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Week 5/ November 1/Passions and Obsessions - Page 3

post #41 of 54
My goals:

To send out 5 queries a week!

To try my best to get my novel published.

To write for 3 hours a day, 5 days a week. And to not feel as if I should be doing something else.

To believe in myself.

To get one article published somewhere, and so I guess, to write a few articles!!

Not to get discouraged!

First Kiss

Two young lovers, fingers intertwined, sweaty palms anxiously cupped, walk along the edge of the water . The waves nip at the sand, the tide, going out now, rarely tries to surprise them with wet feet.

Two young lovers, walking slowly, their talk stuttering, staggering, as they try to find their way.

The sun, a bright orange ball sinking slowlyu to sizzle into the sea on the horizon. It slips, sinks, settles. Orange, fuschia, lilac, glowing embers of teh suns rays, turning her hair inot a golden, glowing treasure, calling out to his fingers, begging to be stroked, petted.

His smile seems to take on and intense whiteness, brightened by the setting sun. She knkows, knows, now, that he will kiss her.

Hopes he will. So they walk. And she waits, waits for him to be ready, to make the first move. With each stumble in the sand, each trip into a hole, she waits.

They head back, darkness falling fast now, goossebumps rising on her arms. THe anxious fear gripping her gut, tightens its grip. Maybe he wouldn't! They would just walk home, say good-bye.

It had been forever, this waiting for the first kiss. First ever kiss. Tinight.

Tomorrow, she wanted to blush and tell all of her friends, "yes", he had kissed her. She, too, was worthy of a mans' /boys' attention. She, too, was found pretty, worthy, sexy, ready.

They started toward the road, toward home. The stone of dissappointment rolled, then dropped to her feet.

Holding his hand tightly, she stopped. He turned and the last pink and gold-tipped rays lit his eyes. A question in his eyes, a tightness, a panic.

Knowing it was in her hands, in her power, she leaned quickly toward him, her eyes half closed, focusing on his lips, slowly, slowly, inching closer, her stomach in knots, the waves and her blood pounding in her ears.

A shock of electricity, mor intense than static, a flash of fire as they touch, dry, warm, soft. The knots in her belly unravel, unwind, then explode, implode. There's a rush of heat, unknown til now, an awakening, a breathlessness.

The sun slips slowly below the edge of the earth, gone. Her first kiss. Gone.
post #42 of 54

Writing Goals

1. Daily Minute-Diary:

Today Sybil ____________

Today Ella ____________

Today I ____________

Tomorrow I want to ____________

2. Escape reality for 15 minutes each day by writing about whatever I find inspiring, soothing, what I would like my world to be like

3. Top secret writing goal: to write the story that is currently partly in my head and have it become hugely popular with no need for book tours or interviews and have it make enough money if necessary by being made into a movie with actors I don't like and that ends up being nothing like the book so that I can make a living out of writing because I am starting to think that writing might be the only occupation that gives my soul enough room to breathe and that can be done in the isolation I seem to crave either because I am just genetically that introverted or am so damaged by my past that I don't seem to be able to maintain any type of long term social involvement with people and don't think I could survive having to go back to working for the man again
post #43 of 54

Wildness

The wildness within me is sleeping
Waiting
Resting
Deeply hidden from the rest of the world

Wildness
Can you hear me?
Can you forgive me?
How can I let you out?

You’ve been asleep for so long
You’ve been caged far too long
You need a chance
To show me my wild side

Is it beautiful? Is it ugly?
Is it hard, is it soft?
I think I am ready
I am ready at last
For the wildness within me
post #44 of 54

My child's father

My child’s father is the rock upon which I stand
He’s the beacon of light in my foggy despair

He’s a beautiful man, my child’s father
He’s strong in spirit, strong in body
Passionate and compassionate

My child’s father has long fingers and an artist’s soul
He wanders in a garden where the plants grow differently
But he stands by my side like a mighty oak, giving me protection
Easing my fears

How loving and caring is my child’s father
A man like no other
A father, a teacher, a friend, a lover
post #45 of 54

My son

He says oo oo oo oo (for dog)
Duck-ie
Okay
And mama

He putters around endlessly
Tirelessly
Learning
Observing
Tinkering
Experimenting

He’s a fascinating little person
With his own unlived dreams
Simple needs and joys
Complete vulnerability

Balls of every shape and size intrigue him
Fill him with glee
He points, he looks at me and jubilant, exclaims: baa!

It’s wonderful getting to know.. my son
post #46 of 54

I love

I love the power of mothers, the simplicity and wonder of breastfeeding, the smile of a little boy while still on the breast..
How I love the smell of fresh-baked bread and cookies, the sizzle of chicken and steaks on a grill, the drizzle of champignon sauce on a perfectly juicy filet mignon.
I love the vast expanse of green and broccoli-shaped trees, the chirping of birds in the morning, a skylight to tell you time.
I love a tiny finger on my nose, a tiny hand in mine.
The comforting, slow, deep breathing of my husband at night.
A 70-degree breezy day in November..
I love waking up in the morning with little eyes looking straight at me in their innocent beauty.
I love lying in my husband’s embrace at night, feeling his love and support.
I love the sound of the door and the dogs signaling that my husband has come home in the evening.
I love the smell of oatmeal, almond and coconut soap bars and the heady fragrance of a plumeria flower. I also love the sweet smell of pineapple.
I love the Internet and its infinite diversity of subjects. I love researching, digging, knowing, comparing, evaluating, analyzing.
I love psychology, its applications in relationships and family life, I love education, I love Aruba. I love languages, reading, books, bookstores.. knowledge.
I love how you can see a moment in time as if in a frame, and capture its art with the click of a button.
I love grilled vegetables.
I love this country.
I love my son, my husband, my mother, my father who passed away too soon. Too soon. I love being a mama to my son.
post #47 of 54

I don't love

I don’t love fish in the sea, but I respect them. They have such lifeless, glassy eyes. Are the really animals or did God make them like that so people didn’t feel so bad about eating them? I don’t know.
I don’t love the fact that I have to work at night and miss some time with my family, but I can’t complain. I do get to spend lots of one-on-one time with my son all day. You can’t begin to put a price on that kind of quality time.
I don’t love myself sometimes, but I’m working on it. I don’t love the fact that I’m so undisciplined at times, that I don’t do the things I’m supposed to do. I don’t love my mom’s phone calls about agony and distress in her life. But I listen. And that I let it affect me sometimes. I don’t love the way our dog’s been acting.. barking loudly at every person or thing near the house and going bananas when we either come in or leave the house.
post #48 of 54

Passion/Obsession #3: Music

Aaaah, today I dance at last
After months it seems like
I let my body loose into a passionate and uninhibited display
I experience the rhythm which is echoed through my veins
My heart pumps in unison
I twirl, I move my feet in geometric and circular patterns
I imagine an audience, watching me, captivated
I feel pure joy

The other day I listened to music
Really listened again
I felt each instrument rise, then fall
I could see what the composer was seeing.. or at least my interpretation of it
I felt the urge again to play, to produce music like what seems so long ago
I closed my eyes and smiled

I’ve been singing a lot lately
Testing my voice against the best
Failing, alas, to Sarah Brightman’s highest note in the song Phantom of the Opera
Curses
I used to know it so well
Am I too old for that high note? Am I not a soprano anymore?

What I find strange is that it doesn’t matter anymore, really, what other people think about my voice.
If it moves them like it used to move them.
What really matters now is if my son finds it pleasing.
I feel an initial nervousness creeping up when I clear my throat to sing for him.
I feel the responsibility of singing well for him, because he’s the ultimate listener.
He’s a listener without judgment, a pure listener and based on what he hears, he will decide if he likes singing or not.
Whew! And I though playing the piano in front of an audience was pressure to perform!
post #49 of 54

Writing Goals

1. I am going to write every night before bed, whether a little or a lot, whether I hate it or love it, I am going to just keep on writing. And then I'm going to re-write until it's good enough to print. And then I'm going to submit until it gets published.
2. I will never miss a deadline.
post #50 of 54
My writing goals are.......
Simple. I have never(other than essay's that were mandatory in school) written anything. This year I have started to write a journal everyday. I use this to help heal and grow, also to remember and in the future, reflect. I have decided to join this writing group not as a professional at all but merely a mother hoping to find her path to inner peace. So, I do apologise if my 'writing' is dreadful to you. My intentions are not to pain anyone's eyes but to only open my heary again. Thank you for being patient with me.
post #51 of 54
Thank you all for the inspiration to write.
I've been trying to keep up with the writing but I am have a hard time transcribing it onto the computer. Sometimes the days turn into to weeks and I'm not sure where the time went. My writing goal is just to keep writing. To try and get something down on paper. The timed writings have been so helpful for me. Get a subject and go. It is good for me to have to keep my pen moving. I'm new to this and have really been enjoying it. I've been making space to write and I want to keep it up.
post #52 of 54

I didn't think I would be able to find time for a writing project

But as I read the topic and homework and then some of your responces I felt myself shifting mindset and convincing myself I could at least try tonight. The topic of passions and obsessions is bery drawing because I have been thinking about my passions a lot lately. So here it goes.

Since the homebirth of my first son I have become extreamly passionate about getting gentle birth information to every pregnant woman possible. My obsession continued to grow in intensity as I have expierienced the home births of my second and third children. All were significantly different labors and births. But all ended with a brightly alert, uncrying, perfect baby in my arms within my own sanctuary and surrounded by the people who love us. I have come to know what a spiritual journey birth is. As much as I revel in the memories and my ponderings of how I changed through each one, I am aware of, and fear, the robbery of power and space to move through the expierience in ones own unique way that is taking place in many hospitals. I fear for the mothers, especially first timers, who don't have the motherwit passed down to them and surrounding them when it's their time to travel along the path of surrender. Trusting your body and how it was designed to do this amazingly hard task is so much harder when you don't have someone you really trust. Sure OB.s have their training, you trust them, in you head, but during labor and birth you don't care about degrees, you know who you can trust with a wildwoman's instinct. A midwife knows many different birthsongs. She knows each body and babe does it differently. She knows there is a wide range of normal birth. Her knowledge is what gave me the courage to do it almost completely on my own. I say almost because my second was a bottom first presentation. Her feet folded up by her head. My stubborn little girl just would not turn. She took a little more finess. She weighed exactly what I did at birth and I too tried to come bottom first. My mother and I were robbed of our journey together by the knife weilding OB who threatened to make her leave the hospital if she didn't agree to a cessarian. I'm amazed, but not that surprised that I was almost given back my own birth by delivering my only daughter frank breech and vaginally. It was also the only birth my mother was able to attend. If that wasn't somehow a healing for all of us then I don't know what to call it. We didn't plan it. We only discovered her hard to recognise position days before arrival. The presentation is not common, and I delivered my two sons, one before, one after, both head down. Please I call to you my sisters, don't allow the medical establishment to rob you and your child of this much more spiritual than medical journey. Your birthsong should not be squished into someone else's agenda.
post #53 of 54
Please pardon my tardiness. I'm reaquainting myself with deadlines.

Writing goals:
To write and illustrate a children’s book.
To maintain an ongoing documentary of my boy’s lifes, as part of our family.
To write at the end of each day for about a half hour, at least.

From my list of Passions and Obsessions:

Gardening
It’s unbelieveable, inconceivable that I’d move onto a zero lot in suburban Dallas; yet here I am, a gardener lost in a sea of concrete. Earth movers and bulldozers, motor graders and backhoes leaden the air I imagine might smell of wildflowers and grasses. Moving from the West Coast and the net of frien dships was hard enough already, settling 10 minutes from my husband’s office within easrshot of Oaklahoma was the final blow. After a good cry, I resigned myself to liking it here in North Texas, like it or not. Proving my tenacity within the confines of a cracker box Aryan assylum is a new ambition. I’ve begun in the garden, because our Homeowner’s Association breathes down my back; a green indoor oasis will have to wait.

My son and I have begun to carve and adapt our habitat to meet my green needs. In time, our garden will ramble with life, but not without a few first awkward years of growth. We have a long atrium entrance that has served as a focal point for our facade. With little hands he has helped me cradle new plants within colorful vessels, deliberately arranging texture and color under a large rectangular slice of sky. The light has bathed and fostered a busty brugmansia whose night trumpets attract swallow-sized moths with heady bittersweet notes. A family of herbs serve as ambassadors from our kitchen. Beyond the herb border: our evergreen front bed is fluffed with swaths of feathery basil, long gone to seed and still flowering, which makes our yard buzz all day with the song of bees. A hidden handmade blue birdbath that my aunt made conceals sparrows when we’re sweeping the patio, in the future it will be cloaked in creamsicle naturtiums. For now, it is bare-based, looking for a skirt.

I imagine the day we move from our home, tripping over patio vines as we haul heavy boxes to the driveway, looking back as we finally drive away and missing the newly matured landscape. While it’s hungry now for an arbor and bulbous provencial masses of perennials, the garden is still growing and evolving. This winter will dismiss summer’s swaying basil and invite a floor of peeping crocuses among the sleeping native perennials. Little rocks, painted during trips along the road trip to Maine, will place little breaths of color across the bed, keeping the empty space company for now.

Travelling in the Airstream
We are too tired on Fridays to pack the Airstream for a weekend away from home. Now that home has a foundation, and the suburban IV drip is in, we’ve lost a great deal of freedom and everything we could possibly need, save culture and enrichment, is within a mile radius from home. But there was a time when we lived in the trailer, and remembering it makes me feel young and adventurous by comparison to the way we live now, even if her patina is only two years old.

In the trailer, we learned to pare even the necessities down to a minimum. There was a staple outfit with two or three accessories, one pack towel for both of us, one versatile cast iron dutch oven, one iBook that served as our lifeline, our tv and mobile dj. With a small box of refridgeration, I was forced to shop daily for produce and fresh ingredients for dinner, and garbage could never exceed 1 cubic foot. It was a pure, homely arrangement that felt completely right and carefree.

Without stuff, there is space, a clearer mind. I miss exploring new places during the day, parking on a rocky ledge in Maine and letting the fog roll into the windows, across my bed and out the opposite window. I miss smelling pine trees and brine, grassy meadows and even the smell of campfires. I am reclaiming my senses this winter, as I prepare for a road trip out West. I want to sleep in a foggy grove of bay laurel, redwoods and madrone when we finally rest in Santa Cruz.

Riding
Riding fills a void that nothing else has ever been able to do. It’s a special place in my soul, like a puzzle or a lock. Trust me, I’ve tried many times to satiate myself, and break out of the expensive hobby. The problem is, this is not a hobby. It’s a part of who I am and regardless of the riding subculture and the cost of a month’s board and turnout, I’m willing to sacrifice EATING in order to ride. That is, until I had kids.

For now, it’s good enough to dream about it and envision the years ahead, hopeful to get back into the saddle when the children are busy writing book reports and taking care of their own animals. All I will need is three hours, three times a week, to hear the soft heavy swishing of hoofprints on shavings, and feel the sinuous power of a large, beautiful, honest creature rocking me forwards into a comfortable, nurturing zone.

I love the sensual experience of caring for a horse.
When I arrive early in the morning with a cup of coffee in one hand and a halter in another, listening to the whispering sounds of ten horses chewing their breakfast of rich, sweet molasses oats, I am reminded that heaven is on Earth for some people.
I love the gutteral whinnies that greet me as I walk by, the occasional snort and the tiny mews from the barn cat, hungry for company.
I love the smell of a horse’s coat, it differs from one animal to the next, but even blindfolded, I could tell a difference between the coats of horses and cattle. In the horse, subtract all acrid nitrigenous layers and add a honey mellow maltiness. Night and day, the horse is so different from other quadrupeds.
I love the feel of cooperative, eager large muscle. It is the equivalent to a German sportscar: a soft touch yields tremendous power. In some breeds, this power lasts for hours, breaking beyond foamy sweat, tenacious to the most respectable degree.
After an exercise, I love the soft sigh of a relaxed horse, proud of another showy exhibition, understanding that our communication was again flawless and knowing he’s earned an entire bagful of apples and carrots.
I love the way the steam rises off his back as I loft off the blanket, coat slicked down with lather, a dark silhouette of a job well done, even the way my black fleece coat now has a thousand new gray hairs from a single grooming, a charming reminder for the rest of the day that life is so much better when I’m at the barn.

I don’t love mainstream America. I feel embarrassed to be associated with our country’s greed and excess. Living in suburban Dallas has exacerbated feelings of ill will, watching neighbors pull into garages with slow trepidation, from the glossy platform of a new Hummer H2. The current advertisement suggests, “Want to impress your kids and make them feel accepted in school? Drop her off in the new Hummer H2 and watch her classmates gawk.” There is something very sick about the messages sent to mainstream America in the most ubiquitous ad campaigns. It makes me sad to know I’m right here, in the middle of it all, struggling to breathe individuality and foster it in my children, while we are bombarded with the power of conformity and and the pressures to belong. Where is the freedom in America? It’s not in Texas and I doubt other states and metroplexes are struggling with this any less. Save for several intelligent think tanks in our counrty: college campuses on the East and West Coast, and our good neighbor Los Alamos, most of the American landscape is riddled with the wrong kind of progress and growth: wasteful, excessive consumerism has replaced my utopia and labelled me as fringe. Why can’t we all be more humble and respect indiviuality? Must everyone live in a 3500 square foot starter home and seal the windows shut? I’m so out of love with my neighbors.

1. What I carry...

I carry the guilt of three decades or more, borne to me by my mother
who could not wrestle her neurosis.
She gave me an imprint, indelible and stubborn.
Something to “work on” and “manage” and transcend.
(God bless her)

It’s a burden to worry
about whether I’m right,
or whether I’m wrong,
or whether I’m crazy...should I see a therapist?
Or should I save the money for their college?

To appear perfect is lying, so I tell my sons:
“I don’t have an answer for that, but I’m studying it,
I don’t know enough yet.
Give me time to think about how I feel,
allow me to decide.”
while I writhe in a secret sludge.

3. My son.....

My son wears a golden halo before me,
standing tall and eclipsing the sun.
His grin, from ear to ear, is partially hidden among a sea of ringlets
his brown eyes peep behind flaxen strands, bobbing in the breeze.
Stout, sticky fingers clasping the blue rails of the slide:
“Look mommy, Look mommy! Look mommy! Watch me! Watch me.”
I can’t answer him over his pleas, I’m tripped by his beauty anyway.

4. My child's father......

My child’s father stands alone, shadowing my cheerful facade like a Russian ex-con.
At playdates, parties and breakfasts, his presence disturbs me
as I stifle laughter in submission to the judgemental look of a detached chaperone.

I don’t remember envisioning my progeny with him,
and now look: they’re miracles with personalities and promise
and and
my strength and determination will see us through ups and downs, because
I’ll learn to live with this. I promised that I’d grow old with this man.
post #54 of 54

this is great? are you there

Quote:
Originally Posted by mama_o View Post
I love…

trees. I really do. And all plants, their poetry and color and texture. Their stature and shape, and their interplay. And how they change, and grow, and respond to the world, and overcome (seem to) obstacles, squeezing themselves into cracks in sidewalks or happening upon a clogged gutter or sailing down the river and managing to grasp a log or a rock or something, and setting down roots and blossoming up and turning toward the sun with a smiling good morning. I love how they fill up space and ask for more, and how their roots grow upon themselves until they are given an opportunity, and then they set out searching again. I love them for their quiet persistence and extravagant eloquence. Their stubby shortness and their reed-like skinniness. Their colors, their poofiness, their fuzziness, their shinyness… Oh! I love them for showing me how to grow and for teaching me how to support growth, and how to fathom it and let it go. Basking in it. I love them for showing me steadfastness and sneakiness and showiness and loneliness. I love them for getting all together and creating fields and forests and green. And for teaching me how to breathe; in fact, for making it possible for me to breathe. I love them for giving me breath and for showing me that we’re connected.

And I love my worm bin, too. Because it’s so cool – the cycle of life in there, in my kitchen scraps, watching waste become rich soil that feeds the plants that feed me.

I love to vote. I love to go to the public library, and ride the bus. I don’t know why. All these cheesy civic things.

I love the sounds of the bells of the church near my grandparents house in Manhattan Beach, California.

I love the ocean, the lapping foaminess of the night-colored sea. I love the saltiness and the chaos and the rhythm. The power. I love the creatures who live within it and on its edges.

And I love the ocean in its warmth and simplicity, its dazzle-shine-blue and happy shores. The warm sun, the swimmable sea. Surf.

I love my mother… though I am feeling far away from her right now. I love her at the same time I realize how little I know her.

I love my son… I just love him. It is a satisfying, simple love and it is a shocking, complicated love.

I love Rom. I just love him, too. This love is a core love, something that was so right and so deep almost immediately that is seems like it has always been a part of me. I don’t know how this happened. I feel lucky. It is a lucky love, a profound love, hard work and fun.

Keep moving…

I love … people. I really do. I feel honored to be a person among people. I try to remember this. I try to maintain respect and connection.

I think of love and I think of the four types of loves in Buddhism:

loving-kindness
compassion
sympathetic joy
equanimity

© 2004 Stacy M. Lewis


stacy are you still around?
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