Introduction to a Writer
This article is dedicated to anyone who ever felt lonely in a crowded room and most happiest at the computer.
The Hermit Poet
It is a dilemma how we are always digging in-
between sand traps,
cutting us off at the waist,
from the triumph of imagination over intelligence,
always on the go, here,
there and yonder,
forgetting to appreciate and be thankful
Kindred spirits turn disorder into order,
they turn repressed thought into attendant emotion,
and ambiguous words into dreams,
that transform us from displaced willy-silly crabs
to spontaneous artists who build elaborate defenses,
lest sublimated emotions and motivations
come disturbingly into consciousness.
Many of us often spend a great deal of time trying to understand why we are who we are and why our bodies don’t always do what our mind wants. I admit I am a card-carrying poet, writer, and artist introvert looking for inner strength to keep writing and living my life creatively. I’ve spent a lot of time studying how to communicate but I’m still a wallflower with dancing hands. When I’m stressed or unhappy, I speak in inconsistent mumbling tones. I speak best with my hands. No other species has such a remarkable range of capabilities when it comes to speaking with our hands. It is eerie fact, that while our hands help introverts best, they also serve our opposites – the extroverts. We can stammer, stutter and delete when typing. We can also carry on long uninterrupted conversations. Writing helps us understand ourselves and the world around us.
Many think that having an introverted personality leads to poorer emotional health and well-being. Others think introverts are just as balanced as those with extroverted personalities. Some of us must learn to follow our bliss with creative expression. Spending time doing something you love is better than medicine. I love to speak at my keyboard not so much verbally. The one stand-out difference is that the introverted unconsciously deems himself guilty before proven innocent. The extrovert deems himself innocent before proven guilty.
Rules for Happiness
Get to know, what it is that “you want” and what “you need.”
Learn to contend with gravity, society and your limitations
Know where is a will, there is a way
Connect with your true self, don’t mimic others.
Don’t let agitation blow through you like a cruel wind
Balance fun with rest and exercise
Realize that the pure and simple truth is rarely pure and
Express yourself creatively, for purpose and better self-esteem
Let your optimism fall like seeds to the moist warm ground
to take root in the footsteps of others.
Every morning I wake now, I pray for courage, wisdom and luck. Time is passing me by with each birthday. I missed out on so many things because of fear. Then in bouts of boredom I tried many jobs, including bartender, masseuse and legal secretary when I was younger. I am retired now. I never really woke up my soul till my forties when I began experimenting in arts. My mom never let me take art courses. Typing and shorthand will keep you from being hungry…she always said. Despite what I wanted – I wanted only to please her. I spent most of my later years working as a legal typist. It never occurred to me I had words within me that needed to get out in the public eye.
Ever since I was a chubby child with dark curly hair, I flew over the cracks on the sidewalk with wings, so as not to break my momma’s back. I have two girls and two boys. Within the space of one year, my brother committed suicide after he got back from Viet Nam, my step-dad died, and then my mother died. I began surviving each day by writing. I suffered from chronic depression most of my life but it wasn’t until I started taking medicine that I began to have hope for myself. Later, I enrolled in college and took English, Ceramics and Sculpting. None my mom would approve of but I took them for me this time not her. I went to great lengths to conceal my flaws. As I got older I found my flaws make others laugh. The hardest thing in writing for others is to cut away all that is incidental, and keep only that which remains as the nobility of truth, love and drama. We are bound by our inner knowing no matter what we do, think, write or desire. I’m working on a new book, Marriage, Love & Sex right now. My ego flies high when I write about loving and being loved. It is like having a foot in two worlds both good and naughty. The idea of double-dipping into sensual matters intrigues me in my senior years. I’ve always been a sexual, loving woman, a mother and grandmother who know that both love and hope drives our human engine. “Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.” Oprah Winfrey
My muses whisper in my ears close to three every morning. Their counsel is a process that continues, moment by moment and day by day. Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes says, “A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanging; it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in color and content, according to the circumstances, and time in which it is used.” I feel like he is describing how we communicate with God and his muses. Our creator wants to change our character not make us rich and beautifully perfect but with his guidance we can be fruitful human beings. One thing I know for sure, peace does not come from the outside in, it comes from the inside out.
Turning Into Mom
I hear my mom’s voice many mornings,
when I roll out of bed, her eyes looking back
at me in a mirror, both of us crying a little,
it was our habit to refer back to minutes, weeks,
months, or years gone by, when forced to keep
doing, as opposed to enjoying each other, when
we sat eye-to-eye, we were estranged, waiting
for our bodies to stop hurting, and our minds to
stop accusing and excusing, but now that she is
deceased, I try to simplify my twisted feelings by
trying to forgive and forget, and remember our anger
at the world did not compromise our love for each other.
Despite the fact that I felt neglected as a child, I was always well fed and knew they were busy in the next room, not far from me. I am still their little girl with my aged heart on fire for their love and approval. My own kids shot across the sky into infinity, forever impervious to my own mediocre mothering. My parents helped me raise them, too, like most grandparents do. Now I am helping raise my grandchildren in between pages of my book. As adults, my kids are now writers of their own destiny, sculpturing their own lives despite what I want for them. They carry with them my love, my wit and my good intentions as well as my many apologies for cutting them short on opportunities for growth.
I have two grown boys. Both suffer from depression. One works and his depression haven’t taken over his life. The younger has been dysfunctional since he was a teenager; he has been in and out of rehabs for making suicide attempts over and over. He has the most love in him. I also have two grown daughters, one takes medication and one refuses to take medication. It upsets her balance somehow. Both drift from place to place looking for someplace or something to complete them. I have a younger brother who committed suicide rather than watch our mom die years ago. He also suffered from depression especially after serving in Viet Nam. We were estranged as brother and sister, always keeping a record of our wrongs. The first time I ever touched him, I found him dead on the floor. I am hoping my own kids will all at some point come to understand what Corinthians 13 reminds us, that love does not keep a record of wrongs, love is not happy with evil, but is happy with the truth. Love never gives up. Its faith, hope and patience never fail. Love is eternal. There is faith, hope and love; of these three the greatest is love.