Flittering Clouds On Wings

We went to the Detroit Zoo to see, among other things, the butterfly garden. The sun shone on to the blossoming vines that meandered to the domed glass ceiling--vines that were alive with flittering from butterflies the size of postage stamps to those as large as a greeting card envelope. The magical effect these creatures created in every person lifted me. There were toddlers, octogenarians and mentally disabled all looking up in wonder...a crescendo of smiles.

I wondered what it was about butterflies that drew these smiles. Was it the freedom with which they soared? Or was it their natural beauty... effervescent colors and patterns? They're terribly fragile. Is that what endeared them to us all? Or was it their spontaneity...the way they landed for a moment, perhaps opened their wings, then floated away as if seeking some mysterious nectar?

I think, actually, it might have been their willingness to land on an open palm or a soft shoulder as if we were their very best friend. After all, we all need friends and sometimes friendship doesn't come so easily.

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Seeing Through the Mist

Some mornings are so perfect I find myself in a trance. When a mist lays in the lowland where the river runs to and from the pond, it seems as if I have entered a different world.

On this particular recent morning the mist, a fog really, had mingled with the lifting darkness and it was difficult to see what I'd grown accustomed to on these daily wanderings...the river just beyond the path that is beyond the sidewalk that edges the main street into our town; the woods beyond the river that hush my rushing mind even as they protect the river from all but the most persistent. There would be a footbridge leading to the meandering chip trail. Sometimes the heron would be there stalking bluegills in the shallows. East of the footbridge the river would bend and the water would ripple over the pebble bar on the riverbank. But none of this was there that morning.

When the mist falls, when the cumulus fog rolls down from above, I am, for a moment, disconcerted.I want to see what I am accustomed to seeing. I want the world to be as it should be. I want all the answers, all the symmetry and all the order to be just as it always has been. But the mist prevents all this. It forces from me, "What if?"

What if the river has dried up?
What if the bluegills that swim there have shrunk to skeletons on its banks?
What if the heron has gone to a different pond
                   --he has to eat, after all?
What if nothing is as I want it to be?
What if the world I I desire no longer exists? What then?
My heart begins to flutter and my mind swirls.

I jump to conclusions and, in a panic, begin to consider all kinds of possibilities. I will move away. I will find a new pond like the heron has surely done. I will leave my home, uproot my canine family and set out like Thoreau did so many decades ago. Now I am angry that Nature has sparked my wide-awake nightmare.
 
Just as my panic unsettles me to the point where I must find a place to sit down I decide that surely the same mist could just as easily settle over a different pond.

And so I wait until the sun begins to rise in the east and shines its rays through the trees and the mist is no longer an evil, dark forteller of gloom but a magical place wrapped in a gilded softness that, if I were to believe in a heaven, would be heavenly.

The Wind

There will be no photo to accompany this post. How can I capture the wind on film? Short of showing a tornado in the background, the inverted umbrella of a pedestrian or a rack of waves assaulting the shore it is impossible. The wind is invisible and yet its effects on those subjected to its whims can be devastating. What power!

Yesterday, after our balmy morning, the winds reached 30 miles an hour at dusk. If anything can convince the leaves to fall, it is such a wind and yet, many still stubbornly cling. Not just the oak, which can always be counted on as holding a tight fist on its own, but the Norway Maples, the burning bush, the lindens and some beech have yet to give up on summer.

I feel that way too and yet I know, as do these sylvan companions, that the seasons must change. That time must march forward. That schedules and responsibilities must be kept.

Still, like the sparrows that chirp outside my window--invisible for the leaves still clinging, I am happy to have just one more day here. One more moment to fortify myself for what I cannot see but what must eventually come.

Springing Into Fall

       It is a balmy 64 and while the leaves on the ground...their scents of decay wafting up from the earth...tell the true story, the birds tell a different one. Robins warbling, Red-wings whistling and juncos trilling their celebrations of life...as if the warm weather tricks them about what season we are in.

       Some say one ability that distinguishes us from animals is our sense of the future. Coupled with that, of course, is our awareness of time passed. So it is unlikely these birds are anticipating a new spring.

        That these leaves that cling to my dog's damp fur, just as they cling to the earth, will nourish new growth. The cycle of life.

     I don't particularly like Fall. I'm trying to get passed that.

      I'm trying to tell myself to live in the beautiful present that this season offers...the explosions of    earth's colors, the lacy patterns of bare branches, the time it affords to slow that manic summer pace.

      I'm trying to convince myself that every season has so much unappreciated bounty; that they all present opportunities.

          I'm trying to take these opportunities inwardly...to inhale the peace and the wonder they offer and  to make myself a better person for it.

          I see the reflections of the trees on the pond--reflections dappled with bronze and copper leaves. I want my soul to reflect this same beauty, this glorious harmony between it and nature. Reflect it outward in hopes it will trick other birds into thinking Spring has arrived.

What I Love

What do I love?

I love my family first, of course!

I love my dogs second.

I love crisp, clear, sunny Fall days, the sound of a violin concerto, the smell of apple pie baking in the oven, the warmth of a hug.

I love walking in the woods, capturing magical moments on film, writing moving passages.

I love a book I cannot put down, a poem I cannot forget.

I love watching puppies play, I love a good golf shot, I love the phone calls my daughters place for no particular reason at all. I love good friends. I love forgiveness.

I love quiet mornings--the way the sun forms familiar silhouettes as it begins to rise. Did I worry the Norway spruce would not return?

I love explosive proud moments.

I love a smile that is not expected.

Donald Maass -- The Dean of Powerful Writing

I am a member of Backspace (BKSP.org) It is a forum for writers who want to not only create meaningful fiction and non-fiction but who want to sell it. Backspace  holds bi-annual conferences in May and November. I attended my third last week and will, for the next several weeks, be trying to deal with the overwhelming amount of information dished out there.

Donald Maass presented a day-long workshop on the third day of the conference. Based on his incredibly successful textbook, "Writing the Breakout Novel," the workshop covered such important topics as adding dimensions to your protagonist, exceeding their personal boundaries to create larger than life moments and going through the same process with your antagonist. To say this workshop was huge is like saying the Brooklyn Bridge is a way to cross the East River.

Of course it is possible to read Maass's textbook or the workbook based on it or his latest work, THE FIRE IN FICTION. But hearing him speak on these topics, enjoying his wit and asking him pertinent questions while an issue is fresh in your mind adds so much more to the learning arc. And that doesn't even touch on the breaks where I was able to share my awe with fellow writers--not feel like I am the only one in the world who has miles to go.

 I certainly would never pretend to be qualified to advise writers on ways to improve their craft. However, I would hope some of the insights I took away from this conference might prove interesting to other fledgling writers. So, from time to time, I will post some of these insights here in no particular order.

Today I will finish with what I learned from Donald Maass about creating sympathetic characters. As we all have been told, readers do not spend much time with characters they do not like. In fact, more often than not, readers flat out abandon stories with despicable protagonists. This isn't to say all characters have to be like Mary Poppins. In fact, the most memorable protagonist of all--Scarlet O'Hara, was far from perfect. But she was both admirable and human. That, Maass says, is critical. Like all of us she had a bad side but she also had a good side. She was determined, strong and one of the first feminists. She was shrewd. She was everything we often admire in a man...but she was a beautiful, raven-haired female. In fact it is the tension created between the good and the bad in a character that makes her most appealing. That makes for a page-turner. Long after a novel is finished and returned to its shelf, the reader will remember the conflicts of a well-crafted character and that is what every writer wants. Right?

Lord of Misrule by Jaimy Gordon

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Jaimy Gordon is right up there on my list of incredible living authors--and a Michigan one at that--John Irving, Jon Clinch, Arthur Phillips and Alice Hoffman to name a few others who put words together in such moving ways that I feel as though I am in the same room with them...am breathing their air, smelling, hearing and tasting their world. On top of that they are all master storytellers.

Some of my favorite passages:

"The Mahdi even pranced, in all his big red cheer, wearing his burnished chest like a Torah breastplate. Mr. Boll Weevil went more stylishly, his mane braided and knotted and his feet prettily oiled, for he had a groom of the old school. The others? They were shufflers with their heads hanging down like plough animals, or tremblers, or rearers, their scared penises battened out of sight in purses of loose gray skin, underbellies awash in yellow foam."

"He tried not to hold it against the frizzly girl that his friend Two-Tie had used her to help him out this life. After all, when Two-Tie disappeared for good, he had Medicine Ed's markers in his pocket. Now she showed up at the Mound sometimes on a Sadday night and looked down on him and Pelter in the walking ring. He could recognize Two-Tie in them fuzzy tilted-up eyebrows, and all he can see is Mr. Two Tie lying on his face in a railroad culvert somewhere or under a heap of stones in the deep woods, or sliding down a mountainside with the tin cans and old stoves and deer parts that people dump over the side of the road. Might could be they never find him, and all Medicine Ed can think is, she don't even know he died for her sake or who he was. It's a tie in the blood, and yet still its no remembrance, no one to mourn or either grieve for him."

It's about family. What family is traditional any more? It's about passion. Is life worth living without it?  It's about the downtrodden. Aren't we all downtrodden in some way?

Just can't say enough good things about Lord of Misrule except read it!

View my other Goodreads reviews

"Signs of Life" --A Book Review

Many things drew me to Natalie Taylor's debut novel, "Signs of Life." First of all Taylor grew up in a Detroit suburb next to where I have lived and raised my family. I know the places she talks about. But more than that, her voice is honest, spunky and heart-wrenching. Her story is real and speaks to some of our deepest human fears--losing a loved one and surviving alone. My only complaint, if you can call it that, is that her loss is so large her sadness takes up a huge portion of the story.

It is a memoir about the sixteen months after her 27 year old husband dies in a skate boarding accident. She was 8 months pregnant at the time of the tragedy and her world comes to a devastating halt. I soon learned that everything Taylor does she does with her entire being. She loves her husband, her job as a high school English teacher, her family and her baby with so much passion that of course her loss is overwhelming. She goes into wonderful detail about special times in her life with Josh, her husband. She sections each chapter with passages from books she is teaching her students. Macbeth, Metamorphosis, No Exit and Catcher in The Rye are just a few of the challenging titles that her students delight in because Taylor's sincere love for literature is so contagious. That they are very lucky children to have Taylor as their teacher is constantly evident.

It takes a very long time but Taylor does get through those sixteen months, though. Her tenacity and her passion saves her as she pours what is left of it into a triathlon...something she is not prepared to do but trains for at the urging of her sister. I got the sense that this achievement--finishing the grueling race--is a beacon that will shine on the rest of Taylor's life. That she will survive and perhaps even love again.

Signs of Life is an easy read and one that is difficult to put away. I would recommend it not just to new mothers but to anyone who has lost a loved one and is having trouble recovering. I would also recommend it to anyone who wants to know how to love with passion. Just be forewarned...this kind of love is beautifully rewarding but can also be terribly devastating.

Out Damned Snow! Out I say!

Enough already with this Winter...its oppressive grey skies and miserable temperatures and teasing promises of spring.

The dogs love it--I hate it. Even if it melts by afternoon
I want nothing of it when a week ago the 82 degree day
encouraged the quince and forsythia blossoms
that now shiver under caps of snow--caps that do nothing to preserve warmth.

Ach! The only good from it is I am motivated to write...but the view. Ach!

Even my orchids are shivering!

Symphonies On the Sand

One Blade's Delicate Touch

Windy Waves

When I was very young--probably four and a half--my mother went to the hospital to deliver my sister. It was early July and, as my parents already had three children, I and my siblings were dispersed among the relatives. I stayed with my father's sister's family about twenty minutes from home. They had a girl two years older than me which seemed then like a decade instead of a couple dozen months. Suffice it to say I was never comfortable in that household. Even less so when a tornado was predicted during my stay. My mother, I was certain, would perish in these winds. Would be taken from me not for just a few days but forever. I envisioned her being swept up into the roiling black sky like Dorothy's house and all her belongings. My mother did not and she and my new sister arrived home safely and I should have recovered from this trauma.
I did not.

Stipples and Grooves

My next encounter with high winds was during a family camping trip. They tore through the state park as we were trying to set up the huge tent that would house us all--now numbering nine. It was an impossible task and after enduring my father's rantings, curses and fits of rage we gathered back into the station wagon and spent the night in a hotel room. Another trauma indelibly etched into my soul.

Feather Strokes

Early into our marriage my husband and I opened our flower business. Two years later, when success seemed ensured, we took the plunge and a large loan to move to a larger space. We hired an architect (big money for us) to design the style of the exterior. He didn't change much except the colors and beautiful new awnings with our business name proudly displayed on them. Two months later a storm blew through town. Tornadoes touched down in several places but spared the downtown. The winds however were not so kind. They ripped our beautiful new awnings to strips of pathetic canvas; wrenched the metal frames as though they were the bones of bird wings.

Contemporary Improv

Southwest Florida is often besieged by high winds off the Gulf of Mexico and this morning was one of those times. Walking the beach brought to the surface all these events that still simmer at the bottom of my soul and cause my heart to pound. I want to fight back. I want to fight back in a way as huge as the waves that roiled into shore but I have no idea what it is that raises my hackles. The wind and the waves get more intense and I get more uptight.

Then I get to the turn in my walk and look down. There on the sand are tiny patterns made by the wispy blades of saw grass that protect the beaches from the winds. You wouldn't think flora so delicate could protect an entire dune but they do because there are so many of them. Some blades stand erect, others are broken and bent and then there are the ones that have lost their utility but even in their withering are gracefully curled. All of them make these patterns in different ways...feathers, staccato pecks and sweeping swirls.

Mixed Media

All of this to remind me that it is the details, the small notes that dance to the spirit of the wind, that really matter.

On Being Free

Shells on trees

There is something energizing about unencumbered places. Not just wide open plains but cozy rooms and tropical havens. To be free enough to explore my mind and my soul for explanations about why things are what they are. To be free enough to not care. To be free enough to create joy from the moment. To be free enough to leave that moment. To not be hung up there like shells on a tree.
It is where I am this morning. 

How did they get there?

Ghost Crabs Made Me Laugh

These guys, which I had not seen in person until early this morning, are a hoot. They are the color of sand so, unless you get very close, they are difficult to see. Not small--the size of my hand maybe--they scurry along the sand at jet-propelled speeds--sideways never losing sight of me with their periscopic eyes.

Now I know that the little holes in the beach are not from children digging with sticks. They are the homes of these silly crustaceans. A strong storm blew across Florida last night and must have swamped the burrows because at 7 this morning they were all digging their ways out. Many of them could not resist the temptation to munch on whatever food blew up on shore along with starfish, seashells, seaweed and stones. They are very wary and most of them had returned to their freshly refurbished burrows by the time I retraced my steps back to the road. Many more beach walkers by then. What had puzzled me was how these guys ever made it in and out of their burrows. They weren't more than 2" across and the crabs are at least 4".

They go sideways! I love it.

Sand Castles

What I love about walking on a beach is that surprises greet you every morning. Today I passed an intricate sandcastle complete with a moat, sailed boats, gabled turrets, winding staircases, toothed parapets and pine trees all fashioned from sand.

Sandcastles are magical. The elicit a time when princesses and kings, noblemen and knights, chivalry and splendor ruled the world. They are the stuff of fairy tales and we never give up on believing that fairy tales can come true.

Sandcastles are mystical. Here one day, gone the next. Fortresses built of silica, probably the second most available element on earth next to water; yet, subject to the whim of the sea.

Sandcastles are fragile. Not just the sea but beach wanderers can be their foe.

This is what was left of the sandcastle the next morning. I knew it was not going to last forever. Sandcastles never do. But there was something in the manner of its destruction that got to me. Not even childrens' footprints but those of adults. I listened to the waves washing up on shore and gradually recovered from my despair. It is the nature of things.

I had forgotten that like friends, sandcastles are also resilient. They re-surface unannounced. They make your day. They brighten your sky. They offer you a port in your storm.

So, imagine my surprise this morning when I passed that sorry trodden mound to find not one but two sandcastles!

Maybe tomorrow I'll walk a different beach so these sandcastles will live on forever in my memory. 

Calico Crabs

They weren't very large and they weren't very threatening but these Calico crabs that I found on the beach today were definitely entertaining. They walk sideways on the sand. Lots of crabs do that. Supposedly these crabs are very efficient swimmers as well. They have paddle like claws for this.

I saw the larger one first and hoping it was still alive, which it was,  I picked it up and set it down closer to the shore's edge. There I found the smaller one. He was playing possum too. When I picked them up they came to life, spreading their eight legs and front claws and maliciously waving them like swords. Then as soon as I set them down they gathered themselves like turtles. So I found a large clam shell and set it over both of them to protect them from other beach walkers. Maybe they'll become friends.

Who Cares--We sure don't

The papers are full of the madman who assassinated a federal judge, a 9 year old girl and four others, nearly assassinated a congresswoman and wounded a bunch of people in Arizona--the state Sara Palin distinguished with her campaign crosshairs…like that wouldn’t incite persons living on the edge of society. Now everyone is pointing fingers back and forth and Hillary Clinton says this is not the real us. "The extremists and their voices, the crazy voices that sometimes get on the TV, that's not who we are, that's not who you are, and what we have to do is get through that and make it clear that that doesn't represent either American or Arab ideas or opinions," she said.

I guess that means that we are a compassionate and peace-loving nation that despises such actions.

I’m sorry Hillary but we are not a peace-loving nation. We are extremists…a bunch of greedy, power-hungry, wife-beating, war-loving, cross-hair pointing people who would not know peace or moderation if it curled up inside our laps.

That is why the war in the Middle East has gone on for over a decade. That is why the war in Vietnam went on for twice that long. Why South Korea still hates the North and vise versa. Why Jews still kick the Palestinians out of their homes--their landmark hotels for Christ sake. Why Muslims massacre Christians. Why we massacre Muslims. This is the culture we have dripped into the Petri dish of the world. This is the disease we have nourished there. It has been so long since peace has ever even been given a nod that it might as well pack up its bags. We don’t want it, we don’t need it, shit we don’t even care to shelter it.

Peace. Hah! Hillary who did she think she was kidding? Certainly not the citizens of the United Arab Emirates where she was speaking.

Now our country will wring its hands like it did after the V-Tech shootings, the Oaklahoma bombing, the anthrax scare and everything else. But it won’t change anything because we don’t care, deep down, about the individual. We only care about the masses--about impressing them with bulked up sympathy. About giant banks and corporations and holding companies. When we get down to really caring about tortured people like Jared Loughner things might change. But that will never happen.