Summer Seating

I have a writing room of my own. I offered a tour here.

But I've gravitated to the living room. To the soft leather chair with the soft leather footstool. With the laptop on my lap. Or half on the footstool and half on my knees. Front row center for Tiger baseball games. And because Gracee, when she's here, prefers me to be on her level rather than sequestered in the penthouse.

My studio (I like to call it a studio--it sounds so artsy, so writerly) is neat.

My summer seating is not.

a cat licks lemonade swirl ice cream
from the chocolate-coated spoon and bowl
(katdish's fault--she made me do it)
that sit atop a notebook on the floor to my left
next to a dirty white slipper
(where IS the other one?)
a fan of bills that aren't due until next payday
and 101 Sneaky Weight Loss Secrets 
with Stone Crossings open to forest star
and plastic wicker book bag leans
against black computer bag that leans
against the chair
and to the right a Woman's World
Walk off 120 lbs the easy way
a Barnes and Noble receipt
Wordpress for Dummies
several explanation of benefit payments
(this is not a bill)
a credit union statement
and on the footstool my camera
a couple pencils and a red pen
still more bills and a
40th anniversary discounted subscription form
for Poets & Writers
on the antique table topped with a chicken lamp
Cinderella III (Gracee's) and the DVD remote
four backup CDs, a book of check carbons,
a pile of paid receipts and a cell phone
two bookcases that beckon
harp and hammered dulcimer mock untouched
and a rerun of this afternoon's Tigers' game plays
as I sit on the very edge of the cushion
while the cat purrs behind me
I write in place
and stay because I will trip on the cords
if I move from my summer seating.

Written for L.L. Barkat's prompt to write in place On, In and Around Mondays at Seedlings in Stone. Yes, I know it's Friday. Consider it around Monday--the next Monday. And go check out the other links.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Squirrel Thoughts - Old

Dennis and I are silent as we drive along until . . . SQUIRREL!

Me: "Stop the car! Now!"
SQUEEEEAL!
Him: "What? What's wrong?"
Me: "Cloud mountains. Must. Take. Picture."

Later at Hartwick Pines, I snap pictures of every sign and every display. A little research for my WIP. I linger in the bunkhouse and imagine my great-great-grandfather's decor over and on his bunk that undoubtedly included his hammered dulcimer wrapped in burlap at the foot. I stop to write down things like Sweet Dark Burly Tobacco, Woman's Heart Tobacco, Dr. Sages Catarrah Remedy, and Bradley-Metcalf (Makers of Good Shoes Since 1843.) I snap more pictures.

Me: "Does my taking so many pictures bug you?"
Him: "No. Not really. Well, sometimes, it gets old."

Old? Did he just call me OLD?

We walk the Old-Growth Trail, taking us back to a time when "White Pine Was King" and note the "last remnants of Michigan's virgin white pine forest" and gaze upon the "Monarch's" remains. The Monarch is the "most famous tree" in the park.

"Unfortunately, the Monarch lost its live crown in a wind storm in 1992 and died four years later. Before the storm, the Monarch stood 155 feet tall with a circumference of 12 feet. It was about 325 years old when it died. We don't know when the rest of the Monarch will come tumbling down. It could be today, next week or years from now."

We contemplate the fallen crown on the ground and raise our eyes to the remaining trunk.

The Monarch is/was old. And none of us know when we will come tumbling down, either. Even if we're not "old."

Later we stop in front of the house I grew up in. The one my dad built on to the front of our six-room motel. The "little house" is still there, too--four rooms and a screened porch--that housed five of us until my parents decided that I, as the oldest, needed my own personal space and moved me into one of the motel rooms.

We don't ask to walk down to "our" lakefront, but we drive around to the other side of the horseshoe (Horseshoe Lake), and I remember memories from long ago. And there, still, are the lily pads I loved, topped with the yellow blooms that always held bugs. I used to pick bouquets from the boat.

I hung out on the lake and in the woods alone when I was a kid. I made "fern forts," by stomping some ferns down flat leaving leafy walls, had little picnics. I take pictures of some of "my" ferns. They seemed a lot taller back then.

When I was young.

Younger.

We're "up north" this week to visit family and hang out at Alpenfest--the 46th year. I was the third queen in 1967.  And yes, the family teases me about being an "old queen." I prefer the term, "past queen." My mom likes to say I'm the "queen who became a King." When I meet people in town, I love being told I don't look "that old."

Speaking of old, those high-speed hand dryers scare me. I envision them stealing my skin's elasticity leaving my hands looking like overstretched crepe paper that never returns to its original shape.

Sigh.

I leave you with a video of Dennis and me on longer trips. We may be old. But we can still have fun.

And be sure to check out all today's other pleasantly disturbed posts over at
Duane Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Blog Carnival

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Word Gardener

I tried to hand pull some weeds today. And then I hacked with the hoe. But it was so hot. And there were so many.

I couldn't find the mounds around which I had dutifully poked some cantaloupe seeds.

Back in the height of my May planting fever. 

I accidentally yanked out a sugar pea plant. I couldn't really afford to do that as it left a total of six plants, five of which are kissing each other, so I may have to separate them.

I thought beans were supposed to be easy to grow. I sowed a whole row. I have maybe three plants.

A cucumber tendril wrapped itself around a weed (or was it a bean--who knows for sure?) and would not let go. So I ripped it off in the uprooting.

The tomatoes thrive. So do the squash. And the peppers, though I thought I planted three plants instead of two. And I do have a whole row of nasturtiums. I suppose they'll flower sometime.

But everything drooped a little, and the ground was cracked. And so I watered the good plants and the bad plants alike. And I considered how we had delayed placing mulch (straw) and how I really need to layer it on now to simply cover up the mess.

So far I've found half a dozen zinnias in the space of where I scattered most of a box of seed.

Gracee and her little friend squashed some flowers with the hose.

So here's the truth.

I like the idea of a garden.

I love watching the flowers blossom and turn into baby fruit and then mature--turning from fruit to more fruit to much fruit.

I love sinking my teeth into a fresh warm tomato as the juice dribbles down my chin.

I love adding fresh basil to my spaghetti sauce and mint leaves to my iced tea.

I love the parade of colors and the fragrance of flowers.

I love to watch the butterflies and the hummingbirds.

I love everything about a garden.

Except creating it.

Except nurturing it.

Except worrying about it.

Except chasing kids and critters out of it.

It's not my passion.

Because I'm a word gardener.

I love to create new plots.

I loved to collect the seeds of stories.

I love to sift syllables and dig in paragraphs.

Prune. Weed. Uproot. Replant.

Before sunrise. In the heat of the day. After sunset. In the chill of the night.

In all seasons. In all weather.

That's my passion.

I'll probably plant another garden next year. If only to have something to write about.

But I'll probably be found inside with my computer. Or under a tree with paper and pen.

While the garden languishes.

Again.


Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Write Honestly

Pull the curtain back

Reveal the real

Release the light

From soul holes

Where grace flows

From wounded places.

Honestly.

(Paraphrased from Honestly by VOTA)

My Head Hurts

My head hurts.

I. Mean. Seriously.

Thought pellets. 

My brain must look like cheap siding after a hailstorm. And I can't get half the ideas out my fingertips or mouth before they melt.

They pound at all times of day and night. Wherever I am. Whatever I'm doing. Or not doing.

I quit my job. To eliminate distractions. To seek tranquility. To declutter. To simplify. To focus.

It helped.

Sort of.

Not so much.

I cleared some overgrowth. Tumbled some walls.

I'm a lone tree. A target for thought strikes.

Holy Discontent. Half Time. Popeye person. Passion. One thing. A good finish. Success to significance. My truest purpose. Eternal perspective.

The "stuff that stirs my heart's holiest chambers." (Bob Buford)

Dizzy.

I contemplated past dreams and activities. Missionary nurse. Parish nurse. Nun. Airline attendant.

But . . .

Words. Words. Words. The Word. Words in. Words out. Turn a word. Twist a phrase.

Makes my heart quiver. Throb.

Set apart. For words. Words that heal, encourage, and inspire. Words that elicit laughter and tears. Words that share the Word.

My head hurts.

Make. It. Stop.

Don't stop.

"If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad." ~Lord Byron

What does your brain look like?

(Tweaked and reposted from Beholding God.)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

An Artist's Blessing

Kathy Richards posted this blessing on her blog last week, and it continues to haunt me. I do so want to faithfully reflect the face of my Father and Creator--in my writing and in my life.

Source: Hubblesite.org

Blessing

As faithful image bearers (artists, but saints first),

may you reflect not only the creation

but its beautiful and good Creator.

May you embrace your true calling

to humbly serve the glorious One who promises you glory.

May you accept and acknowledge

the wound your faithful friend has inflicted,

and may you in friendship and loyalty inflict it on others.

May your art be worship.

May your worship be art.

May you afflict the comfortable with jolts of inconsolable joy.

May you call forth the good, the beautiful, the eternal hope of

your true city.

And when people step back from your painting,

put down your novel, 

or leave the theater,

may they leave having been fatally stabbed,

inconsolably wrecked with a longing for home.

And may you reflect faithfully the face of your Father

who strides through the galaxies with a brush in His hand.

(An except from The God Who Smokes: Scandalous Meditations on Faith by Timothy J. Stoner)

If you haven't visited katdish, you're missing a treat. Kathy makes me laugh. She makes me cry. She makes me think. And sometimes she just makes me say, "Huh?" And sometimes all at the same time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Special Touch

I drove Abby to the doctor for an incision check yesterday. She had a C-section a couple of weeks ago, and she's not supposed to drive, of course. But she did. Among other things she shouldn't have been doing. Because she's impatient and needs to be in control. Because she feels like she has to entertain visitors. Because she forgets she just had major surgery.

Thus the reason for the doctor visit. And my driving.

Anyway. There on the checkout counter sat a box. Wrapped in pink paper. Covered with silk pink dogwoods. With a label on the front.

Complaints, Compliments, Suggestions.

Not your normal comment or suggestion box. A box with a special touch.

I scrambled in my purse for my camera.

Must. Take. Picture.

But my battery was dead. I had extras, but I didn't load them in the camera. Because the receptionist had a this-woman-is-crazy look. And Abby had a get-my-mother-out-of-here-now-(!) look.

She had already been making fun of me as I soaked up every special-touch detail in the waiting room. And how I imagined all the straight-backed chairs lining the walls filled with protruding-belly women while all the deep-seated upholstered sofas and chairs enveloped all the just-here-for-my-annual-tuneup ladies. And how I ooh'd and aah'd over the "special touches" in the exam room.

If she'd had the strength, she would have literally dragged me to the car. Especially when I stopped to exclaim over the beauty of the--what are those flowers--pink asters?

"I need to take a picture of these."

"C'mon, Mom!"

"You don't get it, do you?" I whined. "I am a writer. I have to capture everything. I don't want to lose anything."

She just rolled her eyes and half laughed and half complained when I missed a turn and found myself going the wrong way and she reminded me what a terrible driver I am and what a terrible sense of direction I have and to quit looking at everything and to keep my eyes on the road because she'd just had a C-section and she didn't want to get hurt.

And today I'm still wondering.

Why did "complaints" come first in the order of things?

Did the office get more complaints than compliments?

Did they expect more complaints?

Did they think if they acknowledged you might have a complaint you would be satisfied with that and move directly to a compliment?

What a great idea to soften the sting of a complaint with a special touch.

Maybe a writer could design a box with a special touch labeled:

"Rejections, _______, _______.

Fill in the blanks.

And always be sure your camera is loaded with fresh batteries.

By the way, we had a great afternoon together!

A day with a special touch.

How can you soften the stings of the writing life? How would you fill in the above blanks? When did you last experience a special touch?


Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Reason to Read--in One Word

I asked the other day about summing up your message in one word as a writer.

So that got me thinking about why we pick up a book to read. What do we look for? What do we want in the end? What message do we want to come away with?

Is it the same with each book?

What makes us feel like we spent our time well?

Can we put it in one word?

Escape? Knowledge? Information? Hope? Refreshment? Encouragement?

I choose inspiration.

In fiction and nonfiction.

I want to feel inspired to reach higher and deeper.

Inspired to grow.

Inspired to learn more.

• About something.

• About people.

• About a person.

• About a place.

• About a time in history.

• About God.

Inspired to read another book.

Inspired to go from words to the Word.

Inspired to write words of my own.

What's your one word as a reader?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Your Message in One Word

What's your message?

What's the one thing you want to convey through your writing? Or at least the major thing.

To focus on.

Could you put it in just one word?

I've been thinking a lot about this.

I thought I wanted to get people excited about the Word. See things they'd never seen before. Make them hungry and thirsty. In my writing and my teaching.

I still want that.

But it's not one word.

Hunger? Thirst?

Those are one words.

Nah.

I want my readers to laugh sometimes. Laughter is healing.

Laughter. Humor. Healing.

Hmmm. Those are pretty good one words for a nurse turned writer.

But none are my one word.

The single most important concept for me in my faith walk has been that of the sovereignty of God. Knowing that He's in control. That He doesn't let go. No matter what. That He weaves everything into His perfect plan.

But "sovereignty of God" is still not one word.

"Sovereignty" is.

I like it.

But that's still not "it."

I think I've figured it out, though.

My. One. Word.

Rest.

Physical. Emotional. Spiritual.

Yep. I think that's it.

My one message.

My one word.

Rest.

What's yours?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King 

This Writing Thing - A Ramble

"Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple, learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen." ~John Steinbeck

I can see Gracee and the neighbor girl outside.  Gracee writes something with her finger in the wet sand while Jackie sits in the "castle" with dolls. Lost in an imaginary world. Nothing hanging over them.

No bills to pay. No laundry to do. No dinner to plan. Not worried about doing too much or not enough.

Just being. Whatever they feel like at the moment.

I feel more like a writer every day.

But I still feel cluttered. Duties distract, and I resent the time taken from writing. When I write, I fight guilt. This afternoon I emptied the dishwasher and cleaned up from Monday night's dinner. Such as it was.

Yes, I know this is Wednesday.

But I devote Monday to study, and then I teach on Tuesday. And after class yesterday, I met Abby for lunch and shopping. And then I came home and wrote some more. And this morning I wrote. And then got a pedicure with Abby.

I lived some life.

And the kitchen finally screamed for attention.

I just dewrinkled the same load of clothes for the third time. I need to comb through photos and mementos and organize them for posterity. I stare at partially stripped wallpaper and walls that need fresh paint. I peer through dirty windows. The carpet demands a visit from the cleaning professionals. The weeds may soon crawl under the doors.

That basement bathroom looks pretty gross. So does the upstairs one for that matter.

And my year-old harp weeps for a loving hand.

Always torn.

Never free. Of duties that need doing. Of ideas that keep breeding.

I need more time to be.

I need to shed even more stuff. Simplify yet some more.

Because I want to live a simpler life. 

Because I want to lose myself in an imaginary world.

Because I want to play in the castle with words.

Because this writing thing chases me, yowls and paws at me like a love-hungry cat.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King