Blog Archives

06
Jul

Inspired by Dearie Miri

Inspired by Miri G, and dedicated to her, because sometimes you just have to take a moment and play hide and seek with the words inside you. Whether professionally or personally, it is necessary at times to simply stop and hear your own internal ripples to inspire the unfinished written works inside you to move closer to the “done” den.

I am sitting in the office in Arlington, preparing photos for a restaurant review that will be published later today. At this moment, I am listening to Proust and the Squid – The Story and Science of the Reading Brain by Maryanne Wolf, narrated by Kristen Potter. Listening to this audiobook and jumping about mentally I am, within a ten second loop, considering the restaurant review formation (mixing the images and text in a mental storyboard), the progress review for school (which is the main reason for listening to the Wolf audiobook), the bible verses I listened to this morning, the bills that I must fill out for clientele, and my reply to my good friend Miri.

Miri is one of the many brilliantes I met at my Goddard Spring Residency. She is part of the group of people in my life that, like me, share a love of letter writing. This art is something that is falling away it seems, in light of the ease and speed of the digital communication technology all around us. I am one who appreciates being forced to slow down and take the time to taste each word in my head as I hear it, in my mouth as I imagine saying it to the letter recipient, and in my hands as I write it out. It is a long slow process, and I love it. Miri is one who writes longhand cursive with clipped curves, and excited puncuation. I truly enjoy not only what she writes, but the physical expression of her mind on paper. Each curve and line is a hug (she also doodles in the corners, so I get the fun aspect of her art imagery and art text).

“Dearie Miri” sent me a video the other day, but told me I couldn’t watch it until I received her letter, which was an accompaniment. It was an exercise in patience, and rewarded with a beautiful poem and awesome written art.

As I was writing her reply letter I began to write prose as well. The words made me feel beautiful and peaceful. Miri inspired me to inspire myself. Now I am off to write my restaurant review. But I leave you with a snippet of what I wrote to Miri:

I should be writing a Restaurant Review, but I feel stilled by the words in my heart.
As if a wind blew softly, and a leaf on the wind landed dancingly on the still water surface of my heart.
Ahhh, I heard the click in you. I see you know this image.
The gentle ripple of words in my “good morning love’ to your story…
to your poetry…
to your own internal phoenix fire resting patiently under the still water surface.
How quiet it is…
how expectant…
pregnant with a destiny that is on the surface unknown,
but underneath,
fully understood.

 

Category: Artistic Expressions  Tags: , , , , , , , , ,  Leave a Comment
04
Jul

Telling Stories… Walking backwards is not walking in faith- trust me!

I have decided to share one of the top three (if not the number one) most embarrassing moments of my life. Yea yea yea… Happy Fourth.

When I was younger, oh say, around fifth or sixth grade, I had a paper route in the suburbia… also known as “the valley”, down the street from my house in a housing development mostly comprised of retirees. The streets looped and wound there way around the neighborhood, nestled snugly at the corner of Los Arbolitos and Pala Road.

My paper route became a family enterprise (mostly because I was NOT about to be up and outside at oh dark thirty in our neighborhood). Occasionally, I had to go back and deliver a missed paper drop off, or pick up a payment. I got to know that area pretty well, and I even got to know the neighbors (if you can call not having the dog waiting by the window a form of cordiality). I remember there were plum trees growing around there, and I was singularly pleased when the plums were ripe.

Yes, I was a country Caligurl, eating off the trees, often barefoot, and sometimes walking my dog Laura (also known as my sidekick barkless wonder sheltie- she’ll have her own story soon enough).

On one occasion, I was delivering late papers, and singing as I traversed the paved walkways through the homes. I was dancing around in my head. I think I was replaying the Babes in Toyland soundtrack in my head (Yeah, I love that movie. So?). So I was twirling. At one point, I decided to walk backwards.

Disclaimer: I was not thinking “God will save me” at any time during what you are about to read next.

I decided to see how many steps backward I could take before I had to turn around. It was a harmless game I was playing to pass the time. One, two, three…. can’t remember how many steps I took. But then the alarms would start going in my head and I had to turn around. Awww man! Oh well. Start over…One, two, three… I suppose now is a good time to mention that those walkways were curvy.

So, I was feeling pretty good about my walk. I was feeling the power of my sense-of-backwards-direction. I started getting bold and pushing myself to walk further distances before I turned around. I mean, I looked back a whole 20-30 seconds ago, right? I remember how it looked, right? I am graceful as a deer, what could go wrong?

Yea so guess what happened.

Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

Yep, you guessed it. As surely as the sun rose that morning, I went down. Turns out the sprinkler heads don’t particularly care for it when you bump them with your heel as you are walking backwards. They tend to get a little obstinate. Well, one little punk sprinkler head attacked my heel (completely unprovoked mind you).

I went down on my sixth grade behind. Hard. I am so grateful that camera phones and YouTube were not mass produced at that time! I couldn’t even make the embarrassed face. I felt too dumb to dare it.

I could have gone to my grave with my ignominious secret known only to me, the cement, and the sprinkler head, except my wrist really hurt, and I had to explain to my Mom why we needed to go to the hospital. I don’t know if my brothers were home and had to go with me, or if I told them. But they have all greatly enjoyed remembering it to me in the years since. The more they remind me of it, the funnier it gets to me. I hope it makes you smile.

Moral of the story:

  1. Tell your story, even if it is embarrassing. You can change people’s lives, even if it is because they are laughing so hard.
  2. Sprinkler heads have bad attititudes.
Category: Childhood, Letters to Grace, Stories  Tags: , , ,  One Comment
27
Jun

Create Write Now published my post!

It started as a school journal project, and became a life changing exercise in art therapy. This was some of the hardest writing I’ve ever done in my life. A year later, I am able to smile and see how far I have come.

Read more here…

Category: Artistic Expressions  Tags: , , , , , , , , ,  Leave a Comment
24
Jun

These are theBREAX!

Ruslan, Beleaf, and MicB of theBREAX
Ruslan, Beleaf, and MicB of theBREAX
Click the image to read their preview on DC Examiner!
Category: Artistic Expressions  Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Leave a Comment
03
Jun

Ahhhhh, the fambamily… a remembrance and a hope

I’ve been busy folks. Busy. Love it! And don’t have time to breathe it seems. I’ve been hearing from a lot of friends that there are some seriously trying times going on around. Lots of friends are dealing with family issues… losing loved ones, almost losing loved ones, a some gaining loved ones! It has been hard to be here without my family in CA. But we all know I am remedying that sooner or later.

Still, the recent conversations I’ve had with some of my Fam&Frenz reminded me of my time  where I lived during 2006. I found an old journal entry, and for the memory, I am posting it here:

I was almost a stepmother by marriage to two little boys. I will refer to them as the teen and the baby. The teen was 15 and the baby was 8 when we met. I still think of them, and miss them. I used to watch the baby run off to catch the bus to school in morning light, and I got a shot of it once, though I never did it justice. All the teen wanted to do was play videogames, eat, and get out of working on his reading. The teen had special needs. He wasn’t physically malformed; he just needed a little more help than a lot of kids his age.

I was good at running the house. I even made baby blankets and went to yard sales to make good inexpensive cookware purchases. We went on vacation, and I really miss the images I had of the boys when we were at the salt trails in Death Valley.

I miss those boys.

And we had a two dogs. My fave was the Labrador-cocker spaniel mix named BUSTER. I miss him too. I don’t know why, but I miss that dog. He was basically obedient, except one thing: at midnight he would climb up on the couch and sleep there. The whole front of the house would reek of dog. Don’t let it rain… oh jeez. A house full of people who didn’t smell like me PLUS two dogs, and it was all I could do to keep myself from sleeping in the car!

One time the baby went off on a sugar high (he did that occasionally) and just cracked me up putting on garden tools and making quasi-French statements. He was in second grade. He could barely handle English. It was too funny. Then there was the time he went on a Gollum trip out while we were campin’ in Sedona. He stood around a campfire making faces and screaming “My precious”.

The teen’s learning issues were not a hindrance to his sense of humor. I ran a tight ship and said short phrases to let them know the severity of their “about-to-get-it-ness”. One phrase was, “save your life.” Imagine the craziness and hilarity when he was quicker than me saying, “Dude! Save your life!” whenever he and his friends got rowdy.

It was amazing to experience life with them, and such a great pain and heartbreak when I left Arizona.

I know I’m not their mother. I never was. But for a time they were under my care and it was a life changing experience. And the place in my heart for them grows still. They are like little plants in there. I guess all my friends’ kids are.

But those two were mine for a few months and there were moments where I never felt so green and full of love and close to heaven. I actually had times where I just knew I was about to die because I was so happy.

While in Arizona, I made some lifelong friends, and grew my adopted family. My big sis’ Kristy is still holding it down in Kingman, and she and I often remember the times we had together when her son and my “son” would do things together. I don’t remember my ex fiance’s face it seems. But I remember the baby’s otherworldly wisdom, and his precious honesty. I remember how I wanted to fight a seven year old for throwing a rock at him and making him bleed. I remember how awesome the teen was to hang out with and watch movies, and how he loved his father almost more than air.

If it weren’t for those two boys, I don’t think I would EVER have been open to the idea of having children. Those two wonderful individuals changed my life. So for those of you are dealing with a family issue, I am humbled by you. I am blessed by you.

And I know you will pull through, so keep going.

Category: Letters to Grace, Stories  Tags: , , , ,  2 Comments
17
May

Negative People- To Grace

(From January 2010)

Dear Grace,

I know you are coming soon. I just found my first grey hair! I am starting to acquire the look of a wiser woman- that or I am about to get my hair dyed! When I saw it, I got excited. I like the idea of growing older. I see a beauty in it. People are going to hate you for that.

I want to tell you about haters. I don’t know what they will be called by the time you are reading this, but I call them haters. These are the people I referred to earlier who will do little or big things to go out of their way to cause you turmoil to you.

I have dealt with family members that, for lack of a better word, didn’t know how to talk to one another to handle an issue. I have had people at a job who were threatened by my job ability. I have had people I used to perform with act immature and jealous. At any given time, these people would say or do something negative to me, or to someone else to cause them to do or say something negative. It is a vicious circle. Whether you deserve it or not is not the point. I did it too.

You must be aware of the people whose only pleasure is being willfully, spitefully negative. I have heard it said on television, and your grandmother says it often, “hurt people hurt people.”

If you are hurting inside, you can NOT let it leak to others through stupid or hateful words and actions. Never make someone else responsible for work you are supposed to do (on yourself, and on your relationships with others). This was and is a harsh lesson for me, and a habit I had to break (it was hard to do, like an addiction).

I had to let go of some people who hurt me (one of whom I thought would be your father), because I was allowing their hurt to hurt me and I, in turn, was feeding it forward. I did some hateful things, and I had to own them in order to move forward. I also had to deal with the consequences of those bad choices, and the consequences of owning them after the fact  (which was often worse than handling them right when they took place).

Seeds take root and the longer you wait, the deeper the roots grow. I have made my life about loving myself and loving others. I know what freedom feels like, and pulling up bad roots took a lot of time and energy.  As a matter of fact, I am still doing it.

I would just as soon not have you spend time on this lesson, as it is a hard one. I know you are going to have your moments where only experience will teach you, but if I could save you two seconds of unnecessary pain, then this is worth it.

Love, M

 

Category: Letters to Grace  Tags: , , , , , ,  Leave a Comment
09
May

I Invite You to Love Yourself- to Grace

Dear Grace,
Been meaning to write these letters to you, and have a bunch I still need to put here, but as things happen to me in my life, I want to teach you. The details may matter, but in this case, they don’t. But it is time that I start writing these letters to you.

I love the way life tells you different things all at once, and they simply fit, like some kind of jacked up puzzle. In the ways that art causes healing, I can honestly say I know I can heal and be healed. I wish I could teach others this. I know that God loves Him some Tiffany, for the simple fact that no matter what mud is slung at me, I never feel anything less than singularly loved and precious (after the kneejerk reaction). I hear from others that this is a gift. I hope you get it.

It saddens me that people are so starved for some feeling of connectedness and unity that they subject themselves to horrors, inner mutilations, and spiritual “zombification” just to feel like they are a part of something. ”A hardened heart can become a dangerous weapon”… I just heard that in a movie (Jeremiah starring Patrick Dempsey).

I am starting to see that we are all looking for inner honor. The clothes we buy, places we go to eat, things we do, they are all starting to seem (to me) like expressions of the inner honor we feel toward ourselves. When you think you are not enough, no one will ever give you enough to fill that hole.

Here’s where I feel my greatest link to God. Believing God loves me doesn’t fill that hole; it alleviates the hole altogether. I am no one special, and yet, I am a singularly beloved woman. I don’t need a title. I already have one. I don’t need to be mean to people, or keep up with the Joneses, because it doesn’t serve me.  Liam Neeson, playing Rob in Rob Roy, said to his sons, “honor is the gift a man gives himself”. I love that statement and I am, in my way, trying to live that statement (and some others…).

Now, having said all this, I KNOW I “miss the mark”. I know I say and do stupid things. If you want even a drop of proof, read “Forever Lasts One Week“. My kneejerk responses are legendary and I am still doing dumb stuff like that. But then I learn the lesson, and keep it moving. I have a wonderful heart, despite its bruises. I have a singular mind, regardless of its misunderstood tendencies. I may make mistakes, and many, but I thank God that I am here, just as I am.

I am free to truly love myself. I invite you to do the same. It will not always be easy or fun. Sometimes it will be downright excruciating (and terrifying). But that is the price of freedom.

I invite you to the freedom of loving yourself. I invite you to the glory of a whole heart.

Love,
~M

What are you searching for?

Category: Letters to Grace  Tags: , , ,  Leave a Comment
04
May

Nostalgic Moment

I ROCKED it on my Prom Night.

Commence Nostalgia…

Insert nostalgia...

Category: Stories  Tags: , ,  Leave a Comment
03
May

Thinking about a Young Woman I Know

Young beautiful one

You know oh so much

And you are oh so beautiful

But what feels like love… may not be

Do you know what your body is

Do you know what you know

Or did someone tell you

Move that way

Push that forward

Pull that back

What do you really feel

Really

Inside

Do you know love

If so

Do you love you

If so

Does this make sense

These actions

These intrigues

These facades

Do you know the real face

Behind the mask we look at

Behind your coquettish eyes

Batting eyelashes

I know that road

And I was told, too

They said to me

You beautiful one

You who knows oh so much

And you who are oh so beautiful

Can you guess the truth

Because of what you feel

What feels like love… may not be

What feels like self

May be a coat

What feels like voice

May be a recording

What feels real

May be a ghost

They told me

And I am telling you

Whatever you do

Do it with your own voice

Hold it with your own hand

See yourself

Through no one’s eyes but your own

And know her

For she is

Real

And really

Loving you

 

 

Category: Letters to Grace  Tags: ,  Leave a Comment
30
Apr

Telling Stories… Forever lasts one week

This is my first TiMoBe blog post, and I dedicate it to Sed, who asked for a story.

I woke up thinking about this promise I made when I was in the 5th grade and it still makes me laugh.

We were grocery shopping at the old Albertsons in Oceanside, CA (on Mission Ave, before the city built Route 76). We bought groceries, rented movies, or went down the street to the Thrifty Drug Store for ice cream if we were good (Insert nostalgic Woot).  This particular time, it was Mom and my two little  brothers. Up and down the aisles we went, asking Mom for stuff and picking with each other. As we walked, something magical caught my eye. I heard a choir of angels as I gazed upon this wonder of modern technology.

I went over the moon and back. Once my feet were planted firmly on Earth, I grabbed the magic spear of greatness, and presented it to the Mommy (who was looking quite spiffy that day, I must say) with the request for acquisition. She quickly denied my request.

I then said what can now be listed as one of my top dingbat statements of all time. I know you don’t believe me, considering the quantity of statements to choose from, but this one is up there.

“I’ll do dishes forever if you buy it.”

Now, with three brothers and a one-week-on-three-weeks-off dishwashing schedule, I didn’t know how good I had it. Hindsight is 20/20, but I wore glasses. Mom stopped and repeated my phrase back to me. I jumped right on it, and confirmed that yes, I would in fact wash the dishes forever. Neither rain, hail, sleet, snow, death or decomposition meant anything to me. I would wash the dishes. For-to-the-ever. Mom confirmed that my brothers witnessed my vow of eternal dishwashery, and proceeded to put the magic piece of, well, magic in the cart.

I think now is a good time to mention I despised washing dishes. I still despise washing dishes.

I stared at it. Right in front of the cart, near the leg holes where my little brother would have gone if he were still a toddler. I was ecstatic.

She bought the contraption. Mom even bought additional dishwashing liquid. I felt like Eddie Murphy in The Golden Child for I was The Chosen One, and with my Ajanti Soap Sponge I would rid my world of Sardom Numspa (i.e. dirty dishes). At least at my house.

I couldn’t wait to get home and have dinner. I don’t remember what we ate. It didn’t matter. I was about to perform dishwashing history.

The meal ended, and my brothers left me to my kitchen. It was on like Donkey Kong. I filled my soap sponge with dishwashing liquid, and proceeded with the first dish. It was great. Suds and water and cleanliness abounded. Same for the second dish, and the third, until finally all the dishes were washed and waiting to be dried and put away. You couldn’t tell me a thing.

Days passed, and no one could touch my perfect kitchen world. I was Queen of dishness. Cutlery and Corelle paid mucho homage.

Then came the first day of week two. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner came and went. I returned to my throne, only to find a sink full of dishes, and a jacked up stick of a thing that was slippery and gross. This was not my Ajanti soap sponge! Where did the magic go? Someone came and changed my beautiful piece of technology for some cheap piece of plastic with a worn out square that wished it was a sponge on the end. My world came crashing down. I washed a dish. It sucked. I washed another one. It joined in on the sucking.

I was painfully reminded of how I despised washing dishes.

Stupid soap sponge.

Fast forward a couple decades…

I don’t remember how I got out of it, but somehow I did, which is yet more proof that God exists and loves me. I think we moved to our new house in Oceanside and reset the standard of weekly dishwashing. Or maybe I stopped having to wash dishes when I took over the cooking (there’s a story). The lesson I have learned is this: Forever does NOT last one week.

Category: Childhood, Letters to Grace, Stories  Tags: , , , ,  Leave a Comment
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