Tagged: puttingwordstogether

When did I stop thinking that what I had to say was worthy of writing down? Somewhere along the line I veered off into feeling that if what I was writing about wasn’t scinctillating, profound or humorous, it wasn’t worth posting. This makes it harder and harder to want to post anything, to write ANYTHING, for fear it isn’t good enough. For who? For me or for my audience? The idea that writing about the mundanities of my day, the things that happen to me, the funny things my kids say, all those little things—isn’t good enough or exciting enough...

I sat across from you at the table this evening and all I could think was, you are so beautiful. How can you not see it? How can you be so sure that you’re unattractive? Someone’s got a lot to answer for, that raised you believing a lie. Now I’m not speaking just to you, I’m talking to myself and to the spaces inbetween, where the fine-webbed cracks appear on the inside of the surfaces. Do we all only see our flaws? Are we raised on denial, comparison and self-blindness? What do you see in the looking glass? Who? The...

A child’s toothbrush, a pair of sunglasses snatched off the hall table, and the pajamas they were wearing. That’s what our neighbors saved from their burning house. I think of all their history, their shared memories, the scrapbooks, the photo albums, their daughter’s crayoned scribbles melted to the charred husk of the refrigerator. It’s all just stuff, isn’t it? But it’s YOUR stuff. If it went up in flame and ashes, do you think you would feel freed? That you were winnowed and lightweight and had a free hand to start over; a clean slate? Or would you perpetually be...

for her fierce hugs, for her animated faces, for her bouncing, never-stop boisterousness for his twinkle, for the chance to make his dimple appear like a blinking star in the velvet expanse of his cheek, for his concentration and creativity for his hands on me, his arms around me, his careful, thoughtful ways that fill up my days and make my home a haven for her quiet smile, and her wise words, for her harmony: a subtle soprano to my supporting alto, and the chance to let our lifelong friendship blossom into maturity through closer contact for a warm, furry...

The lovely Squeetleynn* over at Sprigs (which my fingers insisted on typing as ‘spring’ 3x) has been inspiring me and her readers with some wondrous word-art of the loveliest kind: poetry. She didn’t know I have a passion for it, which makes me think that particular love of mine hasn’t come through very clearly here in my journal. What kind of poetry you like is so personal, or to put it another way, one person’s poetry is another man’s poison. I think perhaps it’s a little bit like sharing song lyrics. Even though YOU can hear the song in your...