Rainy Days and Mondays....

It's been a while since I've written. I mean, really written. I've posted pictures, mused on memes and otherwise tossed a post off here or there, but I've had lack of inspiration to get deep and dirty on the writing. Maybe it was because I was feeling intimidated by the blogs I read that have such great posts that make me think and all that was on my mind was the mundane everyday. Maybe. Or maybe in some ways, I was hitting a writing bug monthly with the fabu Deb and writing babes that I didn't need this anymore. Maybe.

But today, amidst the drumming of the rain, something started to burrow through my brain. An urge to write. And to not care about if it was mundane. I needed to have my fingers fly over keys and alliteration to flow from fingers.

So I thought back to a piece I had written a while ago with the writing babes. It was something that I kept meaning to go back to and tweak a little, but never felt the motivation. But today I did. And today I'm going to share - not caring about the feedback or thoughts but just feeling like a writer again.

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LOVE AS AN EXTREME SPORT

He stands across the room. Debonair, there is a toffee curl brushing his lashes. One hand rests gingerly on the rail; the other slinks into his pocket. A sparkle jumps as with a click he flips open his timepiece. Girls, powdered and glossed, cast subtle glances his way with eyelashes fluttering and cheeks flushing. I look. He looks. Our eyes meet, the music swells. In an instant he moves across the floor, whisper soft as he wraps his arm around my waist and strokes my cheek. A moment of bliss.

When you are nine, this is your definition of love. Swells of music, meaningful glances, silken gowns, top hats. The kiss. The sunset. The happy ever after. So you wait for it, you search for it, you fight against it, you embrace it, and you even experience some of it. But soon you wonder, is that all love is.

Hopeless romantics and greeting card writers would say it’s more. Love becomes bigger and deeper. An emotion that overtakes every sense and feeling leaving you powerless in it’s thrall. Love is a very splendored thing. Love conquers all. All you need is love. Yes, that’s true.

Broken hearted cynics and teenage songwriters will say is fades. It gets lost, becoming a memory that teases your mind, like an imprint in the sand. Only fools fall in love. Love will break your heart. Love stinks. Yes, that’s true.

See, for me it’s complex. It’s commitment and passion and laughter and pain. It’s daily decisions and overwhelming emotions. It’s not a moment, but a lifetime. Even under the best of circumstances it tears you up, spits you out and breaks your heart over and over. In big “I never want to see you again” ways and small “ you didn’t do the dishes again” ways. It never stops. It never stops taking you on a ride up, down and sideways.

If you listen to the writers and musicians and poets you can believe that once love is found everything else will be easy. But there’s no happy ending, because there is no ending. It keeps moving, love keeps moving. It runs, it crawls, it pulls you and pushes you.

But that’s what so wonderful. It’s not predictable, or easy. And while on some days it’s all that helps you stand on your two feet, you know, even when it’s here to stay, it can still kick your ass.

Writing Group: Drawing Conclusions

Pencil to the paper. Stroke, line, smudge. Shapes taking form and while shadows and light fill in the void. Energy abounded as her hand clenched and relaxed, framed the curves, texture and form flowing from her mind. I watch her face as images form. There’s serenity, then frustration. Here eyes are bright and cheeks flushed, lips swollen as she bites down and furrows her brow. Flashes of joy, peace, passion and energy radiate.

There are hundreds of drawings around the room and as I flip through, each one takes me to another place in time. Young children playing on a day full of expectations and wonder. Serene landscapes of a barren winter. Russet and gold bouncing off a porcelin blue lake. All these drawings, capturing moments, glimpses, opportunities.

What will this next drawing show? What is it capturing? What is the image in her head. Is the moment in time meant to show what is, or what could be? Is it the start of a journey or the finale? Will it inspire action or reflection?

The pencil is moving slower now. Swooshes and jabs. Reflective. Concentrating. A final flick of the wrist and a floursh. She turns and smiles. A smile that is at once welcoming and exhaustive. Her flushed cheeks are slowly draining, her eyes reflecting a calm relief. For a moment she is still, then stands up, and lithely smoothes her hand through her hair, shakes her head and reaches for the table.