Sand Moments

My boy's giggling floats among the afternoon shadows in our backyard sandpit. The sand lives there too. Unless it's flying by the handful onto the surrounding brick work.

Rust flecked tip trucks drive haphazardly under the direction of little hands. Happiness echoes in the beeps, brumms, buzzes and bangs. Water bubbles over buckets carried to and fro, pouring over plastic farm animals that swim in the puddles that form.

I watch as the last of the sun touches their cheeks. Toes wiggle in the gritty wetness and t-shirts cling to the muck as I breathe in the deliciousness of childhood.

I sit down beside the ordinary moment and store the image, a still frame for the days when the sandpit sits alone. Knowing that afternoons melt quickly into twilight, I grab a bucket and join in the building.

The back yard sandpit seems a wonderful reason to need a bath.

What about you? What 'ordinary moments' have you taken the time to sit down beside recently?

Awards.

A huge thank you to my fellow bloggers who have given my blog the following awards

One Lovely Blog Award

given by Tira at Runaway Moments

I pass this award along to

Kristen at In the Write Way

Wendy at On Words and Upwards

Kjersten at Collage Clips

Heart Felt Award

given by Julie at 'Silver Lining'

I pass this award along to:

Deb Shucka at CatbirdScout

Heavenly Muse

Gloria at Gloria's Spanish View

Tamika at The Write Worship

Dragon's Loyalty Award

given by Steph Faris at 'Steph in the City'

I pass this award along to:

Rosslyn at Inkhorn Blue

T.Anne at White Platonic Dreams

Suzanne at Tales of Extraordinary Ordinariness

Best Blog Award

given by Deb at 'Ranch Girl Ramblings'

I pass this award along to:

Sarah at Sarah with a Chance

Wine and Words at Quiet Commotion

Jason Evans at Clarity of Night

Awardees, please feel free to take the award and post it on your blog, then pass the award on to other bloggers that you feel are deserving :)

Thank you to all of you for your support of my little blog. It means a lot. Really :)

If you knew you wouldn't fail...

What do you say when fear demands a face off?

Are you the bird who has something to say to the cat? Or do you take flight, nothing left behind but feathers...?

About two years ago a good friend asked me a question.

"What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

I knew. But I'd wallpapered over the desire long ago.

"I'd write," I said.

But it took me another six months to face my fear of failing.

Now I can't imagine my life without words. What if I never answered this question? Would I have missed a large part of the fullness of my life?

Now I ask myself that question all the time. Is there something else I am not doing because I am afraid of failing? Then that is just the thing I need to be doing. I admit. I am the smart mouthed bird that has something to say to the cat... what is the worst that can happen, hey? :)

So what about you? "What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

Most of you are already writing... so I am banning that answer. But I'd love to know, what secrete passions or "maybe I'll try that one day" things have you locked away inside?

The edit will set you free...

The edit will set you free... but first, it hurts.

I'm editing. I mean really pulling my words apart. Necessary right? But painful.

If you don't already have a copy of The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman, I recommend it. ABC's of writing, but you know what happens when you build on wet concrete, right? Foundational cracks will be the least of your problems. Try shaky walls on the fifty-seventh floor of your writing castle.

Interesting little exercise... if you dare.

Take out all the nouns and verbs on the first page of your WIP. List them all separately. Now write a less common replacement beside each word. Insert fresh nouns and verbs. Reread.

Hmmm...

I thought common place and cliche were whole cities away from my work, and then I looked honestly at my writing and it would appear that common crept into the basement with handfuls of words.

Try the same exercise with adverbs and adjectives. Take them all out. Read your work without them. Still conveying major thoughts and themes? Yeah, thought so...

Re tile that basement, Tab.

It's amazing how picky you get about choosing robust nouns and verbs when you decide not to prop them up with adjectives and adverbs. Not saying all adverbs or adjectives should go, but the ones that stay need to plead their case before judge and jury.

List all the adverbs and adjectives that you think need to stay. Then find stronger ones.

Rewrite. Reread.

Better?

Yeah... mine too.

Now, if I could just nail that damn first paragraph...

A massive thanks to Suzanne for her strength and honesty. We might make a writer out of me yet:)

What about you? What writing exercise has added to your WIP or possibly made you rethink the entire building process. Got any foundational cracks to share? Please? I cannot be the only one... right? right?.... please oh please...

[image]

Here I am

32

and then the clock ticked

again

one too many times

sands washed

another wave

wind

movement

and

another year

33

Here I am,

stripped bare

unashamed

because I am tired of all the dressing up

before the God who holds me

tight

close

while I knife the safety net

He weaves beneath my life

Still

Here I am,

standing

When God knows I should kneel

boxing my shadows

alone

in corners

under desks

When He calls me under His wings

Hiding, God, still hiding

He knows me anyway.

Sees where I have been and where I am.

Here

Crawling

dragging beauty through the filth

Here I am.

His fighter

His tears

His joy

The woman He calls Princess

when I prefer the swamps

darkness

the comfort of not knowing

my fists pounding

so close that we both bite our lip

still

Here I am.

How can He stand to watch?

But He does more than stand

He runs

beside

in front of

around

and behind

Because here I am

I am His.

yep, it's my birthday today. 33. Amazing what happens when you are busy hiding, running and crawling. Today, I just am. Here. Half way to Happy. A long way past the end of me and all the way committed to doing another year with Him. Not a bad place to be.

What about you? Where do you find yourself today?

Dear Old Age

Dear Old Age,

I am dying to know (pardon the pun) did we make it? Did we do everything we said we would? Bucket lists, shopping lists, to-do-lists, wish lists... forget the lists, girl!

I wanted to learn that it was the living that counted.

You remembered the writing, right? Tell me you didn't forget the writing... I don't think you did. It is who we are. Did we see the book in print?

Did we did we did we did we did we...

Okay, don't answer that. I want to live the moment, whatever it may be.

What about my boys? They're amazing, right. Cyrus, my monkey man, dancing on the back table with his fire truck, singing Baa Baa Hoo Dee Haa at the top of his little voice. Remember that? Cute. Let me guess... he grew up to be.... a stunt pilot? A formula one driver... no, no ...I have it... he is the first man to spider climb up the outside of the Empire State building. I knew it!

And Isaiah.... my story telling, clover picking, sweet heart. The boy who corrects my spelling already at age six and argues bedtime and bath time and, well, any time really... He grew up to be a.... lawyer? Doctor? The next Dr. Phil? What then?

No, you are right. I already know.

He followed his heart. He's content and settled. Loved. Making a difference. Especially to those around him. The one his little brother rings from Thailand asking to borrow money to buy an elephant so he can tramp through unknown jungles. Isaiah lends the money too, I bet. Laughing. "Take photos bro. I want to see the trek."

But I have to know... how many kids did I have? Two? Did I stop at two? Two seems like enough... but then... Baby fingers. Oh, sweet little baby fingers and toes...

And Matt, how is he? We are still blissfully wed aren't we? He stayed and I stayed and no body else came between... right? That's what I want. Love. When the hands of time crease our faces, I still want that giddy roller coaster ride. Don't you forget that. Don;t get stuck on the damn carousel. Can't stand the carousel. Same ole same ole. Round and around. We didn't let our selves get stuck on the carousel, did we? That's not Matt and I. Maybe we found a certain quietness, but not boring... don't you dare be boring!

And about that girl.. the one I ache for and miss. Did we find each other? Did I get to tell her that her name means sister. That I never forgot. That I held her close... that she is loved and we belong together...

Old age don't forget that I wanted to number my days and live each second. Each maddening change of wind, each beat of a butterfly's wing... I want to be there. Fully present. Known to those who love me and seen by those who care. You still live with passion, right? And even when your body can no longer fight, you don't lose the spirit that held you together through all that darkness. Don't you ever lose that girl. I wont be pleased and I'll have to come whoop your ass...

Lastly, tell me about Happy? Did we get there in the end? Was the road long? Too long? It wasn't all for nothing was it...? I did eventually stop beating me up, right? Tell me I don't do that anymore. Tell me I looked in the mirror and discovered who she was. You tell her she is beautiful now, don't you? Please oh please...

Never forget who she is... even now, when the lines are deep around your eyes, remember life the way only age and wisdom can.

Be you. Be free enough to be you. I know I will love you for it.

Kiss the stars when you get to heaven. Your babies will be watching the skies. Just like they do now. "Tell us Mummy, what lives up there?"

Remember what you said?

"Dreams. Dreams live up there. And in here too." And you pointed to their hearts.

Never forget, girl. I know they didn't.

Love Tab

(the oh so much younger than you Tab at just 32! Sorry Old Age, but remember how Sassy you used to be too. And don't loose that either! Don't go all Jane Austin on me, ya hear? )

What about you? What would you like to tell yourself in Old Age if you could go there and come back here and live towards that moment?

Ali anyone?

What we say lingers if it inspires others.

Muhammad Ali had 'fans' on both sides of the fence. Those that loved to hate him and those that hated to love him... but did anyway. The man was compelling. When he spoke he usually had an audience. In fact I think he did some of his best fighting with his mouth.

Those of you who have been following me for a little while, might know that I box. Real boxing. Real blood. Real sweat. Real tears. Okay, I haven't cried.

Yet.

Though some training sessions push me in that direction for sure!

Anyway, the gym where I train loves to quote the 'god' of our sport. Muhammad Ali's words can be found sprawled across our the top of our training schedules and across the message board. I love a good quote. And today I thought I'd share those that inspired me when I am dying a happy death doing push ups or 3min sparing practice...

(3 minutes is a damn long time sometimes!)

Funny, they are the same quotes that inspire me when I write...

MUHAMMAD ALI

"A man who views the world the same at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life."

"I hated every minute of training, but I said to myself, "Don't quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion."

"The man who has no imagination has no wings."

"The fight is won or lost far away from the witnesses- behind the lines, in the gym and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights."

How true is that?

A powerful mouth, no?

What about you? How is your 'fight' going behind the lines? Feel free to share the quotes that inspire your writing. I love a good quote :)

[Image]

What Lives on Swings?

What lives on swings? A short plank of wood. Or a plastic seat, graffitied. Two lengths of chain or well-knotted rope, and the familiar ee-ore of protesting joints above. Unremarkable. But there they are. Swings. Most parks have a least one set and they are never short of sitters waiting their turn to swing their legs.

Funny that something so simple should be home to such magic...

Childhood lives on swings.

Imagination. Pure and unbridled. Go on, tell me you were never Superman or Wonder Woman. Tell me you never joined the birds that flew above you or captained a rocket ship to the moon. Sometimes I was just the princess with flying hair. Golden hair. Admired and loved.

In my mind I was lots of things and many people, and all of them saved me from the ground, from the falling of my life.

Freedom lives on swings.

Movement. Lullaby rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. I was never stuck, even if I was going nowhere. In my mind I was lots of places, all them involved motion, and all of them saved me from the ground and from the monotony of gravity.

Music lives on swings.

Emotions. Things that I felt and could give voice too. Even if it was off key and never heard by any ears but my own. I sang on the swing set in my back yard and I loved the feeling. I was brave enough to be heard when the wind was rushing past my cheeks and the motion never stopped. I sang anything and everything. Partial lyrics. Nursery rhymes. And Sunday School songs. But my favourites were the ones I made up. Music that told its own story. Songs my heart beat to, and gave my soul eyes.

In my mind I was singing straight to my God, to my little sister to my hopes and dreams, and all of them saved me from the ground and the silence of not being seen.

Swings are simple things. But sometimes life just needs a bit of simple swinging.

Now I am grown, I still love swings. I beg my children to whoosh to and fro with me, so I don't look like the woman who should have stopped swinging a long time ago. I huddle my toddler on my lap and, once again, I am Superwoman.

My writing desk is just the same. A swing set for my mind. A plank of wood. White with four legs. Nothing auspicious. Simple. I share it with my kids. The computer pushed to one side the glue stick, crayons, remote control for the robot, paper like confetti in every colour and size and the odd toy car or alien character staring back at me while I type. At night, I don't clean away every sign of my children. I let these things sit around me. This is my playground. And I remember the swings.

Childhood. Freedom. Movement. And music. When my writing looks like that I know my work as a writer is done. And today I noticed, my desk is not in the middle of this room... and neither is my writing.

Stephen King said it best.

"It starts like this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down to write remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support system for art. It is the other way around."

Simple.

When I live outside the writing, the writing lives.

Swings. And swinging for the mind...

What about you? Where do you write? Is your desk a swing set, nice and simple? Yet magic without confines? What does where you write say about your writing or who you are as a writer?

Do you remember how to swing?

PS- sorry I was not on many blogs yesterday. I had a mad day and lost all time... I'll be there today. I missed reading you guys :)

[image courtesy]

Old: Imagery in Picture books

[Imagery: the use of vivid or figurative language to represent objects or ideas.]

Old, how you leave us before we have kissed you one last time.

I am enthralled with imagery. Language. And all things vivid and figurative. Words are many things to me. Friends. Warmth. Haunting. Light and dark. Amoral and Moral. Whatever they are in a piece of writing, I want my readers to feel... whatever they may feel. One things words are not is lifeless and flat. If you have loved, lost or lived then you have something to breathe into words.

And Margaret Wild's picture book, Old Pig, captures imagery in all its texture. I can't help but grieve... and breathe again. Her words command it of me.

TIME:

Granddaughter knew old. How she loved old. Old Pig knew granddaughter and together they loved.

"I hate corn and oats," Granddaughter always said. And Old Pig always replied, "Corn and oats are good for you. While I'm alive my dear, you'll eat them up."

At that, Granddaughter stopped complaining. She'd eat corn and oats for breakfast, lunch and dinner if it meant that old Pig would live forever.

But forever is that wave upon the sand of life... never forever, never.

DUST ALONE:

One morning old Pig did not get up as usual for breakfast.

"I'm feeling tired," she said. I think I'll have breakfast in bed...

While Old Pig slept, Granddaughter chopped the wood, cleaned out the fire grate, swept and dusted... she tried to whistle while she worked, but all she could managed was a lonely little oink.

The next morning Old Pig was still tired, but she made her self get up.

PENNIES:

Old pig returned her books to the library- and didn't borrow any more. She went to the bank, took out all the money and closed the account... she paid the electricity bill, the greengrocer's bill...

When she got home she tucked the rest of the money into Granddaughter's purse.

"Keep it safe," she said, "and use it wisely."

"I will," said Granddaughter. She tried to smile but her mouth wobbled...

"There, there, no tears."

DANDELIONS THAT FLOAT ON THE WIND:

"Now," said Old Pig, "I want to feast."

And feast they did. Around the town they walked...

"Look!" said Old Pig. "Do you see how the light glitters on the leaves?"

"Look!" said Old Pig. "Do you see how the clouds gather like gossips in the sky? ...

Can you smell the warm earth?

Let's taste the rain!"

STILLNESS IN THE CHAOS:

"Tonight, said Granddaughter, "I'd like to come into your bed and hold you tight. Would that be alright?"

"That would be very alright," said Old Pig.

So Granddaughter switched off the lights, and opened the window to let in the breeze, and opened the curtains to let in the moon.

Can you hear the music play?

She put her arms around old Pig, and for the very last time...

The last page of this book has no words. Just a picture of Granddaughter standing out under the sky, watching the world go by...

Beautiful.

If you need a moment to hold grief with your child over the loss of something or someone, I recommend this picture book and all its texture and imagery. Cry. Because that too is apart of life. And because words sometimes open doors that Little Ones find hard to push through on their own.

Enjoy. Even in sadness...

What about you? What words move you to tears? What picture books have you curled up around with your child and been very glad you did?

[PS- thanks to Katie for my five words: dandelion, time, pennies, dust and chaos. What? You didn't think I was going to just post my five words with a paragraph about what they mean to me did you? ? :) This post is what those words mean to me though- that counts right?]

[image courtesy]

Destination: Road Ahead

A few years back Miserable became overpopulated. Cramped. Hovel like. A Third World hell. My Self lodged an application to move. Heart granted visa immediately. Head withheld my application pending an interview.

"Look, " Head told me, "We've always lived in Miserable. What right do you think we have to up and move to Happy?"

I staggered. I could tell he'd been chatting with Guilt. Just the sort of thing he'd ask.

"I'd just like to go is all... this place is a sodden dump. Look at all my tears. "

"Fine. Fill this in Miss Too-Good-for-Miserable, and we'll see..."

Head handed me a departure card. The list was exhaustive.

What are your plans for travelling to Happy? Approximate length of stay? Do you have enough fiances to support yourself in Happy? Do you have friends or family already living in Happy and able to support your application for status in the country? Will you require a work visa for Happy or a tourist visa only? How much money are you bringing into Happy? Any goods to declare? Baggage that needs to be claimed? Will you be travelling alone? Dependents? Immunized against depression ... and on and on and on...

"Does Happy need to know all this?" I felt sick.

Head sneered...

I went home and called my husband, Matt. He already lives in Happy. "Shred the questions. Burn the paper. I'm waiting for you."

So, I'm writing to you from The Road Ahead. A postcard from Future.

Head protests. Let him, I say!

Heart and I bought milkshakes at a road stop in Fun. And we blew bubbles. And threw some of our caution to the wind. It was weighing us down. You must see Fun. Do stop by if you come this way.

And pass through Hope. Repeatedly, if necessary. Beautiful place...

Heart sometimes likes to ask me, "are we there yet are we there yet are we there yet..."

I have no map, so I can't answer. I'll know it when I see it though.

We play eye-spy to pass the time. Notice the surroundings. And breathe. We do lots of deep breathing. Song singing in the darkness helps too. And Matt often comes to sit beside us when we run off the side of the road. He knows where we are at, and he can get back to Happy all by himself. Good thing too. I don't feel responsible for his travels.

Head checked in with me today.

"Where the hell are we? This doesn't look like any place I know..."

I know.

Bliss.

God, I know...

So, pot holes and flat tyres not withstanding, Heart thinks we are pretty damn close.

Happy, here we come.

Destination: Road Ahead.

What about you? Any fun to report from your Road Ahead? Or perhaps you just need someone to sit beside you in the ditch for awhile. I hope you find that person and I hope that person finds you. Hugs all. Sometimes Road Ahead is full of pot holes... I'm on the look out for Road Stops with milkshakes and friendships. (And thank God for my Matt :)

Wish you all Happy writing this week.

The Entrance to Dripping Wet.

[* In a life before children, my husband and I lived in Hong Kong for two years. Thought I'd share a bit about the people and places that have added to who I am as a writer. Now I just battle sticky words and humid sentences... we love it anyway. Right?]

A huddled throng of frustrated humanity takes cover just inside the concrete block entrance to Hong Kong’s MTR (Mass Transit Railway) station. Pouring rain is not an unexpected phenomenon, but the milling sea of domestic helpers, round bellied executives, school children and bent over ladies with toddlers strapped to their backs seem to have left home today quite unprepared. Though perhaps with good reason.

Millions of humid, sticky people go about life hemmed in by high-rise and hampered by two feet of walkway. This coupled with low hanging signage and the taxi invested roads make umbrellas a useless burden. So we stand waiting for… what? The skies to close? Hong Kong to float to the Bahamas?

Shoving, slipping and general unhappiness results. Dripping concrete cracks above form puddles beneath our feet. Moss grows on our toes. Desperate souls push to the front and thrust folded newspapers or Gucci purses above their heads. The pouring wall of wet mocks futile attempts at dryness and, eventually, we accept our fates. The sticky line of people push through the blockage and cross the road. A line of humanity snakes up and down the stairs behind wealthy Tai Tai’s wielding umbrellas, but still, for some reason know only to the Chinese, seeking shelter at the entrance. People enter. People leave. Others wait. A workable mayhem ensues, and summer living in Hong Kong continues.

~

What about you? What people or places have added to you as a writer? Tell me, where have ya been? Let those travel tails/tales hang out.

Enough, I thought.

Sadness was a letter. An envelope with foreign stamps. Postmarked in my past. The return address, once a familiar embrace. I knew the date and relived the time in every word, over and over and over...

Enough, I thought.

I folded it once. Twice. And pushed it back into the empty pocket, filing it in my bottom drawer. I decided not to look. To cut off and shut down and never care again.

Enough, I thought.

Silence was beautiful at first. Until the pendulum of living stopped mid swing. No pain, but no connection either. The letter sat there bruising me. Rotting my insides, turning me bitter.

Enough, I thought.

Today the sky was blue. Clear and opened. So I took the letter out. Unfolded myself and re-read beneath my sky.

At the bottom of an empty pot I stuffed the sadness. The letter. The postmarked past. And all the longing for things we never said.

Enough, I thought.

I held the paper edges to the lighter. The flames crept along the edges. Respectfully almost.

And I sat and held my hand.

As the ashes floated my hair filled with smoke and I wiped the stinging from my eyes. And then, the letter was gone.

I sat with me, for just a while.

Long enough to forgive myself. To think of writing my own letters. Different letters. To kiss the stamps and send them outwards. And hope, perhaps, for new words in return. No more folding and tucking me away.

Enough, I thought.

[image courtesy]

All in a Row

I don’t stand in rows, unless I have to. Unless that would be considered good manners. And patience. Then I Row Stand with the best of them.

But otherwise…I don’t understand rows. All that clustered sameness. All that fitting into other people’s boxes and shoes. All that waiting… waiting…waiting.

When you make your own line. You’re first. There’s no one to follow.

The first time I made my own row, I trembled and shook.What would the Line Makers say? Whose footprints would walk down the beach before mine? Where would I go now that I wasn’t waiting for the person in front of me to move?

Freedom. Ahhh… the sweet skies above. Limited only by myself.

So I re-wrote my book. Saying all the things I wanted to breathe and forgetting that it was for other people. In those moments, the writing was for me. And it felt good.

Then I bought that dress. The one I passed by because it was too… beautiful.

I asked Matt to hold me. Because I felt like it. I wanted his arms. And I let myself be held.

And I shaved my head. Yes, really. I have always wanted to do it. I thought it would be pixie like. I left just enough hair to have hair and wispy bits beside my face. But I wasn’t sure when I met my new reflection. She was pretty. Not like me. Not at all. I wished I were her. I wondered what it might be like. I am looking forward to finding out. Because now she doesn’t look like someone who waits behind.

What about you? Where do you stand on the issue of rows? A time to line up and a time to start your own line? No need to head shave… unless you have always wanted to. Then perhaps you should :)

PS- I take no responsibility for shaved heads as a result of this post.

PSS-No snails were harmed during the taking of this photo.

[image courtesy]

Story Flesh

Story flesh you live inside me. In all the things that make me smile.

Tea cups in the rain. Cupcakes behind the baker's glass. Goldfish circling, orange and black. Colored bottles on an open window sill. New pencils in their packets like a neatly boxed rainbows.

Little things that mean nothing.

This is where the story sparks.

In moments too small to even capture, that's where my writing grows.

Story flesh you aren't destroyed, even inside my Green House of Grief. Pain, a hot bed of healing.

The feet that once stamped in puddles without gumboots, the back flip that didn't land well and the eyes with blueness dripping, became the dew on my early morning grass. I lived under the sadness, but emerged with words. Fern fronds. Life. Even under the rocks carpeted with moss.

Story Flesh, apart of who I am. Even when I didn't know her. Even in the tears. Alive, over, under and beside me. Nice to finally see. The Story flesh; I always hoped I had.

A second skin, a first skin.

My skin.

Me.

What about you? What grows on you and in you? Do you have Story Flesh?

[image courtesy]

What Does it Mean to You?

FAITH

Freedom to believe in flight

And deep stillness nestled

Inside His hands

Trusting that

He owns the skies

[For Acrostic Only, Prompt #10. Single word: FAITH]

What about you?

Faith is different things through different eyes.

Care to share what FAITH means to you?

image courtesy

For Him

Funny how we make plans for life and hope, only to be reminded of how finite our lives and hopes are anyway.

I stare at my Popo's numerous tattoos, now lost in the folds of his sallow skin, but they give nothing away. Tonight, the doctors say it could be tonight. I huddle his shrunken hands in mine and try to marry these images with the ox of a man I once knew. A truck driver and ex-British, ex-Australian solider.

But so much more.

A man with a humble family history in England and merge beginnings in Australia that are my rights to pride and a sense of value and belonging. A man who showed me how the imperfect love between him and my grandmother was perfect enough to last almost 50 years. That his daughter, my mother, Skinny Ninny as he called her, was a diamond in his twilight, as precious to him as the daughters she birthed.

Leaning close to the wispy hair coming out of my Popo's ear I whisper, "You were the first man to tell me I was beautiful." I seems important to say. In the absence of my father's adoration my grandparents have always held me in their palm like the petals of a rose. Visiting their house was like coming home to logs fires and hot chocolate. How do you say thank you for refuge from the howling winds of your childhood?

I watch my uncle stroke his skinny scalp.

"It's time Dad, it's okay to let go."

Somewhere in the quite of that moment a little girl within me came and sat at my feet. She was shaking with a longing for the Dad she never had, even if it meant she would one day loose him. She doesn't know why she's crying of course. She is just a little girl. But I know. I see her.

Remembrance Day.

Australia.

November 2008.

1: 08am

He slipped up to heaven on the patient wings of a waiting angel.

The truck lights shining on the distant hill.

You would be proud of your son. He held you hand to the end.

You would be proud of your wife. She loves you still.

This weekend we will honor the memories you left us with.

Lights on the Hill Memorial.

For truck drivers.

For you.

My fallen hero.

A man who knew what is was to love.

I will forever be grateful.

Rest in peace.

Peace in your rest.

Until we hold you again.

Clover

Clovers are my silent friends, spread across the back yard like a rash, and still I love them. I haven't always had affections for weeds. I was once a Rose or Lilly girl. Pick me up in your clean car wearing your pressed shirt and take me somewhere nice. Beer, if the wine list mocks our modest budget. Then pave the way to kisses with daisies. But clover? No.

Then we went and made mini versions of ourselves and let them run around our backyard. We killed the clover, but we let the barefoot noise makers stay. We like them. Mostly. The first spring Husband was not quick enough to head off the clover onslaught our first born waded through the patches before I could stop him.

Bees, oh God. The bees.

My husband bloats at the mere whiff of them. I didn't want to conduct a home science experiment to see if my son would react the same way. I ran out after him, picked him up and tried to pull the fistfuls of clover out of his hands. "No! Mummy pretty flowers for you. I wuv you."

Suddenly roses paled in comparison.

We still spray the clover, but every spring my little boys beat us to at least one patch and ignore my objections to their shoeless wandering as they pad barefoot through the clover mound.

And every spring there will be at least one small vase stuffed with wilting clover beside my bed.

Isaiah calls them Mummy's favorite flowers.

I don't correct him...

I may one day have to explain why his girlfriend curled her lip and growled,

but not yet.

They are my clovers. For just a little bit longer.

And Stuffed

Jazzed...

We have a winner! Congrats to Jessica of Bookin It. She is the winner of KM Weiland's latest book Behold the Dawn. (Email me Jess, I can't find your email address) Thanks to everyone who stopped by and left comments for Katie. Promoting author's work is important to me. (I promise the competition was fairly drawn. I wrote down all the names of everyone who left a comment on this post and then Matt (husband) drew the names out of a box.)

And Stuffed...

Right on cue she showed up again today. Miss Tired. Bang on 12:30pm everyday Miss Tired is lounging in my office chair looking up at me with big coffee brown eyes and saying things like, "You don't want to write. Come have a nap with me. Aren't you tired? You look tired?"

I take her hand and lead her out of the room, but five minutes later she is back and climbing on to my lap...

Not five minutes before I was bouncing off the walls with energy, putting my son to bed, racing into my office so I could start writing, and then there she is. She isn't even my kid. Though she hangs out at my place a fair bit. Do you know her? Miss Tired? She's sweet alright. She wants to be held, cuddled and rocked to sleep. But I if I give in, when would I ever write?

Today we had a little chat. Miss Tired and I. "It's the middle of the day. I need to write now or forever hold my peace because this is the only space in my busy day. Miss Tired I need you to go home, or go play or whatever it is that metaphorical children go and do..." (you didn't think I was really talking about a read child did you???)

Miss Tired was obliging, at first. Until she could see I was really going to ignore her and write. Then it was a full meltdown on my carpet. I called her mother, Mrs Motivation.

"Come get your daughter. I can't get anything done with her hanging around. Honestly how could such an inspirational couple like yourself and Mr. Motivation have managed to birth a Miss Tired?"

"Yes, we wonder the same thing. I blame his side of the family. There is the odd Mr.I-Don't-Feel-Like-It on his mother's side. Not a lot of dream chasers among that lot. Either that or Miss Tired is just going through the terrible twos."

"Have you considered a name change?"

"Hmmm..."

"Something along the lines of Miss Sleep-Later or Miss Rest-for-Five minutes? Or even Miss Put-me-to-bed-and-get-on-with-it?"

"Interesting... Redefining the problem... why didn't I think of that?"

"Because I rock and this is my blog."

"I'll let you have that one."

"Thank you."

Within minutes Miss Tired had been collected and swaddled off to the local name registry. I think. Actually don't call me heartless, but I could give a damn where she went. I need to get some work done...

What about you? Miss Tired and Parent often walk hand in hand. Miss Tired and Full Time Job live together. It's her elder brother. And Miss Tired and Mother with Full Time Job make for a house stuffed to the seams. Add Writer to that mix and you have... well, the need to call Mrs.Motivation.

What do you do when Miss Tired comes calling? (I have her mother's phone number if you want it...)

Baa Baa Ho Dee Ha?

Our boys are a little bit left of centre. The multi colored crayons in the box of life. I don't know where they get it from...

Tonight at the dinner table our toddler shared his version of Baa Baa Black Sheep. In Cyrus' version there are no sheep mentioned whatsoever. Whether these sheep produce black wool or not, we can't say for sure. Cyrus leaves that part out. It's extra detail. Apparently. We are also unsure if the sheep visit the master the dame or the little boy down the lane. These details are also omitted. What we can confirm is that these sheep sing. Yep. They sing. At the top of his little off key voice Cyrus belted out, "Baa baa, Baa baa. Ho ho ho dee daa. Da da dee da, three bags ool. One da da da dee da two da da deeeeee.... " And then the song repeated.

The Baa Baa's sing a little ditty! Brilliant. Much better than producing wool for nameless masters, dames and little boys. Nasty business that wool producing. Far better to be a singin' Baa Baa.

You might wonder where I am going with this post. But I am going somewhere....

See Cyrus' song got me thinking about what I do when I'm writing and I just can't find the word I want to use. Cyrus has never been one to let words get in the way of telling a story or asking for something he wants. He invents his own language all the time. And he is quite comfortable singing Baa Baa Black Sheep minus the black and the sheep if he doesn't remember those words either.

I do the same when I write. I sing on. I keep going. I write the word, 'something' in the middle of the sentence and then highlight it so I can come back to it later. I don't want to stop the flow of several perfectly good sentences that are backing up and banging into each other behind that one stuck word. Later when I come back to these highlighted 'somethings' the word I want is sitting there twiddling its thumbs saying, 'What took you so long? I've been here for ages."

What about you? Any tricks you pull when words get stuck?

OR

Any singing Baa Baas at your house?

PS- Matt (husband) is responsible for the creative dinner (pictured above). Yeah, I wonder where our boys get their singing Baa Baas from?

PSS- I will announce the winner of KM Weiland's book tomorrow :)