Find Me
This night, unfinished.
A possibility.
A girlish impulse,
clear-eyed and friendly.
A lesser angel in the curve of a smile.
A stranger’s face,
beginning to feel like home.
Holding everything you need within
a mad embrace.
T. Liptak
Chasing the Light
and all the melodies come back to me,
of summer’s sweet songs.
Time slows down as I embrace the need to devour this thing called life.
A childlike longing to break the gold-tinged day into pieces
and slip them into my pocket.
To glut and gorge on sherbet-colored sunsets and cotton candy skies.
Each day given its portion of spectacular.
T. Liptak
A Chapel Without Walls
A hunger gnaws at me as the winding road inches me to my destination. My patience is rewarded as the landscape unfolds like the pages of a child’s pop-up book into something rugged and wild.
The numbing repetition of big box stores and gas stations fades away as the small jutting, striated rocky ledges and mounds soon swell into the muscles and bones of the San Juan mountains in Southwest Colorado. Mountains that rise above me like a protective mother.
Tucked in along the gentle slope of her majestic skirt that spreads along the still water, I look up. Searching. Reminded of a simple, yet profound, truth about nature, life, and myself. All we have is the now. The moment at hand. These mountains generously offer me what I didn’t even realize I was looking for before now. A permission to slow down and take a deep breath. Truly listen to what my mind has to say.
A hush embraces me as I wander along the dirt path at the base of the rocky range stacked with towering cedars and aspens. The silence broken only by the click of my camera. The cool blue of the sky presses on me, rooting me to the earth. Wisps of clouds thread through the treetops.
I do not question the sensation that I am somehow at the intersection of the past, present, and future. A flash in time. Illumination. Seeing with my heart, as well as my eyes, what is before me. A joyous focus. I embrace it and mold myself to this new feeling of wonder combined with mindfulness. A rush of gratitude and completeness sweeps over me. The sense of a connection to something much bigger than myself grows with each step into this pristine wilderness. Here in this chapel without walls.
Art Break - Deep Ellum Art Festival 2017
Yesterday, we ventured out to the Deep Ellum Art Festival in Dallas, TX. Again, our outing included fierce wind gusts most of the day, but we had a nice time in spite of it. It is always inspiring to spend time among art and artists. The colors and ideas, not to mention the people-watching are fuel for a writer's imagination. I wish I could have gotten more pictures of the artwork, but most did not want pictures taken of their work, which is understandable.
Running Towards the Day
My poem "Running Towards the Day" was published on the Kind Over Matter site a few weeks ago. It's a beautiful site with a wonderful message that encourages women to be kind to one another, as well as themselves.
One Word at a Time
The ocean blue notebook is tattered and marred with scratches and stray ink marks on its cover. It started out as a surplus of school supplies for my son, tucked away and forgotten. Now, it holds the rocky story of my past year. A hard year spent in a bubble of depression. Inside this unassuming notebook’s shabby cover lies a hidden lifeline of language for a soul in need of solace and meaning. Blood, sweat, and tears in cursive.
The handwriting alone documents the highs and lows of that year. Some of the handwriting is beautiful and artistic with a hopeful flourish, while some is barely legible. The desperate scratchings of someone with tears streaming down her face, seeking shelter from the unexpected despair that gripped her. The ink smudged in random spots with tears now long-dried, but not forgotten.
Two of my favorite memories of childhood are sitting on my daddy’s lap while he read me a favorite book and spending lazy summer afternoons in the old two-story wooden house that was converted into our city library. An inviting place that enveloped me with its signature scent of aging paper and dusty ink. Curling up with the latest Nancy Drew book in the sunny spot by the bay window, I was transported to another world while my mom searched for her own books in the next room.
As it does for many young girls, my love of words extended into keeping a diary. A birthday gift, it was white with gold-foiled edged pages and had “My Diary” stamped on the cover in gold. The tiny lock and key it came with delighted me. I felt grown-up and important.
As life got busier, I no longer took the time to write in a diary. Yet, intuitively, I found my way back to writing as an adult during my onset of depression. At first, orderly words marched in obedient lockstep along the rigid, black lines. Somber and searching, the words purged out of desperation, no joy found there. Only a release as my hand moved across the page. The gliding of the pen on the page slowed my heartbeat and steadied my breath. As the weeks flowed by, measured in ink, my mood began to lighten. My words grew bold and playful, daring to stray outside the lines in the occasional arch floating above the margin in a rainbow of plans and dreams.
Today, my beloved notebook is swollen with printed confessions, great and small. It is a silent witness to a soul searching for and finding better days. A path laid down, thought by thought, out of the darkness into the light. Grief and joy balanced in the palm of my hand. That notebook, an old friend that reminds me that things can and do get better even when it feels the darkest.
Ben (Excerpt from Work in Progress)
Five-year old Ben Lambert was in love, and it made his stomach hurt. The peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich he’d had for lunch was now a gummy knot tangled up with loopy butterflies when he looked at her. Why did grownups want to be in love? It just made you want to throw up.
Still, his hand
shot up when his teacher asked the class to name the letter she had written on
the blackboard. It was the second day of kindergarten, and he wanted Mrs. Peele
to like him and know that he could already read a bunch of words. Some of them
even had five or six letters.
Next to his mommy, Mrs. Peele was the
prettiest lady he’d ever seen. The shiny black hair that draped past her
shoulders reminded him of a black bird’s wing when the sun hit it. Her brown
eyes were so dark they were almost black, and they crinkled at the corners like
she had a happy secret to tell you. She looked like Pocahontas, which was one of
his favorite movies. Her words floated out in a singsong way that made him feel
friendly.
Mrs. Peele
pointed at him and said, “Yes, Ben. Can you name this letter?”
Ben’s mouth
went dry as nineteen heads turned to stare at him. The butterflies turned into somersaulting
pterodactyls. The rustling of papers, tapping of pencils, whispers, and random
squeaks of rubber-soled shoes on the linoleum floor that was the official music
of Room 18 stopped as if someone flipped a switch. The complete silence pressed
on him. The tops of Ben’s ears grew hot, and his tongue felt furry and too big
for his mouth. Why did he raise his hand? Love or not. Dummy. He just hoped the
P.B. & J stayed down.
He peeled
his tongue off the roof of his mouth, but his words dribbled out in dots and
dashes.
“I . . .i .
. . it’s the l-l-let . . . ter B,” he stuttered.
Kids
laughed and hooted, and Ben clutched his brand new Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown crayon in
his hand so hard it snapped. Heat fizzed up the back of his neck and prickled
his scalp like ants let loose in his amber-colored hair. He scooted down in his
blue chair, trying to disappear behind Jennifer What’s Her Name and her
fountain of a ponytail topped with a giant, lop-sided purple bow.
“All right,
class. Let’s not laugh when someone is answering a question. That’s not nice.
Sometimes, we get tongue-tied. You were right, the letter is B. Good job. Thank
you for raising your hand like I asked and volunteering an answer,” Mrs. Peele
said. She gave him a smile that made the pterodactyls disappear.
Ben bent
down and pretended to look for something in his pencil box on the little wire shelf
underneath his chair so no one could see the tears that burned his green eyes.
Sometimes his words didn’t come out right. There was even a real word for it. Tongue-tied.
That was just what it felt like. Someone had lassoed his big, fat, furry
tongue. He didn’t always stutter and mess up his words, but when it happened,
others always made fun of him. Mommy said when he was nervous, his brain worked
faster than his mouth, and he would grow out of it.
Jennifer
What’s Her Name turned to look at him as he sat back up. He swallowed and gave
her a half-smile. Mommy always said to smile when you didn’t know what else to
do. Jennifer stuck her slimy tongue out at him and whipped her mean red ponytail
at him as she turned back around with a snap. Girls.
Ben sighed
and picked up the pieces of his Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown crayon and stuffed them in
the front pocket of his tan cargo shorts. He hadn’t even gotten to use it yet. You
couldn’t color trees or a good dog without it. The best color in the box. Well,
next to Atomic Tangerine. At least he still had that one. Ben crammed the crinkled
tail of his Batman t-shirt back into the waistband of his shorts where it had
wiggled out and sat back down. He sure hoped the day got better.
He wasn’t
so sure about this school thing. It was more fun at the beach looking for sea
glass with Mommy or in her art studio while she gave lessons. He was always
good and quiet and got to watch the people learning how to paint. It was hard
work being five. It was a good thing he would be six in nine more days. Every
morning, Mommy crossed out each used up day on their Adorable Kittens calendar
with a red Magic Marker for the countdown to the big day. Six had to be better
than five. Maybe his tongue would work better then.
Ben looked
around the classroom with its red door, pale yellow walls, and colorful posters
with dancing numbers and letters with happy faces and giant feet on them. It
wasn’t too bad. They even had a class turtle named Shelly in an aquarium in the
Quiet Time corner by the bathroom. Ben liked turtles. Turtles didn’t care if
your words got jumbled up. He couldn’t wait for his turn to get to feed her. Then
he sneaked a look at his new classmates. There were more girls than boys. Just
his luck. His brows furrowed as he had a rotten thought. What if none of them
wanted to come to his birthday party? What if he sat there with his Batman cake
with the multi-colored sprinkles and the mint chocolate chip ice cream,
waiting? Then he waited and waited some more until the ice cream started to
melt, and no one showed up? The pterodactyls were back. Was it time to go home
yet?
#
The tree
didn’t look that high. It was a Madrone tree, like the ones sprinkled through
the forest behind his house that his daddy had taught him about. It was Ben’s
favorite kind of tree. Its cinnamon-colored bark could be peeled off in sheets
like a fancy scroll of paper, and it had glossy green leaves. Sometimes, they
had red berries on them. He bet he could climb this one, no problem. It was
recess, and he wasn’t going to waste it waiting for someone to talk to him.
This tree would be perfect to sit in and see all over the playground. He could
be a pirate in the crow’s nest looking for enemy ships to plunder. With a
bubble of excitement, he grabbed onto the smooth lower branch and planted his
sneakered foot into the fork of the trunk and worked his way up the tree.
“Hey, how
did you get up so high?” a voice called out.
Ben looked
down to see two boys, their hands tented over their eyes as they looked up at
him. Both of them were in his class, but he couldn’t remember their names. One
had black hair, and one had hair almost the same color as Ben’s.
“Well, my d-d-daddy says that I’m p-part monkey, so maybe that’s it,” Ben
teased.
Both boys laughed. The black haired one said, “You’re pretty
good at it. Are you scared?”
“Nah. I’m
too busy being a pirate looking for ships to attack.”
“I want to
play,” said the amber-haired boy, “but I don’t want to climb up there. Will you
come down, and we can play pirate on the monkey bars?”
“Sure. I’m
c-c-coming down. Wait for me.”
“O.K.,
we’ll stay here until you get down.”
Excited to
play with them, Ben scrambled down the nearest branch. He was half-way there
when he heard the sharp crack. The branch gave way and fell from underneath his
foot, shifting his weight. The smooth bark slipped through his sweaty fingers.
The air rushed out of his lungs as he bounced off the next branch and felt
himself hurtling toward the ground. Headfirst.
Art Break: Art Journal/Doodles
As a writer, it's always helpful to enjoy other forms of art to inspire creativity. Art journaling and doodling are two favorites of mine. I'm also making a journal for my poetry. The protagonist of my current "WIP" is an artist, so it helps me to get into her head to take an artistic break.
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