SHUG

Shug – this girl knew her way to hell. Lawsy, Lawsy, the girl done tried her best to make it all work. She pushed and she pulled against the yoke her menfolk was always droppin over her head and shoulders like she was the queen of nothing. That poor child worried over gettin her life the same way you always come from gettin a tooth pulled: you just can’t help pokin at the empty spot like you know somethin should be there but it jus ain’t. But all the same she keeps right on explorin the dark spot in her smile, hopin she finds the light she so sorely needs. She’s a fighter, that girl. Leastwise, she was. Up until the very second she won’t no more.

We was in high school together, Western Wynn High School in Goldsboro, North Carolina, class of 1969. We was swear-to-God best friends, even though she got about as much sense a turkey in the rain and I’ve always been the practical one.

“Ivey Lee” my momma said, “yous gonna be okay sister girl. You gots that know how, that common sense and it’s gonna carry you girl.” She said this every Saturday night as I laid out all four of my sister’s neatly pressed dresses for Sunday mornin while she tugged and yanked on the poor girls heads till they had tears in their eyes. I still to this day can’t smell a hot hair iron without thinkin of her her doin my sisters’ hair, one week curlin us up and the next week braiding so tight our eyes just about crossed and making us sleep in those cotton drawers so we’d look good for God and all the church women the next mornin. We didn’t look good to Mamma until the church ladies told her how good we looked and how well behaved we were in church that mornin. “Oh Mabel, your girls be such little angels.” We hoped Opal Lou would be in church every Sunday because she always told Mamma this same thing whenever she was there. She always said, “Not a peep outta your girls during Reverend Father James’s sermon and they always closed their eyes during prayer.” She always says this with a big grin and little wink at me and I used to wonder how come she saw us when her eyes were s’posed to be closed too. But Lawsy, what a good day that was when someone said we was good girls during church – Momma would fry us up chicken and make us a heap of mashed potatoes and warm up some collard greens that she had canned last fall and we’d wash it down with gallons of tea – that Southern staple, that icy pale brown sweet drink that almost had a flavor other than sugar water to it. Hot grease, vinegar, melted sugar and burnt hair – that’s what Momma’s house always smelled like. My mouth still waters when I think of whoever’s turn it was to say Grace rushing through the words so we could pass that chicken around while it was still greasy hot. I love it so much better ‘n than when Momma made chicken and gravy or chicken and pastry like she normally would on Sunday afternoon after church.

I never did understand why we had to do dishes on Sunday. My G-ma always said God made the world Monday through Saturday and on Sunday, he just had to sit and rest a spell. She always preached, and Lord knows I mean preached, that God didn’t and still don’t like no one to do no work or make no plans come a Sunday ‘less they say “God Willin’ and the Creek Don’t Rise,” and I’m sure to this day that I will burn in hell if I iron on Sundays and ‘specially if I have to iron my church clothes on Sunday morning right before I go to the Lord’s House cause I was too lazy to get ready for Him on Saturday. It was sin to do anything other’n go to church pressed so crisp you was afraid to move for fear of breaking that stiff church dress which meant momma was goin to beat the tar out’n you when you finally got home for fidgetin in church (“I raised you better ‘n that”); it was a sin to do any kind of work (‘cept cooking for the menfolk, I s’pose) and raising up your voice and your heart and your eyes to God. Shug was always lookin up, lookin up to the heavens for help, for hope, for the salvation that even at sixteen, ‘specially at sixteen, she knew was never gonna come to her. I think I liked that dreamy part of Shug first. Oh – Shug? That was her name. Well, that’s what we always called her. Her full name was Lucy Estelle Sugar Stevens but only her mama called her that and only when Shug was really in trouble was all her names called at once.

Please post a comment about the opening of my new novel simply entitled, “Shug.”

Filed under: My Writings, church, common sense, eyes, God, Ivey Lee, momma, salvation, Shug, sin

The Importance of Being Ernest…er…Timely…uh…On A Schedule!

I tried to come up with a catchy title that perfectly expresses the content of today’s simple little blog entry. However, I find that plundering my psyche to come up with the perfectly cute little ditty takes up too much time. Yes, dear readers, you have read that correctly. Moi, the original ‘pantster’ since five minutes before birth, has put herself on a self-imposed schedule. I am aware of time and how quickly and easily I squander it. This awareness has made me see how I’ve cheated myself out of time to write so I’ve intentionally, with great thought and care, given myself the gift of time to write by creating a personal schedule.

This present to myself is a wonderful, much appreciated surprise (I think I’ll do a blog entry soon on valuing/gifting one’s self). I didn’t think I could actually make a personal schedule because I like to write when the mood hits me, or when I have something to say, or when the characters in my new novel decide it’s time to come to life and take over my every waking moment. I like to clean my apartment at 1:00 in the morning when the air feels soft, the world is quiet and there’s nothing to distract me from the zen of the task at hand. In other words, my use of time has been catch as catch can.

I have to interject at this point that I have made allowances for my mercurial nature. I acknowledge that I’m very impulsive so I’ve written a reminder at the top of my schedule to allow myself to be flexible. “Rinse/Rearrange/Repeat.” I’ll simply consider any task chunk of time that doesn’t work out as something to be washed out or rearranged until things do flow smoothly and I accomplish all my tasks easily and without too much grumpiness. My reward for my true concerted effort is guilt-free writing time.

My Excel spreadsheet with all its colors and boxes and brackets, filled with arrows and lines and pretty clipart and fancy borders is representative of the first step of many on my journey to achieving my dream: writing a best-selling novel. It’s also the most crucial because I know, just deep down to my toes know, that I have the talent to write. I feel it – the one, the story – simmering in my soul but I also know that it has stopped just short of a roiling boil because of the outside influences I use as excuses not to turn up the heat to high and force the pot to boil over. My schedule is now my recipe for creating my page-turner. By cleaning on schedule (yuck, but OK, I’ll do it), I will wipe out a distraction. I know me and if I’m stuck in the middle of some tricky dialogue, I’d rather wash windows than try to force myself to write through it. Writer’s block is a terrifying monster – but that’s a subject best covered in another blog entry at another time.

So to get back on point: Step One from my contract with myself (completed at the “Awakening at Mid-Life” retreat) was to make a personal ‘Life Schedule’ so that I create time to write and eliminate potential and known distractions.

Right now, I’m feeling virtuous that I’ve done this. I created it Sunday evening but need a week or two to see if I’ll really be able to do it. If not, I’ll rinse out the bad stuff, rearrange the good stuff and repeat the process until it’s running like I want it.

Step two that I promised I’d do in the next two weeks was to clean my apartment from top to bottom (again to eliminate distractions) and create a sacred, beautiful space for writing. By taking baby steps and scheduling just so much everyday, I see myself as writing guilt-free very soon. My reward for this? A box of pretty sea-colored folders and neon labels to separate and organize all my story notes, ideas, research…all the writing paraphernalia necessary to the creative writer.

You know, on second thought, perhaps my original title was the most accurate: The Importance of Being Ernest, using ernest as a verb, not a sad little man’s name. I must be ernest with my writing or I will never accomplish my heart’s desire.

Is there anything you are doing to help you make your dreams come true? Leave a comment – I’d be interested to hear.

I wish for you a day sprinkled with tiny joys, laughter and a breath of fresh air.

Filed under: My Writings, Contract with Myself, Gift, Intentional, Pantster, Schedule, Time, Time to Write

Awakening In Ocracoke

At 12:34 yesterday afternoon I drove aboard the ferry leaving Ocracoke Island. 12:34…Doesn’t that sound like such a well-planned, orderly, logical number? 1 – 2 – 3 – 4. Whether reading it silently, or reciting aloud, one could infer that 5, the easy-peazey-light-and-breezy number, is the obvious candidate to follow. Until, that is, 11 pops up and decides to put its pointed slant on things.

OK, at this point you are probably asking yourself “What the hell is she talking about?” I have a tendency to start at the end of things so as my dear friend Dixie always says…”You gotta understand this.”

Last year, while searching online for an affordable beach vacation (is that combination of words an oxymoron?), I stumbled upon a website named Island Path (www.islandpath.com) which hosted a workshop entitled “Awakening at Mid-Life.” That really appealed to me because one, I realized that yes, I really was actually in OMG mid-life and two, I was in the midst of trying to figure out where I was going and how the heckle I was going to get there. Long story short, I was flat busted broke and knew I couldn’t afford the conference so I put it on the ‘maybe one day’ list.

This year, around February, I was doing another search for the lucky recipient of my tiny tax refund money (yes, another beach search) and the Island Path site came up again. Hmmmm, maybe I should pay attention to this site. After all, I was born with a colander instead of a brain so everything that goes in tends to immediately drain right back out. However, I remembered this site and the conference described as a “midlife potluck for a woman’s soul” so I took a deep breath for courage and signed up.

The workshop continued to draw closer and I continued to waffle on whether or not I would actually go through with it and attend. I will be the first to admit that I used to be an emotional coward. So, on a beautiful Wednesday evening, with the workshop beginning with a dinner the next day, I finally allowed myself to want to go and rushed home from work and started throwing clothes in a suitcase. Wine, ‘jammies,’ jeans, lots of cute, strappy shoes and few tops where tossed in without much thought for things I actually needed (a sweatshirt, a heavier coat for beach walking, make-up, close-toed shoes…). I packed up my car with my cat and all his goodies and my suitcase and headed for my mother’s house in Goldsboro – she graciously cat-sat Sebastian while I was away. I arrived about 10:00pm, put the cat to bed and climbed in myself. I had to be up early enough to leave at 5:00am so I could catch the 10:00 ferry from Swan Quarter to Ocracoke. I was also excited to finally meet Dixie – another workshop attendee – in person; we had been e-mailing back and forth and talking on the phone for quite a bit. We really hit it off from the very first e-mails we exchanged and had become very close before we even met.

Wow, I’m boring myself here. I have so much to say and I’m still processing all the wonderful nuggets I learned over this long weekend so bear with me; I’ll get to the good stuff now.

The good stuff – okay, I’ll skip to the end of the middle so I can get to the beginning of the end.

We each told our stories as to why we were there. We spoke through our laughter and tears. Some voices were edgy and sharp, some quivered with righteous anger, some were filled with hurt and betrayal for tragic events. There were soft voices that trembled with insecurity as a soul was fearfully but trustingly exposed. There were loud voices that shook with the shock of rejection and loss of identity. There were Southern and Yankee voices. There were short and tall, thin and not-so-much women. There were well to do women side by side with women of little means. Extensively educated women were standing at the sink washing dishes while a high school only graduate dried them. None of those things mattered. We were women who sorely needed each other. When one talked, all listened with respect. We were all there for the same reason: To explore and define where we go from this point forward.

The symbiotic relationship we all had with each other as individuals as well as a group as a whole was magical. We quickly built a bond of complete trust and acceptance. Eleven women and no gossiping, no back-stabbing, no little put-downs. It was beautiful.

I won’t regale you with all my personal insights gained during the various exercises we did as a group. But I would like to share with you the last exercise we all did just before the workshop ended. To vaguely paraphrase, we were asked to write down our one dream/goal/issue that was of the most importance to us. This took a lot of deciding as I’m an extremely good dreamer whether during sleep or wakefulness and I have a lot of “I want to” items on my list. However, my number one dream has always been to write a best selling novel and live at the beach to continue living out my remaining days as a writer.

Next, we were asked to write five steps that would help us accomplish our goal, as well as which two of the steps – one easy and one more difficult – we would accomplish in the next two weeks. I don’t mind sharing with you my two steps: one is to create a personal schedule so that I create dedicated time for writing each and every day; the second, and more difficult step, is to thoroughly clean my apartment and create a beautiful working space. Easy as it may sound, it’s very easy for me to put off writing because I need to clean the ceiling fan again, or my little cubby doesn’t inspire me. By beautifying my writing area, I am honoring the importance of my passion.

After that, we had to list the people or events/situations that would attempt to create roadblocks to our success and those that would support us. THAT was a definite eye-opener!!! There were other parts to this exercise but this brings us to the point I originally started writing about – the 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 then 11.

Yes, there is something to be said for chronological correctness, for 5 following 4, if you are doing mathematical or scientific stuff. If you are doing emotional work and you’ve listed 23 items that will help you help yourself, as I did during our last exercise, rejoice when 11 pops up instead of 5. It has caught your attention for a reason and a wise woman listens. So, count 1-2-3-4-11. It’s alright. Like a good friend, 5 will cheer 11 on and be patiently waiting its turn in the numbers game.

At 12:34 yesterday afternoon I drove aboard the ferry leaving Ocracoke Island. I was sun burned, wind blown, emotionally exhausted, and the most grounded I’ve ever been in my life. I thank Kathleen Brehony, life coach, therapist, and the author of “Awakening at Mid-Life” and also Ruth Fordon, life coach, owner (with ‘Ranger’ Ken) of The LightKeepers Cottage and too many other titles to list for organizing this annual retreat, for sharing their wisdom, and for providing a safe container for us.

I have outgrown the protective cocoon of my past roles played for other’s enjoyment and comfort. I have opened my eyes to the unique gift I bring to the world: my spirit. I am present in my life, in my skin, in my soul and have learned to live for my now, as well as all my tomorrows.

I am awake.

Filed under: My Writings, asleep, Awake, Awakening, cocoon, Dixie, emotions, ferry, Kathleen Brehony, Ligthkeepers Cottage, Ocracoke, Ruth Fordon, stories, voices, Writing

Floating….

Once upon a long time ago, a time almost forgotten now, I floated. On green waves of words I surfed; rich, lush words that would take me to treetops and leave me suspended in branches of the first Indian Plum of Spring time. I rode cotton ball puffs of phrases that would rise like a summer zephyr, free to go wherever the call of the will o’the wisp carried me. Pumpkin, clove, mulled spices invaded my writing when the first leaves escaped the safe harbor of their tree and I left behind a trail of warmth as I tumbled, slipping and sliding, into that long dark cloak that enveloped my soul. My spirit hitched a ride on Old Man Winter’s coat tails for a dark romp through icy, barren terrain and I forgot how to float.

I quiver in the nighttime breeze, reveling in the return of weightlessness. My story shouts for permission to laugh and splash and frolic in the green wave, to soar like a kite in the winds to the tree tops and tremble in the branches of possibility. My words yearn for the sedative seduction of hearth and home and clamor for the edge of icy essence, stripped bare by the clarity of winter.

My story: it too wants to float.

Filed under: My Writings, Floating, free, green wave, Old Man Winter, spirit, story

MERMAID

She is an ocean woman who gets homesick for its briny scent even though she’s never lived by the sea. She is drawn to its shore when she is soul-weary or heart-sore; the ocean woman pays homage to her essence when she returns to share her joy or when she’s simply seeking solace in the silence of her thoughts. She returns to clear the city’s miasma from her brain so she can once again see clearly, and remember: always remember.

The ocean air upon her cheeks is a homecoming gift; she runs from the boardwalk to the edge of the wet to inhale the wildly whirling winds that seem to be welcoming her back, back, back to her home, back to her place, back to her one true love. Her hair whips behind her back in a dark tattoo like forgotten beach towels snapping in a pre-storm wind and straining for release from where they were carelessly pegged to a clothesline. She throws her arms to the sky and with utter abandon, she dances on the shore, a water ballerina laughing at the seductive sea as it teasingly sucks the sand out from under her feet. Like the kelp waltzing in the surf, bobbing up and down, up and down, the woman’s body sways in perfect time with each note of the ocean’s roar that forever plays in her ear. She’s elemental in her joy; she’s primal in her passion for the sea. She revels in its lure. She knows the mystery of its darkly buoyant secrets. Her body has slid through summer’s sparkly surf. She’s played in its murky depths with her sisters and prayed in the shallows for her lover’s return. She knows the dichotomy of the sea: like a woman, it’s soft and giving, playfully sharing its bounty and gently sheltering life one moment and then, seemingly out of the blue – there heaves from its bosom a storm of relentless and unyielding strength…of passionate anger that washes over shore, cleansing and refreshing all that it touches. She watches a pod of dolphins and remembers the hours of innocent indulgence spent cavorting with them just beyond the breakers. The woman walks and moves and absorbs the rhythm of the waves for hours.

It’s getting dark, Luna’s light is lapping the now calm sea in a softly sensuous silver swath. She hears the clapper of a distant buoy clanging its ancient warning to mariners and remembers. She remembers the ones who wanted to be saved; she remembers the ones who chose to stay with her and her sisters.

The ocean woman yearns as she stands on the doorstep of her heart’s home. She still hears the calling of her sisters and misses them so. She still remembers the weightless freedom of the water.

Weightless.

She draws her simple sun dress over her head and holding it by one finger, lifts her arms and stretches her nude body as if to touch the moon.

Freedom.

With a smile, she watches as the salty sea breeze sucks the gauzy garment from her fingertip and spits it across the night sky. Shimmering in the crystalline moonlight, it swoops and sails and climbs higher, higher, higher before it trembles and tumbles into the silver sea.

She was once a mermaid, and she remembers all. The ocean woman rises on the balls of her feet and dives into an incoming wave. She’s a mermaid again, and all remember her.

High Tide, Low Tide

I’ll free my soul

Just catch a ride

When I go to that place in the sea

Neap Tide,  Spring Tide

Must free my spirit

I can not hide

From the truth cocooned in the sea

Ebb Tide, Flow Tide

Heal my heart

While time I bide

For return to my home in the sea

Filed under: My Writings, Mermaid, Ocean, Remember, Sea, Tide, Woman

VIRGINIA WOOLF AND THE MIDDLE-AGED WRITER

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” I’ve always been entranced by that quote from Virginia Woolf. Her essay, “A Room of One’s Own,” was published in 1929. Woolf had given a series of lectures at the two colleges that make up Cambridge University on whether or not women were capable of writing as well as Shakespeare. I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t know my women’s history as well as I should. (Is there a woman’s history month?) Of course we’ve all heard of Susan B. Anthony and the ground breaking work of the Suffragettes, but I never correlated political activism to a woman’s writings. I recognize it in male authors so why not women? I can say with all honesty that I was never taught how to think critically. But that’s a topic for another post…to get back on point, perhaps instead of political activism, I have to wonder if her lectures were more along the lines of personal aspersion, cast at the predominantly alpha male demographic of the ’20s. Men still controlled everything during this time and I’m sure there were women who made their displeasure with that state of affairs known to all and sundry. Hmmm, an interesting thought to ponder.

I’ll be at the library for a bit this weekend; I want to do more research on Virginia Woolf. Who was this woman? What were the influences on her life that compelled her to write with such depth and breadth? What was she like at middle-age?

As you can see from this posting’s title, I’m a not-young but not-old writer. I’m simply a ‘seasoned’ woman with lots of things to say, stories to tell and ideas to discuss. I hope you’ll drop in from time to time and catch up with my writings.

“I was in a queer mood, thinking myself very old: but now I am a woman again – as I always am when I write.” ~ Virginia Woolf

Filed under: My Writings, Middle Age, Virginia Woolf