Category: writers group

Everyday Things

The prompt for May 6th of this year was based on a reading from a book titled The Beauty of Everyday Things by Soetsu Yanagi. In it he discusses mingei, literally a word that means crafts of the masses. He talks about how art, a visual appreciation driven by aristocratic tastes, opposes everyday use, but he asks the question, why? Why should everyday use be merely functional and not also beautiful? 

Then he makes the argument that beauty is not just visual, beauty is also defined by function. 

Everyday Things – AV Singer 5/6/2024

I wonder if concepts of beauty are universal or if economic status plays a central role in how relationships with everyday things develop. Yes, I have fine china, gorgeous crystal, beautiful linens, but I don’t use them much. I use the hand-me-downs: family objects that have endured time, that are easy to store, easy to wash. I hunt thrift shops for balanced, well-crafted beauty. If a spoon is balanced and well-bowled, I am inclined to use it everyday with appreciation though it is mass-produced from simple stainless steel. I prefer stainless steel to silver. Stainless does not contribute an extra taste to the food the way sterling does and it’s easier to clean, and easier to store. Although I have both, I use the mundane everytime, but I chose it with the eye of someone who appreciates beauty.

I have nice mugs, but the ones I use everyday are green-stamp cups from the 1950’s: one green, one white molded translucent glass. The heft is comfortable even when filled with liquid. The handle is balanced perfectly on the vessel, and because it’s mass produced, both are exactly alike except for color. They are easily cleaned. My finger joints don’t hurt after nursing a cup of coffee.

Utility.

They are like friends. The favorite spoon, the favorite mugs, ones I have lost in the past – mourned like family members. I hunt for new pieces to fill the empty space. I learn to love another chosen piece, cherishing time spent together. This is beauty to me. The fine china, the crystal, and the silver sit in my cupboard, occasionally used for special occasions. I no longer have the linen, which was so hard to care for. 

I reach for my shimmering, translucent cup of coffee, take a sip, appreciate the warmth and the comfort of a treasured object. I wonder if my grandmother felt the same about it when she used it. What does that say about me?

My writing sisters understood his words with their own experiences. For the first time I was asked, “Will you share this on your blog?” lI felt so honored.

Betsy Rich Gilon – Clay Bowl

I have a bowl, a simple bowl

Its clay body textured

With undulations of the fingers

That caressed bowl into life.

I hold a bowl between my hands

Bowl beckons for me to touch

As it pleases my heart, bowl lies cupped.

I have a bowl, a simple bowl

Beauty awakens

Shari Anderson – Appreciating Beauty

Appreciating the beauty of everyday things requires time. It requires allowing a spacious

moment in which to notice the weight of a cup in your hand, its shape and texture.

Time – to feel the heat radiating from the luscious Chai within, the steam caressing your chin

and cheek. Time – to smell the cloves, the cinnamon, and sigh with pleasure.

True enjoyment is just that, bringing joy to the moment. With attention, involvement, and

gratitude, our physical, emotional and ethereal senses take in what each moment offers us.

We then experience the blessing.

Dianne Chapman McCleery – The throw away society that we live in.

When did possessions take the place of safety and security? You can buy t-shirts at big box stores for $2.95. How long do they last? Not long, I imagine. I’ve never been a fan of the latest fashions. If I buy something, and it takes on the value of “I really like this” after I wear it several times, I wear it until it falls apart.

A problem would often pop up when I would buy new clothes from stores. After washing, often their shape would change (or mine would). When my kids were little and money was tight, I discovered resale stores. Shirts for $2, pants for $3. And they were already washed and often worn into comfortableness. The major downside was that oh-so-comfortable pair of jeans would wear out sooner than a new pair would, but that was the price I was willing to pay. After all, there were always more at the resale shop.

Lynnea Paxton-Honn – Seeing (experiencing) beauty is not the same as being attached to that which is being seen as beautiful.

I have built my nest slowly through the years, learning what gives me comfort, what fulfills my idea of beauty. In the process of my nest building I have found beauty in the creating. Seeing the beauty in work that others perform with materials: smelting, molding, painting, weaving, the growing of the basics from which the materials are birthed. Scores of farmers, harvesters and craftspeople go into the creating of my home. Because of thrift stores and yard sales I can gather a quality that gives aesthetic comfort. I have my mother’s silverware. It is not super high-end but sweet and special. My house is old, well used, just the right size and shape.

“Just the right size and shape.” We end with Lynnea’s words about aesthetic comfort. Those items we use everyday mean something to us, and therein lies the reason to find those things to use everyday that give us not only pleasure when we use them, but also a sense of beauty, a sense that using them makes our lives richer.

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.

Tick-tick-tick

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock ticks with relentless accuracy while I wait for a shiver of connection. In the trunk of this tree of self, I realize it’s on me now. I am my own advisor. If I were to actually act in that capacity, what would I tell myself? “RIght now there is nothing.

“Nothing about which to worry, nothing about which to rejoice, no aches, nor pains, no elation, nor disheartening ennui.”

There is only a moment of quiet – the tick, tick, tick of a clock, counting the seconds of this empty moment of peace.

I wonder if this is the normal truth of most lives, or am I alone here? Is this why we are driven toward busy-ness? Would life seem to last forever if this moment lasted the length of it? 

Tick, tick, tick.

This was the kind of thing running through my mind while waiting for the voice of inspiration during the ten minutes of writing time on August 8, 2022 after the opening meditation. For that ten minutes, the voice of inspiration never came. I had no words to address the meditative prompt, no words to tell a story. Just emptiness…so, that’s what I wrote about. I kept this, because even when the muse is absent, one can still write something. For me, these moments occur. 

All. 

The. 

Time.

Later that night, for our last prompt, the muse brought me an acrostic. The prompt was Beyond the Beyond: 

Beautiful dreamers create
Everything they see.
Your life is
One like this
Never empty, always budding
Day after Day.

This is
How we
Endure.

Beginning with one thought
Each trmbling into the next
Yearning for substance
Otherworld to ours.
Now is the time.
Dream.

Hold On Tight

And the storm continues
    As, one by one
        Despots dictate
            Anger, greed, and fear.

And the storm continues
    As, one by one
        Lights turn on
            Worldwide knowledge awakens.

And the storm continues
    As, one by one
        People choose Love
            In all its glorious forms.

And the storm continues
    But the sun rises
        The moon wanes and waxes
            As, one by one

We hold on tight
    Hand in hand
        Circling the Earth
            As the storm continues.

Backed-up Stories

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote in his book, Interbeing: Fourteen Guidelines for Engaged Buddhism, “in this piece of paper is a cloud.” Inspired by his words, Anne B. Jeffries gave the women in my writing group this prompt on August 28th: In this tear is everything.

Lynnea Honn wrote:

Foretelling

Foreshadowing of

winter shadow stretches out

and yawns Preparing

Shari Anderson wrote:

Cascading 

         Sounds, tones,   

Ideas, words

                           Water-falling

          Pummeling

                     Cleansing

                            Rubbing

      Wearing away

                                            His-story

                 Revealing Myself

     Wholly New

I wrote:

In this tear is everything – every story ever told, from the inception of our Earth until this very moment, and this one, and this one, and this one…and…this…one.

Writer’s block is not a myth. It exists. Most writers experience it. What is it? In my opinion, writer’s block is a symptom of all our tears – the backed up stories carried inside – stories one does not want to face.

You know what I mean. We all tell ourselves stories to get through life. When we tell them long enough, they seemingly become truth. I bet writers have more than their share because they tend to narrate moment by moment.

As a writer, I dumped bits and pieces of my story onto my characters and into their plots. I’m beginning to wonder, can I continue to pass off my life to imaginary others or should I own up to my stories and claim them? By claiming them, might they become part of your story as well, just as yours would become part of mine?

Fig Leaf

My neighbor worried that my fig tree was giving up. There were several reasons: I cut her back so she doesn’t have to work so hard while Californians ration water.  She lost the shade to which she was accustomed when the large companion tree that sheltered her was trimmed. As a reluctant gardener, my plants fend for themselves. I am not heartless, instead I am desperate to help conserve our water supply, so I wait and watch wondering what grows here naturally, and hoping some of it will be good to eat.  

Who will survive the new, harsher conditions? 

My Black Mission fig leafed earliest. The first inflorescences began to bud late this Spring. 

What makes her so successful? 

Figs have fed hominids and others throughout history. Uniquely adapted for harsh conditions, it grows where other plants fail. Technically, that which we call a fruit is actually an enclosed collection of flowers. Stem growth forms a bulb within which this cluster of flowers develops. Each blossom is destined to become a single, tiny drupelet. Encased within a protective womb, they do not need to fight heat or dry conditions. Some species, forming both male and female flowers, do not need assisted pollination. Others invite a miniscule female wasp into their chambers to spread pollen while she lays her eggs. These flowers then grow into a cluster of drupes, all encased within their pristine environment. (No worries, the babies escape before we eat the figs.)    

This year, a few flowers ripened early, oh so sweet. I await the others. My fig  thrives in this hot, dry climate and can live a century. Planted during my lifetime, she will be my companion as long as I am here. 

On Monday July 17th, Shari, one of the members of the writing group to which I belong, threw us this prompt: fig leaf.  A short ten minutes later, we had the following offerings. I am thrilled to present my writing sisters and their responses to her prompt.

Fig Leaf – Shari Anderson 

When I was a young child, my father planted a grapevine and a fig tree in our backyard. It was

biblical 

“Every man under his vine and his fig tree” 

inspired. 

I don’t remember the grapes –

maybe they never fruited, but the figs were juicy and delicious. The leaves of that tree were 

wonderful, 

unusually shaped with lots of rounded edges, sensual, with female curves.

Why a man, under his fig tree? Why not a woman? Why not just the fig tree itself, shapely,

verdant, simply divine?!

But, my favorite backyard plant was a wild cherry bush, which we used as a hideout, gorging ourselves with fruit while fighting off attacking pirates.

Fig Leaf – Dianne McCleery 

The other day, I had to duck under fig leaves to reach Valarie’s front door. And I loved it. I love the hugeness of fig leaves. I love their shape. And, of course, I love to eat figs, especially since they are really flowers, not fruit. I’ve always appreciated adding pansies or nasturtiums to salads, but their tastes are “eh,” not like the deep deliciousness of figs. Yes, I am a fan.

Fig Leaf – Joyce Campbell 

The fig leaf reminds me of an outstretched hand

Welcoming and offering a space to land.

Winged beings pause there, some large and some small,

And those with vibrations I can’t see at all.

Hidden below in the cool of the shade

Sprout tiny green nuggets, a prize for their fame.

Soon to be wrinkled and golden with age,

Dried to perfection a treat with no shame.

Fig Leaf – Anne Jeffries

As far as I’m concerned,

Eve’s “transgression” freed humanity 

From an unconscious tunnel of an existence.

Imagine Utopia:

Yours different than mine, I suppose

But however that flowered garden is laid out before you

Without the snake

Slithering it’s SINewy offerings

There is no Will

No humanness at all:

Our choices and failings, our triumphs and joys, our sufferings and lessons.

Eve took us, perhaps out of our pure animal nature.

She gave way for the fig leaf of shame

To eventually free us from innocence

Fig Leaf – Amel Tafsout

Covered with a gentle morning frost.

Stretching your fingers to many directions

The lines of your open palm

Go back to the beginning of creation.

Your soft green color soothes the sight

Attached to the blessed tree.

You share shade generously.

You hold your sweet biblical fruit with care.

Then leave with the wind.

Blowing to a new world

Moving with lightness

Dancing your way freely

Ending on Adam’s private part

Covering up Humankind

Living in the complexity of reality.

Afternoon Delight – Barbara S Thompson

Do you remember the scene from

A Woman In Love

When the meal slowly unfolds 

at the garden table

like luscious lovemaking?

As guests

caress and stroke

kiss and swallow plump red grapes,

black olives and

cheeses, soft and hard.

In slow, sultry nibbles.  

Alan Bates leans back in his chair

with heavy lidded eyes

 preparing to explain 

the proper way to eat a fig,

It is an English garden after all.

When Eleanor Bron selects a smallish fig

piercing it’s base with one long, elegant finger

splitting it open to reveal the pale purple fruit within

Heavy with seed and fragrance

Slowly she opens her mouth 

biting into the flesh 

her soft moan echoing around the table.

Fig Tales – Betsy Rich Gilon

Ancient one, your leaves flutter,

The desert wind  murmurs,

Camels leave footprints.

Would I have felt

The stories you tell,

Had I bitten into your flesh

Fig Leaf – Symbol of Shame? – AV Singer

Protection from sun

Invitation to hunt

hidden treasures,

Oh, fig leaf,

Why you?

           ∞

Fingers of mercy

on palm so large, 

how long

must you

hide me?

           ∞

Figs ripen

hidden behind

green curtain.

Why is this 

forbidden?

Please connect in the comments, or by clicking on the Like button. For more information about figs, follow these sources:

Sources:

https://journals.ashs.org/hortsci/view/journals/hortsci/42/5/article-p1083.xml

https://www.thespruceeats.com/history-of-figs-1807598

Magic of Connection

I am very grateful for my sisters of Women Writers of the Well. If you are an aspiring writer reading this, I recommend the idea of joining or creating a group of like-minded people who meet with the intent to support each other’s writing efforts. The magic of connection is everything. It’s a miracle. Without the support of these women, it would have taken much longer to find my way out of the dark, uninspired hole into which my creativity fell. They shone a light into that darkness and helped me crawl out step by step. I am still climbing, but I can see the way ahead. 

In an effort to get me working on this blog again, I asked my writing sisters to share work with me any time they wanted it published. Anne B. Jeffries shared my last blog. This blog I share with Shari Anderson. She sees the Light everywhere and shines it brightly for her students, her musical sisters and brothers, her family, and her friends of which I am so blessed to be considered. Shari combines musicality within her prose and poetry. She isn’t afraid of experimentation. She publishes songs and chants, and is a beloved performer in this lovely area of California. She is one of those people that prefers to see the positive even when others can’t see it. Here is the sample of her writing she has sent to share with you: 

Meditation Writing  

Her voice – 

warm and compassionate

Magically weaving wisdom and breath

Loving head to knowing heart

In, through and around

A creative dance from impulse Divine

traveling as words into our minds

                                                      Shari Anderson  

                                                      2/6/23 

Family Dynamics 

Why does the word, dynamics, when paired with family, feel so very different than the same word applied to music? 

“Family Dynamics” feels complicated, determined by emotional responses and past triggers, but talked about with rational, linear vocabulary completely insufficient to the task.

Dynamics in music evokes: expressiveness, freedom, flow, creativity, give and take, communication.

Maybe the key to better family dynamics is a musical approach, an excitement, a curiosity, an impulse to dive in so we can soar.

Shari Anderson 

                                                                                                                       2/6/23   

“So, we can soar.” 

I agree with this wholeheartedly, having come up with a different viewpoint from the prompt “Family Dynamics” using words such as:  responsibility, expectations of generations, fear tactics, grief dynamics, frustration with education, anger and growth – family – it is what it is: life shared.

The fact is, we all come out of families with a better understanding of who we are, and how to love. 

That is cause for celebration. That’s enough to make us all take flight. 

Shari is the one that pointed out that my attempts at creating acrostics with the word ‘practice,’ amounted to a journey through a lifetime study of music. My words take flight here because she found the value in them. I didn’t read these in this order because I didn’t write them in this order, but she saw it this way and now I do too:

Thank you Shari. 

Thank you Readers. May you take flight until next time you land on my blog space.

AnaValarie

                                                                                                                                  

Big Heart

In June of 2020 I ‘graduated’ from teaching. Teaching requires mindfulness and extreme focus, a one-hundred percent investment of love during time spent one-on-one with a child or with a group in the classroom. It requires setting aside self to see and hear others instead.

One of my sister writers, author of “Cross Roads,” Anne B. Jeffries, agreed to post on my blog this week. She had just finished a full day of commitment at school but she came to write with us.  She is adept at pouring Heart. When she attends our Wise Women Writing group, she feeds our souls. In a mere ten minutes, she addresses each prompt with profound honesty. Her act is an inspiration for the rest of us. She demands authenticity for herself, while maintaining curiosity, joy, love, and compassion for the rest of us.

Dear Readers, I don’t know what some of you do, but I do know that if you are reading my blog you have a sincere desire to connect with heart. Anne’s heart makes a big connection.

Anne, thank you. I feel honored that you have  given me your words to give to my readers. Fellow teacher, fighter for children, fighter for people, Anne, I love your heart. You pour out all it carries every day and I know your students feel your intent. Your writing takes away my breath and reminds me that teaching is something I still love to do. 

Memories Sleeping

It’s not just my memories sleeping,

It’s all of it.

A honey drip slowness.

I can catch up tomorrow.

Just want to sink down in sleep.

Rest.

Like a frenetic fall.

What is the charge?

Is it my nervous system that signals the experience to fizzle,

Lose its edges?

Then, sink away in categories and compartments,

With no present security access?

Where is my agency?

Who is filing these memories and who granted permission for this protocol?

Or, maybe, it’s all chaos and no “thing” has access.

My consciousness just sifts above it all like a metal detector pulling up old coins.

What about the pieces made of wood and plastic?

What loosens those?

Eternal Minutes

He said it’s like wearing a lie on his face.

I feel that way all the time.

In class- with him- with them.

Like I’m a puppet driven by a motor I did not program, or know how to run.

Today, 

For hours,

I peered out from below the lip where I stuffed myself down into a pouring cup,

Until all the drops of the eternal minutes,

Ran out against the automaticity

Of that forced time.

Family Dynamics

There is something about the inability to walk away.

A fabric woven together?

Fabric doesn’t work

because it’s made of thread that can be woven into something else.

My sentiment is too deep to separate out –

Like color in the sky?

Nope

Color is only light.

What holds us together?

Is it, in fact,

A choice?

Check it out

If you would like to read more of Anne’s work, check it out here:

Anne B. Jeffries, Author

Memories Sleeping

Author’s Notes: Writer’s block. Everyone has heard about it, jokes made, condolences offered. It’s a real thing, a time most Creatives face. The well of ideas runs dry, the lake of inspiration empties and a desert of despair stretches farther than one can see. I had it bad, wandering that desert for at least six months.

One of my writing sisters sympathized, stating her creativity had recently become dormant. We discussed the idea. She was taking a course by David Whyte who offered a solution.  

She shared it with me. “Ask yourself,  what do you want to say that you are not saying?” 

It is a question any creative person can mold to unblock many avenues of stagnation. For an artist, “What do I need to see that I won’t look at?” For musicians, dancers, actors, “What do I need to feel that I haven’t allowed?”  

When Lynnea Paxton-Honn shared this with me, my re-awakening began. “What do I want to say that I am not saying?” 

In California, where we live, January roared into our state with a deluge capable of filling dry lakes and ponds, and creating new ones, seemingly overnight. It ferociously filled rivers, washing away many things. Tides surged, waves plundered. From Earth’s perspective the rain was needed even though it was so destructive. From a spiritual viewpoint, it was a physical expression of the need to wash away all that no longer serves, a process that caused great grief, but also opened new solutions and opened hearts. It awakened memories, and filled our creative lakes and wells with words for both of us…I am thrilled to present Lynnea’s poem Memories Sleeping. 

Water–Life Giving

drips, drips, drips

through layers of rock

and sediment,

leaks out through fissures

into the outer air,

trickling from mountain aquifers,

runoff gullies down

spilling over rocks,

around root tangles,

debris caught and bundled

catching all the matter

torn from banks

barricading the streaming water,

damming the flow,

holding the power

of the stream no longer streaming,

but pooling, pooling as it pushes

against the barricade, blocked

until it’s not

and tiny tear trickles

begin to slide through the micro

cracks in the barricade.

The things I do not want to say come forth.

❤

Lynnea Paxton-Honn  January 2023

❤

To read more from Lynnea, you can visit her blog site: heartofahorsewoman.blog

Or her author page at: Author Central – Amazon

Launch Party Sept. 6 – Be There

On September 6, 2022, authors that know or work with DC LIttle Publications are having a launch party on Facebook from 10:30am to 8:00 pm. You have a chance to meet many authors, win prizes, and play fun games. Use this link to find join in the fun.

Theresa Stevens’ Launch Party