Category: writer’s life

Remembrance of a Gravestone

With the publication of this short personal essay, Alton Parker, a dear friend of mine, and talented writer presents “Remembrance of a Gravestone,” about a monument he saw while on the road from Flagstaff, Arizona to Los Angeles, California. 

Thank you, Alton, for considering publishing, for the first time, on my blog. I love this story.

The setting sun gave the distant mountains a glow of flaming amber. Heading to their far off vista was a straight asphalt highway, cracked and pitted with age. On either side of the highway, a plain of gamboge prairie grass stood. It did not complain about being split by the road; it simply was. Utilitarian power lines were strung alongside the highway, periodically interspersed with poles stretching up into the twilight. Upon one of these, a speckled falcon perched, scanning the ground intently for its next unfortunate meal. Vultures circled the violet sky. 

An unusual monument stood at a point between destination and beginning: a gravestone. Long ago, eons for all I knew, a car accident had killed two people here. Artificial flowers had been collected. The roses must have been a striking crimson at some point, but they had long since been sun bleached into a dull depressing grey. 

No one stops to pay their respects. No one cares about the gravestone beside the asphalt highway. The names of those deaths have been lost, the files rotting away in the archives of some forgotten local newspaper. 

I wonder what their names are. 

I feel a burning need to know who they were and  who they left behind. Does anyone remember them? Does anyone care anymore? I continue my journey towards the amber mountains, now disappearing into ink black night. I remember the gravestone beside the asphalt highway. 

I remember.

December 12, 2025

One Single Moment of Joy

Usually, Sticky Willie, my dear Giant Australian Prickly Stick insect, recoils from my presence, especially if I open her door. She curls, rolls her tail over her back like a scorpion, and rocks frantically, trying to make it known – spikes here – be afraid.

What a poser.

One day, August 6, 2025, to be exact, magic happened: I opened her door. She looked up. Slowly, carefully, one leg at a time, she began creeping toward me. It was as if she were asking, “Who are you?”

Every few steps, she would stop and reach up with one arm as if to explore what was in front of her.

The third time she did this, she was close. Her little face seemed focused on mine. She reached out.

Gently, I touched her tiny claw with the tip of my forefinger.

She patted me.

I stayed there for her, letting her little claw explore my touch.

A sweet moment passed between us, a single moment of joy, shared by two beings of Earth, one homo sapien and one extatosoma tiaratum. 

My heart dances each time I return to that exquisite, wondrous moment.

I can’t help but think how joyful this world would be if we as humans were patient with every living thing, waiting for their energy to come to us rather than us bullying our way into their lives’ plan. What would happen if all of us stopped to learn what trees have to say, what birds are really singing about, what the lady bugs at our feet are doing?

Sticky Willie has her agenda. Her agenda does not alter mine, except with the things she cannot do for herself because I have placed her in an artificial situation. She can’t keep her cage clean, nor can she leave her cage to hunt for her own rose leaves. She cannot squirt herself with water to simulate rain. She may no longer be in her native habitat, but she chose to come here, to trust that I will take care of those things she cannot do for herself. 

I am rewarded with the chance to learn more about my world by watching her. And every once in a while we have a moment. It’s worth slowing down to wait for that one single moment of joy.

Playful Writing

I can’t remember the exact date I joined the writer’s group I belong to, but I am very grateful to belong to this collective. For those of you readers serious about writing, it is infinitely more fun to find support among like minded people who encourage, lovingly critique, and celebrate each others’ writing efforts. Because we meet weekly, I had binders full of not only ideas, some of which have bloomed into full stories, and even novels which I have published, but there were many that seemed complete just as they were. So many of my blog ideas come from these writings. I lost insight of that with the past crowding me. Now that it has been dealt with, I hope to share some of those overlooked pieces.

This bloomed a couple of years ago on 9/19/2022. For those of you who like numbers, 919 seen often can signify a change coming. Hopefully, the change for me is being able to write more often. 

Meditation Writing – Playful

What is it like to be in the center of a creative moment? Is it a swirling tornado careening across a plain, or a capricious dust dervish hopping over the sands of a desert?

Is it a roller coaster with screaming kids or a quiet walk in the forest? Did it toss you off a cliff, pound you under the surf, or did you float in a deep lake, sparkling with pricks of sunlight?

What is it like, the center of a creative moment?

Does time stop?

Does the world…disappear?

Does darkness creep around the perimeter of your head wondering,”What’s going on in there?”

Do you connect with More Than Self, or do you find connection with Self? Does it fill you with bubbling laughter, or crushing pathos? What is it? What is that center, the very center of a creative moment?

Does self bow to not-self as some mysterious impulse takes over to write itself?

What is it like…what IS it like…to be…in the center…of a creative…moment?

The second prompt of that night was “Lost in Passing Seasons.” Sometimes, the first few minutes are spent uselessly, as in this first attempt:

“Pass the seasons, please.”

“What? You don’t like the weather?”

“Huh? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You just said, ‘Pass the seasons.’”

“Yes. Please.”

The best course of action is to scratch it out, or if you are typing into a computerized program, hit delete. Fortunately for us today, I always write by hand at these meetings, even when they are online. It gave me a chance to reject what I consider…c^@p! 

In and out of the garbage pail worked better that night:

Passing seasons.

Pass the seasoning.

Did you season the sauce?

She’s a seasoned warrior.

‘Tis the season to be jolly,

Have a holly, jolly Christmas

Pass the Christmas cheer

Pass on Christmas.

Happy New Year!

Finally:

A lion and a bear pass seasons differently.

It’s amazing what can be written in ten minutes, even if it never sees any life beyond the notebook you put it into. If you want to be a writer, just write. The more the merrier. Mary had a little lamb. Lamb chops, chopsticks, stick in the mud, or in your eye, or better yet: Stick to it. Just write.