Sunday Scribblings: First Kiss

I haven't taken part in Sunday Scribblings in such a long time, but this one kept calling to me. I was torn between the first significant kiss and the first significant kisses. I went with the First Kiss.

First Kiss

What I expected?
Under the dim light of the plaza
leaning into the phone booth,
the dark cave of his mouth. I was swallowed
up like Jonah and the whale, hoping
to surface and survive.

We learned to adjust later.

One summer night at the sunken
gardens I opened my eyes
and he was staring
across the lawn.
I —an afterthought.

There was something appealing
about his mouth.

Ten thousand other kisses later
I remember the cold white vinyl
of his letterman jacket sleeves
and the beginning of something.

Once, I was a young girl
who had a first kiss.

Feel like a little writing? Join Sunday Scribblings here.

Sunday Scribblings: Toys

I.

"The Living Doll": It was without a doubt the scariest episode of The Twilight Zone. Talking Tina haunted my childhood in an I-love-to-be-scared kind of way. "My name is Talking Tina, and I'm going to KILL YOU!" my friends and I would shriek and collapse in the curious, delightful mix of hilarity and terror.

II.

My mother says I cried and hid when my grandmother brought me, age 2, the life-sized doll I later named Maria. I don't remember ever being afraid of Maria; I suppose I quickly grew taller than she. Maria was soon joined by a nearly bald baby doll, whom I named Betty Ann after the teenage neighbor who handed down her baby doll to me. And there was always Thumbelina, with the sweet, slightly dirty face and yellow hair.

Decades later my daughter finds Maria and Betty Ann in my mother's attic and brings them home. I dream of Maria that first night. She is life-size—taller than I am—and dancing stiffly. She holds her arms straight out, demanding that I join her dance. I wake up, a scream caught in my throat and heart pounding.

III.

The Japanese doll gave me nightmares. A visiting professor brought her as a gift for me. Beneath her red kimono she was just a purple plastic cross, and her head popped off too easily off its stick neck. But it was her white face that terrified me, and the way her head rolled under the bed so alive. Sleeping, knowing that white head was under my bed, was impossible. But to get out of bed and find her was even more terrifying. She trapped me for a whole night. In the morning my brother fetched her head and stuck it on his finger, chasing me over shining hardwood floors, his socks skating and tiny teeth so white and clean.

More thoughts on "Toys" here at Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribbling: Vision

Daydream

There was a vision he had once:
a grassy hill
me laying back in a white sundress
him resting his head on my stomach,
both of us facing upwards, eyes closed
hot sun pouring down,
blessing us.

Or was it a field of crimson and yellow
leaves sprinkled on grass,
me in jeans and a white t-shirt
resting my head on his thighs,
the late October sun
casting weak shadows?

We are steeped in shared memories,
long ago visions come true
more than we can count
and never enough,
cool mountains framing
our lives.

More scribblings on "vision" here at Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribblings: Aging

We are surfacing now after 20 years, taking deep breaths and looking around. It's only now that we start to come up for air, now that diapers and potty chairs and nap-times and juice cups are years behind us, shoe-laces rarely needing to be tied, even bath-time no longer an evening requisite. Aah, sweet sound of the solitary shower.

How long until we miss it all, until we yearn for sticky hands and crumbs, wish for shoes scattered and outfits flung like deflated scarecrows on bedroom floors? Wish for a faded plastic fire engine in the driveway, a tangle of jump-ropes by the back door?

Someday, then, will we irresponsible tooth fairies regret tossing tiny teeth? Will we impromptu barbers mourn the piles of blond wisps swept into the trash? Will we miss the pair of tiny red Converse we gave to Goodwill, tired of untying knot after knot?

Breathing deeply, we surface.

(For more takes on the prompt "Aging," see this week's Sunday Scribblings.)

Sunday Scribblings: Dear Past Me, Dear Future Me

Dear Past Me:

Be a nicer person.
Have more confidence in yourself.
Be sweet to your parents. They adore you.

He will come.



Dear Future Me:

Have lots of land where the grandkids can run around.
Give your grown-up kids surprise gifts of money, even if they seem to have plenty.
Offer to take your grandkids for the weekend.
Re-read.
Travel.
Grow flowers.
Keep telling your kids that you think they are wonderful.
Laugh with them.
Don't be sad looking through old photo albums.

Kiss him every day.
Never forget the source of all good gifts.
Never stop saying thank you.


(For more Sunday Scribblings on "Dear Past Me, Dear Future Me," go here.)

Sunday Scribblings: Lost

This week's theme at Sunday Scribblings: lost. Here's my take on the prompt.

The Lost One

comes back to her
in the month of his thirty-eighth
birthday, sometime in April
when the tiny white crosses
of the dogwoods had glowed
ghost-like at dusk
and she had felt him coming

too early for more
than a minute's worth
of breath and a sprinkling
of holy water, his name. Gasp
of the nun, sign of the cross.
Emptyhanded

she had returned to her kitchen,
rubbed the windows clean of streaks
to better watch her three boys outside
who never thought to ask
where
or why
or even to notice the swell of her belly
gone back to ribs

and now he would be years older
than she was then, a sweet balding man
who, whistling, comes
through the front door with a kiss
on the cheek and a single daffodil.

—Sarah Cummins Small, copyright 2009

Sunday Scribblings: Art

At the Pompidou Centre in Paris, we smirk. This is art? These displays of bricks and cotton fuzz? Wire and mortar? A window frame? Bah, says my father. I, at sixteen, wish to appreciate the postmodern display, but I must agree with my father. Bah, I say. The artist himself, perched silently at the end of the display, scowls. Had we known, we would have kept our bahs to ourselves.

The Mona Lisa. The Winged Victory. David, the Pieta, the Sistine Chapel. I have stood before them, smelling centuries before me, yearning to touch their smooth perfection. Awed.

Art class: I am pained that I don't have some special talent within me. As an art lover, I am deserving of such.

A tangle of scribbles, a collage of tissue paper, a handprint, globs of poster paint, something that looks vaguely like a dog.

My children: works of art.

A tree, a rock, a cloud.

What we have between us.

A word.


(For more thoughts on the topic "Art," see other Sunday Scribblings here.)

Sunday Scribblings: Regrets (or Not)

Today's theme at Sunday Scribblings is "regrets," but my take here is "no regrets."

Letter to the Man I Didn't Marry

Today I ran three yellow lights,
which in some states signal the driver
to clear the intersection and in others to proceed
with caution.
I did neither,
as I'm sure you recall.
I hear
you've been asking about me.

My baby knocks more insistently
these days, especially after I eat
what's bad for me:
chips or chocolate, late night
bowls of sweetened cereal.
(You disapprove, I know. I remember
the angle of your head.)
Maybe she will look
like me.
Maybe she will be a he. My breasts
grew larger while I napped.
When I opened my eyes, my son
was there to kiss my cheek
with his tiny chapped lips.

From the front porch swing
I watched the librarian fly by on her bike
like the wicked witch and the irises rise
inch by inch.
I am itching
to get my hands in the soil,
to smell the dirt caked thick and dark
beneath my nails.
You were wrong, you know.
You never could have been the one
to heal me.

~Sarah Cummins Small, copyright 1999

For more Sunday Scribblings, click on the link above.

Sunday Scribblings #147: Phantoms and Shadows

It's been quite some time since I've taken part in Sunday Scribblings, but this week's theme—Phantoms & Shadows—is one of my favorites. Below is a poem that came to me after a vivid dream one night in which my dead high school boyfriend appeared, chilling me and breaking my heart all over again.

************************

Penance

I kneel to you
in absolution: Forgive me, lover,
for I have sinned. It has been three days
since I last thought of you, over two months
since I spoke

your name out loud. I brought you
these flowers from my mother’s garden:
lavender, statice, Michaelmas daisies.
She still can’t remember

your name; I have stopped
reminding her. You used to come to me
in dreams; once, floating
outside a second-story window,
you beckoned. I stepped back,
then awoke, nervous and guilty.

For nine years
now I’ve carried the burden
of you like a secret child; I have not spoken
often enough of what it was to know
you. I can’t remember

your birthday—is it the third or the fifth? By now
your hair would be thinning and your mustache
thick. Your twin brother is heavy and dull;
You will never face his fate. He is like some cruel
computer-aged representation. It’s only his voice

that throws me, raspy and cracked,
like yours. And his lips.
I have had impure thoughts.

This is what your mother said to me,
here in this spot, as she handed me your casket’s
blue ribbon: you were the love of his life.
Have mercy on me,
I have never visited her, but the ribbon fit
nicely in the depths

of my wedding bouquet. Seven years now
I have been married to a man you
never knew, two children who look like

him. I must have forgotten
how, in the pain of afterdeath, I swore
I would name my son for you.

It’s all coming back to me now.
Your crooked teeth and bony knees.

~Sarah Cummins Small, copyright 1999

For more scribblings, go here.

Sunday Scribblings #137: Stranger

I am a stranger in this place,
laid out in a perfect
grid like a thousand midwestern acres
or a New England town,
solid and square, boundary lines
unmoveable. If I could

just jump the fence,
scale the stone wall,
skate in circles around your careful
map. Figure eights.

I don't know the rules; my blades
have rusted with time and neglect.
I mix my metaphors yet again—
my tongue is twisted and inept.
I long for paper and pen,
the cool comfort of written wordplay.

(To see more takes on the prompt "Stranger," visit Sunday Scribblings.)

Sunday Scribbling #131: Forbidden

Forbidden

Some memories are better left bricked, stuck
tight behind layers of mortar spread thick
like frosting,
icing on the cake.

The one about: forbidden.
And when: forbidden.
That summer: forbidden.
Forbidden. Forbidden.

See how cleanly I can replace
what's fallen, neatly fitting together
brick upon brick,
mortar thick,
keeping them all in their
appropriate place.


(For more scribbling on "Forbidden," click here. You can play, too.)

Sunday Scribbling #130: Weddings

Today's Sunday Scribblings prompt is weddings. The Scribblings are supposed to be about my writing, I know, but today I'm sharing my writing heritage instead. My father wrote this poem for my mother on their 50th anniversary. I can't think of a more beautiful tribute to weddings.

Always Twenty-One

You are still in my heart's eye that golden girl in white,
You're walking down the aisle
into my heart,
Still that lovely girl in white
coming to me down the aisle.

In my mind I know we've had these years together,
I know the storms we've shared,
the joys we've shared,
these many years we've shared—
And yet,
And yet you're still that golden girl in white
who's coming down the aisle
into my heart.

My heart's eye cannot see the years behind us,
My heart's eye looks on you and sees again
the golden girl you were
and still are in my heart,
My golden girl who's always twenty-one.

~James N. Cummins, 1998

I still cry every time I read it. As a footnote, my parents just celebrated their 60th anniversary last month, 8/8/08.


(Read more Sunday Scribblings on weddings.)

Sunday Scribbling #128: Coffee

The strongest smell of my childhood is coffee. Our home was seeped in coffee. My mother's percolator gurgled gently all day. My parents drank endless cups of coffee. Anyone who came over drank coffee. Bridge parties, Welcome Wagon, church friends, Mrs. Natti from next door with her thick smoke and raspy voice. All these cups I smelled perched on the red vinyl-and-metal kitchen chairs or sitting halfway up the staircase.

My parents' skin smelled of coffee. All grown-ups drank coffee. My mother and father each took a splash of milk in theirs. Coffee breath, coffee grounds in the plants for fertilizer, coffee in the thermos for long car trips. My mother spilling coffee on her lap while my father drove, both helpless. What to do but keep driving, stained in coffee.

And then in college, suddenly, I am a Coffee Drinker. The transition to independence happens as quickly as a heavy white cafeteria cup and one pull of the coffee urn's lever. I, too, take only a splash of milk in mine.

Late nights we study with the endless pot of coffee at the local all-night restaurant until we all shake with caffeine and exhaustion. Our breath is bitter, our teeth coated with sludge. Still, we persist.

After college there is coffee on the front porch and coffee after dinner. We buy mugs everywhere we go: Don't Mess with Texas, Cafe Du Monde, Disneyworld. We buy a grinder and beans and pretend to be coffee connoisseurs. We buy handfuls of chocolate-covered espresso beans, revelling in this bit of luxury. At dinners out, we turn our coffee cups right side up. Yes, please, more coffee.

There is graduate school, in which he drinks pot after pot, and now coffee pours from his skin like sweat. I drink my two cups each morning, a splash of milk. And then there is an abrupt stop: I am pregnant. I will eat healthy, sleep well, and exercise. But plagued by headaches, I add back in just one morning cup. Just one, until the baby is born and I am back to two, until the next baby and the next.

Those babies were seeped in the smell of coffee, warm and brown. It is natural that by 14 that the oldest begins claiming his own morning cup, and the middle one surprises us by making the morning pot now and then. Now we say things in the evenings we didn't used to understand: "Is it decaf?" and "No, thank you, or I won't be able to sleep."

But in the mornings we are grateful. Two cups of coffee, a newspaper, a clean smooth table. A smell that is as familiar as the bump on my finger or the curve of his smile, a smell that is my childhood, my coming-of-age, and my children.

( Check out Sunday Scribblings for more coffee thoughts.)

Sunday Scribbling #125: How I Met My [fill in blank]

This week's Sunday Scribblings asks: How did you meet your significant other, your best friend, your dog, your nemesis? On the flip side of that, are there any people in your life you have lost touch with who you wonder about?

I'd love to talk about people I've lost touch with and wonder about, but since I already have the "how I met my husband" post on my other blog, I'll just take the easy way out this week and do a little cutting and pasting.

Our love story is very long and complicated. There are many twists and turns along the path that led to me become the other half of SmallWorld. It is much easier to say, “We met in college,” which is entirely true.

But more precisely, I spotted Dr. H. whose real name is Randy. I was a sophomore, and my friend Brenda and I returned from summer break a few days early, during freshmen weekend. I believe that we came specifically because our boyfriends had to be back early to start basketball practice and we wanted to see them, but we absolutely, in spite of our boyfriends, engaged in much previewing of freshman boys.

And in he walked. Brenda and I were in the cafeteria, facing the doors so that we could see everyone who came in. So in walks Randy, with that bounce in his step. He was wearing black Reboks with paisley shoe strings and striped shorts. He was very tan and had gorgeous long brown hair. And earrings. “Who IS that guy?” I asked. (I don’t know who I asked, but someone.) “That’s Greg Small’s brother,” I was told. (Background information: Randy’s older brother Greg had graduated from this same college a couple of years beforehand but lived nearby in an apartment.)

So I kept my eye on him. But I had this boyfriend that I was crazy about, and that was all very complicated. So Randy and I became good friends. We hung out. His best friends were my best friends. But I had this boyfriend…

FAST FORWARD. So over Christmas break that year, this boyfriend quit school and dumped me. That was very sad. But heartaches mend quickly at 19. Back at college in January, Randy and I exclaimed our jubilation that we were both relationship-free. We held hands for the first time at the Italian Village. He sent me flowers for my 20th birthday. We kissed in the lobby of my dorm. For Valentine’s Day, we cooked spaghetti together. And it was all very, very nice.

The first seven months were pure bliss. We were madly in love. I’m pretty sure I’d never been happier in my life, nor felt more completely myself with anyone. And then— kerplunk, kerplooey—it all fell apart. I don't even remember the circumstances, but we broke up and it was devastating. And then, at Perkins late studying one night, we got back together again. We sang, “Reunited” while walking around the swimming pool outside Perkins. (Why was there a swimming pool outside Perkins, anyway?) And then at Christmas, we broke up again. And then…yeah. That happened a lot. A whole, whole lot. We were “on a break” more often than not. And since I don’t like to dwell on that year of on-and-off…

FAST FORWARD. So after a year of on-again/off-again, I said, “Enough.” I remember wondering who in the world I was and knowing that I had to release Randy in order to reclaim myself. Oh, that was a very good thing. And it was very hard. Randy started dating my best friend’s roommate. Did I mention that we went to a very small college? That everyone knows everyone’s business? That you can’t help but run into your ex-boyfriend and his silly new girlfriend everywhere? Oh, and that my best friend and her roommate-who-was-now-dating-my-future-husband lived right below me, and that my window looked out on the parking lots, and that every time that roommate and my ex-boyfriend/future husband walked out to his car, I was watching? Yeah, that was stinky.

But I had my own new boyfriend pretty soon, and he was fun. We laughed a lot, and he liked to quiz me every now and then: “Are you still in love with Slim?” (His name for Randy.) “No, no, of course not,” I’d reply.

Yep, he was fun, the boy I would never have married. And my girlfriends! Oh, we had the most amazing times together. We lived in constant angst, but a delightful kind of angst. We painted poetry on my dorm-room walls and made mixed tapes. We went to here bands and danced the night away as often as possible. We didn’t care about our sort-of boyfriends, because we knew they were temporary. We were so, so free.

What I really gained after breaking up with Randy was myself. I was healing. I was gaining perspective. I remembered who I was. And somewhere in there, I really did let Randy go. I remember understanding that I would never love anyone as completely as I had loved him. But I knew I could move on with my future. I would marry someone who treated me well. I would love him. But the great passion of my life happened by age 21.

There was a poem by Gary Snyder that burned into my heart. Like the poet, I would live; I would endure. But I would live remembering:

After college I saw you
One time. You were strange.
And I was obsessed with a plan.

Now ten years and more have
Gone by: I've always known
where you were--
I might have gone to you
Hoping to win your love back.
You still are single.

I didn't.
I thought I must make it alone. I
Have done that.

Only in dream, like this dawn,
Does the grave, awed intensity
Of our young love
Return to my mind, to my flesh.

We had what the others
All crave and seek for;
We left it behind at nineteen.

I feel ancient, as though I had
Lived many lives.

(Excerpted from “Four Poems for Robin”)

And so I graduated from college. Randy was there, and that weekend there was a graduation party at a friend’s house. We all brought white t-shirts to autograph for each other. And what Randy wrote on mine clearly meant to communicate to me that he was missing me. (Did I mention that he and his silly girlfriend had broken up a few months beforehand?)

But still, I had this fun, uncomplicated boyfriend. Who went away on a trip for two weeks after I graduated.

So one evening my girlfriends and I were watching the classic horror flick from my childhood, Let’s Scare Jessica to Death. (Hmmm. Perhaps I should write a post someday about all the scary movies I saw when I was a child.) This particular movie scared me just as much at 22 as it did at age seven, so we decided to go check out the local music scene instead. I can’t remember who was playing, but it was warm night in June, and some of us were sitting outside in the parking lot, leaning on cars. And then it was just Randy and me.

And that was it. Nearly three years after we'd first met, and eight months after our final break-up—the big one—there was that sublime moment of realizing that this—this moment—begins our life. There should have been symphonies and fireworks lighting up that June sky. It was a moment I can still see so clearly: the young girl and boy in their t-shirts and shorts, sitting on the hood of an old car on a warm East Tennessee night. He quotes a song to her. They know: this is forever. They kiss. Friends peer at them from inside the building, pointing and whispering: “OH MY GOODNESS! Randy and Sarah are back together!”

All is right with the universe. This is the way it was always meant to be, but sometimes we have to do things the hard way.

June 4th we met for breakfast in the park. We had jelly donuts and Five Alive. I wrote my uncomplicated boyfriend a letter and broke up with him. As it turns out, he was always right about Slim.

In September we said, “Hey! We could get married!”

In March, we did.

And we still have spaghetti every Valentine’s Day.

(Do you have your own story to tell? Check out Sunday Scribblings.)

Sunday Scribbling #124: Observations

This week's Sunday Scribbling prompt: Observations

I am an observer, always have been. Being the youngest of five children and the only girl, it was a role I fell into easily. As a child I rarely participated in supper conversations because, frankly, they bored me and I had nothing to contribute. My parents and brothers seemed to (and still do) always talk about orchards: what scion wood should be gathered, what spray to use, what pruning needed done. I would rather have talked about people.

And so I watched them all and pondered the lives behind the tree-talk. My oldest brother is the most enigmatic, partly because 16 years separate us. I don't know him except through observation. Conversations with him seemed seeped in subtext; always beneath words was a joke I didn't get.

My brother owned his own orchard for 25 or 30 years, and during that time he had many accidents that should have been fatal. His relationships invariably failed. But in spite of injuries and heartbreak, he remained to me like some Greek hero: sharp-tongued, sharp-witted, powerful, brilliant, and arrogant. Light on his feet and absurdly confident, he was like a black cat with all its nine lives. Below is a poem I wrote years ago after a tractor accident that he somehow survived.

Survival

His girlfriends are always leaving him, crossing
the line to someone with a little less
question in his eyes. Each time one zips
up her bags, he tries death,
teasing it like a slick black
shrew, tossing it in the air like a catnip
mouse. He laps it up, then turns
his back and twitches one ear
toward the sound of tunneling
underground. He blinks, twitches
again, resists the instinct to finish

what he started. He is subtle: a fall
through the ice, a slip off a roof,
a sleep in the snow, a bottle
of whiskey. How many more times
can he escape

with only scratches, broken teeth,
frostbite on his fingers and toes?
He wears his scars
proudly. Women listen
to his stories and flock
to comfort him, running
itching fingers
down his spine.
~Sarah Cummins Small, 1999

His worst brush with death was yet to occur. Just two years after this was published as part of my master's thesis, my brother had a bicycle accident and sustained a traumatic brain injury (TBI). He was given a slim chance of much of a recovery. I fed him strained plums and observed him in a whole new way. Here is a post I wrote once about that time period. Today he continues to live on his own and manage a small orchard, as well as lend his extensive expertise to the fashionable Eve's Cidery. According to my parents, he continues to improve both mentally and physically.

And that's all I know. He didn't return my text message when I was in New York this summer. He didn't come to our brother's wedding last summer, and the summer before that he told another brother and me to "come back when it isn't the busy season." Like a cat, he remains aloof. Observation is all I have.

Sunday Scribblings: Ask

Sunday Scribblings #123: Ask

What question would you like to ask? If you could ask anyone anything, what would it be? What question do you ask yourself? What question fills your mind? What question have you been asked lately? What question have you had problems answering? What is the eternal question? What? Where? Who? When? Why? How? Go ahead and ask!

Sunday Morning Questions While on Vacation at My Parents' Home, 7:30-9:30 a.m.

To the kids: "Did you sleep well?"

To Dad: "Will you please turn on the water heater so we can have hot showers?"

To my youngest: "Would like a bowl of cereal?"

Should I check my email now or later?
Should I text my brother now or later?

To my daughter: "What are you going to wear to church today?"

Will my brother text me back? Will he want to see me? Do I really care?
Why do I feel so nauseated?
What should I wear today? Will I be too warm in a long-sleeved shirt? Why is it so chilly here in New York? Why didn't I bring warmer clothes to wear?
Should I take a picture of my high-school boyfriend's gravestone before I go back home or is that morbid?
Will my friend Janet call me back or should I call her again later?
Should I straighten my hair today?

To my husband: "Is this clock fast?"

What time do we have to leave for church? Do I have time to blog a little?

To my husband: "Did you watch any more of the Olympics last night after I went to bed? Did anything exciting happen?"

Why do I feel so nauseated?
Should I go wake up my teenager?
What is up with this intermittent wireless connection?

To my daughter: "Did the phone ring while I was in the shower?"

Should I be getting dressed instead of blogging?

Sunday Scribblings: Do I Have To?

Do I have to decide what to keep and what to throw away? Must I alone pick through bits of family history and determine what gets passed down, what is thrown away, and what is cast aside, bound for a thrift-store's dusty shelves to sit amidst a jumble of other forlorn, forgotten objects?

Why do I choose to keep the tiny china dog, the size of a marble, and relegate the Pennsylvania Dutch trivet to the Salvation Army pile? It could be useful on my own table, that bit of ceramic tile. Or what if it's not some cheesy trinket sold in a souvenir shop; what if it's actually something precious, a bit of German art sent in gratitude to my father and mother? Who am I to determine its worth?

Here are two diaries, mine: age 10 and age 12. How life picked up in those two years! From jumping rope to getting a birthday kiss on the cheek. These notebooks are easy to keep. But who am I to decide if this letter to my grandmother, 1981, should be kept or discarded? If I keep it now, am I just relegating this job to my own daughter in some far, far future?

Box after box in my mother's attic, I choose between an object's life, death, or uncertainty. One plastic pig, a puppet, a postcard. A silk scarf, a box of picture hangers, a pair of skis. The weight of four generations rests upon me: treasure or trash? Do I have to choose?

(Need a writing prompt? This week's is "Do I Have To?" Check out Sunday Scribblings.)

Sunday Scribblings: Solace

“Keep close to Nature's heart...and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.”
~John Muir

This week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings: solace. Solace for me is synonymous with the mountains. Used to be Buffalo and Unaka back in college in upper East Tennessee; now we are at the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains.

The mountains have always held something inexpressible for me. There are days when all I want to do is be in the mountains, to inhale woods, river, and earth. I can breathe here, great gulps of something wild just at the edge of my view.

Solace: Mountain, Wood, River

I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
~Psalm 121:1-2

“No matter how sophisticated you may be, a large granite mountain cannot be denied - it speaks in silence to the very core of your being”
~Ansel Adams

“Reading about nature is fine, but if a person walks in the woods and listens carefully, he can learn more than what is in books, for they speak with the voice of God.”

~George Washington Carver

“Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.”

~Winnie-the-Pooh (A.A. Milne)

Sunday Scribblings #120: Ghosts

On Poplar Street at the foot of our bed, we feel it pressing on the mattress, like a cat kneading. We sit up to brush the cat off the bed, only the door is shut. No cats. We remember that insistent push and the next one, too. There is no denying that it happened. We don't even speculate on what it could have been. Who.

No cats in the room, too, when our roommate feels the tap-tap-tapping on her head. Like water dripping, she says. Only, no water. No cats. What happened in this apartment? We don't speculate.

In a dream he beckons, outside my bedroom window. Two stories up he floats in his gray corduroys, gesturing with his hand for me to come. Tossing his hair off his forehead in that certain way and that small smile. His crooked teeth.

The cats hiss, fur like porcupines and tiny sharp teeth. They see what we can't, and we laugh uneasily. Crazy, we call them. Psychotic fur balls. We shiver and toss those thoughts away, although we are not bold enough to say, "There's no such thing."

I can't come now, I tell him in my mind. I shake my head and will myself to waken. In my sorrow, I banish him. Like a proper ghost, he sinks, bare feet on the soft brown soil.

(Need a writing prompt? Got something to say about ghosts in your life? Check out Sunday Scribblings.)

Sunday Scribblings #117: Vision

My family does not have a vision statement. It is something of which I am occasionally made aware, with a twinge of guilt, at this time of year.

Let me explain. We're a homeschooling family, and thousands of new families decide to homeschool each year. In June and July, homeschooling organizations throughout the U.S. hold conventions. And at these conventions, new homeschoolers often attend workshops called something like, "Getting Started in Homeschooling."

Makes sense, right? So at these "Getting Started" type workshops, parents are often encouraged to write a family vision statement.

There are loads of "Getting Started" advice on websites, too. Like this from Trinity Prep School:

Developing a family vision statement .... or in my case, a paragraph, requires one to reflect on core family values. What is your vision for your family? Think long term .... what legacy do you want your children to pass onto THEIR children? Choosing action verbs in stating core values, creates an overall implementation plan.

And this one from Victory Coaching:

A well written family vision statement will answer life’s great questions: Why am I here (purpose)? Where am I going (vision)? How will I get there (mission)? What's important and right (values)? It is like a compass that guides your course. When referred to regularly, it helps to shape the goals you set and the decisions you make that will lead to your desired destination.

And so here's why we don't have a family vision statement: I think they are silly. For us. We are not the kind of family to create "an overall implementation plan." Oh, I could think of lots of "action verbs" that state our core values: Laugh. Love. Serve. Learn. Enjoy. Climb. Read. Smile. Encourage. Embrace. Believe. Imagine. Create. Breathe.

But a written vision statement? It's just not for us. It's not that we take one day at a time necessarily. We have basic goals. We make schedules. We have dreams and hopes for our children. But somehow the formality of a written vision statement seems too cumbersome and business-like.

Still, every year about this time I wonder: should we write a family vision statement? Nah. I'll stick with my list of action verbs.

(Need a weekly writing prompt? Check out Sunday Scribbling here!)