Finding the Marbles

Oh, what is it about this time of year, where my brain takes off and scatters itself all over the place? The juggling act, which I wasn't so good at to begin with, comes crashing down around me and I can't seem to catch a single ball falls from the air. We're desperate for summer in this house. E. can't take another moment of school (thank goodness for her Mammy and Poppy - they're whisking her away on a several-day-long camping trip up in "God's Country"; it's a trip of which I'm very much jealous). I can't quite let go of work and separate myself. We're all hungry for some time together and to have one less thing to do. And goodness, do we need to unplug.

It wasn't that long ago that I was touting how well we were doing sans screens. And we really were. And suddenly working full-time sapped my ability to handle my children's needs in full force and screens became a much needed buffer between my tired body and brain and their immediate needs. (On another note, this led to the mommy-guilt rabbit hole that spiraled in a whole other, rather dark, direction.) Now we're far too glued to screens, too plugged in, and someone needs to pull the cord.

That's my goal for the summer, to unplug and free ourselves. I want to purge everything from our house, all the things we don't need and don't use (or shouldn't) and just bring the basics back to myself and my children. I'm starting to feel frazzled and I know the kids are, too. When every morning is starting out in tears, something has to give.

I think I'm going to spend this summer gathering up all those bits of my brain that have scattered themselves, like marbles escaped from their jar. I want to reconnect to my life, my children and husband, while we all disconnect from the external distractions in our lives.

So Board

I often feel like I'm a Type A person stuck in a Type B's...something. I love a good plan, but I'm not always so great at sticking with it (ahem, blogging...). I recently came across this sort of fabulous new way to plan my fiction writing, though. Obviously, a new method to do something doesn't, by any stretch of the imagination, mean I'm going to stick with it, but small portion of me that is Type A revels in this practice. 

Behold, the Plot Board:

 

So, this is totally not my own creation. I mean, the board itself totally is mine, along with the $12 investment, between the tri-fold poster board itself, sticky notes, and retractable sharpy (my love affair with office supplies is eternal), but the concept is not mine. I found this little gem of an idea here and fell in love with the concept. I like things I can manipulate, and the idea of moving stickies around and rearranging scenes as necessary and being able to visually keep track of plots and subplots appeals to me. I am not usually a kinesthetic or visual learner, but I think tapping into those skills help me see the big picture. I'm a details girl and pulling back to see the full picture is a tough, but this definitely helps. So far so good, so I'll say if you're writing and you have a hard time seeing the forest for the trees, this is worth a try.

Currently I'm moving back and forth between writing scenes, small, intimate things, which I love to write, creating characters and the world they inhabit, and hammering out major plot points. It's like a jigsaw puzzle, and rather than attacking it in a way that would make sense, maybe working on one particular part or piecing together the edges, I have all these little islands of connected pieces that will hopefully flesh themselves out eventually. I'm hoping the plot board will keep me on some sort of path, even if I periodically meander off - to watch Real Housewives.

The First Beach Day

 

After what felt like the longest winter of my life (and certainly of my littles' lives), we ditched our usual school night routines and found ourselves at the lake last Thursday night. The water was frigid but the air had that lovely heavy heat to it that I know I won't love in July, but it was perfect for early May.  

 

Unblocked Writer

I'm back, but with no agenda, no plans, no little granular thoughts. Simply, I'm here to fill space that I have so desperately wanted to fill. I want to spread out all over this white, blank space and saturate it. Words want to tumble from my brain like so many raindrops from the water-heavy sky and soak into the bone dry earth.

Let me spin sentences like a spider does her web. Let me pluck words like flowers from a field. Let me weave together pieces of thoughts like a bracelet of embroidery floss - colorful and meaningless, durable all the same. Let me deliver you more analogies and metaphors like a waiter at an endless feast who does not stop even when you cry how over-full you are.

Sometimes I just need to let out all these words that haven't made their way out in the midst of writing assignments and work emails. I don't think the principal wants to hear me spin fabulous tails and I think my students are already a little bit bored with me.

My writer's brain is getting a little feisty, irritated, even. It hears me talk about writing all the time, it's interest being piqued even at the mention of five paragraph essays, and wonders why so much talk and so little doing. So, here I am, taking my poor little writer's brain out for a walk. It was once a galloping St. Bernard, huge and harry and full of joy, but now it's been reduced to a small, yappy pup, terrier size, making up for it's lack of size by it's inexhaustible bark. I can see it stretching it's stubby legs here over the screen, leaping over the overburdened metaphors like hurdles, and not quite clearing them (perhaps because there are too many).

Forgive my me zeal on this page, forgive me my absence and my periodic returns. I needed a spot to rest, but now I must return.

Be Like the Woodpecker

The picture is not a very good one, I know, but trust me when I tell you that the little black blob hanging off the birch towards the center of the photo is a woodpecker. As I was walking this morning I heard the telltale thwack-crack that is a woodpecker working his way through the trunk of a tree. It was much slower than I would usually hear, so at first I didn't realize what it was. On my way back around though, about a half hour later, in a contemplative sort of mood, I paused and listened once more. When I turned and looked up into the trees I saw this fellow, and though the picture doesn't show it, he was big! Of course, most of the birds we see around our house are the smaller types, mostly chickadees, so anything much larger than a tennis ball seems huge to me.

I watched him for a bit, intrigued by the difference in his method this season compared to warmer times. Rather than his jackhammer beak riveting its way into the tree, his progress was slow and steady, the tree frozen, making it hard to get to its life-giving innards. I don't know why, but watching him made me smile. Perhaps that it was life still goes on, though much slower, during this time of year, even if it sometimes feels like everything had paused. Even with the frightening cold we've had these last few weeks, the outside animals still live and work. 

I think, also, I saw something I needed to see. He worked with such determination, though the conditions were far from perfect and the results would likely not be what he truly wanted. I, too, often find myself in imperfect conditions that produce results that were not what I had originally desired. I will thrust myself forward, over and over, not in that quick, efficient pace, but slowly and deliberately, hoping each time I move myself against the thing I am working to break open, I will reach the prize within. 

The woodpecker was working because if he does not, he will starve. My work, the work of fulling my life with good and nurturing things, is not one that, in the biological sense, will kill me if left neglected. But should I stop and not take what little bits I can get as I break away the bark of life's challenges, certainly my soul will shrivel to nothing.

Though I don't always feel the strength or the motivation to dig into the things that give me the most nourishment, to get at the most filling and good stuff, I think I must remember that I must.

Note: Since I wrote this a woodpecker has since decided to make itself at home underneath one of the eves of our house. Perhaps he sensed our kinship?

Hello, Visitors

Hoping for a teeny bit of a bump in my number of visitors this week as I am taking a technology in the classroom course for my "real" job.

So...

Little Doll

Papa M.'s new baby, to be given at Christmas. (Ordered from this Etsy shop - fabulous craftsmanship and customer service.)

 
If I had a dream for the world it would be that every child, girl or boy, should have a doll. There is something exceptionally special about those soft little beings made solely to be loved by a child. There is so much to be learned from caring for someone else, even if that someone is made of cloth or plastic. You find your empathy, caring for a doll, at it's deepest roots, because, no matter how good your imagination is, at your core you still know that even if you don't wrap Dolly up tight or you forget to give him his afternoon snack, Dolly won't freeze and certainly won't go hungry. Yet, it's still done, often with a great sense of urgency and seriousness. What vast wells of love must we doll caregivers have to love so mightily someone who doesn't really need us and will never be able to audibly thank us?

If everyone played with a doll there might be more of that empathy growing around us, rampant like dandelions in the height of spring, left to be plucked up and enjoyed by every passing person, gathered in bunches, worn in hair, handed in clumps to anyone we think might need it. If all little children had their own cloth companion to clutch, to whisper secrets to, to bring on adventures, we might invite the idea of companionship into our children's heads. It is a good thing to have a friend who listens to you and holds your words with silence and honor and trusts you to do the same.

If I could, I would be sure all children, girl or boy, felt no shame in wanting a doll. There is no right gender for a doll, nor is there no right age. There is not one doll that is better than another, whether it is the mama-made-with-love rag doll or the beautifully detailed store-bought doll. All dolls are just what they ought to be for whom they belong, just as we, those who love those dolls, are just as we ought to be for them.