Sunday Scribblings-First Love

First love - let's see, would that be Gordon, that darling little mama's boy in fifth grade who wrote me a wonderful letter asking me to marry him, move to a farm in Canada and raise dogs, cats, horses, sheep, cows, and goats? Sounds appealing, doesn't it? Or would it be David,(another mama's boy-is there a pattern emerging here?)who took me to my first junior high school dance, and kept me company at the bus stop every afternoon, where we shared a Butterfinger candy bar while we waited.

Maybe it was Ed, my older cousin from Georgia, who spent two weeks at our house one summer. Tall, gawky, and oozing southern charm, he was handsome in a sort of devilish way. All my friends were entranced with his southern accent, and he had great fun teasing us with silly nicknames and jokes. I can remember all of us huddled in my backyard, crying our eyes out when he left to go home.

Well, I was definintely obsessed with these boys, but I know none of that was love. My attachment to them was based on imaginary emotions,feelings I had neither the wisdom or maturity to name at the time.

This is sappy, but it's true. My first love is the one dozing in front of the TV right now, the one that got up at 6:00 a.m. today (on a holiday weekend) to drive me to a music festival 75 miles away. He's the one that brings me coffee in bed every morning, who sends me text messages that say "thinking about you right now" or "love you." He's the one who has always supported my interests and my desires, no questions asked, no complaints made. Oddly enough, he was once, many years ago, a little bit of mama's boy. But for the past 30 years, he's been MY boy-first, last, only love.

Poetry Thursday

Why I Wake Early

by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.

Hello, you who make the morning

and spread it over the fields

and into the faces of the tulips

and the nodding morning glories,

and into the windows of, even, the miserable and the crotchety-

best preacher that ever was,

dear star, that just happens

to be where you are in the universe

to keep us from ever-darkness,

to ease us with warm touching,

to hold us in the great hands of light-

good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day

in happiness, in kindness.

It was purely luck that I came across this poem today, passing a bit of time in the poetry section of my library. I haven't read poetry in a long time, but the posts on Poetry Thursday have inspired me to tap into verse.

Why I Wake Early is the title poem of Ms. Oliver's volume published in 2004. Her bio says she is "one of the best selling poets in America," and she has been awarded the Pulizter Prize for Poetry as well as the National Book award. The poems in this collection speak to our awareness of the world around us, and the many ways it shapes our lives.

I awoke early to the sun myself today. Now late May in Michigan, that "dear star" has just begun to spread her lovely "warm touches" over us. It was worth waking early to see, and I did indeed start my day in happiness.

Addiction

Hi, my name is Becca and I am a Blogoholic. It started out innocently enough. I decided one night on a whim to set myself up with a little web site on Blogger, as a source of encouragement for my interest in writing, and a place to actually see something I'd written "in print." All was well with my little blog for a couple of months. I'd post some things periodically, flexing my writing muscles by crafting some cute little expositions about things going on in my life.

Then I came across a site that posted writing "prompts" each week, and invited bloggers to expound on a particular subject in their personal blog, which they would then post to the general site for all and sundry to read. Ironically enough, the first prompt was a subject near and dear to my heart, and one that had been preoccupying my thoughts for some time. An omen! I girded my loins, frantically typed out my thoughts, took a big gulp of Chardonnay, and clicked "publish post."

Lo and behold, I got comments! People from all over the world (literally!) wrote back to me saying my thoughts and words were "lovely and heartfelt" and had "struck a chord" or "moved them deeply." When I visited the blogs of everyone who had sent me comments, I was struck by the amazing variety of experience, interest, and expertise among them. I found myself reading their previous posts avidly, and then delving into their lists of favorites, flinging myself further and further into cyperspace.

Of course I returned to the original "prompting" site the next week, and the week after that. Now, I have a new long list of my own personal "favorites."

Trouble is, I find myself thinking about blogging all the time. At work today, I couldn't help but check in to see if anyone had posted anything new since last night, or if anyone had commented on my post from early this morning. As soon as I got home (although I had been at my office keyboard for the past 6 hours!) I ran right to my desk and logged in. As I was clearing up after dinner, I suddenly had a great idea for a post, and ran to make some quick notes. And, since I was at the computer, why not just check out a few blogs to see what's new?

I admit that I'm hooked. The sensation you get from blogging, both writing and reading, is like no other. It opens up new worlds, introduces you to new friends and ideas, sparks your imagination, and makes you feel downright good.

However, I have a huge pile of neglected wash in my laundry room, and a good sized layer of dust on the piano keys. My puppies look at me with great disappointment when I sit down at my desk, cuz they know I'll be there a while. I feel I must learn some moderation, or life will come crashing down around me. Perhaps a call to my higher power is in order. But first-let me just post this one more thing...

Where I Write

Inspired by some of my fellow bloggers who have chosen to share pictures of their writing space, I offer a view of the place where my work gets done. My desk sits in the bedroom that used to belong to my son (and before that, to my husband when he was a boy!) My son's desk rested on this wall, and he, prolific writer from a very early age, would sit here typing away far into the night (See Brian, you thought I didn't know!) My little desk was a gift from my parents when I decided to go back to college and finish my degree after they had given up all hope of me. It represents their faith in my ability and their support for my decisions. I treasure it all the more for that reason, and draw on that resource still. Over the desk hangs a lovely water-colorish print by Peter Ellenshaw entitled "from Pooh's Garden," with all my favorite A. A. Milne characters wadnering amidst a poppy field.

I admit to tidying up a bit before snapping the picture. This is a very multi-purpose site, so this morning I was paying bills, answering emails, and finishing up a long project for my office job that involved pages and pages of medical records needing to be sorted and summarized- in general, creating a huge mess. But when those tasks are done, and I can move into the realm of "real writing," I have all the necessities nearby. Pictures of the ones I love to edify, my Moleskine to review for ideas I've jotted down, and a couple of my favorite books on the craft of writing for inspiration. Of course, there's always somthing resting on the little woven coaster - in the morning, it's a steaming mug of Gevalia coffee, and later in the day you'll no doubt find my latest favorite Chardonnay (today it's Smoking Loon). When I get tired, there's a lovely overstuffed easy chair and ottoman nearby to curl up in and read a novel - if I have the heart to move Magic or Molly out the way first, that is!

Even though I use a laptop and could easily move into other areas of the house, I usually stay put in this special spot. I feel safe here, away from the other rooms of the house where different work lies- the living room where another keyboard beckons (my piano), the kitchen, where a meal should be prepared or clearing up might need to be done, even outside on the porch, where some errant weeds in the flower bed would distract me.

This is My Space. Welcome.

Sunday Scribblings-Three Wishes

You'd think it would be easy to come up with three wishes out of the multitude of things there are to wish for. Of course, the most important ones come instantly to mind, the ones that exist like constantly offered prayers to whatever higher powers we belive in - health, happiness, peace on earth. Then there are the more personally directed wishes - to be a better wife/mother/daughter/friend, opportunities to pursue music and writing to the best of my ability, time to enjoy all the fruits and flowers of the earth. And of course, there are the perfectly selfish and somewhat ridiculous wishes - to spend a month by the sea in southeast England, to lose 15 pounds before the class reunion in August, to find the diamond earring I lost somewhere in my bedroom last year. So I'm going to wish for all those things (it's three wishes times three, is that allowed?) Then, for my "official" wishes, I'm going to ask for three things totally out of the realm of possibility. Here goes:

1. To see heaven, or whatever happens after death. I'd like to know what's waiting for me when I go gently into the night, and who is there ahead of me; 2. To travel back in time - not very far, actually, perhaps about 50 or 60 years, to see how I (with my personality and talents intact) would have turned out, coming of age in a different era;

3. To live life over as a completely different person, perhaps a succssful novelist with a little cottage on the eastern seaboard, a small but loving family nearby, and several small dogs to keep me company at my keyboard.

There they are, wishes aplenty. But, as the old saying goes, "If wishes were horses, we all could ride." I may not be able to gallop off with any of mine, but it's fun to sit in the saddle.