we all have a story...

Tonight as I watched the movie The Hours I was reminded of this idea: every monster has a story.

All the people we meet in our lives have a story. The people who love us, entertain us, hold us, these people, it can be easier to recognize that they have a story. Partly because you may know pieces of it. But then there are the people who devastate us, leave us, hurt us, and behave in ways that are unimaginable, these people all have a story too. With all the people we meet along our journey, we can never really know the full extent of their story. We never really know why people behave the way they do.

We can be quick to judge and assume, but we really never know. We fill in the blanks but we don't know the real story behind a person. The baggage people carry and pull behind them and need a cart with wheels for because it is too heavy to drag.

I balance all of this with the idea that this baggage, this reality, does not give a person permission to contribute to the not-so-good-parts of another person's story. But when we glimpse a page of their story, we are given a context. An understanding. Yet, it does not erase their chosen action. But it might...it just might...give us a little space...a tiny, little space to begin to heal.

Tonight, as I watched The Hours, I was reminded of a book called There Is a Monster at the End of This Book. And the monster? Well, its just fuzzy, blue Grover.

Every monster has a story.

i would write {sunday scribblings}

The books I would write...

I would write a book about a little girl who packs up a backpack with Anne of Green Gables, a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, her favorite stuffed dog, a thermos of apple juice, crayons, and a notebook. She sets off into the woods behind her house, knowing a grand adventure awaits.

I would write a book about a young woman who finds herself living in Paris at 20. Alone. Scared. Riding her bicycle to the little bookshop where she works, her long brown braids blowing in the wind behind her. In chapter 2, she, of course, meets an older man who will eventually break her heart and lead her to the realization that she can only be happy if she first looks in the mirror at her own reflection, alone. In the last chapter, she will meet him. The one. The first person to take care of her and give her space. At the same time.

I would write a book about a mermaid who swims with the whales in the warm blue water off the coast of Maui. And each summer, when her friends leave her for the cooler waters of Alaska, she weeps. Her tears become the sea glass that washes up on shores around the world. And when human women pick up this glass, they feel a deep connection to its opaque color and smooth texture and an undercurrent of understanding that they are not alone of their journey.

But the book I would write,
the one that is living inside my soul right now,
the one that grows and takes a breath with each beat of my heart,
the one I would write would begin something like this:

The room was quiet except for the clip clop of the pink flip flops I wore on my feet. My mother had questioned me when I walked out to the car, "Are those the only shoes your brought with you?" "I don't think she'll notice," I had replied. She was on the far side of the room, and as I saw her there, I remember having the thought, "this is what love feels like." I suddenly had clarity and love was no longer an indescribable feeling. In that moment, walking up to her, I knew that this is what it is to love someone and know that person has a piece of your heart. And as stood there and looked at her I also knew that this is what is feels like to have your heart broken. The blinders were ripped off, quickly like a blast of cold, air rolling across Lake Michigan in winter. My heart cracked open. My soul would be forever changed.

(visit Sunday Scribblings to read more responses to this prompt)

poetry thursday

Click here to read one of my favorite William Stafford poems called "You Reading This, Be Ready." And if you haven't already spent some time exploring this website, I hope you will take some time at some point to pour yourself a cup of tea and read some of Stafford's words.

After reading this poem several times today, these are the words I am drawn to write...

Pause and take a breath;
sit in the quiet for a moment.
Do you hear it?
Try again.
Now?

Does it sound like the cry of a warrior ready for battle?
The whisper of a lover's sweet words?
The chant of a goddess standing atop a mountain?
The giggle of a baby in her mother's arms?

What would happen if you let it out?
Let it live and dance and hum.
Let it roar and weep and laugh.

Loosen your clutching fingers, and
shed the layers of your fear,
dropping them like clothes onto the floor of your bedroom.
You will discover,
this is the song your soul has been singing for centuries.
It is waiting for you to let go
and sing along.

*****

Poetry Thursday was a weekly poetry project that I created and then co-hosted back in 2006-2007. The site is no longer online.

show and tell

Alert: spoilers ahead!

I signed up to be part of Tara's creativity exchange a couple of months ago. And I am finally, FINALLY, ready to send my part of the exchange to my partner. And I have finished another piece of art for a swap I am doing with another blogger.

I am having fun trying to incorporate fabric into my art. And I am also working through feeling frozen sitting at the dining room table staring at a blank page and all my art supplies. After Artfest, I felt a bit overwhelmed by all I had learned and seen. Frozen in front of the blank page. So, it actually has taken me since Artfest to complete these. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday have brought a new surge and excitement!

If you are not one of the previously mentioned bloggers, you can see what I have created here and here. If you are one of those two bloggers, please resist the temptation to click on those links. But, if you can't, at least you won't know which one is yours. (hee, hee)

Now, here is what I have already received from these two amazing artists:

This is from Chest of Drawers for the Creativity Exchange. I smiled from ear to ear when I opened it. And I was so touched that she chose to use the words from this post.

And then today, I was almost late for my senior chair yoga class because I had to open the package from Vicci before I zoomed out the door. This photo is not as clear as I would like, but there is a great photo at Vicci's page and some more on my flickr page.

With both of these you can click on them to see them upclose (but if you gave them to me you may not want to because you will go to my flickr page that has the abovementioned photos of the items coming your way).

Thank you for sending me such inspiring creations ladies!

I hope to share more soon as I keep exploring and creating as I sing away to the Indigo Girls.

a quest {self portrait challenge}

I am on woman on a quest...
and I am seeking this little girl
who danced
and posed in front of the camera
without a care in the world
she didn't worry about
appearances,
the size of her thighs,
her mismatched barrettes,
letting people down,
not being enough,
not living a full, big, deep life.
She dreamed
huge, fun, crazy dreams.
And believed that she
could do anything she put set her mind and heart to do.
Anything.

And as I search for her
I am beginning to realize
she has been living in me all along.
She is already home.

senses. owens beach.

{see}

{hear}

{smell}

{taste}

{touch}

{and know}

comfortable yet stylish {sunday scribblings}

The first year after I graduated from college, I lived in the Lincoln Park neighborhood in Chicago. My circle of friends was a group of girls I had gone to boarding school with, and almost all of us had the same pair of nine west black boots. They were comfortable and stylish, which is a combination I do not often experience. I can see pairs of these boots lined up in the entryway of Virginia and Rebecca's apartment. The look that would appear on one of our faces when we realized we had on the wrong pair. We were kind of like a little mini-army in our boots and khaki pants and black turtlenecks. In some ways, I miss those days. When none of us were married and we would get a bucket of beer (cider for me and Rebecca) at Ranalli's and a pizza but a salad for Missy R. because she hates pizza. We would laugh and laugh until we cried with laughter. And go to the bathroom in twos. And try to find the loves of our lives. In a bar. In Chicago. Always wearing those black boots.

I was wearing those black boots when I am in line in the bathroom of Tin Lizzie's and a woman I had never seen turns to her friend, "Is that her? The one who said that to me? I am going to kick her ass." And she turns to me and says, "Are you the one who was a bitch to me at the bar?" And I say, "Ahh, no." "Well, that girl was wearing jeans too." "Well, I'm not her." "Are you sure?" "Ahh, yeah." At this point, the bathroom is free and she stumbles in and quickly forgets about me. Phew. If you know me, you know, I am not the kicking ass type. I was wearing those boots when I walked through thigh-high drifts of snow on January 2, 1999. We were in the midst of a blizzard and I was all alone in my studio apartment. It was snowing inside my apartment (I am not kidding). And I was wearing these boots as I walked to Blockbuster where I rented Lethal Weapon 4 (they were out of the good movies, really they were), Camelot (my favorite musical. it is so long. and i sing every song out loud because i have known every word since i was a small child), and another movie I have since forgotten. I was so scared in that blizzard, alone, feeling far away from everyone. But I was safe in my boots (and Blockbuster was only a block away). I was wearing those boots when I went to see the movie 200 Cigarettes. I was wearing those boots when I got all my hair cut off and just loved it. Short, short hair just like Gwyneth in Sliding Doors. I was wearing those boots when I got embarrassingly drunk, so drunk that I lost time, which is what I call that night - the night I lost time, and thought I was a smoker, and let boys buy me too many gin and tonics. But luckily it was on that night that my dear friend Virginia took me home and put me to bed, taking off those boots and helping me put on my pajamas. And nothing bad happened. Other than my own embarrassment and a good story for everyone else. And I was wearing those boots when I waited for the bus every morning that winter. The bus that would take me to and from work during the week. It was on one of those evening bus rides, when I was wearing those boots, that I closed Wuthering Heights with three pages left. I could no longer put up with Heathcliff. I was, simply, over it.

Through that entire winter and part of spring, I was wearing those boots. As I grew to realize living in the big city and trying to find Mr. Right in a bar and worrying so much about wearing the right clothes and living in a tiny shoebox apartment and working in a cubicle and watching more TV than I want to admit and feeling alone in a group of friends and not having a car and riding the bus were all things I needed to change, I was wearing those boots. And tonight, as I think about those boots, I remember the other lessons during that time. How I realized that some friends will see you through anything and laughter is the best gift of all and setting boundaries within a family with divorced parents is hard but important and sometimes going back to what you know helps you heal and standing up for yourself in the face of a lie is important and spending an evening with just the girls makes my heart happy and sitting on the floor of Barnes and Noble is one way to remember who I am. And I learned that a great pair of khakis and a black turtleneck and a pair of comfortable yet stylish boots are sometimes all you need to have a great time.

Read more Sunday Scribblings here. The prompt this Sunday was My Shoes.

time to just relax

So the last two days have brought time to watch four, yes four, movies. so nice to just lose yourself in the lives of others.

Walk the Line. See this movie now. Right now. It was fantastic. Beautiful. Intense. I want to read Johnny Cash's autobiography and of course sing, sing, sing his music and June Carter's as well. The acting was so very good.

The Third Man. An old Orson Well's movie. And I must admit to sleeping with my head on my husband's chest through a good portion of it.

Wallace and Gromit in The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. Oh this one is fun. Very funny and silly. Loved it.

And I am now crying my way through the The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Yes, you read that right. It is on HBO. And I have even sucked my husband into it. As he said, "yes, i am over here absorbed in the drama of the traveling pants."

And tomorrow will bring a day of creating and time at my dining room table filled with all my art "stuff." I can't wait!!

Happy weekend to you all...