creative nonfiction

I want to think again of nothing.

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Photo by Connie Kinsey

I want to think again of nothing.  There must have been a time my brain wasn’t churning, churning, churning.  The incessant monkey mind silenced.  But it’s probably a pipe dream.  I read recently, that even in the womb we dream. If we dream, we must think.  But about what?  Surely not the things I think about all the time.  Surely not.  Please. All that thinking just wears me out.

I want to think again of recess – that wonderful part of our day when we left it all in the classroom and went outside to the bright sun.  I usually played jacks.  When we came back in, the teacher would read aloud from a chapter book.  What glorious days were those.

I want to think again of the latest book I’ve read.  To ponder where the story is going and imagine the characters.  I want to be lost in that scenery, invested in those lives, living vicariously through both protagonists and villains.  If one is too busy to read, one is too busy.

I want to think again of the sounds of the forest and the garden.  I want to sit in my garden, close my eyes, and just listen to the wind rustling through tree leaves, the sound of animals scurrying here and there in the forest, and hear the heart-pulling yet peaceful call of the mourning dove.  Who is she mourning?  What is she mourning?  Does she too want to think of what was?

I want to think again of endless possibilities of what I might be when I grow up.  All the possible pearls one might pull out of the oyster.  The curiosity about where life might lead me.  I’ve been led and there aren’t a lot of years ahead of me.  I think of the inevitable things.

I want to think again of nothing. Blissful, peaceful nothing.  Still and quiet.  Feel the wind on my skin and sound of mourning doves and the scent of late-blooming roses.  I want to close my eyes so I see nothing—nothing that needs to be done or fixed or some other unpleasant chore.

Nothing.  I want to think again of nothing.

A riff on the poem Starlings in Winter by Mary Oliver

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Cloistered II

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The light dominates but doesn’t reach far enough.  It’s the first thing a newborn sees.

Photo by Hartmut Tobies on Unsplash

Light gives us color and shadows – penetrates and reveals. 

There are things that hide from the light. Cockroaches of feelings and thoughts that if brought out might destroy us.  These stay in the shadows bearing witness but silent.  Sometimes rustling so we don’t forget.  A haunting of sorts.

The others reveal themselves – prisms and golden archways to the past, to the future. Sunbeams of insight as understanding dawns.

Should we bring those shadow dwellers into the light?  Would it destroy them or us?  Or are we just repulsed?  Is the unexamined life not worth living? Do we need to get the magnifying glass out for all the firings of our synapses?  Should every memory be put under a microscope?  Backlit and magnified? A hundred times? A thousand?

The cool stone of now, just now, is seductive.  A balm for the mind. Some of us actively seek it trying to escape just for a moment, a few minutes, the clamor of thoughts and scuttling of shadow memories.  Seeking silence and stillness.’

Now is sanctuary.  An absence of worry and fear.  Here.  Just here.  Now.  Breathing.  The light not penetrating.  The slate clean.  A return to the womb where we don’t remember, don’t think, where we only have the nurturing of now.  The peace of it. Protected from the onslaught of the light and things that scuttle in the shadows. 

Cloistered.

Peace be with you.

The book has launched!

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Connie Kinsey, Writer-in-Residence for Museum of the American Military Family & Learning Center

The book has launched! I am awfully excited. The book is a project of the Museum of the American Military Family & Learning Center. Each chapter is anchored by an essay from one of the museum’s two writers-in-residence — one of them is me. The book is a serious look at gender, religion, race, identity, culture, and ethnicity in the armed forces. Active and retired service personnel, their spouses, and dependents were sent a survey asking about these things. Because the survey was completely anonymous, the open-ended questions generated additional stories from the respondents. A number of respondents agreed to contribute to the book. Thus, we have 276 pages of stories, photos, and quotes. A team of anthropologists provided a statistical analysis of the survey and their report is included as well. Though serious, the book is humorous, heartwarming, thought-provoking, informative, and infuriating — much like the military itself. This book will appeal not just to veterans, but to those who love them and want to understand their experiences. Proceeds support the museum and the writers-in-residence program.

You can read the official press release here

Letter to My 82-Year-Old Self

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Photo by Josh Wedgwood on Unsplash

Dear Older Me,

I’m a little bit afraid of you.  And for you. 

I have not taken particularly good care of our body.  I’ve fed our mind and fostered our creativity all the while allowing us to adventure.  That I’ve done those things should give you rich memories to look back on.  It’s been quite a ride.  But our body is on a downhill descent that feels a bit as if we’re riding strong currents leading to a waterfall.  Eventually, we are going to go over the falls to a different ride.  Perhaps one that is a peaceful glide through the water; or perhaps another wild ride like the last 62 years. 

I’m not even going to hazard a guess as to what the next twenty years might hold. The last twenty have been surprising and the twenty before that even more so.

I hope we stay intact.  That our voice remains a guide assuring that this too shall pass when in the rough waters and laughing in delight at the scenery at the other times. I do wonder if this last transition will turn us into more spectator than participant in life.  Will we begin to make our world smaller?  Turn inward?

I’m already a constant examiner of my life – the one I’m living now, the one I lived, and the one I’m creating.  I can’t imagine becoming even more introspective, but perhaps. It’s exhausting to even think about the possibility.

Possibility.  There’s the rub.  I’ve been told that what is possible reduces itself a bit year by year until there is nothing but the inevitable.  Dear God, I hope not.

I’ve gotten through life with hope for and anticipation of good things to come. 

I’m making peace with the idea that my body is beginning to impose limitations.  I am stiff and old injuries haunt me.  

I can’t sprawl in the grass and look for animals in the clouds any longer.  I would never be able to get up.  My hearing is fading which is disastrous when one is almost wholly auditory.  I experience the world through sound and words and this inner voice in our head that is sometimes akin to talk radio. 

I have no trouble hearing our voice, but it is getting harder to eavesdrop on strangers and invent stories about their life, their hopes, and their dreams.

I think it is a given our inner voice will remain at least until the end and maybe onto the next life.  We’ve become friends. The insecure youth that we were has developed some moxie.

Let’s keep that.  Shall we?  We fought hard for it.  To get there.  To develop the courage to fail. It takes a lot of pressure off knowing we don’t have to be perfect; We just have to do the best we can under our present limitations.

Let’s go out in grace and style.  Observing, yes, but participating in the dance.  We weren’t meant to be a wallflower. 

Let’s make a pact, shall we?

Love, Connie