baby, it's cold

There are two songs claiming to be Christmas songs that I detest. One of them is "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and the other we shall save for another Christmastime rant. I never liked that song even before all the controversial analyzation of it. There are people weighing in all over the place, so I can't stop thinking about it. Maybe if I write about it, I can set it on the shelf and forget about a song that has always grated on my nerves.

I've read a couple of articles bashing it and a couple of articles defending it by means of the cultural context of the sayings that are being railed against. None of the articles, however, address the issue with it not being a Christmas song in the least.

As soon as I could understand the words, I was like, Huh? How does messing around and pretending to be or actually becoming incoherently inebriated have anything to do with Christmas? Seriously, I don't get it. Maybe people do those things extra around Christmas? But the thing is it is not about Christmas.

The meaning of Christmas is about the celebration of Christ's birth and the many good things he exemplified in his life, so we can make our feeble attempts to be more like Him. To me, that's the essence of Christmas. Many people who aren't Christian even participate because of the goodwill and kindness that it provokes within our communities. Then some people might pose the flimsy argument about the pagan origins of some traditions, etc., but that's not what any Christian has celebrated at Christmastime in two or three hundred years. If what I do to celebrate Christ were meant for pagan motivations, I would stop doing them. So don't even start with me. My intent at Christmastime is entirely focused on showing love for my fellow man and to honor my God and His Son with more fervor.

Yes, the song about being cold outside, but that doesn't make it about Christmas. If we're going to cut to the chase, "Baby, It's Cold Outside" is more like a song about two people giving in to temptation and making excuses for their behavior and blaming the weather instead of being honest about feelings or circumstances. All I can hope is that I don't have to switch the radio station as often because it's not coming on anymore.

top 25 books that changed my life

1. Frankenstein
2. Jane Eyre
3. HBR's 10 Must Reads on Leadership
4. The Souls of Black Folk
5. Night
6. Peter Pan
7. The Good Earth
8. The House of the Seven Gables
9. The Scarlet Letter
10. Lord of the Flies
11. The Things They Carried
12. The Wednesday Wars
13. Tuesdays with Morrie
14. O Pioneers!
15. Farenheit 451
16. The Last Book in the Universe
17. Anne of Green Gables Series 
18. The Hatchet Series
19. The Twilight Series
20. The Chronicles of Narnia
21. Norton Anthology of English Literature: Romantic Period
22. The Lord of the Rings 
23. Blackmoore
24. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
25. The Chicago Manual of Style

*In random order and a series DOES count as one entry because I make the rules. 

ready to burn

My fragile yet steely heart burns like a phoenix
Regenerating from the ashes
Never ending—eternal
Always in a state of change
Growth or tearing down
In order to grow more

My unconquerable soul ever beckons like the seashore
Calling the waves back again
Ever present ebb and flow
Always in a state of change
Learning how to connect
In order to learn more

My winding journey twists and turns like switchbacks
Breaking me of expectations
Other than my path will be unknown
Always watching the horizon
For the next corner to turn and change
Ready to burn and grow again

elementary school lessons

Something Positive
First Grade: Butter churning and birthday letters

Something Negative
Fifth Grade: Crush on Matt Gondini

Something Else (funny? scary? legendary?)
Fifth Grade: Monkey Bars Champ

Just by typing out his name, I make the embarrassment new like fresh baked bread or probably more like a freshly ripped off bandage that you left on for too long and it rips all the tiny hairs off your arm and you want to cry. Matt Gondini. There it is. The burn.

I liked Matt Gondini. The last name alone takes you away on a trip to Italy while eating spaghetti on the redeye flight. And he was cute and funny. Or so I thought.

Pretty sure it was Tiffannie who found out I liked Matt, which meant my secret wasn't safe, which I learned in hindsight and never truly trusted secrets to a woman again with a few slip ups in junior high and high school. I don't know, maybe I slip up here and there even still. But I digress.

We were all in music class. We were all grabbing recorders. We were all quiet. And somehow it was important for someone to share my secret. And Matt Gondini turned red, I probably turned red, and we both wanted to die.

To this day, some thirty plus years later, I still recall how terrible it felt, so I try not to think about it except for times like this when I'm writing a slice of life supposedly for fun! 

fever pitch

When I began a social media fast nearly ten days ago, I honestly thought I'd spend time writing and writing and writing. That's not what happened though.

I did rediscover my habit of writing in my journal—with pen and actual paper. I'd accidentally let it go in the move when the journal got packed and I couldn't find it for like eight months. I guess I could have/should have started a new journal, but I didn't. It's been nice to reflect each evening on the day's events without any thought of what other people think except for whenever I die. That'll be fun. Or maybe it'll all end up in the garbage. Who even knows.

So anyway. I wrote in my journal. I thought about writing stuff. I even began a quick jotting down of the beginning of a romance novel I am considering writing, but there certainly could have been more time and effort put into that quick jotting down.

Oh, and I played a ton of crossword puzzle games with people. I decided that wasn't part of anything potentially wounding my soul, so I had some fun there. I was reminded how much I love words and word games. So very fun! But I digress.

You know what I really thought would happen? That I'd burn through the completion of my dad's book I'm writing due to be published in DECEMBER. Let's just not talk about how I did absolutely zero of that. Zero. I feel like panicking now even though that's not anything I was planning on discussing.

What I did do is get comfortable with quiet. I sat and thought about things I want to do. I missed sharing some of my thoughts about things I did and accomplished, but overall, the peace and quiet soaked right into my soul. I cancelled plans that ended up not mixing well with my quiet routine. I made fresh plans and did things that felt perfectly aligned with this quietness. I connected with friends and family in additional ways. Spending time thinking about and praying for my family helped me to connect.

I want to recognize that I am always reaching out to others and trying to be a genuine friend and loving family member. This social media fast just rerouted some of my pathways to continue being my caring self. And I loved it.

One of the most wonderful surprises from my social media fast is how I've enjoyed making time for family history work. I've chipped away at it here and there in the past, but this quietness opened up more room for me to get excited about it, to feel for my ancestors, and want to get to know them by connecting them on our family tree.

The intensity of it threw me off actually. I caught myself weeping when I'd see a baby's burial record. I cried allowed with deep sorrow when I first saw the record of one of my ancestors who had gotten divorced. The other divorce records I discovered were hard to bear too, but that first discovery hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt the sorrow within me as if I truly knew each of them. Much of my emotion can be chalked up to putting myself in their shoes and projecting my own experiences with life, but I cannot ignore how very connected I have become with many of the people I've discovered. I took time to read obituaries and birth and death records and various "memories" attached to records by very distant cousins and such.

At this point, I hardly want to slow this fever pitch created by quiet, loving work. Alas, I cannot clear my schedule of all else every single day forever; I do need to keep a job and take care of my children, who are part of this peace I've found. I intend to find ways to make space for this intense quiet. Because of it, I've found my new favorite hobby—loving my family.

things i didn't mean to do

Leave
Stay
Run
Sleep
Love
Hate
Reject
Blindly accept

Trust
Distrust
Cry
Smile
Forget
Backstab
Attack
Snort laugh

Stop to think of
The difference we can make
If we become aware
Intentional
Acting with purpose
We can change the outcome
Of our world
We can become more
Just by doing something differently

this [blank] year

While writing in my journal, I ended the page with, "I am glad this year is nearly over." I set down my pen and thought that I don't think I've written a truer sentence in my life. My next thought was about my word of the year: compassion. At the time, I didn't quite understand why that word found me and needed to be something I come back to throughout the year, but after writing that sentence in my journal, a flood of understanding came.

This year, 2018, has been one of enormous sacrifice and change. I realize how I needed to focus on having compassion for others, most importantly my children, but then also, I needed to focus on showing myself compassion. Many, many times over the past several months, I have stopped myself from pushing so hard to get over and out and through so many hard things. I have had to show myself some compassion and understanding as I lead my family through each new day filled with new challenges and changes. I have allowed myself to just be in these moments and stop worrying about what is so wrong. It just is. And it must be what we need to grow. Or that's what I tell myself.

All the sacrifice and change has been our story. It is truth. We are learning how to love and be loved by giving up things and moving ahead as our family changes. Our family is becoming more sacred to me as I live through and witness all we have come through, scathed and unscathed. It is awe inspiring when compassion and love are my focus.

When I think of this year so far, I could make a negative list of adjectives to describe it, yet I could also make a very positive list as well. However, I keep leaning toward the negative list like an old friend I can count on but who isn't a very good influence. Therefore, I won't even attempt to write out all the words to describe it because I really just want to say crappy and write a poem describing how utterly exhausting it has been and lie down and cry. But none of that! Because I've already done that and more, and it's time to turn that corner and not look back.

Can I just add how difficult it can be to show compassion to yourself? To let yourself slow down and not get things done and stop being the planner and doer and giver all the time? To let yourself heal and learn how to be happy again? It is really difficult. Or, at least, it has been for me.

I am genuinely glad this year is nearly done. I need to turn the page, and I feel very ready for the good things on the horizon, very, very ready.

cold turkey

When speaking about Dad with some of my brothers, we reminisced about the period of our lives when Dad was higher than a kite on pain killers. I'd bet good money just about all of my and my brothers' friends have the most off the wall stories about the bizarre and maladjusted garbage Dad would say and do. However, this story isn't about any of that, this story is about how Dad took control when everything about life was completely out of control.

There were some really hard times leading up to Dad kicking the pain killer habit no one blamed him for having. The man was completely broken from his work accident and in constant, grueling pain. But the hard times weren't just saying and doing some mean and stupid stuff. I'll never forget the night our bishop and home teacher (a friend from church) intervened in the middle of the night.

My parents were yelling at each other—like crazy. I don't know what it was about, but all of a sudden, right there in the living room, my dad had a gun to my mom, and I was freaking out. And then next thing I know, Jack Eggington is at the house and talking with my parents. The next thing that happened was the bishop coming over to haul off all of our guns until Dad could figure things out, I think. Mom had taken charge, leading the intervention, getting help, and working through very serious problems. She amazed me.

I'm not sure the span between the gun incident and when Dad realized what was going on with him, but my brother, Joseph, said there was a 60-Minutes segment on the addictive nature of painkillers or something of that nature, and that's when Dad realized that was his reality. He needed to get off his pain meds as soon as possible. He was in pain still, and the bit of relief from the pain wasn't worth the cost of his sanity and the safety of everyone around him.

Dad didn't go to the doctor to get help, no. He went into the medicine cabinet, got those bottles out, and dumped their contents 100% into the toilet, and flushed them all. And never looked back.

I recall there being a few days where my mom wouldn't let us go into their room, and I was encouraged to "go have fun" with friends. They needed some quiet, so Dad could get through the withdrawals. It wasn't easy—he was sick and in incredible amounts of pain—but he did it. Cold turkey.

I don't know many people who are that brave.

overcoming

I wonder if he was afraid. I never saw him showing fear, but that doesn't mean he wasn't feeling it. I'm pretty sure I get my sense of fearlessness and lack of ability to get fully embarrassed from him (maybe we should call it self-assurance?), so I wonder where he got it from.

My father grew up not really knowing his father. He told me once that the only real memory he had of his father was at the funeral where he was taught the lesson of how not to treat each other after the death of a family member by his father's family. They fought over possessions. My dad was the youngest of his family and he was given his father's shoeshine kit to remember him by.

But also, maybe the stories about his father from his older sister, Mona, helped give him some lessons on how to be. But maybe he inherited some of it—or all—from the West Texas towns of Ballinger and San Angelo.

Can the land we live in teach us things about ourselves? About what we are made of? The summer heat and the brutal societal upbringing taught Dad a few things. He learned how to starve and survive on Campbell's tomato soup and saltine crackers. As he got older, he learned to bow hunt from bows and arrows of his own making, shooting rabbits and other creatures to help feed his family. He learned about survival from the land he inhabited.

He faced challenges and troubles and sin. He battled against his upbringing and anger and lack of self-control. I am sure he struggled, as we all do, with feelings of great inadequacy. With every apology after an angry outburst, with every admission of his guilt and terrible side of himself, he showed his weakness and severe imperfection. Nevertheless, he didn't ever seem to be afraid.

I never saw a fearful look on my father's face—ever—until the night he lost my mother. I saw how much he loved her and feared being left without her companionship, her good influence, her calming and caring friendship and love. The poor boy from West Texas who had to fend for himself sat crying in his chair in the home they fought to establish for their family.

In his grieving time before he passed away, I saw how weak things become strong. I got to see him overcome many of his worst traits in his final days. He needed to have his life's comfort removed to know true courage. It takes a big man to face his sins, claim them, and work to make things right. He felt small and helpless and hurt in his final days, but I saw him as a warrior overcoming his worst self and someone I wanted to be like. He taught us all to not be afraid of saying we are sorry no matter if the person will forgive us. He taught us to not be afraid to keep trying even after the thousandth time repeating the same mistake. He taught us that anyone can overcome their circumstances and be their best self.

volunteer

This past month, I spent a couple of Sundays volunteering, so adult special needs residents at a state facility could attend church. Due to confidentiality laws, I can't really tell you all that went on, but I do want to share my thoughts surrounding the experience.

The first Sunday, there was a four-to-one ratio of volunteers to residents. Quite a sight to see. So much love and helping others. It was special. And then this second Sunday that I just attended, not so many people came to volunteer. And I began to consider how much I would hope others would volunteer if my special needs daughter outlives my ability to care for her and I need to seek help like at this facility.

My daughter loves music and singing and socializing in her way at church. She is so good that she doesn't need church for the same reasons most people do. But she loves it. It is something she can count on each week. I can't imagine her not being able to go just because not enough people volunteered or there was such a staff shortage that they couldn't leave the campus. My daughter deserves to have happiness even if I'm not around to facilitate or advocate for it.

Maybe I'm worrying too much about things I can't change. Maybe so. But it was all such a time for reflection to put myself in their shoes and see just how valuable a two-hour outing to church can be for some individuals. And they don't even need church like most people. They are so amazingly good. It showed me how everyone needs church for different reasons.

Maybe, if I start just a thought or some conversation about this worry, more people will reach out to give some time to the people who can't go places unless they have our help. Maybe I will remind myself to keep on finding ways to make my daughter's life better. Maybe I will find some comfort from my worries.

elegant warrior

It doesn't take much time to notice
She made her way through life with grace
And a keen determination
To have a life she loved

Paying her price like the rest of us
She worked her way through
Taking the good times and the bad
Coming at life, quietly triumphant

That special way about her
That way she loved you
No matter how long it had been
No matter what was going on

She'd tell you like it is
She'd tell you the hard truth
Showing you who you are and are meant to be
Sharing a glimpse of generations gone before

Her long memory served us all
With stories and memories and joy
She gave pieces of the past as gifts
To cherish like golden treasure

With heavy yet glad heart, we see her on her way
To freedom from her aged frame
To be with loved ones long lost now found
We weep for earth's loss of an elegant warrior

This beautiful, persistent, long-suffering
Warrior Queen
Carved out a beautiful life
Where love reigned supreme

It's a comfort to share the joy of someone's life
And how they brought us all together
It's a comfort to know how to be
Because they made sure to set the path before us before they leave

An example of family and loyalty and love
Let us look to her life well lived
And see where we've come from
And where are headed on our journey toward heaven above

And watch for when we are all together again.





For Aunt Mona.

lord of the flies

Not everyone went to Quannah McCall Sixth Grade Center, but if you were lucky, you did. Why were you lucky? Because you got a front row seat to fist fights and bomb threats all while walking in the fresh air outdoor hallways to get to class to read Where the Red Fern Grows and realize one of your friends loves Bon Jovi so much she got her hair cut like his. 

Wherever you went for your first experience outside of the haven of elementary school, you could probably tell a couple of stories. Maybe you realized that your freckles are cute or not cute. Maybe you felt tall until everyone else had a series of growth spirts but you didn't, so you couldn't seem to speak up anymore. Maybe you were the one who got beat up, and maybe, just maybe, you were the one fighting on the island for the all-powerful conch—like me. One thing you never think to consider though is who is deciding who the cool kids are. You just act and get acted upon. You get run over or run others over without knowing, picking on the people who are different all while being extraordinarily different yourself. 

Junior high or middle school, whichever you want to call it, is like a live-action, continuous retelling of Lord of the Flies. Written in 1954, William Golding captures the adolescent psyche with such style and adventure, you don't quite realize what's happening until boys who once were mild mannered choirboys are hunting down other boys and fighting over territorial rights until someone is killed.

Leadership is established. Tribes are organized. Things should be good. Right? Well, not with a Jack on the island.

Ralph, Jack, and Piggy represent the leaders and followers, the protector, hunter, and prey we all have been during our formative years as young people. Because we can't all be choirboys who crash land on a deserted island, nor can we all attend Quannah McCall Sixth Grade Center, reading this book is a must-read for teens and teachers of teens. Vicarious learning in cases such as this are preferable.

writing of books

I've always wanted to be a writer of books, someone who has enough words to share them. And now I am becoming one. The first book, This Phoenix Speaks: Albeit in a Whisper, was a long time coming, but I am closing in on finishing my next one.

What a process it is to collect one's thoughts and words. I began contemplating the idea of my second book before the first was even finished. I had the inspiration tugging at me while writing other things so much so that I was considering focusing on finishing it before This Phoenix Speaks.

Why do whole books call to authors? How do they whisper when they aren't even written yet?

My father's story needs to be told, so my belief is that my ancestors are calling me to make my best attempt at doing it justice. I don't care if anyone thinks I'm silly for believing that either. The experiences that sparked the idea and helped me to continue feeling pushed to keep going are proof enough for me.

After I finish this project, I wonder what the next one will be. It hasn't whispered to me yet, but I fully expect it to soon. 

you are the best

There's this catchphrase I love to say and hear: You are the best. It is simple yet is packed with gratitude and acknowledgement that someone has done something good/right. It's even part of one of my favorite movie lines from Nacho Libre. I can hear Jack Black saying it now. [You are] the best!

What does it mean to be the best? Some would say you are better at something than everyone else. Some might answer how it means you stand out from the rest for an accomplishment or for an act of service or support, but it's just for the moment and can be a shared thing. Another valid definition of being the best is considering your impact on others. Every person has the chance to be the best in this case. For instance, how can every father or mother be the best? If we look at the first definition, it is impossible, and some serious amounts of mugs and t-shirts need to be revoked before the next Father's Day and Mother's Day. But we aren't taking away any gifts today.

Being the best parent is something every parent hopes is true. We want so much to do the best we can, to be our best self, to be the best parent for our children, to be someone who makes a positive impact on the souls we brought into this crazy, beautiful world. But how does one qualify to be deemed the best? There is no handbook to study from even though there are tests on this every single day, sometimes multiple times a day. While solving the problems of the universe with my friend, Melissa, she brought up something that got me thinking about this quest to be the best. She pointed out how our best effort, consistently done, is what makes all the difference.

Is our best effort even good all the time? No. Sometimes, our best is actually pretty poor. We are clueless and make a mess of our children as we scurry around attempting to set things right again. The key to finding the sweet spot of being the best is keeping on with the good work. Learn from failures, recognize when a failure opened up important discussions, and do better. Doing better than before can mean you are doing your best, making you your personal best—again.

This brain teaser of sorts is really just a recognition of our faults and successes as a process of becoming, becoming our best self and making a difference to the best of our ability.

unexpected

Crushing
A word that does something
Paralyzes, suffocates, changes
While being nothing but a canker sore

In this experiment (life)
What does it take to turn
Crushing
Into forward motion
Friendship
Something healthy for everyone

Crushing of pride
Setting aside the wants of one
For the sake of all
Breaking down
Why you even care
And holding onto your answer
Like the love you wish
You were given

Reaching for more
From yourself
Being kind when you want to cry
When your instinct is to fight
For what you want
Because that's right to do

But you realize you don't want
Someone who doesn't want you in return
And that unexpected realization
Crushes you anew

Redefining your wishes
Paralyzing in new ways
Wondering, watching, never expecting
Anything anymore

Not even friendship

raising a white flag

A prescriptivist mother raised me, so I grew up with language usage correction as part of my daily life. I could never have known I was being trained up to be a soldier in the grammar wars of today. She loved words, languages, and speaking Standard English (also known as correctly by the prescriptivism camp), making the training seamless and natural. I lived for attaining and maintaining correct speech and writing. However, since beginning my editing training, I have realized a very distinct shift in my perspective on usage: the way others and I use language and the way usage judgment affects good society. Rudeness of the highest degree is justified in the name of standard vs. common usage. The war between prescriptivists and descriptivists is real. 

In wartime, raising a white flag for the purpose of negotiating terms ensures safe passage into enemy territory. The prescriptivism versus descriptivism war is a war that cannot be won, but through education and understanding the literate world can come to the middle in peace. Finding solutions to the grammar fight is a form of raising a white flag in order to negotiate.

Grammar Battlefield

Anyone who uses social media has seen memes poking fun at poor usage, and then there are the common folk who make interesting comments from time to time; those things are all fun and games. My first real life experience on the front lines of the grammar wars were brought to me when I enrolled in the Grammar of English course. The instructor was the picture of a staunch descriptivist—embodying the role of the anti-grammar nazi. In this strained environment, the first aspect of usage that stood out to me was how people treat others regarding written and spoken usage.  This conduct intertwines with how we allow ourselves to use language because of the dread and fear of judgment, which underlies many of our communications. I check myself when using slang in casual conversation if I am with scholarly sorts. The pressure to avoid judgment has become high, especially since almost everyone who knows me knows I am in “grammar” classes. They expect exceptional communications from me. 

Affecting the Rising Generation 

My awareness of judgmental attitudes has increased through my other studies related to my English Teaching coursework. As I have explored the beauty of usage and become more sensitive to allowing flexibility in writing, the gross rudeness of extreme prescriptive views pervading everyday interactions has become intolerable to me now. If each side of the battle would take time to understand why less than perfect writing happens, the number of disparaging rants coming from both sides might lessen. InStyle Lessons in Clarity and Grace, some reasons why poorly constructed writing occurs is outlined in these lines: 

Unclear writing is a social problem, but it often has private causes. Some writers plump up their prose, hoping that complicated sentences indicate deep thought. . . . Others write graceless prose not deliberately but because they are seized by the idea that good writing must be free of the kind of errors that only a grammarian can explain. . . . Others write unclearly because they freeze up. . . . But the biggest reason most of us write unclearly is that we don’t know when readers will think we are unclear, much less why. (Williams, 6)   

These causes can also be applied to spoken usage. In conversation, my children correct their younger sibling in our home. A few examples of corrected words are hitted, eated, rided, and others. Instead of taking into account that their little brother’s language is still developing and cutting him a break, they let him know how to say things the “right” way. But my children are still young. They haven’t yet learned the fine art of passive-aggressive correction like many adults have. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t see a meme or tweet or Facebook status belittling “bad” grammar. The there/their/they’re conundrum surfaces on a veritable loop throughout Facebook. It does get frustrating to see the laziness of the guilty parties, but I have also begun to evaluate some of the other claims people make. Many of these silent yet loud rule keepers usually don’t realize that there isn’t such a rule. Instead, they are motivated by popular belief. 

I have also come across some funny examples of how people poke fun at usage rules or a lack thereof. An example of one is this amusing tweet by @Fake_Dispatch concerning the serial comma (also known as the Oxford comma): “While, the, Oxford, comma, is, debatable, nothing, is, worse, than, the, U, of, Michigan, comma, which, is, at, every, word, just, in, case.” Examples like this one are fun and seem to soften the line drawn in the sand between the rule keepers (prescriptivists) and the rule breakers (descriptivists). 

Empathy Through Education

The soldiers on each side of the line can be better understood if we take time to learn of their motivations by defining them. A good definition of each side of the grammar wars is in The Copyeditor’s Handbook. Einsohn states, “One source of difficulty for people who care about written language is that even the experts sometimes disagree. In broadest terms, the battle is between the descriptivists, who seek to document how language is used, the prescriptivists who champion an edenic vision of how the language should be used” (Einsohn, 337). Although Einsohn doesn’t appear to be entirely free of bias, she is able to succinctly outline the passion found on each side. The shame of it all is how these passions are used as weapons against the other. 

While I have never been an extreme prescriptivist, taking serious responsibility for the knowledge I have gained helps me reach my goals as a writer. The foundational training I received growing up only gave me a baseline. My writing skills have expanded greatly as I have begun to implement the formal grammar training I’ve received, discern between extremism and wisdom in daily observations, and change the way I use language. The content of my blog writing has improved as far as following the standards are concerned. Coming to a better understanding the who/whomand a/anguidelines has given me more confidence in my writing, and it feels like people are being able to better comprehend my meaning in all my written communications: Twitter, Facebook, and blogs included. I don’t consider myself to be someone who writes correctly or incorrectly, but there is something empowering about having an awareness of usage rules. 

Knowing the rules (both in textbooks and on the street) and how to break them with purpose has even more power than having a large vocabulary. The abiding problem is that there can be a backlash for breaking or keeping the rules. Language use shouldn’t be this complicated and potentially dangerous since we claim to be such a sophisticated society, but it is. As I reflect on what I’ve learned, I believe that if the awkwardness caused by fear could be vanquished there would be better flow of communication and society would be better off. In the introduction to the Chicago Manual of Style, a quote from its first edition outlines a good rule of thumb to follow: “Rules and regulations such as these, in the nature of the case, cannot be endowed with the fixity of rock-ribbed law. They are meant for the average case, and must be applied with a certain degree of elasticity” (Chicago, xiii).  Elasticity through education is the white flag we need to end the war—as far as it is possible. 

Works Cited

The Chicago Manual of Style. Sixteenth ed. University of Chicago. Chicago: 2010. Print.

Einsohn, Amy. The Copyeditor’s Handbook: a Guide for Book Publishing and Corporate

            Communications.University of California. Berkeley: 2011. Print. 

Williams, Joseph M. and Bizup, Joseph. Style Lessons in Clarity and Grace. Eleventh ed. 

            Pearson. Boston: 2014. Print. 

to run out of ink

To list everything that is wrong about life as we know it, we could easily grab a pen and write until that pen ran out of ink. Correct? There are seemingly innumerable problems and even terrible things about life. However, if we took time to write a list of all that is good about life, I believe we would need an inexhaustible pen to make such a list.

The idea of making these two lists gets me thinking about all I've been going through for as long as I can recall. Problem after problem. When I stop to count up simply a slice of it, it seems unbelievable how unfortunate life has been . . . nevertheless . . . nevertheless, life has been breathtakingly good.

Love has been terrible yet infinitely more beautiful than I could ever anticipate. I count on it surprising me even further before I die. Motherhood has brought me to my knees in grief but also in perfect joy. My children are my hope and love personified. Learning has been a torturous affair even though it is one of my favorite things that drives me to keep going. Being part of a family has been, in part, one of the worst aspects of my existence, but, cutting out the horrible times, I attest to the absolute heaven on earth that family life can be and has been for me during most of my life. Family is everything despite the worst of times.

There is so much more to write. I can hardly wrap my mind around all the good things about this life of mine. There is so much good. I am filled to the brim with words to write for this list. Laughter, friendship, ice cream, prayer, sunrises, sunsets, a perfect song at just the right moment in a movie, forgiveness, truth, comfort, embraces you didn't expect, light in the darkness, rain on a hot summer day, snow on Christmas Eve, wishes thrown into a fountain, love you can count on, nice cars, good food shared with family and friends, board games, spirituality bringing you closer to who you are, visitors, traveling, safety, home, photographs of favorite moments and people, a nice bed, pillows, clean water, cotton candy, watermelon, ribeye steaks and beef ribs, central air, dandelion tufts scattering wishes disguised as weed seeds, a hand to hold, the love of others.

Even if I ran out of ink, I could write forever of these things, for I write them in my heart.

growth mindset

Am I growing growth mindset children? Are my students becoming used to growth mindset type interactions? Or am I affixing them with a fixed mindset that holds them back? Why do I automatically give praise for achievements? Why shouldn't we? Or is it more of a balance issue? Because when you stop to think about it, is it so bad to praise for productivity and success? No. It's good. But maybe in small doses. Not the norm. Telling my children and students the obvious things such as, "I can tell you worked hard" shouldn't feel like a bland compliment. Those are the things that matter. Learning how to work and care and help and try new things are what life is all about. Not everyone can win all the time, and not everyone will be a millionaire. But we can grow up to be decent human beings who understand their worth isn't results driven; it is inherent in their divine heritage as children of God eternally growing into the people we are destined to become. 

six-word memoir writing process

purple
people
goodness
variety
ostentatious
vivacious
tenacity/tenacious
travel
vacation
new places
hotels
movies
theatre
singing
dancing
writing
classy
tacky
refined
style
New York City
service
flowers
farming
trampolines
aubergine
magazines
addiction
queen
sovereign
change

Seeking an outlet for my social needs during my divorce and need for exercise resulted in a two-year stint with BYU ballroom classes. Dancing has always been something I've enjoyed. Think 14-years-old and church dances. I went from bronze to silver to gold American Social Dance and bronze international ballroom and bronze Latin Dance.

the essentials

What should every generation know or experience is the question I want to answer.

With each passing decade, more things should be added to the Essential Things Every Person Should Know list, so it's kind of tricky to even begin. However, in life there are quintessential essentials (if that's not too redundant).

I'll take a stab at this list, and then I hope you might add some essentials of your own.

• Be grateful for food. 
• Cultivate compassion. 
• Work at a part-time job in service or retail, mow lawns or babysit, but get out there and do some hard work.
• Visit the graves of your ancestors. This would require you to know who and where they are. Find them. 
• Read a poem of your choosing.
• Write at least one poem.
• Eat Chinese food in Chinatown in your nearest big city.
• Go on a 2,000-mile+ road trip at least once. 
• Slow read the Book of Isaiah for comprehension. Take a class if you need to.
• Play hopscotch drawn with chalk on the sidewalk. 
• Being cool is not the end goal.
• Family is everything. Don't throw them under the bus for your friends. 
• If you have one truly good friend, that is enough. Friendship is about quality not quantity.
• Get outside more. 
• Exercise and play and travel while you still can. 
• Find yourself—not who you think you are but who you are meant to become—and become that.

banana nut ice cream

Writing prompts are funny things. They can dredge up the old and new all in one giant scoop of metaphorical ice cream.

As the teacher read the book excerpt, I thought of how I'm trying to break the ice cream habit at our house—to no avail. I thought about how much I have always loved ice cream. And I also thought about the banana nut ice cream my parents used to make in our old wooden ice cream maker on random occasions.

It was always at nighttime for some reason, like we couldn't ever go on a whim of ice cream making until the sun went down or something. It probably added to the excitement though. Dark outside, the rock salt being placed on the countertop, then the ice cream maker pulled out from the pantry or under the sink or wherever it got left from the last time we made ice cream—all of these things meant we would be making banana nut ice cream. I am not sure, but I think we may have done strawberry ice cream once or twice when we had a mother lode of leftover Santa Maria strawberries from a summer haul. But seriously, most of the time, if that ice cream maker was cranking out something, it was going to crank out the best banana nut ice cream on the planet.

Mom went through a phase where we bought raw milk from a neighbor instead of from the store, so she'd take off the cream skimmings and save them up in the freezer. And once we had enough to make ice cream, we made ice cream. I have to say I sort of hated how the raw milk had swirls of cream in it, but I'm thinking it was probably the best tasting milk I ever had. And that ice cream. Just wow.

So back to the whole banana nut part. I'm pretty sure we always had banana nut ice cream because it was Dad's favorite. There were little things here and there my mother would do to make life happy for him, and steak dinners from time to time, homemade divinity and peanut brittle at Christmas, and that banana nut ice cream were a few of them.

Since he grew up so poor, food was a big deal to him. Good food. Fresh food. LOTS of food. And even lots of junk food and treats. We went through a time, several years actually, when we were without much money at all, but he always made sure we had food to eat.

silent

Actors on a stage in their caked on pancake makeup
And heavily drawn or thinly drawn
(depending on the fashion)
Eyebrows, eyeliner, and lips

Dressed to the nines in jewels and satin
Tailored and suited to the big part in
The newest picture show
In the little town now grown big

Ready to tell a story
Wanting and practicing for the role
Going through the motions
To paint a picture—put on a show

Perfect hair and perfect clothes
The cameraman gets rolling
Stopping and starting over and over again
Only to not actually say a word

We are all silent picture show actors
When we prepare to say nothing
When we act one way but do nothing
We are all pretenders and playactors

Instead, join the circus or the talkies
Be ready to stand in the ring
Front and center
Doing

gambling lessons

Growing up in Las Vegas and having a dad who used to gamble and drink before marrying Mom, we played a lot of card games. We played Poker, Blackjack or 21, Speed, Tonk, all sorts of games, but these were the ones I remember most.

I remember learning how to play Speed with a friend from fifth grade while sitting in her perfectly carpeted and furnished living room in half dark since the heat was brutal that day/week/month. I don't remember learning how to play 21 since it happened probably as soon as I learned how to count to 21 by age 5. And then Poker was another family classic we'd resort to for old-fashioned, wholesome recreation around the dining room table.

But let's talk about Tonk. That's a whole other ballgame. Dad used to work endless days sometimes in the tunnels out at the Nevada Test Site, and that meant he spent a lot of time with his work crew, working their butts off, eating, sleeping, and playing Tonk. So of course, as any good dad would do, he came home and taught all of us how to play Tonk too. We had to have a full and proper Las Vegas education, you know. This new game caught on like wildfire at our house. Not sure if it was to my mother's chagrin or what, but that's all we wanted to do half the time when we weren't outside baking in the hot summer sun with our friends.

One thing led to another, and we all started betting. Gambling with trinkets of our own, and pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. And next thing you know, we were running gambling tabs. Looking back, I think the tabs were Dad's idea. These gambling tabs were for 99-cent breakfasts at the Skyline Casino in Henderson. The abstractness of it being a breakfast and not dollar amounts seemed to make the practice a little less shady. Tally marks on a page. That's all. I mean breakfasts are a good thing. You could order one with biscuits and gravy and eggs, pancakes and eggs, toast and eggs, and then you had your choice of ham, bacon, or sausage. They were delicious and decent sized breakfasts for not quite a dollar.

The last game before the big lesson came when I fell into a losing streak. Tonk was kicking my butt. Actually, my dad was. Hindsight tells me he probably just stopped letting me win to teach me a lesson. I remember the tally marks on my tab were insane. Then we played for double or nothing. High stakes business right there—and I lost. I told Dad I had just enough babysitting money leftover to buy us a breakfast, and I'd begin the process of weekly breakfasts as soon as I got a babysitting job to pay for them. And we went out for the first payment.

It was nighttime as we walked in, and the casino was extra smoky. If you have been to the Skyline Casino in Henderson during the 80s, you'd probably ask if it ever was not extra smoky. I noticed this atmosphere as we got seated in the half-lit, extra smoky booth with dark red vinyl upholstery. We ordered our food and talked and ate and talked, even though now, I cannot recall what we talked about except what came up when the bill got dropped on the table and I sat there counting out my coins to pay for our food. I had it all counted out, piled on top of the ticket, and I felt so broke. I had to spend all of my money but a few pennies on our two 99-cent breakfasts. I did feel a morsel of satisfaction about trying to make good on my bets though. It was this strange sense of being glad I had a spoon to dig myself out of a 6-foot grave. Then Dad started talking.

I don't remember exactly what he told me, but I remember the gist of it all. I haven't and won't ever forget it. He told me to put my money away because he was going to pay for our breakfasts if I promised to remember what it felt like to be in so much debt to someone over nothing but a game. My first and long-lasting lesson about the evils of gambling, and I was around twelve years old at the time.

My dad's lesson taught me more than just not to gamble though. He taught me about mercy and love and how to handle the money you do have. Because 99-cent breakfasts aren't just tally marks on a page.

ladders

Up and down and all around
They don't just go in one direction
For work and play, everything in between
If you find yourself at the top rung hanging on for dear life
Unhappy, frantic, and/or afraid
Head back down and start again

Ladders should take you places
To the roof to patch the holes
To the treehouse that was never in a tree
To the job you always wanted (or didn't know you wanted)
Out of the window to grand adventures
Out of the hellhole you once were living in

What of life's ladders do you climb?
Should you climb them or
Should you get down?
Use a litmus test to know the answers
Become the judge and jury of your future
Knowing not all ladders are good

Splintering fiberglass gets in your palms
When climbing the wrong one—whether up or down
But get down now, pay the price, and start again
Regardless of cost, don't be afraid to start again

Find the ladders meant for you
Find a top rung that makes you sing

the mustang

Learning how to drive is no small feat, but throw in a classic muscle car, and you've got a recipe for disaster. I mean, who even lets someone who only has a learner's permit to even touch the steering wheel of their baby?!

The answer is my dad.

I'd been showing great skill as a new driver is the only explanation I can give for his lapse in judgment. I mean, I hit the ball out of the park right off; I'd been able to make it to school clear across town from the DMV directly after passing my written exam without killing or injuring anyone. Mom just handed me the keys, and said, "You're driving," as if she didn't realize her life was now in my hands.

Fast forward a few weeks of being this dazzlingly safe driver not hitting anyone or anything. I was on top of the world. This driving thing was not such a big deal. I even survived driving on the road to the mall AKA the freeway without dying (although I did get close to hyperventilating and may or may not have been yelling in fear of how crazy it was and hated driving to the mall now). So of course, Dad would be proud of me. And I imagine to show that pride, he decided to invite me to drive his pride and joy, his powder yellow 1966 Mustang.

My initial reaction was something like, "Dad, are you sure you want me to drive that thing?" but translated that thought to saying aloud, "Sure, let's go."

Next thing I know, I am scooting the seat up as far as it will go in order to reach the pedals and looking at the shifter and wondering how you get through the gears without a clutch. Dad explained how to push in the little side button as you go up or down on the shifter, and I was amazed. I practiced, sitting there with my foot on the brake, just shifting. It seemed like a good preparation for this grand occasion of driving Dad's before then untouchable car. I was nervous at this point. Just pressing the gas pedal was telling me this car was way different than my mom's Volkswagen Golf I'd been driving. Eventually, Dad said it was time to get going. I think we were heading to pick up fountain drinks or a little groceries. I can't remember.

I claimed the courage to put that car in reverse and let off the brake and onto the gas, and BOOM! We went from 0 to what felt like 60 to 0 in what felt like two seconds flat—right into the side gate fencing that stuck out about three feet into our long and wide driveway.

Immediate eruption of yelling and cussing from Dad about how could I run into the fence like that, I would never drive his Mustang again, blah, blah, blah led to the first time I remember yelling right back. I told him loudly and logically, "How could I know the car would go so fast?" and "I've never driven an automatic before" and "You should have warned me" and "This is only the second car I've ever driven; Give me a break!" And you know what happened? Dad stopped in his tracks, looked around assessing the situation, and told me I was right, handed me the keys again, and said to try again but SLOWLY.

I can't describe how painfully slow I inched my way out of that driveway, but when I finally got out onto the blacktop and put that Mustang in drive, I never felt such satisfaction—until I got to go forward. Man alive, there's nothing quite like speeding down the road in a big hunk of roaring metal.

hitchhikers

The other day, I was talking with my oldest son about hitchhikers because we were watching a movie where the main character was hitchhiking, and we began commenting on how people just don't pick up hitchhikers anymore. It's just so dangerous. And it got me thinking about how it has probably always been pretty dangerous, but my dad didn't care about that kind of stuff. He was over six feet tall, leathery tan skin, and strong from being a carpenter. Maybe that helped him to not be afraid.

From a young age, I learned that Dad was just the type of guy who picked up hitchhikers. Well, maybe that's not completely accurate—he'd mostly stop for hitchhikers. Only sometimes did he risk his entire family's lives for the sake of those walking along streets and highways.

I remember clear as day us driving around town and driving to or from Mt. Charleston and driving to or from California and driving to or from anywhere, and if there was someone my dad saw walking or stranded, we'd stop. He'd ask where they were from and where they were headed, what they needed and how we could help. Sometimes, he'd help tinker with a broken down car or bicycle. Sometimes, they just needed someone to talk to, to check up on them, I think. One time, I remember on our way to Canada, we drove to the next town to pick up a part or something for a couple's car, and we drove back to drop it off. My mom was so irritated by this one. It put a serious delay in our trip's progress. It makes me laugh just thinking about her grumbling. She was so ancy on the way to our destinations and reluctant to leave on the way back home. But back to the point.

Sometimes, we'd actually pick the person (or people) up.

There was one time, we picked up a young adult couple. This one was fun to me for some reason. I was mystified by the young woman. She was just so tan and cool to me. On a side note, I actually have a cousin and her husband who remind me all the time of that couple we picked up and gave a ride to. They live in their van and mountain climb and travel all over. Maybe those two were just in between adventures when we picked them up.

The two people Dad picked up who I remember the most though are a father and daughter. My memory tells me that it was just me and Dad driving when we saw them walking along the blazing hot sidewalk on Nellis during one relentless Las Vegas summer.

Dad pulled over next to the little family walking and asked them if they needed a ride or a cool drink or some money. And next thing I know, they were getting into the van. The little girl sat next to me, and the dad was in the front passenger seat with my dad. I don't remember what they were saying exactly, but I think our next stop was to the Arco station to get giant 44-ouncers of soda pop with a ton of ice. That's something that could be from another memory, but it feels typical and probable. The next thing I remember is Dad driving us home and me taking the little girl to my room to play and her dad being welcomed into my parents' room to "cuss and discuss" as Dad would often call a discussion he was trying to lighten up.

The only other memory I have of the situation is how I shared my room with the girl for about two weeks (or so) while her father went back to where they were from and gathered their things and Dad helping line up a job for him when he got back to get his daughter. My parents gave the man money to get back home and back to Las Vegas to help him get on his feet.

I wish I knew the man's story, but I was truly too young to really comprehend it all. I just know I have a temporary sister out there somewhere that made my sisterless heart happy for a few weeks. And that my parents were amazing people who changed lives one person at time. And even more so that my dad was one brave dude picking up people and even bringing them home. What a way to be the Savior's hands.

peek-a-boo movies

I remember when I was little, when life seemed simpler and I didn't understand what was going on, how Dad would invite all of us little kids to scramble under my parents bedspread while he held up the covers, then he would begin the Peek-a-boo Movies. He'd tell us stories—very short stories as I recall—and he would build up our anticipation to always end with him shaking the covers wildly and saying boisterously, "Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo!" thus sending us wildly screaming and even more wildly acting like were trying to escape, totally mesmerized and paralyzed and laughing with slight fear because it was just so completely scary and silly for our tiny selves.

Those days are long gone and many, too many, hard things since have crowded out some of that innocent joy with Dad, but I want to capture the feeling and hold onto it. I want to forgive and let go of the sad, bad, and hard things in life that seem to try to erase any good. I want to love my father for all he tried to do right and accomplished. I want to remember how forgiveness works, and give him all I have and all I want for myself. 

whiplash

What a word whiplash is. It slaps you across the face just for uttering it.

I've had my share of neck issues, but this really is too much even though it could have been even worse. I am glad to still be functional for my children, yet I'm in pain as I do. It stems from someone not paying attention enough or not getting off their phone. It's been so hard on us to get into a car wreck. We were just getting settled in, and then this dreadful surprise came along.

Watching for what we can learn or gain from the experience is where I try to take myself when I begin to stress out about everything going on right now. Life is so very up in the air.

Whiplash isn't just about neck pain though. It can be what happens to us when we love someone who isn't ready or who throws away love with two hands. It hurts for real. You are never the same. You are disoriented for a good while. Have I left anything out?

Any which way you find whiplash in your life, I hope you will find comfort. I hope you will heal and be happy. I want those same things.

a hard life

You do what you know, right?
But what about when you've learned better?
Time and practice can change the world
Choices and change

When you see someone yelling
When you see someone silent and recoiling
When you see someone being mean
When you see someone retreating

What do you do
What should you do
What part of you comes to the surface
What version of yourself do people see

So many trials and setbacks and abuses
We can't even count
But if the tables were turned
Would you want to count yours

Life is hard
It's hard on the young and old
It's hard on the poor and lonely
Life tells us stories we don't want to know

You want more for yourself
But you don't know how to find it
Where do you find lost opportunity
The kinds you've never tasted

You pray.
You ask for forgiveness.
You beg and cry.
You wake up each day and try again.

Until one day—it's all too much.
And you stop.

praying for home

I caught myself praying last night to feel at home where I am. It's been like a shelter but surrounded by all my favorite things and people—just in piles every where.

Couldn't that be a metaphor for life too?

Feeling so out of place and alone that you never feel at home. That's something affecting more and more people. We don't have to feel like that though. It's mostly self-sabotage and misperception if you ask me. I understand because I catch myself in that mode—kind of like catching myself praying about needing to feel at home. If we pay attention to ourselves, introspect, we can catch a whole lot of stuff we do and do something to make life better.

I don't want to have piles of disconnected, unorganized junk in my life anymore. I want my actions to have purpose and focus, so we can be unified and more at ease when there's a moment to breathe after the running around is done.

I want to know where my keys will hang when I'm home. I want a place for my toaster and broom and the piles of laundry. I want to be able to find what I'm looking for without tears or frustration. I want to know home and stay there for a long while.

flew the coop

No one can convey the absolute rip in your heart that happens when your first child moves out. No one. This is one of those life experiences people can talk about and attempt to describe (like I'm doing right now), but until you are there, you cannot know.

The whole experience has me reflecting on how I exited my childhood home. I was AWOL most of the time from seventeen onward. I did my own thing and hardly noticed the damage I left in my wake. After sending off a child myself now, I can hardly fathom how hard it all must have been on my mother for me to just be—gone. No goodbyes. No getting to do sweet things to send me off. No talking about checking accounts and credit cards and budgeting. I just jumped into the deep end and didn't care how much I floundered as I pushed through blindly. I learned how to take care of myself. I'm actually really good with the meager amounts of money that cross my path. Well, not so much lately. I've been in a tailspin of wanting to eat out all the time practically and trying to get my home all set up and organized. Holy garbage, home stuff costs a lot of money. But I digress.

My mom. I think about her every single day right now as I contemplate how difficult it has been to just be a good mom and send my son off set up a little and feeling confident and capable. My mom had to simply step aside and pray I didn't get killed, arrested, or starve because I never asked for help in those years of teen adulthood. My bet is that she prayed all day, every day. I already do that for my son, and he's an exceptional man/child. I don't even know what to call my children who are grown! haha.

We had a little party a couple nights ago to celebrate our last weekend all together before life changes again for us. We had delicious pizza and barbecue wings with Virgil's root beer and butterscotch soda and ice cream to make floats out of the stuff. It was so good. Like the best meal ever. Such a fantastic memory for me, standing in our kitchen all together having a toast to a good future. I hope it never fades. We talked and laughed and watched a movie, which all of us fell asleep before it ended except my son!

My boy slept away from home on his own last night, and it was so strange for me. It broke my heart a little more to think about how quickly the time went for us. The divorce and its entails stole much of those tender years if we are to be honest about it all. I did my best to help and shelter and lift, but I was in the trenches myself, and we are all just barely digging out this past year or so. What warriors, we are.

I sure love him. This guy is so kind-hearted and the source of much laughter and softened hearts. He knows how to get me to laugh at almost any garbage going down. It's like magic. And I don't feel like I'll ever be ready for this even though it is truly time, and I'm proud of him for doing so well for himself in taking care of his needs and wanting to be responsible for himself. It's a good thing—I guess.

just breathe

I have to keep telling myself this; however, it's not really working since I got the wind knocked out of me in the move. Who knew you could take the rug out from underneath your own self? I talk about avoiding self-deprecation and not taking our lives for granted and appreciating each day. but for some reason, I am just having a really tough time of it.

Catching my breath. Learning how to breathe under water. Blazing a trail in the dark. That's what I'm all about right now. And when I'm in the midst of it and too busy to think—I actually feel invigorated and hopeful for the future. When I have a second to catch said breath though, that's an entirely different story.

I don't know if it's necessarily negativity, but it surely is not helpful where my mind goes when I have a minute to think. I have worries that bubble up to the surface that I normally don't ever think about. I fret about things I can't change, which is not anything I typically waste my time on (because, let's face it, worrying about things you can't change is a total waste of time). I've also taken to letting myself get resigned to being alone, and that's one of the most disappointing aspects of where I am right now. This lack of air to the brain and heart is taking a heavy, heavy toll.

After writing all of this out, I recognize that I've been talking in circles. I have no solution or resolution or anything to wrap up this package of messy thoughts. And I hate that. I'm a solution finder. Maybe not today though.

I should get back to learning how to just breathe…

lost

Grief
Joy
Change
Good and bad
Running
Resting
(Barely resting)
Needing so much
Getting rid of so much
Taking on too much
Losing so much
Hoping for so much
Pushing the world away
To open the door for more
Or less
Who knows
What I need
Not me
So who
When will the dust settle
When will home find me
What do I need to lose
To find some peace

shower curtain joy

Changing things up is a hard thing to do sometimes even when we know for a fact it's the best choice. I don't know if National Poetry Month helped me through the past thirty days of crazy decisions and planning and adjusting—or if it added to the insanity—but I do know I never regret pushing through and writing and writing and writing. 

However, I am glad to write something that doesn't have to have a form or rhyme or organization (well, not much). That's why I decided to share a photo of my shower curtain. Random, yes. But it makes me happy. This shower curtain represents rejuvenating change. Pressing the restart button on your life takes a lot of work, guys. I can hardly catch my breath I'm going at it with such fervor. Crazy me. 

I am sure I could write a poem about that shower curtain too because I'm just that obsessed with purple, and I have eclectic poetic inspiration. I will spare us all though. Thirty poems in thirty days has been a feat this time around, and I'm not sure if I'm running on empty in that department or what!

I'll probably continue writing about the concept of change. It seems to be constantly nipping at my heels. It's terrifying and invigorating all at once!

their love

just there—without strings

growing and overflowing

money can't buy this

a purple home

The future holds a purple hue
Nothing to get in the way
Broadly reaching, unfettered purview

To dream and run and fly
Through the future
Tiptoeing through the night

Dancing through the days
Brightly wishing for a way
To be more than a poem
But in reality know true home

cut loose

Reluctant lover

Someone else's flowers cut

This borrowed romance 

raw light

A piece of sky
I never thought I'd leave
A ray of sunshine captured
To make me sing
When I can't see
When life is dark and blurred

Blue to bring me out of the blue
That besets this heart
As my feet take me somewhere new

That sun, that glorious unfiltered sun
My anchor when I want to run

Softly going are those darling clouds
When my world waxes too loud

Raw light to burn away the tears that stain this face