The Peace of Morning

Only quiet sounds

The brush of sheets

The softest tap of

Bare toes

A sniff

A sigh

Invade the silence of

Morning

The stillness

Rests heavily

Over all

Too heavy

For anger

Argument

Fights and hate

Hearts beat

Steady and strong

Without the stress and pain

Of conflict

Oh, if we could hold onto

This

Peace

And see the world with such

Clarity

And recognize

And halt

Our own words

When they shatter it into shards of sharp glass

And spread the blood of

Fear

Anger

War

Treachery

Hate

I cannot stop others

But I can vow

To keep this silence

Intact

Not just for this morning hour

But all my life.

Almost Finished

I am minutes away from beginning to grout all of the backsplash tile... and once I'm done, and it's all wiped clean, and the dishes from the spur-of-the-moment party last night are all done, I'll post pics of the finished project.

Nothing is as rewarding to me as having something finished. And nothing more irritating than not finishing something, especially when I can't finish it. The "can't" is always one of two things:

1. I do not have the time in my schedule to work on it, or

2. I don't have a clue how to go about finishing it.

The latter reason is impeding my novel progress at the moment. I'd tell you that from now on I'll devote myself to this novel, but my son could still use two quilts on his bed to complete his room. And my TV trays could use some sanding, painting, and lacquering. And I have about 100 books still to rebind for the library. And that back hallway still to paint, when I paint the walls near the backsplashes, once the grouting is finished. And some books to peruse and take notes from before I take them back to the library in a week.

As usual, though, I'll fit that pesky novel in. I'll be taking off for Seattle soon, and I'll have a month without house projects to devote just to writing and reading. Though I'm sure I'll find plenty of other projects to tackle while I'm there, too.

Wish me luck on the grouting! I'll post again as soon as I take pictures. Who knows, I might just fill this week with pictures of my house, now that it's worth looking at.

Making Things Work

I'm fighting with my novel right now, and the fight is getting nasty. I know what I want to happen, what should happen, what needs to happen for all of it to come together:

1. Forgiveness, or at least grudging resentment instead of outright hatred. My main character, her father--no, her entire family--have to put behind the past and help those who condemned them.

2. People need to be physically saved from a rooftop, before the church they are sitting atop breaks from its foundations and floats away in moving flood waters.

3. The people on the roof have to accept the help of those trying to save them--one person almost refuses, one person almost drowns, but all end up in the boat, whether they want to or not.

4. All of this happens in five minutes tops. (Yes, I can slow time down, but one chapter max. is all I have.)

5. The rain is coming down in sheets, and everybody has to somehow communicate over the sound and see each other through the driving rain.

The rain and flood are the hard parts. I joked with the hubby I should just take those out, and it would be easier. Except that they are the whole point of the book. Without them, there is no book.

Darn. I guess I'll just keep fighting, until my right brain figures out how to get all of this to happen without the whole thing turning as implausible as Armageddon. I couldn't bear ending up with a book I was embarrassed to have written.

Passion

Too much time is lost

To boredom

The dull of vapid conversation

Well-meaning blather

Or silence

Stifling any emotional outburst

As too much

Too ugly

Too close to feeling

Drop the boring act now

Stop stuffing emotion down

Behind the rib cage

That's not where it belongs

Pull it out and wear it on your arm

Flaunting it to every friend

And stranger

Wallow in it until it sets your hair on fire

Press it to your dear one's face

Until they know how much it means

Until they know the real you

Until they, too, can pull out

The pain

The love

The giddiness of expectation

The hope

That hides within

Just feel

And you will see the world bloom

Into a passion

Never seen before.

Work Guilt

"Work," according to Dictionary.com:

–noun

1.

exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplishsomething; labor; toil.

2.

something on which exertion or labor is expended; a task or undertaking: The students finished their work in class.

3.

productive or operative activity.

"Work," according to the hubby:

1. doing something when you'd rather be doing something else.

Just yesterday I realized that these definitions--the hubby's, in particular--were wrapping me up in "work guilt." You see, since I no longer teach part-time (or full-time, with part-time pay, which is what I'd been doing for the past 8 years), I have only four major "jobs," one of which I just acquired. I'm a mom, a writer, a Zumba instructor, and an interior craftsman.

The problem with that is I ADORE three out of four of those jobs... and I really like the last one, except for cutting tile (I hate that). Why does that lead to work guilt, you ask? Because "work" is supposed to mean "toil" or something one would rather not do. And I'd rather do all four of these things than do some of the fun stuff people yearn for. For instance, yesterday I spent about 10 hours "working." I wrote for 6 hours, mothered for... um... the whole day, practiced Zumba dances for 2 1/2 hours, and even worked on the house for a good 2. Wait, how many hours did I say I worked? I'm not a math major, so I won't guess. I also fit in a 1/2 hour of piano, something that is not work. But I feel like I played all day.

Am I doing something wrong? I got up at four this morning, and as soon as this blog post is done I'm back to working on my novel... and then more Zumba... and more mothering. And I'll love every minute of it.

The guilt will come. I know it will. It always does. I hope I ignore it and continue to do the "work" I love most.

Waking

My sun rises

Before the sun itself

I shimmer

Through the house

Sparkling

Filled with hope

And dreams

And laughter

Itching

To work wonders

On the new world

Of today

Self-Pep-Talk

Don't like the way you look? Think your stomach is flabby? Don't like pinching yourself into your jeans every morning? Well, DO something about it. Eat right, exercise, and get yourself in shape. Or buy bigger jeans. Problem solved.

Don't like that your novel isn't finished? You know the answer to this one: WORK on it. It won't get done if you spend the day watching infomercials, sweeping, playing games, or whining to nine friends on Facebook that it isn't done yet. For God's sake, write!

When you don't like the way you smell, you take a shower. When you're hungry, you get something to eat. You pay bills on time, you wash the dishes when they fill the sink. You get the kids to bed when it's time. You do daily stuff like clockwork. You handle all sorts of crappy little chores beautifully, checking them off your list one by one almost as fast as you can write them. Sure, some of your problems may take a bit more work, but that's just it--they take WORK.

So quit your whining, self, and get out there and do the work. You have time. You got the whole day. And tomorrow--don't forget you have tomorrow, too. Get it done.