The Write Spot Blog by Marlene Cullen

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  • The Sound of Wind

    By Su Shafer

    The sound of wind is cold – gray waves, frigid and broken, 

    rushing up a Northern shore.

    It’s a hollow sound, like a flute without music.

    An echo undying. Emptiness longing to be filled.

    A mournful wail unanswered. The despairing lamentation 

    of invisible hands searching, sweeping ahead blindly.

    Dry leaves scuttle sideways like old crabs on stick legs.

    They rattle their empty claws at its passing,

    then lay still.

    Su Shafer is a creative writer and sometime poet who lives in the Pacific Northwest, where flannel shirts are acceptable as formal wear and strong coffee is a way of life. There, in a small Baba Yaga house perched near the entrance to The Hidden Forest, odd characters are brewing with the morning cup, and a strange new world is beginning to take shape . . .

  • Reflection. Prompt #576

    Reflection: As in a mirror, or on water, or serious thought or consideration, or some other type of reflection.

  • A Life Not Unencumbered

    By Ken Delpit

    A life without encumbrances, now that would be something. Can there possibly be such a thing? Among mortal human beings, it is hard to see how. Living encourages encumbrances. Living entails encumbrances. To live is to be encumbered. Encumbrances are the baggage fees that we pay for our journey.

    Encumbrance-free living for most ordinary humans is a foreign concept. For some, it may be a distant dream. For many or most, though, it is beside the point. For these folks, navigating the encumbrances is what life is about. “Next,” as a primal motivating force. Where to go next, what to do next, what to think next.

    The trouble with navigating head-down from a mental map, however detailed or vague the map, is that it necessitates a removal of self from the process. You are not the observant traveler. You are the bus driver. You transport yourself here and there, mentally as well as physically. You check boxes in your mind as “Done.” You relax when you’ve accomplished something, but just for a couple of seconds. Then, you close the bus doors and it’s on to the next stop.

    Periodically, we celebrate people who have taken a different path. Gandhi, Thoreau, Buddha, Jesus, they speak to us of shedding encumbrances. They advocate not just leaving the luggage behind, but not even packing in the first place. They teach us to trust what is within. They preach that the self is wise, if only we would listen.

    I’ll have to take their word for it. I’ll think about all of this later. Meanwhile, I’ve got a hundred things to do before 4:00 o’clock.

    Ken Delpit has been writing for quite a while, that is if you count computer programming and technical documentation as “writing.” Since leaving those professions behind, Ken has discovered an exciting new world of creative writing. He is now giddily exploring new devices, such as adjectives, subtlety, mystery, and humans with emotions and feelings.

  • Wind. Prompt #575

    Image by Matt Artz, Unsplash

    The way the wind is blowing.

  • Blessings

    By Cheryl Moore

    Despite the pandemic, despite the looming drought, despite the growing tensions in the world—we are living in a wonderful time.

    On clear mornings, I see the warm pink in the eastern sky where the sun is about to rise.

    This time of year, April, it rises between two tall palms across the street—in June it will rise behind Sonoma Mountain.

    This is the most beautiful time in the garden —leaves on trees just breaking open, giving a lacy feel against the blue skies. Rose buds are opening and iris unfolding on their tall stalks.

    California poppies are everywhere and fields are full of mustard.

    Bird song fills the air as males find mates and begin nest building. Soon there will be small yellow ducklings trailing their parents down at the river and fishermen will sit on the bank to see what the incoming tide will bring.

     Besides a cozy house and garden, I have good health, enough funds, and loving family and friends—so many blessings. I cherish them all.

    Cheryl Moore grew up in the Midwest then lived in San Francisco to finish high school and attend college where she studied biology. During the late sixties and into the mid-seventies she lived first in Sweden for a year, then for four years in Iran where she served as librarian in a small research library for wildlife biologists.

    Nature and science have always been among her interests. Since returning to the U.S., she has lived in Petaluma and has dabbled in writing stories. Since retiring from employment at Sonoma State University, she has taken up painting

  • Waking Up on a Spring Morning

    By Deb Fenwick

    On spring mornings, after a long brittle winter, the truth is everywhere. It begins at dawn. Not that I wake up that early anymore. These days, I sleep until the sun is high in the warm sky.

    But I remember thirty years of sunrise drives—drives where a glowing, golden-pink ribbon stretched languidly across Lake Michigan. Like it had all the time in the world. Unhurried. Unlike me.

    The sky had no need to rush to work. To meet deadlines. To prove its worth. From the driver’s seat, I watched the morning clouds, dumbstruck some days, because they seemed to delight in their own essence. Those early morning skies seemed, somehow, to speak to something truer than the life I was living at the time.

    In those days, I didn’t have time for walks where I watched the earth wake up to its magnificent self. The glory song of forsythia bursting into bloom was muted. Of course, there were hyacinths, tulips, and spring snowdrops emerging—calling my name, beckoning me to take pause. But I pretended not to hear them. Even though their joy was riotously loud, I played deaf. I was preoccupied with the slow-strangle-everyday crush of the mundane.

    Learning about the nature of truth and living the dharma is the work of a lifetime. Some say many lifetimes. We can choose a religious faith, a spiritual tradition, a guru, or a master teacher. Take your pick. We can obsess over finding the perfect prayer or the most meaningful mantra. We’re taught that we have to search for truth. We’re taught that it’s elusive and that unless we’re willing to renounce our worldly goods, shave our heads and check into a one-star monastery, we probably haven’t earned it. But the irony is, it’s everywhere once we decide to wake up on a spring morning. There’s an all-access VIP pass. It’s in our pulse. It’s in that redbud branch that’s blasting its neon pink blossoms into the breeze.

    The truth patiently whispered in my ear for many years. Then, it shouted. 

    These days, I sometimes see truth so real that it burns my eyes. Right now, there’s a blaze of life outside my window. Right now, the fragile, translucent petals of lemon yellow daffodils are exploding into spring sunshine. There’s wisteria on the wooden gate. It creeps slowly—just waiting to share its wild purple life force. The dogwood’s unfolding leaves are ever-so-patient in saying yes to the warmth of spring.

    Spring reminds meto say yes to this moment. This one. Right here, right now. Can you believe it? There’s a now. And it’s alive with possibility. What will you do with me? it asks, almost like a dare.

    Look away from your screen for a moment. Poof! That now? Gone. It only lives in the past. A new now, blank-slate opportunity is always being born. What good fortune!

    So for today, I promise to pay attention to my now—to listen to the truth of the sky. I say that in such a cavalier way, right? Like it’s easy. Like the grocery list and the laundry chores aren’t going to derail me. But when they inevitably do, I’ll remember to trust the now and the beauty of the sunrise. Even if I sleep right through it.

    Deb Fenwick is a Chicago-born writer who currently lives in Oak Park, Illinois. After spending nearly thirty years working as an arts educator, school program specialist, youth advocate, and public school administrator, she now finds herself with ample time to read books by her heroes and write every story that was patiently waiting to be told. When she’s not traveling with her heartthrob of a husband or dreaming up wildly impractical adventures with her intrepid, college-age daughter, you’ll find her out in the garden getting muddy with two little pups.

  • Hello, how ARE you?

    By Sharmila Rao

    Writing Prompt on The Isolation Journals: How ARE you?

    What happened yesterday evening motivated me to attempt this prompt. I dropped in to meet one of my friends whom I was seeing after a year because of the Covid protocols. She is a cancer survivor and I had gotten closer to her during this challenging journey of hers. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and she replied I am fine, Sharmila.

    I could see her eyes were saying something else though.

    As we got talking about the past year and how it has affected each one us, I told her of the many changes I have begun to incorporate in my life, one of them being giving due priority to myself—something I felt I had seriously lacked all my life.

    The moment I mentioned this to her I was taken aback by her soft almost immediate plea to guide her as to how she could go about this herself.

    Then, swearing me to secrecy she slowly revealed without a pause, the story of her married life and the issues she was facing.

    It seemed to me the fall out of having an insensitive husband and the typical vacuum she and many women face mostly around middle-age. They grapple, often unsuccessful, like she was, as the opposite party denies or lacks the need for empathetic communication.

    Clearly, she was anything but ‘fine.’

    As I walked home, I couldn’t help but ruminate over this. I stopped to ask myself how often had I been able to respond honestly to: Hello, how are you?

    As far as I can remember, only till I was living in childhood.

    I remembered how I was called, “The Happy child” in my family as I was always attuned to the many little wonders of the world around me. I am still sure fairies sit on toadstools!

    It did make me feel special but undeniably a trifle embarrassed, even at that time, for it felt like being singled out under a spotlight for being different.

    Life however took care of that. Sometimes it can work efficiently overtime at the wrong time and so it ensured I was quick to learn that nothing comes for free. And, happiness? Never.

    Lots of water has flowed under the bridge. I swam along mostly fighting against the current, sometimes out of breath and at times even thinking I would drown. I continued to wear the “I am fine” badge. After all that is what is expected of you: be courteous, be brave, be stoic, be mature. Be everything, but yourself.

    And me, the good student, carried on living in the classroom of life till I realized the truth: there were no prizes for the best performance.

    Behind the ‘I am fine’ mask it gets suffocating; the self begins to decay in layers of untruth. Whenever I tried to lift it, only a few people accepted what they saw.

    It reminds me of my father who was an eternal optimist. I remember all so clearly, when anyone greeted him with a regular ‘How are you, he would cheerfully reply, “Can’t grumble.”

    I never thought much about it then but as the years pass by and I find it increasingly difficult to answer, I find his two little words so relevant and imperative to adopt.

    More so in these strange new times when I see people around me who are suffering untold pain and for whom even the next meal is a battle. For us, India does offer a conscience check every so often, even on my daily evening walk.

    The next time around, the answer to “how are you” will be for myself.  A reassuring, Well I AM fine. After all, aren’t I?

    And, maybe just, on an especially grey day I need not hide behind ‘I am fine.’ I can be my true self to the ones who really care to see what lies beneath.

    These are the ones I keep.

    Sharmila Rao

    As a child my father led me into the enriching world of books and my relationship with them continues. I am Sharmila Rao and I live in Western India in Mumbai, a hot, noisy and crowded city, vibrant enough to make you want to live nowhere else.

    A background of Journalism and a degree in teaching the Physically Handicapped broadened my mind and sensitized me to the imperfection of life. 

    I chose to be a stay-at-home Mum and enjoy the growing years of my son. My empty nest is now lined with books (I love the smell of old hardbound ones) and I sit in its warmth embracing the beauty of words.

  • I’ll say a little prayer for you . . . Prompt #574

    Today’s prompt is inspired by Mavis Staples and her essay on The Isolation Journals.

    Mavis wrote:

    Many times in my life, I’ve come across someone who won’t smile, who won’t speak to me. I’ll get on an elevator and say “good morning,” and that person won’t say anything in return. My sister Yvonne—she’s different from me. When people are rude or unfriendly, Yvonne’ll tell them, “I didn’t do anything to you! Whatever is on your mind, don’t take it out on me.” But I’m wired differently. I keep a smile on my face, and I say to myself, “Alright. I’ll say a little prayer for you.”

    And I’ll say a prayer that whatever they’re struggling with, they’ll get through. That whatever is heavy, whatever is burdening them, they’ll find a way to lighten that load. That they’ll realize, even in the middle of great struggle, there are things to be thankful for. 

    This is especially true in hard times like these. When things are difficult, when troubles seem overwhelming, it’s helpful to look back and consider all you’ve gotten through and how far you’ve come. It’s important to remember your blessings, starting with the fact that you woke up this morning. The sun rose again, and you did too—and here you are, breathing, above the concrete.

    And just acknowledging that simple fact as a blessing—that can make you feel better.

    Writing Prompt:

    Write about your blessings. About what it was like to wake up today, about the people you love, about the songs that have lifted your spirits.

    Write about the wind in the trees, or rebirth in spring, or of freedom.

    Write about whatever gives you hygge.

    Hygge: a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being (regarded as a defining characteristic of Danish culture).

  • I was the kid who . . . Prompt #573

    Your Deepest Core by Maggie Rogers:

    Throughout my life I’ve thought of vulnerability as a shield. My logic goes something like—if I tell you my whole truth, everything I’m feeling, then there’s no ammo left for you to hurt me. It’s been my default defense mechanism for as long as I can remember. I was the kid in the second grade telling everyone who I had a crush on instead of trying to keep it a secret. 

    Prompt: I was the kid who . . .

    Prompt inspired from The Isolation Journals with Suleika Jaouad, “A newsletter for people seeking to transform life’s interruptions into creative grist.”

  • The Nyx Café

    By Ron Salisbury
     
    Day stood by our table with her eager smile,
    pad and pen at ready.
     
    “Today we only have two specials,” she said.
    “The first one includes an amuse bouche;
    one hour and a half of good sleep. Upon waking
    you wonder why? Then realize you’re still damp
    from a hot flash. The appetizer is a couple of hours
    when the pillows are too soft, too hard, or both,
    the bed clothes too heavy, cramp in your big toe,
    wondering if you should call the doctor about
    that little pain in your side. Suddenly you realize
    you have been asleep because of the dream you had
    filled with people you absolutely don’t know.
    The main course is filled with noise—traffic, but
    you live on a cul-de-sac, the overhead fan but
    it’s not on, a strange hum from the kitchen,
    the dogs rushing downstairs and you get up
    to check and find them both at their water bowls,
    you might as well see if the doors are locked. Then
    three delightful dreams, three in a row of three
    important things in your life you never finished.
    Dessert is an hour of deep sleep at the end
    to remind you that some people sleep this way
    all the time.”
     
    “Tonight’s second special,” she said, “is much less
    complex, but an intense flavor experience—you just
    can’t sleep. I recommend as a paring, you try
    imagining counting backwards from one hundred,
    the telephone poles wizzing by your imaginary
    ride down a desert road. That thing with sheep
    is totally overrated.  Dessert is also quite simple:
    a parfait filled with the thankfulness that night
    is over.”
     
    “She’s so sweet,” Eunice said, as day left with our order.
    “I’m glad we didn’t get the harpy with a pencil stuck
    in her hairbun.”
     
    Ron Salisbury

    “Since the seventh grade, all I’ve ever wanted to be is a poet,” he said. “It is a great honor to be chosen as San Diego’s first Poet Laureate. This appointment will empower me to represent the dynamic San Diego I love and promote. It will allow me to teach and encourage poetry to an even higher presence than I already do. I want to give back to the city that adopted me, share my poetry with its people and share San Diego with the world.”