writing

Cinderella’s Step Sister Speaks Her Mind

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I cannot believe this. I just can’t.  That little bitch, pardon my language, but this is so beyond the pale that that’s the nicest word I can use.  After all we’ve done for her.  I don’t even know where to start.

I guess with the housecleaning thing.  Cinderella is OCD.  No, really, I mean it.  She was officially diagnosed by a psychiatrist and everything.  Won’t take her meds.  We never asked her to clean anything.  And she’s made our lives a living hell.  It would look like no one lived here if it was up to her.  She entered a state of rage cleaning when I once left my library book on the piano while I ate lunch.  She thought I should have returned the book to the basket she bought for library books.  Everything has a specific place.  Everything.  And she goes nuts if you don’t use it.

I do all the cooking. I like to cook, but not with her around.  I like to gather all the ingredients, use them as I cook, and put them away when I’m done. She thinks I should go back and forth to the pantry fetching and returning each one in turn.  Bah! Sister cleans the kitchen, but can’t meet Cinderella’s standards, so she cleans it a second time grumbling about how she has to do everything if it’s to be done right.

And the talking and singing with the animals.  Good grief.  We live in a 3-bedroom apartment in Queens.  No deer, no rabbits.  Yeah, there are birds.  We’ve seen and heard Cinderella stand at an open window and sing and dance.  It never occurred to us she thought she was communing with forest creatures.  I mean, really, why would we?  And singing?  Cinderella can’t carry a tune even with a little red wagon and a small boy to pull it for her.  She’s dreadfully tone-deaf.

All we’ve done to try and make her a part of our family!  I’m sorry her father died.  He was a good stepfather and I miss him, but we only knew him for a few months.  Of course, we didn’t mourn as hard as she did.  But we felt so sorry for her – all alone in the world.  We made sure she understood that this was her home now and we were her family.  We were generous to a fault with her.  All of her dad’s money, even that bequeathed to us, is in a trust not to be released to her until she’s 21.  We’ve been paying for everything.

And the ball.  My God! What a debacle that was.  The Met called the police when she tried to crash it while wearing her prom dress and silver shoes from the Goodwill.

I could go on and on, but you should get the picture now.

Searching for Safe Harbor

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I’m rowing in rough waters though it’s a waste of my precious energy.  The waves are strong, the current powerful and I am too weak to fight it any longer.

But I’m looking for a coast.  A harbor.  A place of safety to wait out the storm. To recuperate.  To perhaps find paradise.  I try to guide the boat in the direction the waves break assuming the shore is in that direction.

I no longer know where I am.

The boat is gray weathered wood and perhaps not seaworthy any longer. I’ve been out here a good long time.  There used to be days of a becalming.  Flat water and I could see the dolphins jump and play.  I could see the seabirds swoop and dive into the azure deep.  I could hear the whales and see the starfish on the ocean floor.

Now it is just water the color of the boat.  In turmoil and rage and beating rain.

Oh, for the skies to clear.  For the tide ruled by the moon to guide me to safe harbor and smooth sand.  To palm trees and brightly colored birds.  To friendly souls who will take me in and tend my wounds.

For I am wounded in the places you can’t see. My pride is wounded.  My soul.  My innermost me.  This has been the storm of a lifetime.  I didn’t see it coming though perhaps I should have.  I was just out here in my boat when the sea roughened and the skies darkened. 

The ancient ones had told me to take care when I took the boat out.  They told me the sea was not my friend.  They told me it would beat me down and that I should stay where I was and prepare for the inevitable storm. To live with storm shutters and lanterns near a lighthouse. To light a fire in my hearth and pray for the lost.

But blue skies and frothy white-capped swells called to me.  I imagined the wonders and I took off.  Alone and poorly provisioned. I am the lost. 

It has been a journey.  One with no destination of my planning other than to seek wonders.  And I have seen them.  For that I should be grateful.  I have seen things that others only dream of.  I have been captain and crew.  Jailor and prisoner.  Now I am fighting for what’s left of me.  For the real me – the one that got pushed aside while I rowed and bailed water.

I am looking for safe harbor.  Smooth sand.  A warm sun to turn my face to.  A friend to tend my wounds, give me nourishment, and help me find the hope that was my inner compass for so long.

Pray for me. I am lost.

An open letter to my 7 am writing group

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NOTE: I belong to a writing group that meets every morning on Zoom, at 7 a.m., except for Saturdays, when we meet at 8 a.m. We also meet on holidays, Sundays, and weekdays. This group has been my sanctuary—my safe space to grow as a writer.

Dear Ones:

“The universe provides” It always has—goes along with “this too shall pass.”

I understand it’s common with many artists, writers included, that those closest to them are the least interested in their work.  The “that’s nice, honey” phenomenon.  With one notable exception, this has been true for me.  My family couldn’t give a flying fig about my two books, the two I’m working on, or my blog.

They accept that I’m a writer and take some pride in telling people that, but have no interest in actually reading or even hearing about my passion projects.  And so, the universe conspired until I found my tribe. 

I get encouragement from the most unlikely places. 

It tickles me pink that somewhere in Malaysia, some teacher uses one of my blog posts in his or her English class.  I reposted e.e. cummings’s in time of daffodils – a favorite of mine with one of my photos of my beloved daffodils. 

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Eutony

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Eutony. Some words just roll around your mouth like a well-loved piece of candy – sweet and pleasant – a delight and a treat.  There’s dazzle, for one.  And delightful, for that matter.  Tummy is a yummy word.  And raspberry.  But the best word – actually phrase – is salon de belleza.  It’s Spanish for beauty salon.  I learned it in junior high or maybe high school.  From its introduction to me to now, I like to roll it around in my mouth.  Long and slow–salon de belleza.  Of course, a Spanish speaker would say it much faster, but I like to linger over all those vowels.  Linger – now there’s another word. 

Sadly, I don’t have much opportunity to work salon de belleza into daily conversation.  Pity. 

I like the word envelope.  Not envelope.  Envelope.  And then there’s the verb envelope.  Autonomy is fun and anthropological uses all the muscles in your face – I’m convinced of it though I have no proof.

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