Turning It Over in My Mind

For the first time in my life, since the first church message board started putting up adages to edify us all (or get us to go to church), I found one to be profound and thought-provoking.

It read:

The soil does not get plowed

By turning it over in one's mind.

Well, hallelujah! Finally somebody--or some church pastor--is getting me off my duff and working. In the three days since I have seen that sign, I have finished the last of the painting, unpacked the last box, and cleaned up my whole house.

Now I can write. And that means you will see me a whole lot more often. Once I've completed some writing for the day, I'll be checking in here.

Hope you come back and visit as I rev it all up again! I have two play ideas, four novels to revise, and another five to write (so far). Lots of work, but finally I can do it!

Time

Anger wanes

With time

Unless we grasp onto it

With hate in our fingers

Bitterness pounding in our forehead

Resentment oozing from our skin

Like sweat

Selfish to prove others wrong

To be right instead of at peace.

Sorrow leaves us

As years pass

Unless we decide

We need to understand

The reason for it

Unless we need to find

That we have caused it in some way

That we can blame someone

For the tears

Let go of time

Release your pain and hate

Forgive

For while you seek the

Answers

That do not exist

You lose

The time you have

For nothing

Sifting into Place

The walls

Shine

With dry paint

And the books

Slowly

Sift themselves

Into cozy shelves

Ready for reading

Boxes emptier

Paintings almost up

Photos framed

Rugs rolled out

A few more days

And all is finished

(Then back to writing!)

(Hurray!)

I'll post pics soon. Until then, still some work to do.

Practicing

Sorry it's been so long, but I've been a bit busy. My house is two rooms away from being fully painted, and I also re-started a long-time interest. Last week I auditioned for The Sound of Music.

It's a musical I've been practicing for these, oh, past many decades, ever since I was old enough to sing songs on my own. I still remember watching it on laserdisc (yes, my family owned a player, and they amassed hundreds of them by the time I moved out on my own). One of my fondest memories of my father comes from watching this movie, for he let me scan back and sing "Climb Every Mountain" over and over, turning up the volume so that I could belt out the song at the top of my lungs.

Yes, others in the family complained. Thinking about it now, I'm not surprised. It was loud. I was only learning to sing. But when anyone did complain, my father would tell them, "She's practicing."

Last Sunday, that memory burst into me at a key point, when the director asked five of us to sing "Climb Every Mountain" solo to audition. One by one we stepped up and sang, and when it was my turn, the memory of my "practicing," with my father sitting there, without complaining, came to me. What a moment. I knew then what I'd been practicing for--for that one moment, that ending verse, the emotion, the message, everything.

When it was over, I felt so grateful to have that memory, and to have the chance to sing for my father, who passed away four years ago on March 9. (I tried blogging about this Friday, but I lost the whole thing just as I was about to post it.) I knew the casting didn't matter, for I'd sung to my father.

The moment isn't over, though. Maybe it was the memory, maybe it was all that practicing, but I earned the part of Mother Abbess, and when performances begin in May, I'll be belting that song out for the whole audience.

And maybe my father will be there, too, listening. For all I know, he was listening last Sunday, when all that practicing came to fruition.

Have anything you've been practicing for? Has it happened? No? Just wait. You never know when all that practicing is going to pay off, in more ways than one. Don't give up. Keep on practicing.

Show Me

Show me

The couple

With no kids

Who need a four-thousand-square-foot

Vacation home

With two pools

And beach access

Then I can look at my own home and feel bad

Show me

The yachts

The parties

Of the rich and snooty

Dining on specific kinds of cheese

I couldn't find

Unless I went to France

Then I can chew, tearful, on my vegan hot dog in a wheat bun

Show me

The drive of the spendthrifts

Who fork over thousands for trips

And wedding dresses

And man caves

And luxury seats

To watch a game, a play, a show

That I see for pennies on my television

Then I can wish I had the money to burn, to waste

No, wait!

Better yet,

Show me

People who care about something

Enough to work hard

To fix it

To feed those in need

To sacrifice their time

Their hard-earned money

And their whole lives

To help the world

Just a minute

I forgot

People like that don't make it on TV, do they?