Marbles in the washer,
Toothpaste on the mirror,
Legos stabbing feet as I chase away bad dreams.
Endless cries of “Moooommy!”
Snacktime every hour,
Water spilled across the table, half of dinner on the floor.
My opinion being gospel,
My stories being loved,
“I need a Mommy snuggle!” whenever I cease to move.
Hugs that end with giggles,
Rubbing kisses into my cheeks,
That moment of blissful silence when they’re finally asleep.
The woman stared at her computer.
The exhausted mother stared wearily at her computer screen.
The exhausted mother stared with dagger-like intensity at the glowing screen of her computer.
She tried to think of something to write about.
She struggled to find anything interesting to write.
She wrestled futilely with her muse, but inspiration hovered just beyond her grasp.
This, she thought, was the hardest part of writing.
Keeping things simple, she thought, was the part of writing she struggled with the most.
Propping her head on her hands, she stared at what she’d typed and realized – not for the first time – that finding the balance between adding enough detail to bring a piece to life but not so much as to suffocate it was really, freaking hard.
Some days, I feel like this:
Other days, I feel like this:
What makes the difference?
What lights you up inside?
Find out, and make it happen every day, even if only for a minute or two.
Trust me, it’s not being selfish. It’s being smart. Charge your light, and let it shine…
because everyone in your world will feel it if you don’t. 😉
Knitting is the antidote to a world that is always changing and too often hostile.
It’s a simple act that provides you with multiple choices to which there are no wrong answers – wool or silk, cotton or linen, solid color or a variegated rainbow? The options are initially overwhelming, but you soon learn to revel in them, to embrace this opportunity to answer to only yourself.
Knitting also helps you understand that you have the power to effect change. Maybe the pattern you’re following has long sleeves but you want them to be three-quarter length, or perhaps you need a few extra inches of length in the body to avoid a chilly midriff. As you knit, you learn to analyze what you need and want, and develop strategies for tweaking and reworking a pattern until it’s exactly right for you.
Finally, knitting gives you control. When stock markets crash and your in-laws gripe and your children proudly reveal a permanently autographed sofa, you can pick up your knitting and wield utter and complete control over that one small part of your world.
Knitting reminds you of the power you have to make your own choices, work towards your goals, and take pleasure in the results, no matter what the world throws at you.
“Show, don’t tell” is the mantra of fiction writers, but it’s sometimes hard to wrap your head around. To illustrate the concept, I’d like to share the real-life adventures of Supermom, Rugrat, and Monkey Boy.*
Example 1: Tell
Supermom had finally had enough. The room shared by Rugrat and Monkey Boy was a potential health hazard, and it was time for drastic measures. She stomped into the living room, confiscated the Wii remotes from their sticky little hands, and hid them on top of the refrigerator, explaining to the guilty duo that if they ever wanted to play Mario Kart again, they needed to locate the floor of their pigsty. Her words were greeted with great wailing and gnashing of teeth, but when she proved immovable the boys caved her to her superpowers and reluctantly entered their room. Garbage was gathered, toys were tallied, and laundry lathered. When it was finished, Supermom returned the remotes to her minions and collapsed on the floor beside her husband’s desk, whimpering softly. He bought her Chinese food.
Example 2: Show
Supermom propped the basket of clean laundry on her hip and opened the door to the Minion’s bedroom, nearly gagging at the stench that assailed her sensitive nose. Dropping the basket to the floor, she dashed to the window and wrestled it open, desperate for oxygen.
“Alright, that’s it,” she announced, stomping into the living room where Rugrat and Monkey Boy were duelling on the Wii. “Give me those.”
“But my time’s not done,” wailed Rugrat, his plea echoed loudly by his sidekick.
Ignoring their cries, Supermom pried the remotes from their sticky hands. “I’m sorry, but your room is disgusting. You can finish playing after you clean up.”
They watched in horror as she put the remotes on top of the fridge. Monkey Boy’s lower lip stuck out, wobbling slightly as his big blue eyes filled with tears. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is having to waste my superpowers cleaning up other people’s messes,” said Supermom grimly, herding the Minions to their pigsty of a room.
Garbage was gathered, toys were tallied, and laundry lathered before Supermom finally granted the Minions release from their slave labour. They immediately experienced a miraculous recovery, their weary limbs revitalized by the cheerful sounds of Mario Kart.
Supermom smoothed the clean sheets, straightened the beloved stuffy sitting on the pillow of Monkey Boy’s bed, and went in search of chocolate, her superpowers drained dangerously low.
“No,” she whispered, horrified, at the sight of the empty cupboard. She scrambled up onto the counter and checked behind the herbal tea. “NO!”
There was no chocolate.
Not even a semi-sweet chip lurking in the corner of the baking drawer.
Shell-shocked, she limped into Wonderhubby’s secret lair and collapsed onto the floor beside his desk.
He looked down at her, concern creasing his brow. “Are you okay?”
A soft whimper escaped from her prone form.
He shoved out of the office chair and crouched beside her, appalled. “My god. What did they do to you?”
“Need…ch…ch…”
“Right, right, of course,” he said soothingly, patting her back before standing up and grabbing his wallet. “Hold on, I’ll be back.”
Time passed in a blurry haze, reality and unreality blending into visions of dust bunnies with monstrous teeth and smelly socks.
At last Wonderhubby returned, bags in hand. “I bought chicken, Chinese, and chocolate ice cream,” he said. “Which do you need first?”
*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
It’s big, scary, and always hovering just out of sight. You feel it lurking behind you, a constant presence in your life, but when you turn around, nothing is there. Maybe you call it anxiety, worry or stress.
I do, too. Most of the time.
But I’m learning to see it for what it really is – not some formless, foreboding entity outside of my control, but something much more intimidating: fear.
Think about it. Why do we worry? Why the anxiety and stress? Because we’re afraid that something will go wrong and we’ll be unable to handle it. And unlike a lot of fears that we can reason away, this is one that doesn’t respond well to logic because deep in our gut we know there is a very real possibility that life could go wrong. Someone might get sick. Go missing. Die. We may lose a phone, a job, a family member. They might let us down, break our hearts, laugh at our dreams. We may get hurt, cause hurt, or be unable to stop the ones we love from hurting. We may risk it all and end up with empty hands.
Anything could happen.
And truthfully? Some of it will. That’s what’s so scary. Nobody goes through life unscathed. Shit happens, and it happens to good people.
In other words,
The Worst Thing That Could Possibly Happen Probably Will –
sometimes.
But if we always play it safe – avoid the risks, lock away our creativity to avoid rejection, keep everyone we care about on a short leash in an attempt to protect them – we give The Worst more power than it really has. We allow the what-if to dictate the what-is.
Maybe that’s The Worst – allowing the lurking shadows to suck the light from the days that sparkle instead of simply embracing them and revelling in the knowledge that, right here, right now, we’re all okay.
“It’s this damn stroke,” she says, with an emphasis on the “damn” that my generation lacks. Pursing her cherry-lipstick mouth, she sits up a little straighter – her posture already puts mine to shame – and smoothes a hand over her well-ironed slacks. “I was never sick a day in my life, until two years ago.”
I don’t ask, but she must see the curiosity on my face because she adds, “I’m ninety-two.”
“So you used to knit a lot, before the stroke?” I ask, steering us back to the reason she’s sitting here with me in the quiet little shop where I work.
“I knit almost everything in the Mary Maxim catalogue, even those awful sweaters that my daughters wanted.” Frustration tugs the corners of her bright lips down. “But I can’t remember a thing now.”
I start with a simple, step-by-step demonstration of the knit stitch, explaining each step. She has me repeat it a few times, watching intently. “Does it look familiar?”
“No.” She takes the needles and yarn from me almost reluctantly.
I talk her through a stitch – needle in, yarn around, pull it through, slide it off.
She’s concentrating so intently, she doesn’t notice another customer casually wander past. Every bit of her attention is focused on two shiny needles and fuzzy purple wool, as if they represent her personal Everest. Her hands are surprisingly steady, and she executes each step of the next stitch with periods:
Needle in.
Yarn around.
Pull it through.
Slide it off.
Brow furrowed, she suddenly changes the way she’s holding the yarn, wrapping it around her age-spotted hands like a version of cat’s cradle that only she knows.
And then she’s knitting.
I watch, mesmerized, as the needles flash and click, stitches flying rapidly from one to the other. She looks up at me, embarrassed. “I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?”
“No!” I resist the urge to get up and happy-dance, and instead smile so big my cheeks hurt. “You’re knitting faster than I can.”
“But I don’t remember how,” she protests.
“Your hands remember.”
Surprised, she looks down, and stares. “That’s knitting?”
“That‘s knitting.”
“Well.” Baffled, she glances up at me, and as she does her hands move confidently, almost of their own volition, stitches forming in perfect rhythm. “Isn’t that the damnedest thing?”
I’m loving the Writing.Com “Writing Prompts” app for the iPhone. Shake your phone, and you get a nifty little nugget of an idea to run with. Set a timer for 10-15 minutes and just write with it; no censoring allowed – let your imagination run wild. It’s a great way to get the creative juices flowing before you turn your attention to whatever you need to be working on, and you never know, maybe you’ll end up with the start of something great to work on later. 🙂
Just for fun, I’ll share what I got today. It’s still pretty rough, but it’s always interesting to see what your subconscious can come up with in a few crazy minutes…
Prompt: You can see through your mirror to another dimension…
I thought it was steam clouding the mirror when I stepped dripping out of the shower. Maybe the fan was broken again; I’d have to call my landlord and try to get him to fix it. Like that was going to happen. Pulling on my robe, I reached for the hand towel that hung dangling from the wings of a pewter fairy. I’d picked the hook up at an estate sale weeks ago, amused by the way she looked over her shoulder, a flirtatious little smile lurking on her exquisitely carved face.
The worries of the day swirled in my mind, thoughts of bills and bosses and brutal reality, and that’s probably why I didn’t notice at first that the fog didn’t wipe clean. Instead, the mirror stayed gray and cloudy.
Puzzled, I dropped the towel in the sink and raised my palm to the mirror, expecting the wet, smooth feel of glass. Ripples rolled across the surface at my touch, and I jerked back in alarm. Then the clouds began to clear in slow, careful swipes, as if someone were wiping the glass from the other side. A heart-shaped face stared back at me, lips full and red, hair a shimmering silver with streaks of blue. Translucent wings flitted softly behind her, and the glass – or what had been glass – shimmered in time with those wings. She lifted her hand and spread her fingers across her side of the mirror as if trying to reach me. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears as her lips moved in words I couldn’t understand. I felt my hand rising to meet hers, and the mirror rippled between our hands, the swirls growing more and more intense.
I woke up cold and alone, a headache throbbing behind my eyes. Groggily I got up, staggering to my feet. All I saw in the mirror was my confused face, staring back at me. But when I tried to hang up the towel, the wings on the pewter fairy were drooping, and it fell to the ground.
Life is like an unfinished sweater…
…full of potential. No matter how messy it looks halfway done, there is always hope that by the time you cast off, you’ll have created something special.
…a learning process. Even with skills and a plan, there will always be mistakes to make and grow from.
…an opportunity for simply winging it, for taking in hand whatever humble materials you possess and plying them into something uniquely your own.
Life is like an unfinished sweater…make it fit.
Christmas has always been a time of reflection for me, and this year my thoughts have been circling around one main question: what do I believe? The road taken has led me places I never dreamed of, and I love the difference. I am at peace, and I see my fellow travellers with eyes grown kinder and a heart grown softer, because I understand that they too are on their own path. I’ve learned to treasure the times those paths intersect, and to part peacefully when they separate and we disagree. Life might be a highway, but we have different stops along the way, and different lessons to learn. So I follow my path, looking around and looking within, and I realize that while I have shed my earlier creeds like a shrunken, itchy sweater, there is truth that remains, stronger and clearer to me than it has ever been:
I believe in choice, and the freedom of every person to make their own, even when – especially when – they choose differently than I.
I believe that we are all worthy of respect, and that in order to extend it to others, I must respect myself.
I believe in consequences, and that the energy we put into the world comes back to us, negative and positive.
I believe that there is a spark of creativity in every person, and through nurturing it, we can make the world a better place.
I believe in love and second, third, and however many dozen chances we need. None of us are perfect.
I believe that bad things happen to good people, and that’s actually a good thing, because without the dark times we’d never learn to cherish the days that sparkle.
I believe in tears, hugs, and that we all have the strength to change.
I believe in you.
(click for project details)
Little Home, Big World 