Free Writing

Most of the time we take this writing gig for granted. We can pick up a pencil, sit down at our computers, and write whatever our little hearts desire.

Maybe it’s poetry that inspires thoughtful reflection. Or fiction that takes readers deep into a story and away from their own worries and cares for a while. Perhaps it’s prose that incites action or changes thinking.

Words are powerful tools, and yet we give them away so freely, especially now when we can toss words onto the internet and send them speeding around the world in a manner of seconds.

Of course it hasn’t always been that way, not even here in America where we celebrate free speech and a free press, both hard won by the men who framed our most famous piece of writing, The Declaration of Independence.  Imagine the hours of thought and feather pen scratching that went into that document before it was presented to the world.

Now, 236 years later, we enjoy the fruit of their labor - the ability to write and read freely, without fear of  legal recrimination. What a mighty opportunity that is, to share the written word with others.

Celebrate your freedom to write this Wednesday.

Use  your words thoughtfully, carefully, and then proudly set them free.

Keeping the Faith

Last year one of my dear friends decided to fulfill a long time dream and start a community theater group. Because of her  history in the community as a high school music teacher, drama director, and church choir director, she has contacts galore with people of all ages. A perfect opportunity presented itself - the ability to host the group in her church (St Paul’s Presbyterian Church) - and thus, Paul’s Players was born. Despite her many friends and connections in the community, it hasn’t been easy. This is not an affluent area, nor is it one that really champions the arts. But she has persevered, getting enough donations of time and money to mount three shows in the past year as well as a successful musical theater camp for middle school students. All this while continuing to work as the music and choral director of the church, as well as serve on the Board of her local AAUW chapter, be an active participant in her grandchildren’s lives and activities, and travel on several nice trips this year.

Not a bad resume for a 70 year old retired teacher, is it?

Her plan this summer was to produce a multi-age production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It’s a fun show, she’s done it several times in her career, and was excited at the prospect of getting a group of 40 or 50 young people between the ages of 8-21 involved in musical theater.  She had a group of eager adults ready and willing to help out and we were all excited about working together.

As it happened, staffing was the easiest part. Turnout for auditions was really light. In fact, it was frightening. Despite massive publicity - including personal visits to all the middle school and high school classrooms in within three neighboring cities - as recently as this past weekend we barely had enough people to make up the cast or children’s choir, with the show just about four weeks away.

Most importantly, we didn’t have a Joseph.

But while many of us behind the scenes were getting ready to write the whole thing off, my friend never did. She kept coming up with people she could call, remembering students from past shows and putting out  direct invitations. She spread a net far and wide, casting it out among young people who had found their way onto her stages during the past several years.

Lo and behold, the phone call she had been waiting for came in yesterday afternoon.

“I have a Joseph!” she crowed on my voice mail. “In fact, I have TWO!” And she proceeded to tell me about two young men who had responded to her message within minutes of each other. Both of them recent high school graduates, both of them still finding their way in a difficult world, not quite sure which road to travel.

“The best part is,” she said eagerly, “I know doing this show is going to help them."

Her ability to remain positive - to keep the faith - is astounding, and it’s one of the things I admire about her. It’s a lesson I’ve taken with me from the years of working with her in the classroom and  on projects like Paul’s Players. Whenever I’m tempted to throw in the towel, to say “that will never work!” I remember times like this when it seemed as if we were doomed.

And then we got a Joseph.

The Road to Brookwood Court

16287 Brookwood Court.

That’s going to be our new address. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

We crossed the last hurdle today, after something of a heart-stopping moment when we read this sentence in the condominium association by-laws:

 No owner shall keep more than one dog or cat on the premises without written permission from the Board of Directors.

Yikes.

We’ve spent the last two days trying to find out who to contact and writing e-mails to get the necessary approval from the Board, all within the five day time frame. Meanwhile, our realtor tells us that a cash offer has been put on the house, so there is another buyer waiting anxiously in the wings should we change our minds.

Sorry.

Ain’t happening.

A few minutes ago we received word that Magic and Molly were officially sanctioned residents of Country Club Village.

It’s ON, people.

We’re moving.

Write On Wednesday:

The personal essayist takes a topic - virtually any topic under the big yellow sun - and holds it up to the bright light, turning it this way and that, upside and down, studying every perspective, fault, and reflection, in an artful attempt to perceive something fresh and significant. The essayist does not sit down at her desk already knowing all of the right answers, because if she did, there would be no reason to write. Dinty Moore, Crafting the Personal Essay

I’m a huge fan of the personal essay.

Love to read them. Love to write them.

Like a good short story, they examine ideas and experiences in a unique way, condensing them into one scrumptious bite like a finely detailed miniature portrait.

Though I’m no artist, it seems to me that the painter and the  personal essayist have much in common. As Moore says, they take an topic (or an object) and “hold it up to the bright light, turning it this way and that, upside and down, studying every perspective...in an artful attempt to perceive something fresh and significant."

My favorite personal essays - those that take slices of ordinary life and experience and reflect them back through the writers particular lens - offer that fresh perspective on universal situations which make them significant. Anna Quindlan, Joyce Maynard, Anne Lamott...some of writer’s I’ve counted on over the years to do that for me.

And of course, Nora Ephron (who died last night) with her wry wit and slightly edgy humor, could make me laugh out loud about things as mundane as reading glasses and double chins.

But in today’s information soaked world, does it matter what one solitary essayist has to say about life in general?

I think it does.

A well crafted personal essay opens a window into the mind of another human being, encouraging a deeper personal connection than a 140-character Tweet or three sentence Facebook status. Those are the kinds of connections that make us more empathetic people and draw us closer together in our human experience.

That always matters.

The Right Place

It looks as if we’ve got ourselves a new house. We’ve been looking for a little while, finding places that had some features we liked and others that were seemingly insurmountable. We found a house we loved but after careful thought realized it was simply too much - too much money, too much house.

Yesterday, we found one that fit nearly every important criteria. And we were surprised, because it’s not what we expected to love. In fact, we almost didn’t look at it because it has two bedrooms instead of three, and we’ve been set on three bedrooms all along.

But what happened was that when we walked inside, it felt like home. We wandered around the rooms, growing more and more comfortable, already being able to sense ourselves inside there, drinking coffee in the cozy seating nook in the master bedroom, curled up on the sofa in the sunny living room, puttering around in the bright and spacious kitchen (oh the pantry! and dozens of cupboards besides), seated around the dining room table in front of the doorwall leading onto the deck.

Part of the reason for this sense of familiarity is that this house is very much like our home in Florida. In fact, the master bathroom is almost an exact duplicate. It was built by the same builder, so we have confidence that the house  is solid and well made. And it’s so reminiscent of that home we loved so much, it didn’t seem to matter that it was a bit smaller than we’d originally hoped for. Even the community itself is somewhat like Island Walk. It’s a golf course community, so there are small lakes and ponds scattered throughout. There is a restaurant where we can ride our bikes and have breakfast. There are plenty of places to walk.

Place is so important to me. I’ve lived in the same place my entire life, and it has fit me very well, making it even harder to relocate myself. It seems there is only so much you can do about finding the right place. Many of the places we looked seemed perfect on paper but were absolutely awful in person. I’ve been inside homes that gave me such a sense of disconnect - I might even call it uneasiness - that I know I could never live there. I realized yesterday how important it is to trust your feelings and rely on your instincts.

You were all privy to my whining and moaning over the loss of our Florida home. As we searched and searched for homes here - on the internet and in person - I realize I was needing to find something with the flavor of our Island Walk home.

Yesterday, we found it.

Yesterday, we bought it.

We’ve got ourselves a new house.

Here’s a link to a video of the community, and to some photos of the house.