How Will I Be Remembered?

Leave a comment

I read a blog post yesterday that told the story of Alfred Nobel and how he came to question how he would be remembered, and I did as the post encouraged and began to think. What is my legacy? How would I like to be remembered? Will I be spoken well of? Will I be remembered with love and respect? Will I be missed?

It is hard to consider these questions and not feel a measure of arrogance. I mean, any person who acknowledges their humanity would want the answer to these questions to be “a good one”, “well”, “and “yes” on all accounts. But you really have to wonder if that is true.

I hope it is. I truly do.

Visual Inspiration – Photo Prompt

3 Comments

From Strangling My Muse:

What was I supposed to do? It just fell open and everything started happening! Cities with skyscrapers built of spindly black lines sprouted up, coordinating suburbs circling in on themselves in their cul-de-sacs further down the page. Little drawn people of all shapes and sizes and, apparently, professions began running hither, thither, and yon, some even going so far as to traipse off the pages and scamper off into the library in search of their own private heaven in the guise of the science, education, or fine arts sections. How am I supposed to find them and put them back? Oh, no, no, no! No Ark exodus! No, come back!

Review & Reflection: I Like a Girl Who Reads

Leave a comment

“So, what do you go for in a girl?”
He crows, lifting a lager to his lips
Gestures where his mate sits
Downs his glass
“He prefers tits
I prefer ass.
What do you go for in a girl?”

I don’t feel comfortable
The air left the room a long time ago
All eyes are on me
Well, if you must know

I want a girl who reads.

This is the beginning of a slam poem by Mark Grist entitled “Girls Who Read”, the video of which on YouTube has garnered over three million views. A friend of mine posted this video on Facebook this morning and I had never heard of it before, much less watched it. As I watched the video and Grist went through how he loves a girl who reads and who “uses the added vocabulary/She gleans from novels and poetry/To hold lively conversation/In a range of social situations”, I felt my heart warm and that familiar burning behind my eyes that tells me I’m going to cry.

I know that girls who read are appreciated but an homage like this is a fabulous reminder that made me feel wonderful. I read compulsively, you know that. I love a story that flows, that challenges, learning new vocabulary, descriptions, and falling in love with the characters I find in novels. In junior high, I was teased pretty mercilessly by the other kids in my small eight-grade classroom. They didn’t understand why I read the books I did or why I read books at all. I did my best to ignore them but the truth was that it hurt, a lot. When I got to college, I found an outlet and use for my voracious reading as an English Education major/Literature minor. In graduate school, I wrote my Master’s thesis over some of my favorite short stories, even. And I found a man who loved me for my imagination, for my love of reading. The first significant amount of time that we spent together was spent discussing Tolkien and poetry over coffee.

So this poem/video meant a great deal to me today. Five stars! Well done, Mark Grist, and thank you!

Enjoying to Love, and Loving to Enjoy

Leave a comment

This is so very true for me. I fall in love with characters all the time. Sometimes I have a vague notion of how they would look to me, even if there is a description of them given by the author. But it ultimately matters little to me just how they look. I fall for the way they speaks and think, the way they interact with others. A prime example of this is Mercedes Lackey’s incarnation of Robin Goodfellow in her Elemental Masters  series, and Ceclia and Marco of Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. The newest victim of my ‘soulful love’ thus far is William Bellman of Diane Setterfield’s Bellman & Black. When it comes down to it, he is nowhere near as lightheartedly charming as he was before the death of his mother but I still admire the character in a way that I cannot fully explain.

I enjoy falling in love with novel characters. I enjoy loving them and I love enjoying them.

Another character that I came to love was the Phouka in Emma Bull’s War for the Oaks. Sure he was annoying, superior prick at times but he was genuine in his desire and efforts to protect Eddie and, eventually, in his care for her. I admit that I tend to fall for the supernaturally charming characters. Can’t really help it. Sometimes, they prove unworthy of it but, at others, they prove to be wonderful underneath all the bluster and brine. And that’s why falling in love with characters is totally worth it.

A Scar or a Smile

Leave a comment

I have a scar. It is low, beneath my belly, about six inches long. It’s my only scar, a reminder of my only trip to the hospital, my only surgery. It is still strange to touch it, to feel its knotted roughness beneath my fingertips, feel the skin prickle with sensitivity. Stranger still to see it, an unfamiliar smile from pointing from hip to hip.

A smile. I never really think of it that way, but I suppose it is one way to do so. A permanent smile in my flesh, made by the arrival of my daughter.

What Remains of War

Leave a comment

This belongs to Melissa Snyder

The river had swollen with an early thaw, overflowing its banks and swamping the riverside. Standing sentry in the flooded bank, the river still running with ice flows, was a bare, spindly-branched sapling. Caught and waving from its bent fingers was a shredded swatch of red, fluttering weakly in the late-winter wind. The ravaged flag, its golden sunburst obliterated by mud and fire, was only vestige of the bloody battle fought here. The Winterwise had washed away all other evidence, hiding it beneath the ripple of its icy skirts.

A flash of glossy black with peacock sheen broke the grey of the waterlogged landscape, standing out in stark relief to the white-capped river ripples. Landing on the tree branch, the rook pecked at the remnant, attracted by the golden flicker of the sunburst. Its beak, however, dislodged the flag’s tenuous hold on the branch, and the icy wind grabbed hold with greedy fingers to sweep it away through the grey air over the Winterwise.

The river had swollen and overflowed its banks, washing away any evidence of the battle that had splattered the crystal snow with hot blood.

Dear Tearful Mom

Leave a comment

Cross-posted from my Mommy blog.

Dear Tearful Mom,

I know you’re exhausted, I know you’re frustrated, even angry, I know that your eyes and back and head all ache, your chest hurts with holding in the tears, and you’re half-crazy from having to sing the “When You Feel So Mad” song from Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood to yourself as often as you have recently just to keep your cool. I know you worry about being a “bad mommy” because you can’t be constantly patient and cooing and sweet when your little one fusses and bosses and then refuses any sort of comfort you try to give. You love your little one and fight vehemently the feeling of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. It’s not their fault; they are little and needy (maybe in pain) and they don’t understand or know how to do for themselves or what will make them feel better. The doctors want them to be independent but the truth is that they just aren’t. Not yet.

You haven’t been alone, truly alone, in months. You haven’t been able to go out, or even just stay in, and relax on your own terms. Truly relax. You might not have had a solid night’s sleep in a while. You haven’t been able to live on your own schedule, recharge your batteries in the way that is best for you. You feel weary and wilted, tired and tearful. The tears fall without you really noticing, large and plentiful, when you’re too exhausted to hide them anymore.

It’s OK to feel that way. You’re not alone, I know how you feel.

Because I feel that way, too.

All Alone, On My Own.

Leave a comment

I ran across this picture this morning that Word Porn had posted on Facebook, along with the question, “Do you spend enough time alone?” The answer was instantaneous for me.

No. No, I don’t.

I used to spend a goodly amount of time alone, which is kind of integral for someone with my personality. It was when I would recharge, when I would get my energy back. It’s when I recounted my experiences, searching through my thoughts and my emotions, and figured things out. It was also when I relaxed. There were those quiet hours on Saturday morning, just me, my coffee/hot chocolate, the cat, and the TV/book/front porch/whatever I needed that day. There was the hour or so spent watching movie trailers on Hulu and getting excited for new stories being told.  There was quiet time with just me and my journal, my thoughts pouring out to be pored over and their implications considered. But, of course, ever since having my daughter in 2012, that’s rather gone out the window.

During the summer, I would grab my alone time while Bizzy napped. My exercises, a shower, lunch, and perhaps even time to read, journal, and nap. Now, it’s winter, she’s older, more mobile and active, and naps don’t last nearly as long. I am also less active, not being able to go outside nearly as often, so I tend to opt to nap when she does now over anything else, for fear of waking her as well as being just exhausted.

I have to admit, I miss being alone. I miss being quiet and reading. I, a noted bibliophile, have read finished only one novel since Bizzy was born over a year ago (though I have memorized Ten Little Fairies), and I’m practically over the moon that I have read almost 100 pages of Diane Setterfield’s Bellman and Black.  I miss watching people, getting lost in a crowd, content in not being noticed while I observe the world around me. Yep, I miss being alone.

I’m not telling people to go away. I’m not saying that I am tired of my daughter. I am just an introvert who misses her alone time.

An Honest Legacy

Leave a comment

Shakespeare said that “no legacy is so rich as honesty”. There is probably no legacy as costly either, however. To be honest is be vulnerable, to show them your belly and risk being struck.

Today, I was boldly honest with a friend of mine and it struck me how rare that instance is: me being completely honest. I often tend to keep back how I feel deep in my core in favor of homeostasis, or, rather, lack of confrontation and discord. It has kind of always been that way. I keep certain things, deeply heartfelt things, to myself out of fear of others’ disapproval or disappointment. I’m trying to be more honest, to step out in trust more often, and what I realized today (again) was how…freeing it can be to be honest and have someone utterly refute your fears. They do so by not only listening to you and not turning away in disgust or disappointment, but by also being supportive and encouraging. That never fails to take me by surprise. Tearfully so, most of the time.

I’m very thankful for my friends and their support and encouragement. It means a lot and strikes my heart each and every time you prove such amazing mettle as a friend. Thank you, from the bottom of my little heart. Thank you.

An Unfair Comparison

Leave a comment

Author’s Note: This blog post is not aimed at anyone, nor is it an exercise in shaming persons – man or woman, great or small, or what have you. It is simply a post born of a thought and worked through into a premise as I work through my own issues with self-esteem and comparison. You are under no obligation to read it.

= = = = =

Dear You,

Now, I know that you have read the letters and blog posts that tell you not to compare yourself to others, to not look at their bodies and think yourself fat or unfit or unattractive or what have you. They tell you to remember your power, that you are great/beautiful/handsome/wonderful just the way you are, man or woman. You shouldn’t compare yourself to anyone else; you are individual, you are unique, you are special. Comparing yourself to someone else is unfair to you. And I agree.

But what about me? Yes, me. That one, whether nebulous or specific, that you’re comparing yourself to.  It’s unfair to me, too, you know.  Just as it’s unfair to you when people compare themselves to you. When you compare yourself to me, you not only undo your individuality, you undo mine, too. Such a comparison, at its heart, presumes against the individuality of both the comparer and the compared. It assumes that you and I, or you and someone else, are the same in all things. When you compare yourself to me and wonder why you don’t look this way or do this or have that, you aren’t allowing for one very fundamental detail:

We are not the same person.

Between you and me, there is a plethora of differences – differences in body type, health, family history, maybe ethnicity, life developments and changes, jobs, particular emotional stressors, children or no children, and on and on. So it’s not only unfair to you when you compare yourself and hinge your self-esteem on someone else, but also to the person to whom you are comparing yourself. We are all in this together, but we are all fundamentally different people and far too individual and unique to be comparing ourselves to each other. I am not like you and you are like no one else. So let’s be fair to ourselves but also to others and let them be the special, unique, wonderful people that they are, too.

Thanks, Me