MUSINGS OF THE DAY - April 17, 2015

"Two hours of writing fiction leaves this writer completely drained. For those two hours he has been in a different place with totally different people."

- Roald Dahl - 

I'm laughing. Yes, this is me. I do feel drained after writing fiction, after I've been submerged for a few hours. I also feel rejuvenated, as if I survived a perilous journey into deep space without a guarantee of ever getting out alive.

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Who is Roald Dahl?

Some may already know who Roald Dahl is, and others, well, they may not remember who he is unless they know what books he's written.

Do these ring any bells? James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, My Uncle Oswald, or The Witches. These are just a few of his works, which I'm sure we've all come in contact with. 

I remember two in particular from when I was young: James and the Giant Peach and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Now, Matilda is on my radar because my boys love that book, or did when they were a bit younger and interested in reading more so than playing music and soccer.

Quick Facts:

Dahl was born in Wales on September 13, 1916 and left this world on November 23, 1990. He was a WWII veteran, serving in the Royal Air Force. It wasn't until the 1940s that he became a best-selling author for both children and adults books. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roald_Dahl)

There's more to Dahl than one would suppose, or at least from this prospective of him being dead and not currently in the media spotlight. As in this article, The religion and political views of Roald Dahl, one might want to chuck his books into the river. 

I'm more of the mind of finding what is useful and letting go of what isn't. I am not in agreement with him from a religious standpoint, or a political one for that matter, but I do relate to his quote above, which I can take as it is without including his personal views with it.

MUSINGS OF THE DAY - April 15, 2015

"When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability . . . To be alive is to be vulnerable."

- Madeleine L'Engle - 

One of my greatest fears, vulnerability. And yet, to have a life, one that is fulfilling and loving and creative, vulnerability is essential. 

For a number of years I believed being vulnerable was a weakness of sorts, a human characteristic to be eradicated from my person. 

Today, I believe my vulnerability allows me to connect with other people and to enjoy laughter and love, and peace of mind. When I offer myself as I am, without shielding someone from what I perceive as bad or unwanted, I grow into the woman I want to be. 

I begin to see the world in a way that is not black and white and all or nothing. I'm able to see how murky and messy life is and how all of that imperfection gives life its beauty and grace. 

I don't have to mark vulnerability as my greatest fear anymore, though I still have times where my reaction to a life event or new friend, or even an old one, stems from that same fear. 

Again choices. I can choose to stay hidden from myself and others, not wanting to voice my vulnerability, or I can step from the shadows, knowing that I am safe even when I'm at my most vulnerable.

Today, I step forward.

MUSINGS OF THE DAY - April 14, 2015

"The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time."

- Jack London - 

This quote stood out to me today, because I used to exist instead of live. I was always vying for more time, and really more of everything, but I was never truly happy with any of it. My thinking was of the kind that if I just had this or that then I would finally arrive and I would feel better, which then meant I'd do better too.

Thank goodness my beliefs or my way of looking at the world with me in it has changed. I have today. Nothing more. And even then I don't know if I will get the whole day or only a portion of it. 

This morning, as my husband and I were driving our boys to school, I felt this weight, not a heavy weight mind you more like a light blanket of weight, but this weight kept twisting my thoughts to not wanting to do anything, not write, not take a shower, not go outside, not participate in life. 

I knew to stay with my moment, where my hands were, instead of where this weight wanted me to go. I knew I didn't need to decide the day or all the things I was going to do. For the time being, all I needed to do was sit in the car and take my children to school. 

Once home, this weight still presided over me, using all its power (if we want to call it that) to bend me to its will, which was to hide and escape from life. I could have been bent and jumped into the suffering the weight wanted me to wallow in (whatever that unknown suffering would have been, I don't know), but I know today I have a choice. 

I can choose to bend with the weight and succumb to the hiding and the escaping. Or I can not bend and choose to do one thing, and then after doing that one thing I can choose do another, and so on.

This all leads me back to where I am now, writing. "I shall not waste my days . . ."

MUSINGS OF THE DAY - April 13, 2015

"Every rejection is incremental payment on your dues that in some way will be translated back into your work."

- James Lee Burke -

This applies to so much more than writing.

When I was rejected I used to take it personally to the point of believing myself incapable of doing or being right with anyone or anything. What a downer, living like that.

Now, rejection has a different meaning for me.

I can either take it personally and dig a hole in the backyard and bury myself in it.

     - or - 

I can weigh and consider the rejection, and, as with most rejections, there's something I can grow from, something I can learn never to do to someone else, something that spurs me into action, and sometimes something that just needs to be tossed in the garbage because it has no substantial basis.

Regardless, I benefit, even if it may not feel like it at first. 

The Unknown How of the Ash: Beckoned

Rachael jolted awake. Sweat soaked her sheets and pajamas. She clutched her chest and scanned her barely furnished room with quick, cat-like eyes.

What had she dreamed? She couldn't remember, except the trailings of an urgency to get away, a need to run. Had something or someone been chasing her? She swam the trenches of her memory, trying to recall, but the darkness of nothingness blocked her view.

Moonlight streamed in from the un-curtained window next to her bed. The window slats created boxes on her wooden floor. From this height, as her room resided in the musty attic, she could see the Ash in the far meadow; its leaves shimmied in the breeze, highlighted by the light of the moon.

"You must come, girl," the voice whispered.

Her breath caught in her throat. Angst surfaced, trembling her bones, but she moved to the window, drawn to the Ash.

"You must come tomorrow."

She nodded and returned to bed, her feet cold from the floor's chill. Once her head rested on her pillow, she closed her eyes and slept, the worry of who whispered leaving her.