Wednesday Thoughts

"If you feel that you are not strong enough to let your creative voice become heard, start with a whisper Your voice will come." unknown 

   I know I posted of my return and then went quiet... again. It was only for a few days this time. I am still figuring out where to take Living Life from here. What do I want to do in this space.  Shortly after writing about taking a break from Facebook, I sat and read back through ten years of my own writings. Reading through the years, I discovered the post when I found my voice... when I became a little more confident with MY words instead of trying to imitate or impress others. While reading your comments (some made me teary... such kind words)  I remembered how much I truly enjoyed writing and connecting here. 

So... let's see what happens!  I will continue with my disclaimers, and I'm almost always unedited, there will be mistakes... no judging. I hope you will stop by and leave a comment. (One day I may figure out how to reply individually.) Please let me know your thoughts.

 Hello... are you still there?

I'll be back soon to share some of my favorite books from the past several months. Oh my, what Covid has done to my reading life!  

Find something that makes your heart smile! 

Hugs!

 

 

Sunday Thoughts!

copied from "Brainy Quote"

Enjoy your day!

Sometimes It Happens...

Sometimes it happens... a book is opened, and somewhere among the pages we stumble upon a sentence, a phrase, a group of words that sit down in the most comfortable chair
 and linger with us. 

"...it is about nothing, about the many nothings of ordinary life that somehow arrange, symphony-like, into the whole of everything".

I happened upon this group of phrases  just as I was finishing Margaret Eby's book, South Toward Home.  (We'll chat about the book later.)   Though Eby writes these words to describe John Kennedy Toole's book, A Confederacy of Dunces, I keep returning to them, because, it is in these  "nothings of ordinary life" that I find everyday blessings.    

I find it so easy with today's social media to get caught up in the wanting better and more.    We need only to log in for a few minutes to begin reading that everyone else is off on the best vacation, has the best relationship, friends, house, children...  Everyone else's life is filled with all these spectacular moments...  you get where I am going.   I don't know about you, but I often sigh and think what if.   Then I land, usually face down caused my own blindness... 

 Summer mornings sitting outside with a cup of coffee, my morning readings and listening to the sounds of summer...  meals around my own dinner table with family and friends...  watching the joy on my grandson's face as he licks a popsicle.    Extraordinary is great, and I am grateful for all those adventures, but nothing compares to my nothings.   It is recognizing and accepting the blessings of the moment to moment, the ordinary,  that stitch together and create a rich, and spectacular life.  

**** 
  Perhaps it is the southern humidity, the intoxicating smell of  magnolias, or the over indulgence of spirits... no one can create a multi-layered, damaged yet heroic character or spin the  tragedy/drama/comedy tale like the southern writer.  (this southerner's personal opinion, of course.)   South Toward Home, is the ultimate road trip for the southern lit lover wanting an insight into the lives, people and places that inspired some of the south's most infamous (Welty, O'Connor, Faulkner, Lee, Capote and Toole) southern authors, and maybe a few not found on everyone's reading list, but no less talented.  Each chapter stands alone, so no need to feel like you must tackle this journey in one trip.

My favorite son(-in-law), picked out this book for me while we were browsing one of my favorite bookstores, Lemuria in Jackson, Mississippi.  Thanks for the great suggestion,
loved it!

Now I want to get into the car, fill-up the gas tank, and trace Eby's tire treads.  
Anyone up for a southern road trip?

I hope you are reading something fabulous!

Writing

Happy New Year!

I know it is closer to Valentine's Day than New Year's...
this is just how my life has been running the last few years.

We had our first snow overnight.
For me, it means a day of no school.

I have a book I'm anxious to get back to reading, and more than a few projects begging to be tackled (like a pantry and a closet), but what I really want to do is to sit down and write.

I have always wanted to write.  Which may explain my love of reading.  As a child I wrote imaginary tales.  My dad called them "fantastical" (I never mistakenly thought he used this as a form of fantastic).    When I was older I moved to writing mysteries, then onto poetry and stories filled with teenage angst.  A pen and a notepad were a favorite and constant companion.   Often when I am craving to pick up a pencil and write, I remember a story of a young girl who wanted to write fiction.

Once  in a distant time and place, a teacher assigned her seventh grade class the task of writing both a non-fiction and a fiction story.   One student in particular loved writing and telling far-fetched stories.  Receiving the assignment she tackled her least favorite first.  She was not particularly fond of reading non-fiction, and found researching a bit boring.  She didn't like using someone else's words.   Her dad had recently taught her how to use his "fancy" camera.  She would write her non-fiction piece about her dad teaching her to take photographs. She wrote down everything he had taught her.  She checked out books at the library.    She edited and reedited to condense all her information to fit
 the one page limit.  And, she was pleased.

With her camera story behind her, she pulled out her favorite pen  and began writing a white knuckled suspense story of two children exploring an abandoned house and finding an escaped convict hiding in a small room off the old creaky stairs leading to the attic.  The story clearly had a beginning, a climax and an end... in a seventh grade kind of way.   She edited and reedited to make sure her story fit the one page limit.   And, she was pleased.

The two assignments were labeled, and turned in.  The next week papers were returned.  The child anxiously awaited her graded work.   This was when she was surely going to shine.  She waited while everyone else reviewed their returned work.  Finally, the teacher ask her to come up to her desk.

The teacher handed her the non-fiction piece.  The grade was a B, okay, but not very interesting.   The teacher held the other assignment in her hand.  She looked at it, and looked into the girl's face.  She ask if the child understood the assignment.  The child nodded.  Reaching out the teacher placed the paper in front of the student.  At the top of the paper was the biggest, brightest red F the girl
 had ever seen.

The teacher looked at the child and explained, "I had to give you an F, because you labeled this fiction.  It should have been turned in with the non-fiction papers".  Confused, and with tears brimming her eyes, the child told the teacher it was fiction, it was a made-up story.  The teacher questioned the girl about the characters, and parts of the story, then picked up her pen and added an additional leg to F to make it an A.  She handed the girl the paper.  "If you continued to practice you could be a writer one day."

The girl did not continue to practice.  She grew up, the world grew loud and life happened.  She still loves to write.  She said in the New Year should get back to her writing.  Now, she suddenly finds she is standing nearer to Valentine's Day than New Years.

What a blessing a snow day can become.
Stay warm dear friends.
I'm off to tackle a project....
or maybe just settle in with my book.

I have so many books to write about....
 I'm going to need another snow day!

Enjoy!   

Journaling

I woke early this morning with thoughts jumping around in my head.  I would have liked to turn over and fall back into a dream filled sleep, but I was awake and there was nothing to do but start my day.  It wasn't a surprise to open the shutters and find snow clinging to the branches; it began falling long before my bedtime.  

I sat at the window, alone, listening to the quiet of the morning wrapped in the pristine white blanket that fell overnight.   I was craving the quiet, a time to sit and stare.   Looking away from the window, glancing around the room my eyes stopped at my writing desk.   Perched on the corner was my long forgotten journal and pen.   

I moved over to my desk and opened what once was a constant companion, but now only an acquaintance.  Near the back of the journal was my last entry dated 25 July 2013.   Had it really been so long since I had picked up my pen?  I turned to the first empty page and began.  Words fell like tears, and a few were of tears; some were words of anger and anxiety.  I was disposing of the clutter which had tethered my heart and halted my pen so many months ago.  And, it felt as if I had found a long lost confidant. Words became sentences...sentences filled the pages until I noticed how quickly the tone had changed to that of surprise, joy and promise.  I wrote unedited until I had nothing left to put on paper.  I closed my book, and safely secured the stories that are not mine to tell, but weighed so heavily, within those pages.  I haven't stopped caring, but placed those cares away for safekeeping making room for all that tomorrow will bring...

the good and the bad.  

I'm not for certain why I stopped my daily journaling; I suspect things were happening I didn't want to remember.  Writing something down often makes it too real, too permanent.   I have kept some form of a journal most of my life, and yet I forgot writing is really a way of putting life's events into perspective   It may take a bit of discipline to return to the routine of daily writings, but I don't think I can afford not to continue.

As I write this post I look out to see snow beginning to slide off the branches and leaves of shrubs and evergreens just as the quiet solitude of the morning gently slid into a day filled with the sounds of the business side of life.

Do you keep a daily journal?
(Quite possibly you are feeling the need to vent against those who keep extolling the virtues of winter?)

Enjoy the Olympics,
stay safe and warm dear friends!

words, words, words

I love words.  I enjoy listening to words as much as I like reading them.  I will sometimes become so wrapped up in the words while reading, I  have to return to the beginning of a chapter and reread to pull out the content.   I find it mind-boggling when I think of how words were created and have developed over time.

Before sitting down to write this I did a bit of research on the "origin of language" and find I am in good company.  It seems when and how language was developed has been debated for over a hundred years.  At one time the subject became so heated the discussion was banned.  There are several circulating theories, one being we are genetically encoded.  I am not an academian, anthropologist, archeologist nor am I a linguistist; I am simply a lover of words (though probably a poor user of words).

The subject of "words" has been on my mind since listening to All Things Considered on NPR last week.  The interview was with Ben Greenman of "The New Yorker" regarding the elimination of  the single most offensive word in the English language.

Before I continue, I must tell you NPR is the only station I listen to while driving.  I've been know to sit in my car just to hear the end of an interview.  With that said I must say I seldom hear the beginning.  This can be a problem when I am trying to retell something I found interesting.  I don't always have all the details.  To make sure I fully understood this interview I pulled up the transcript so I might have my facts straight.  I will admit when I told the story earlier this weekend,  I did have a few of the facts skewed... a little.

The New Yorker ask its readers to respond, via twitter, with their nominations for the worst word.   Awesome, moist and slacks were the top three.   After much deliberation the powers that be decided slacks was the most offensive word.  "People said it felt like rubbing the palm of their hand over polyester...".  Personally I can think of a few more offensive words.

Fast forward to this morning.  I am breezing through the Sunday paper, separating the good from the garbage when I see an article titled "All hope is gone, surely for grammarians"  (I will add grammarian to the list of things I am not.)  Again, via twitter the Associated Press Stylebook stated It, too, had succumbed.  "We now support the modern usage of hopefully, ...It is hoped, we hope."  The article goes on to say the fight over the proper use of "hopefully" has been going on for decades.   Personally, I had no clue such a vicious battle had ensued.

If we can, even jokingly, eliminate words or change the way a word is used... who is to judge if a word is being used correctly.  Doesn't it make it all a little subjective?   All this fighting over and eliminating of words has left me perplexed.

Surely someone will help clear the confusion, she said hopefully.

*****

While on the subject of words....  A couple of weeks ago our "letter of the week" was "A".  My usual routine is to have the children give me words beginning with the letter.  I have a few children who are always ready with a word and then I have those who struggle.  The obvious words are the first to be shouted out:  ape, apple, acorn, and....  I want each child to have a word on the chalkboard so I give lots of hints.  While helping one child, one of my girls raised her hand while calling out "Miss Bonnie, Miss Bonnie, I have a word".   Certain she had thought of the word I was asking for, I called her name.  "App".  "Ape?  Ape is already on the board."  "No,  app" showing me her hand while pretending to push buttons with a finger on the other hand, "app".

"Okay.  Uppercase or lowercase?"
  Well, I am sure there is an app to find that.

We lose a word... We gain a word...

I hope you are having a wonderful weekend and never find yourself at a loss for words.