Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Simple Joy By DSBriggs Joy is . . . Hearing a tail thump when I walk in the room. Watching my dog at the dog park as he smiles and checks in before running off again. Talking to my sister after a long period of silence. Being with my niece and her family. Today, joy was sitting with a close friend, talking about family recipes, remembering how thankful I am for our friendship. Shared laughter is joyous. Some days joy is being outside on a good weather day. You know, warm but not too warm or cold but not too cold. The “why we live in California “ type day. Joy, is seeing a tree in a different way and the interaction of sunlight and leaves. Joy is watching the mad…
Category: Sparks
Memorable writing that sparks imagination.
Offer It Up
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Offer it Up By Tracy L. Wood It was a catch phrase of my mother’s. Whether our sweater was itchy, or our new church shoes gave us blisters, or a sibling was teasing us, Mom’s standard reply was Offer it Up. As a young person, this response was unsatisfying. It didn’t fix anything, and it felt dismissive. More often than not, I wanted her other catch phrase, which similarly didn’t fix anything. But at least Oh Honey came bearing sympathy. This was before Mom got involved in Al-Anon where she learned about the Serenity Prayer and to Let Go and Let God. In many ways those adages offer the same comfort, or challenge depending on one’s state of grace, and were simply another way of saying Offer it Up. I like Mom’s version better. I often hear Mom’s voice nudging me to…
River Walk
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. River Walk By Cheryl Moore As its tides ebb and flow following the moon’s journey across the sky—egrets, herons, sand pipers wade in the shallows on muddy banks mallards, coots, grebes paddle in the river flow, a night heron rousts on a birch tree branch. In the distance fog slowly evaporates revealing the huge hump of Sonoma Mt its golden slopes patterned with dark green trees. To and from my river walk I meet and greet dog walkers at Wickersham Park I pause to watch a dog sprinting after a ball his human has thrown he leaps in the air—a spirit of joy. The park’s stately trees seem to smile to see such active exuberance. Cheryl Moore grew up in the mid-west, went to college in San Francisco, then lived in foreign…
Enduring Awe
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Enduring Awe By Karen FitzGerald What brings me joy? Riding my bike brings me joy. The wind in my face on a warm day, sailing through traffic jams piled up at those long, stop lighted intersections like Farmer’s Lane and Highway 12. I love it. I always feel child-like when I’m riding my bike. Recently, I’ve taken to singing while I cruise. Not too loud, but loud enough to feel the vibration of my voice ripple through my body, from throat to sternum to stomach and right on down my legs to my ankles as I pump my way up the Chanate hill. I especially love going off trail. That is, I am not a mountain biker. Oh no. Too hard on the back. In fact, any more I’m thinking mountain biking people are not fundamentally joyful people….
The Sleeping Lady
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. The Sleeping Lady By Tina Deason The earth in its dormancy is like a sleeping lady. Her make-up: the leaves, the flowers, and the vines, are washed away and her naked face is revealed. And like a sleeping woman, one can see the radiance that glows from within. Without the outer adornment, we see that beauty is skin deep. . . the bark on the trees, the moss on the ground, and the rosehips clinging to the bushes. All that was hidden or silently forming is now exposed. We find glory in the structure and smell the scent of Nature’s Night Cream wafting through the air. Without the blanket of sunshine, we realize the bareness of earth’s body, with angles and curves we neglected to see before. Now we reach out to caress them and notice…
Halloween Special
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Halloween Special By Graham Chalk I am posting this for the edification and diversion of fellow travelers. I wish for no observations regarding my syntax or your tin tacks. I do not wish to hear about your grammar or my grandpa. I thank you. Halloween Special I have not written this story down before, although I have told it before. Told it as if I were at confession and the listener was a priest. But there will, I believe, be no absolution. How much of this story is true? I will let the reader decide. Schools are scary places. And when they are empty? Then they are very scary places indeed. Full of dead echoes. Generations of ghostly, silent feet disturbing the sleeping dust of generations My very first ever job was working as a lab…
Changing Seasons
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Changing Seasons By Julie Sherman My garden is feeing anxious. The hydrangeas are protesting with powdery mildew on her large leaves. The yellow stargazers are shrinking back into themselves refusing to open. The last of the white roses are reluctantly peeling back one petal at a time, objecting to the assault of cold temperatures after having owned a sunny resort for the past 4 months. The plumbago has given up altogether, and the sweet peas are trying their best to climb the trellis. The last few pink ballerinas are hanging precariously to their brittle fuchsia branches before folding in their tutus, turning brown, and falling to the ground. Only the chrysanthemums are welcoming the morning chill and pale gray skies. The veteran plants know what’s coming and are bracing themselves, feeling tough enough to survive. They…
Seasonal Considerations in 14 Stanzas
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Seasonal Considerations in 14 Stanzas By Christine Renaudin Yesterday’s rain was announced,yet came as a surprise,we’ve grown so used to dreading drought and fire. Yesterday’s rain was a giftearly for the wet season,tardy for the thirsty and parched. Yesterday’s rain relieved anxieties, expectations, released myriads of winged insects dancing in today’s afternoon sunlight. Some are termites, I think, roused by the premature sprinkle.They flutter aimlessly as if lost in the midst of dream.In two hours, I hear, their wings will fall and drop them home to thrive or die. Yesterday’s rain took us insidetrading shade for shelterto share a Sunday lunch with friends. Today the sun glistens over puddles,the air feels clean, cobwebs glitter,alive with earthy fragrances. Breath deepens, heart quickens,there is a bounce in the season: I want to catch its tune. Soon the grass…
Halloween
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Halloween By Tina Deason This season holds mystery and thrill, as the sun fades and the fog clings to the earth. The darkness hides creatures and haunted beings. The empty trees have died for a bit, but plan to return in the spring. The thought of witches casting spells and making potions right out in the open after hiding away for the eleven other months of the year, intrigues me. The creaking bones of the dead and the soft sound of earth moving as the zombies unearth themselves to rise to life. . . And Dracula! I had the most fear of Dracula when I was a kid. I used to slam my hand against the light switch and run up the stairs as fast as my legs could get me to the top. In my…
One Cup At A Time
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. One Cup At A Time By DSBriggs Judith saw her hand reaching out and towards her mug. She noticed since her brain injury, she had to mentally plan any movement step by step. She closed one eye so that only one mug was in her vision. “OK. Lift the hand out of the lap. Make sure the arm isn’t taking a side trip of its own. All right, aim for the mug on the right. Uncurl fingers. That’s progress. No one has to unbend and stretch ‘em.” The knuckles on her hand were swollen and she noticed she was thinking in third person. “My knuckles, my knuckles are swollen. I have crooked fingers too.” She watched her arm and hand work in unison as she reached for her mug. She mentally told herself to grab as tight as she…