through every season of life.