It’s been hot. Stifling even, and summer hasn’t even started in earnest yet. The sun over head glaring down, burning away at this crust of earth. The moisture in the ground giving in, and rising up in choking humidity.
But today, today, we awoke to the grey of coming rain. The air heavy in anticipation.
When the drops come, they come heavy, wrapped in a symphony for the senses.
The constant shushing against leaves, pinging on the Continue reading “There’s Something About Rain”
My husband’s across the country for work, and my kids were both home sick yesterday. Now I’m playing catch-up. I have a million things to do. I can’t see my kitchen counter or my table. There’s Kleenex decorating the couch and deadlines looming for all my jobs. My heart is racing and tears are hovering just under the surface.
And the dog needs to go potty. Really?!
So I open the door for our crazy Sheltie and bright sunshine pours in. The chirping of birds. Bright red, freshly planted flowers line the path to my door. And I sigh. I hear the whisper. Be Still.
A momentary thought of “The List” has my hands shaking, but Continue reading “Getting Hold of Stillness”
I’m nearing the point where I’m willing to let other people read my current work in progress and I’m stalling a little. I need to cut a serious number of words and I seem only capable of adding. So I’m taking a break and attending to details like making sure there’s only one chapter marked “10” and that it follows chapter 9. Seriously. It needed to be done.
But one of my favorite details was searching for the epigraphs—the little quotes at the beginning of the chapters that give you a little taste of what might happen in the chapter and points to the themes.
I thought it might be fun to give you all a selection of some of the quotes that might just make an appearance in The Way of the Tiger…
“Where then is evil? What is its origin? How did it steal into the world?…Where then does evil come from, if God made all things and, because he is good, made them good too?”
~St. Augustine
The classic question of an all-powerful, loving God. It becomes a critical question to most of my characters as they’re faced with the worst of human circumstances. Okay, it’s one I wrestle with too. But it seems silly sometimes Continue reading “Quoting Themes”
It’s time for one of the two Thursdays of every month where I give a nod to the things that make us stop and say, “There’s something about . . .”
This is something I wrote awhile ago and it fits perfectly with one of the characters I’m working on . . . and to be honest with me sometimes.
There is something about shadows —that absence of light— that kids instinctively fear. Adults have a more educated view that thinks the dark patches really can’t hurt us. That there isn’t anything hiding inside trying to get out.
But if I’m honest with myself, there’s still something about the dark.
Perhaps the kids have it right.
But if there are shadows, Continue reading “There’s Something About Thursday–Shadows”
It was a mixed up kind of day. Grey clouds engulfing the sun only to have the sun burn through, lighting the woods in snips and patches.
I could see my daughter’s bright blue coat flitting between the just leafing out trees. Hunting a critter, building a fort, or some such childhood imagining. The neighbor kid voices rose and fell in excitement until half blue with cold they all stumbled through my door in search of water, a snack, and an ear to listen to their adventures.
It had been a rough day. I was running into an issue with my editorial work. And then running into it again. And then again…Those days everyone has sometimes.
As I listened to my kids’ chatter, it reminded me of the times when the hill behind my childhood house was a mountain and the squirrels were bears chasing my brothers and I. Or when we were lost in the “expansive” woods, and horsetail reeds became scavenged salads—definite survival food.
I miss those times. Times when imagination bled into real life. Where anything could be imagined better. And I realized there’s something to a childlike perspective that we, as adults, need to rediscover.
Not that we can to ignore Continue reading “Adult-Sized Problems, Childlike Solution”
This isn’t my normal posting day, but I have news and I’m too excited to not share with you all. I’m starting a new venture blogging and editing for the brand new Dove Parenting Blog. It’s for The Dove Foundation, which is an amazing non-profit that works to help parents make intelligent decisions about the media kids consume. They’re kind of the originators of the concept and have Hollywood’s ear.
While the Dove Parenting Blog is a lot more “mommy blog” than what I do here, there’s a lot of cross-over. The blog is all about being an intentional parent and helping other parents on that path too. Being intentional about our lives in general is what makes it possible for us to uncover beauty–pretty or not. See, it’s connected.
So for any parents out there, feel free to pop over and check out Dove’s blog, spread the word, and let me know what you think.
It’s time for one of the two Thursdays of every month where I give a nod to the things that make us stop and say, “There’s something about . . .”
It was 4 am and my son had a stomachache. We’d already been up together for hours trying to find something, anything to help relieve the pain. At 1 and then again at 3:30 we tried warm bath, which temporarily helped, but we couldn’t sleep there. Ice pack only made it worse, a warm rice bag prevented tears, until it cooled . . . and still no sleep. Even vomiting an hour earlier didn’t relieve his tear-filled, curled-in pain.
I sat wedged in a corner, exhausted, cradling my boy’s head, thumb tracing down his face—forehead to nose, forehead to nose. My boy’s eyelids drooped as he whimpered and grabbed my hand. His small hands still dimpled at the knuckles, mine starting to show the ridges of age.
I was struck by the familiar sight. This fusion of old and young is one I’d seen before. Continue reading “There’s Something About Thursday: A Mother’s Hands”
This is a short story revealing a little background on the characters of the WWII novel I’m writing. The main character here (John) is the father of the main character in the book (Kailyn). It’s set in the Himalayan mountains of Burma. Hope you enjoy it . . .
He didn’t have much use for his small knife any longer. It had been so long since he’d carved blocks of wood into jungle animals, that the monsoon rains had left rust and mold on the blade.
But tonight. Tonight his hands needed the feel of wood. The surety behind its hardness. The knife peeling away bits and flakes to reveal what had always lurked beneath the bark.
John rubbed a calloused thumb across the edges. His white skin stark against the ridged grain.
A scream ripped through the jungle and John jumped from the fallen log. His daughter, Kailyn, sat quiet. Amber eyes wide, staring through the fire at her Papa, shifting between the door of their thatch-roofed home and the jungle. He knew she wanted to run, but her mother’s pain contained her here. Captured in the flickering light of the fire. Continue reading “The Making of a Tiger”
It’s time for one of the two Thursdays of every month where I give a nod to the things that make us stop and say, “There’s something about . . .”
Spring. The warm air breathes life and this weekend, I drank it in. Weeding, prepping beds, setting up our trampoline, photographing all the life.
Every new leaf budding in a green so hot and bright it nearly melts the frosty morning on its own. The colors seem so out of place bursting above Winter’s dead debris. How yellow stamps out the cold snaps that carry Continue reading “There’s Something About Spring Unfurled”
I can’t believe that it’s been 3 years since I lost my grandma, my friend. My memories with her are still so vivid…
• Garish orange, yellow, and green Tupperware stashed in her cupboard containing cookies stale from summer’s humidity.
• Her fingers, knuckles swollen with arthritis, clutching a hand of cards.
• Red raspberries we cousins snuck from her bushes.
• The taste of her lemonade. No one made it better.
And later . . .
• Her laughter crackling over the phone when she told me the stories of trying and failing to live up to her mother’s expectations.
• The citrus smell of Constant Comment tea as we sat at her little table talking . . . especially after I found out my parents were splitting for good.
• Her still form in the casket across the room. I couldn’t bear to get closer and really see.
This last weekend, before it registered that it was the anniversary of Gramma’s death, I started going through my grandparent’s WWII era papers. My grandfather’s sprawling notes about airplane props and engines, my grandmother’s diary from her college days, his denied request to be trained as a helicopter pilot in the 1950’s.
Despite the fact I’m not quite done with my first book, I’m beginning to see pieces of the next one. Maybe I’ll find her again in it and get one last word of advice. “Find your way, sweetheart . . . find your way.”
Regardless, I’m thankful for the things my Gramma taught me and looking forward to talking with her again some day.
Love you Gramma. See you again soon.