Not feeling very bloggy today, so I’ll leave you with a reblog. This is from one of my favorite blogs, The Middlest Sister. Seriously, check it out when you can. Quite cool and hilarious!
Did you ever read The Giving Tree? It’s a children’s classic and written by a fantastic writer.
I truly hated this story.
(Fair warning: If birds freak you out, then click here to watch some carrots dance.)
A few years ago, I worked the 3am-1pm shift of my job. Waking up while most of the city was still sleeping meant I was a poster child for sleep deprivation, but I dealt with it by drinking plenty of caffeine. However, being hungry felt absolutely worse than being half asleep on my commute home (don’t worry; I take public transportation). I rarely had time to get anything to eat for lunch, so I was always famished by the time I got home.
I’ve been bogged down, so no original post from me today. However, read this post by Kelli Worrall and then explore the rest of her blog. It’s filled with amazing, personal stories. This is the moving post that won me over.
The four older Kimball sisters just after their mother died.
“A time to seek, and a time to lose.” (Ecclesiastes 3:6)
My mother’s mother, Grandma Ruby, was born on January 12, 1909, in a little house with a crooked brick chimney in the-middle-of nowhere, North Dakota. She was the middle daughter of five. And in her unpublished memoir, My Burden Bearer, she records just a few images from her early childhood. Her mother rocking her, singing the “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere,” setting the table daily with a white cloth so her girls would grow up to be ladies.
Then in chapter two, way too early, she writes about her first trauma. Her first big Loss. She was six.
Sister number five had just been born when Grandma Ruby’s mother became ill. Grandma was shipped off to stay with some friends. Her sisters were sent elsewhere.
“Once they took me…
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Yesterday, I asked for story ideas on Facebook. I received a few suggestions and this story was born. It’s not my best work, but I did write this in less than twenty-four hours. That has to be slightly impressive. Hopefully, it’s not too terrible.
When I was a little girl, you should’ve seen me run. I could sprint from my front porch to the corner in less than a minute. I could outrun all the boys in my grade, but that didn’t stop them from challenging me during recess. My parents and teachers had a difficult time keeping up with me, and it made me feel powerful; I was a kid who could beat the adults at something.
(Yeah, I know. I’ve been writing, or attempting to write, lots of poetry. I have a couple of short stories I want to post, but I’m still working on them. It’s been raining a lot around here and I haven’t been feeling great, so Little Black Cloud was born.)
There’s a girl I know with a round face
And downcast, hazel eyes that stare at the space
Between her red shoes.
All she sees is her little black cloud’s shadow.
The sky can be the brightest blue
Or her green lawn covered in morning dew,
But it doesn’t matter.
Her little black cloud hides it all away.
Her feet drag on the cracked sidewalk;
She tries to ignore those who gawk
At her gloom and downcast eyes.
She despises her little black cloud.
“They don’t get it! I’ve tried to run and hide
But that bit of darkness won’t subside.
The regrets and hurt hit hard.
My little black cloud rains on me.”
She looks around, in vain,
Wanting to see light and color again.
Yet, she is denied those joys
While the little black cloud hovers over her.
“Little black cloud, leave!
Your presence is a torment! Give me a reprieve!
You’ve robbed me of so much.
Little black cloud, just leave me…
I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen
And I feel like I’m being mocked.
I grab my vibrant pastels and drawing pad,
but the page remains unmarred.
My guitar is dusty and out of tune,
so I’m typing up my frustrations instead.
I’m emptied of ideas and notions,
And my brain and fingers are uncooperative accomplices.
No inspiration flowing through my being.
It doesn’t help this flesh is unwilling.
Rather than let the unwilling win,
I’m typing up my frustrations instead.
There’s a part of me that feels useless,
that I’m doomed to failure before I start.
A voice often whispers, “What’s the point?
“Why start? It’s going to suck anyway.”
I’m here on my laptop, fighting the best way I know,
by typing up my frustrations instead.
To wait until inspiration strikes is unwise.
Many times, you have to work even if your soul feels dry.
You have to write, draw, or sing even it’s uninspired nonsense,
Even if your whole being fights against you.
At the end, you’ll have something to show for it,
Which is why I’m typing up my frustrations instead.