I'm a writer who is particularly interested in telling stories of the hidden, the hurt, the silent, the unheard. My writing website: www.jtealwriter.com Twitter: jtvancouver
My writer-friend-across-the-miles, Chris James, loves autumn as much as I do but takes much better photos of this extraordinary time of year. So, I’m stealing his latest blog post for my blog so I can look at them.
There are some days when, as an enthusiastic amateur photographer, you can’t ask for better conditions, when certain scenes just beg to be captured. The “Golden Autumn” is a well enough known phenomenon in Poland, but like many weather-related events, it is never guaranteed. This year, however, we’ve enjoyed long, hot sunny days which have slowed autumn’s progress. In most years, by now the trees would be bare through a combination of the first winter frosts followed by leaf-stripping rain or snow. So far this autumn, it’s been more like summer. And with a sky of deep, Mediterranean blue as a background, it really is simply a case of taking Crazy the dog for a walk, and pointing and clicking with my camera.
This year, I’ve discovered poetry. Yes, of course I knew of its existence previously. I had even rhymed and waxed on about a few words. But now, I delight in it. I often participate in the biweekly Quadrille prompts over at d’Verse Poets Pub. It’s a lovely way to shake up my thinking and staid, stale writing habits.
I’ve settled down. I know I’m slower but I tell myself it is because I’m more deliberate in my actions. No flitting, no flouncing, no sudden movements.This includes my thinking. No flitting or sudden movements of thought either. What a relief. Maturity has settled in and I’ve made it my friend.
I’ve realized the beauty in engaging others help. This actually began a couple of years ago when I called in 1-800-got-junk to take away the inherited broken patio furniture on my balcony. Three eager young people arrived, took it away, swept the balcony thoroughly. They insisted I just sit (playing to my strengths there) and point out what needed doing. Here’s the thing. I’d worried about that ‘stuff’ for a long time. It was a burden. When they took it away, I realized just how much it had bothered me. I pledged to myself to take the kinder, gentler way from then on: ask for help when I need it.
Quiet. It’s been months since I turned on the television. While I have always enjoyed listening to the news, and watching old movies, the noise of tv stresses me. When I get home from work, I like calm quiet (as much of it as a city neighbourhood can provide). I keep up to date through online sources, and at low volume.
Vegetarianism. I don’t think I can label myself truly vegetarian as I still eat seafood. But, the label isn’t as important as taking the action. It was a gradual change but one I felt called towards. I’m not an exciting vegetarian, I’m a mundane one. No fancy recipes, no moves to become vegan. Just me. Me and my carrots.
For all this, I give thanks. In celebration, here’s Yo-Yo Ma, with Kathryn Stott, playing one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written. The Swan encompasses the seasons in the arc of a life. At least that’s what I think. Perfect for autumn and Thanksgiving.
I love the early morning on dark rain pitter-patter days When the hours after will stretch out unspoken for When the choices of time are only mine The serenity of the cool pavement filled with water from sodden clouds Bursting at the seams to unburden themselves To share the sadness created, brought together from a thousand miles Clouds see a thousand sights, stretch slowly, stretch slow lee across the gray skies What do they see? Only tops of buildings, apex of trees trying to touch them Or do clouds fill themselves with the thoughts of those whose lives they cover and uncover Are clouds full of memories and is that why they rain?
Though I cannot touch your shirtsleeve, I reach out. You answer me, pull me close with softly written words. Soothe. Calm. We shield ourselves with flannel paragraphs, Hold life’s storms at bay, Understanding, no matter what our whethers, Friendship moors us in undeniable harbour.
Marquee neon spotlights the startled expression of someone who once pretended to love me. My hand reaches deep into my empty coat pocket and it’s then I realize: I’ve already tossed our past away.
A 33 word Trifecta-like writing challenge for myself and for writer Tom MacInnes. Please pop over to Tom’s new blog to read his response.
At the intersection of what has always been and what might be,
A short teenage girl stretches tall, centre stage,
Her favourite blouse of red and white stripes complete with floppy bow
Distracts only slightly from her deliberately punc-tu-a-ted words,
Shared into a screechy mic atop the old oak podium.
Harsh amateur spotlight provides a momentary halo,
Trades her dark chestnut hair for light ashy blonde.
The change mimics her rehearsed act of defiance,
Trading natural, absolute shyness
For feigned, casual confidence.
A fledgling leader addressing her assembled, disheveled, constituents,
Before fifth bell dismisses classes for the day.
Sisters, unlike.
One rounded, one jagged.
Puzzle pieces never able to click-fit.
Don’t make trouble, I begged,
Never understanding she didn’t.
Her heart broken in shards, impossible to mend.
My wrists cut in bloody despair.
She salved, bandaged my wounds
Before fading from view.
