Progression (for Cafe Writing)

Written in response to Prompt Three,  Cafe Writing for February:  Pick at least three of the following eight words, and write a paragraph, scene, flash-fic, essay, blog entry or poem using them. It’s fine to change tenses, or pluralize if you want to, but please bold the words you choose.

astonished, conclusion, drown, gilded, hands, magnify, snow, time,

"Are you having fun?" Stephen asked, his lean angular body framed in the doorway between the garage and the house.  He gazed somewhat longingly at the winter white landscape before him.

Tara weariliy raised her head and peered intently at him, her eyebrows raised in astonishment.  "Does it look like I"m having fun?" she asked, straightening her aching back and leaning wearily against the snow shovel.  "I'm drowning in this stuff!"

Shaking her head, she turned back to her task, lifting a thick wedge of snow and tossing it laboriously onto the growing mound beside the path.

Stephen concluded that if he couldn't help it behooved him to remain out of sight, so he retreated to his desk.  He placed his hands before him on the smooth surface, and focused his thoughts on them, envisioning a thick palatte of glue holding them firmly in place.

"One, one thousand...two, one thousand," he counted, hoping to suprass yesterday's record.  It was at "Seven, one thousand," that he felt the first inkling of a tremor in the ring finger of his left hand, and before he could say "eight..." the thin gold wedding band he wore was beating a rapid tatoo on the polished oak.

"Damn!" he hissed, slamming his right hand viciously over top of the left, now in full spasm. Horrified, he watched his left hand trembling violently underneath it's captor, like a bird caught in a trap.

  "Time is running out!" he thought as he always did when the tremors increased, aware of the relentless progress of his disease.  He was afraid to tell Tara, knew immediately what she would say.  "Call Dr. Wheatley," was always her first response.  What would that mean except more tests, more drugs, more bad news?

Meanwhile, he became less of a man every day- in every way.

Stephen stared in contempt at his hand, finally still, and splayed out before him, exhausted. Memories rushed in -the leathery grip of his ski poles, held tightly in preparation for pushoff,  the velvety softness of baby Mariah's cheek, the slender fragility of Tara's fingers, cupped protectively within his palm.  He grabbed his lower lip between his teeth, hoping to stop the tears which threatened to spill from his eyes.

"Hey," she said softly, coming to stand behind him, an aura of cold air clinging to her body, casting its chill reflection on his shoulders.

"Hey," he replied, not daring to look at her.

He felt rather than heard her sigh, a familiar, deep exhalation of breath signaling resignation.

"It'll be allright," Tara said, unconvincingly.

"It won't," he replied, "and you know it."

Another sigh, this time audible, as she placed her own steady hand on his arm.  

"This is a process," she said, "part of our progression through life.  We will both tire at times, but we will weather this together."

Stephen turned to look at her now, her cheeks flushed from cold and emotion.  For a moment, the steady progression of their past whirled across his mind - their courtship, early marriage, raising Mariah, and now this, this illness that had him in it's deathgrip.  He couldn't bear it to end this way, to become dependent on her for everything, to lose his ability to be her partner in all ways.

He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what words could possibly come.

"Stop," Tara said, touching her fingertips to his lips. "Let it go, Stephen."

She held his gaze until he lifted his hands, holding them upright in the traditional posture of surrender.  Smiling, she matched her palms to his, extending her fingers until they aligned with his, drawing his hand toward hers with an invisible line of strength.

"One, one thousand..." she began counting quietly. 

This time, Stephen felt sure they would make it to ten.

What a Week

Ah, Friday.  You can't possibly know how delighted I am to see the end of this week. I'm sure you've had weeks like this - we all have.  A week where every possible thing that could go wrong, does go wrong.  A week where nothing conspires in your favor.  A week which, by the end of it, you're almost fearful of getting up in the morning because who knows what could happen next. 

Well, if the meteorologists are correct, when I get up we'll apparently be in the midst of a blizzard.

So much for Friday being the end of this.

I should be grateful, I know.  None of the irritating, annoying, disrupting things that happened were life threatening to me or anyone I love. 

But still...major new projects at work completely destroyed my plans to work ahead in anticipation of being away next week, so now I'm behind the eight ball big time.  Our mail order prescription drug company completely erased all our records, just in time to renew all the prescriptions.  The postman hasn't delivered our mail since we returned from Florida, so apparently I'll have to make a trip to the post office and pick it up (since they won't answer the phone!!)  And now this huge snowstorm is coming, foiling my plans for Friday, which included going back to the office, getting the dogs haircuts, and rehearsing with students for a music competition on Saturday.

Yeesh.

Which one of the cosmic entities have I offended?  Did I enjoy myself  a little too much last week in Florida?  Is that not allowed in this universe?

I suppose it's the control freak in me, but these kinds of events, especially coming head over heels on top of one another, just send me screaming for the nearest exit. 

So perhaps it's good that tomorrow might find me snowed in.  A day of enforced peace and quiet, a day to sit in the easy chair, wrapped in a snuggly blanket, watching the snow come down.  A day to relinquish my white knuckle grip on life and all its vagaries and just breath easily for a while.

I could certainly use that.

Because it's been quite a week.

How about you? What kind of week did you have?

Write on Wednesday-Signs From the Past

"And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see; or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read."  Alice Walker   Geneology has always fascinated me.  Although I've never taken the time to delve deeply into my family's history, I have reaped the benefits of research done my cousins and learned some surprising things about my ancestors.  Yes, those Kentucky settlers were mostly Scotch-Irishmen, but there were some German Jews who settled in Pennsylvania before the Revolution, and one of them was a lieutenant who crossed the Delaware with George Washington.  And my father has said his grandfather was the dance leader in the Armenia village where he lived. 

In her book, Writing Begins With the Breath, Laraine Herring talks about listening to the "silent voices" from our past that may be "whispering in our hearts," hoping to find their way onto the page. 

"Are you drawn to a culture or time period not your own?" she asks.  "Chances are it's because the stories of those places intrigue you.  How many stories are there in each generation you can trace?  Look to the stories that are unspoken to find the ones with energy." 

In my writing, I realize how often I'm drawn to tell stories about legacies - about the gifts, the impulses, the characteristics that pass from one generation to the next.  In both novellas I've written for NaNoWriMo, legacy is at the heart of the story and the theme.  In Dear Samantha, a dying woman leaves the story of her life in letters written to her unborn granddaughter.  In The Wedding Dress, one woman passes her wedding dress through four generations of women, each one learning something about themselves through the experiences of the others.

Is there something in my past that calls me to write about this topic?  Are there voices from ages ago working to send a message through me?

Joyce Carol Oates once spoke about "writing to heal one's ancestors."  As human beings, we are interconnected with so many others, through our flesh and blood, but also through basic human needs for love, comfort, beauty. Now, science tells us that human beings can trace their DNA back to one of only ten basic groups.  Writing can be a way to tell the stories of our ancestors, a way to rewrite those stories so they make sense, so they speak to other people in perhaps new and unexpected ways.

"Writing is about following signposts," Herring says.  "Close your eyes and open your ears and heart...who is whispering to you?"

How about you?  Are there stories you feel drawn to tell?  What stories from a distant past are whispering to you?

Ta Dah!

As you can see, the Byline has been given a major makeover.  New address, new look.  I'm excited! And I'm probably the luckiest person in blogdom, having a professional webmaster at my beck and call (well, sort of- I try not to take advantage of his talents, even though he is my kid).   So, merci beaucoup, Brian. 

If only he were as talented with hair and makeup...

Seriously, it's good to shake things up every once in a while, isn't it?  A fresh coat of paint is invigorating, a new outfit or hairstyle lifts the spirits, and a new template sets the creative juices bubbling (at least I hope so!)

But the Byline is still my space to share my visions of Life in General and my own in particular.   Hopefully, those things that are meaningful to me might also speak to you in some way.  I feel priveleged to have met so many talented writers, artists, poets, crafters, and generally wonderful women through blogging.  I hope to continue our relationship in words and thoughts for a long time to come.