tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27858651655357473122024-03-19T02:58:26.835-07:00arleen williamsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger335125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-89252070217279636582023-12-07T15:42:00.000-08:002023-12-07T15:42:45.531-08:00 The Lowly Dandelion - An Abecedarian for My Grandson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht6720im8vOmRfHF4jRwTfmEmhkKbr8TI8JtmDbPhYjmFAA6uqV2tj3RWnGVqch9UzblYogUoW7LE2UrcFXPUmRHziozDwmwKxY46762gnhXyZHGpUingtLpXafmx8FxY3w7Y_7Wl7SOfntjvg1jxN616EV0uPq7tlHvyBvlqXiNOce4U6xKkxD9H4nuP/s761/cutting%20dandelion.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="579" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht6720im8vOmRfHF4jRwTfmEmhkKbr8TI8JtmDbPhYjmFAA6uqV2tj3RWnGVqch9UzblYogUoW7LE2UrcFXPUmRHziozDwmwKxY46762gnhXyZHGpUingtLpXafmx8FxY3w7Y_7Wl7SOfntjvg1jxN616EV0uPq7tlHvyBvlqXiNOce4U6xKkxD9H4nuP/s320/cutting%20dandelion.png" width="243" /></a></div></div><p><b>April 2023</b></p><p>Your great grandmommy’s last visit to Seattle was in April. You remembered her from our previous August trip to Bloomington, Indiana to celebrate her eightieth birthday. I hold an image of the two of you in my mind’s eye. You are face-to-face, Grandmommy sitting in a garden chair leaning forward to your eye level. You both hold delicate dandelion seedballs in your hands. She releases a gentle puff of air and seeds rise skyward like tiny helicopters. You are delighted by this magic trick. “Now you try,” Grandmommy tells you. Not yet having mastered the fine art of blowing, you inhale, blanketing your face with tiny dandelion seeds. Your shared laughter is a joy. </p><p><b>Bees, Birds, and Butterflies</b></p><p>Dandelions are one of the first flowers to bloom in early spring, a time when nectar is not readily available to bees. The leaves and seeds of the dandelion also provide much-needed protein for birds and butterflies. Because the dandelion provides early nourishment, these important pollinators are healthier and better able to pollinate other flowers and fruits, vegetables and herbs to maintain a healthy ecosystem and provide nourishment for other animals, you and I included. </p><p><b>Common Weed</b></p><p>The dandelion is a common weed some despise, and others love. As a child I picked dandelion bouquets for my mother, your maternal great grandma. She’d thank me while explaining they were weeds and encouraging me to pull the roots. In her final years, I remember her bent at the waist digging dandelions from her lawn, determined to destroy the bright yellow flowers before they went to seed. Did I fall for the bright yellow dandelion just to be a contrarian? Perhaps. The first time you presented me with a scraggly yellow bouquet, it took center stage on the living room coffee table.</p><p><b>Diagnosis</b></p><p>Grandmommy and her two sisters were sorting their parents’ photographs and memorabilia at the youngest sister’s home in Indianapolis. On September 25, Grandmommy felt ill and went to Indiana University Medical Center. A few days later she was given a diagnosis: cholangiocarcinoma. A rare but aggressive form of bile duct cancer. </p><p><b>Edible</b></p><p>From flower to leaves to root, all parts of the dandelion are edible, except for the stem. Flower petals can be added to baked goods, leaves can be used in salads or cooked like spinach, and boiled roots can be added to soups and stews.</p><p><b>Family</b> </p><p>Your great grandmommy is Baba’s mother. A week after he learned of his mom’s diagnosis, he flew to Indiana to be with her. A week later you, your mama and I met them in Ohio where the family usually gathers. On the day family photos were scheduled, we arrived early. The family stood around a parked car waiting while Grandmommy sat in the backseat with the door open. You found the only dandelion seedball anywhere in the surrounding lawn and ran to the car, arm extended. With innocence and love, you handed your gift to your grandmommy.</p><p><b>Globular</b></p><p>The globular seedball of the dandelion is also called a blowball, puffball, or clock. The average dandelion plant can produce about ten flowers. Each of those flowers ends its life as a seedball composed of a hundred to two hundred tiny seeds. Each seed is attached to a tiny parachute or helicopter shaped structure called a pappus. When blown by breeze or human, these seeds are carried through the air making for a lot of potential new dandelions.</p><p><b>Hope</b></p><p>The dandelion symbolizes hope. We clung to hope, knowing there was little to be had.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p><b>Infection</b></p><p>Three days into the family visit in Ohio, Grandmommy was back in the ER. She’d developed an infection. She was released only to return the following day. On her second day in the county hospital, your mother and I had to say goodbye to her. Three days after we returned to Seattle, Grandmommy was ambulanced back to Indiana University Medical Center.</p><p><b>Jack</b></p><p>You were so confused, Jack. Why was Mama crying? Why didn’t Baba come home? Why was Grandmommy sick? The week you returned home, you had a fever of 103. When you were well enough to spend a day with me, you asked “Did Grandmommy puke like me?” You wanted to know when she would get better. How do you explain incurable cancer to an inquisitive three-year-old? </p><p><b>Kiss of Death</b></p><p>By the last day of November, Grandmommy had enough of hospitals and procedures. She asked to go home. Home was a hospital bed in your great aunt’s dining room. Baba was on another flight back to Indianapolis. It was the kiss of death.</p><p><b>Lion’s Teeth</b></p><p>Due to the jagged shaped leaves, the French name for this member of the daisy family is Dens Leonis, Lion’s Teeth in English. In Latin it is Taraxacum Officinale. In our part of the world, we call it a dandelion. In English, dandelions are also known as Cankerwort, Irish Daisy, Monk’s Head, Priest’s Crown, Earth Nail, and Milk-, Witch- or Yellow-Gowan.</p><p><b>Medicinal</b></p><p>Dandelions are known for their medicinal value. Health benefits include vitamins A, B1, B2 and C as well as various minerals. The leaves contain more iron and calcium than spinach. In addition to being antioxidants, consuming dandelions has also been shown to control inflammation, cholesterol, blood sugar, and blood pressure as well as support the immune system. In traditional medicine dandelions, especially dandelion roots, have been used to treat cancer.</p><p><b>November 16, 2023</b></p><p>Your great grandmother died of cholangiocarcinoma complicated by infection. </p><p><b>October</b></p><p>You were three when we traveled to Ohio in October, when you last saw your beloved Grandmommy.</p><p><b>Picking Seedballs</b></p><p>It is early December as I write these words. Baba is home again, and we slowly find our way back to some type of normalcy. There are few dandelions growing in Seattle at this time of year. Seedball picking is limited. When you find one, you hold it up to me like a sacred object.</p><p><b>Questions</b></p><p>You are still full of questions. Questions we cannot answer. </p><p>“Where’s Grandmommy?” </p><p>“Remember, Jack. She died.”</p><p>“But where she GO?”</p><p>Just before Grandmommy’s death, you saw a collection of tiny brass tools I amassed during the years I lived in Mexico City. You wanted to know why I had tools. You are obsessed with tools and still a bit sexist, believing they are only for boys. </p><p>“When I lived far from my family, the tools reminded me of my daddy,” I told you.</p><p> “Where he go now?” </p><p>“He died a long time ago.”</p><p>“But where he GO?” you asked, arms extended to your sides, palms up. </p><p>I put one hand on your head and the other on mine and said, “He’s here because we always remember the people we love.” </p><p>You gave me a skeptical look, pushed my hand away and said, “He not in there.”</p><p><b>Remembered</b></p><p>We never forget those we love, even when they are gone. We may not have as much time with them as we wanted and expected, but they’ll always be remembered and always be with us, a part of the fabric of our being. You lost your great grandmommy a decade before anyone who knew her imagined her death. Three instead of thirteen, you were deprived of a decade of memories with her. Still, I have no doubt that every time you see a dandelion seedball, you will remember, and she will be with you.</p><p><b>Six Weeks</b></p><p>Six weeks from diagnosis to death. </p><p><b>Thanksgiving </b></p><p>Baba and I have hosted Thanksgiving dinner for decades. Baba bakes pies and a few favorites he and Grandmommy perfected through the years, I roast a turkey and make gravy, and everyone brings their signature side dish. This year was no different though our joy was laced with sadness. We toasted Grandmommy and expressed our gratitude for having known her.</p><p>Grandmommy rarely came for Thanksgiving. She preferred to visit in the spring, a season she loved for nature’s rebirth and the abundance of fragrance and color (including bright yellow dandelions). But there was one Thanksgiving she came to Seattle when your mom was still a preteen. One of your great uncles was serving time for marijuana possession. This was before it was legalized, before cannabis use was as normalized as a champagne toast at Thanksgiving dinner. We were invited to share Thanksgiving dinner behind bars with him, and Grandmommy agreed to go with us. The meal, cooked by inmates, was one of the best Thanksgiving dinners we’d ever enjoyed. Your great uncle was charming and funny, and we all had a blast, including Grandmommy. She was an amazing woman. Always open to new experiences with never a shred of judgment. We need more like her in this world.</p><p><b>Unfulfilled Dreams</b></p><p>I wonder how many unfulfilled dreams Grandmommy carried in her heart, dreams stolen by cancer. Two years ago, Baba and I visited her in Bloomington, Indiana. We stayed at a lovely inn, and he gave us watercolor lessons on the university campus. Grandmommy dreamed of creating a watercolor she was proud of, and Baba dreamed of helping her reach that goal. We promised ourselves and her that we’d return every year. Last August was her eightieth birthday party and family reunion, a fun visit but different. Now, there will be no more visits.</p><p><b>Various Health Benefits </b></p><p>I do not know if Grandmommy ever consumed dandelions, but I do not believe it would have made a difference. For despite the various health benefits of dandelions, I doubt any would have been strong enough to save your grandmommy.</p><p><b>Watercolors</b></p><p>I found a photograph of a field of dandelions – yellow flowers and white seedballs on a background of tall, verdant grass. I want to paint it in gentle watercolors, but it is beyond my skill level. Like Grandmommy, I love watercolors and am glad Baba has returned to that medium. He is the visual artist in our family, not me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy trying. And your mama, too. She has artistic skills she hasn’t explored since high school. Maybe one of us, maybe all of us, can create an image of dandelions for you. And for Grandmommy.</p><p><b>Xiaosaurus</b></p><p>You love dinosaurs. We read about dinosaurs before nap every time you spend the day here. You chose a dinosaur duvet for your new big-boy bed and a stuffed dinosaur to sleep with you. Not long ago we read about the Xiaosaurus. You wanted to know what they ate. When I told you they were herbivores, you made loud, gobbling dinosaur noises. Then you asked, “Do they eat fast or slow like Grandmommy?” Before I could answer, you added, “But Grandmommy doesn’t eat now. She’s dead.”</p><p><b>Zest</b></p><p>Your great grandmommy had a boundless zest for life. At eighty-one, she still wrote, published, and distributed a nutritional newsletter to health clinics around the country. She loved working in her community garden plot. She was creatively and physically active as well as engaged in the world around her. She socialized with friends and family and enjoyed sports events until just weeks before her death. </p><p>During those long dark weeks when Baba was in the Midwest and I was at home in Seattle, we had long nightly phone conversations. When he told me that his mother had lost her zest for life, we shared a cry knowing her end was near.</p><p>As we find and pick early spring dandelions for bouquets or edibles, as we gently snap off seedballs and puff the tiny seeds into the wind, we will remember Grandmommy. We will remember her positive energy, her bright smile, and her zest for the gift of life.</p><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-35274575903703122172023-09-04T11:30:00.001-07:002023-09-04T11:32:15.881-07:00When a Writer Needs a Break...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX6CrkBlCv27cEBUgfFc_e1SvAq0Lcn2QP4Z9khaHbVK1XsFM7qacfmfCx_Vk2Tx7HEk8rj77gg8xRFqnMfkzolcoyjuV1jHRQNWPCZtY55UYZoWVGjcV2GJHqk-VA7qOJdUSb7sAnBgnwMVrytFDUp8PnEYfum-MacQnaemcYo1o1anFkmRLOz57X1eG/s799/Jack%20making%20brownies.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="617" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX6CrkBlCv27cEBUgfFc_e1SvAq0Lcn2QP4Z9khaHbVK1XsFM7qacfmfCx_Vk2Tx7HEk8rj77gg8xRFqnMfkzolcoyjuV1jHRQNWPCZtY55UYZoWVGjcV2GJHqk-VA7qOJdUSb7sAnBgnwMVrytFDUp8PnEYfum-MacQnaemcYo1o1anFkmRLOz57X1eG/w154-h200/Jack%20making%20brownies.png" width="154" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Last spring, I posted </span><i style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://arleenkaywilliams.blogspot.com/2023/05/getting-through.html" target="_blank">Getting Through</a></i><span style="text-align: left;"> announcing the completion of a new memoir manuscript. I haven't touched that manuscript in four months. Instead, I have taken a lovely, long break filled with all the things that matter most to me: baking brownies with my grandson, road-tripping with special people, re-experiencing the joys of (ultra-light) backpacking, and coming to terms with e-assist cycling. In other words, it has been a summer to reset a life and psyche deeply affected by the fear and unrest of COVID and the Trump years. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAz1AqS-WgpzREocRAS2ix3TKz4LX9sukEvxWihLlkg46B8QZ_OJCBUm3t-W7iuBfDc8Vr1jrP6iULAQNO_C0z4ImDbsjtsLV6HHNRy3147knnsCaVVdRIdKDoLqal25hPFRPU8Byt6qykAhOc3cpVbSNTG1P-IqxZ4b9N6nQZ_fgp_gBHitsLOPX4GboT/s717/Dune.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="717" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAz1AqS-WgpzREocRAS2ix3TKz4LX9sukEvxWihLlkg46B8QZ_OJCBUm3t-W7iuBfDc8Vr1jrP6iULAQNO_C0z4ImDbsjtsLV6HHNRy3147knnsCaVVdRIdKDoLqal25hPFRPU8Byt6qykAhOc3cpVbSNTG1P-IqxZ4b9N6nQZ_fgp_gBHitsLOPX4GboT/w200-h163/Dune.png" width="200" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not saying the reset is complete or the fears for our collective future are gone. I'm also not saying that during this long break I have stopped thinking about memoir or memory. To the contrary. My manuscript (and what it needs) has settled comfortably into the back of my mind as a nagging voice demanding I dig deeper and do the research needed to make the work complete. </div></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;">As autumn closes in with gray skies and longer nights, I will return to my work-in-progress, <b>Pandemic Baby - Letters to My Grandson Before He Could Read</b>. In the meantime, I'm preparing a memoir workshop I will be leading early next month. I hoped to reference a piece I posted in June 2017 titled <a href="https://arleenkaywilliams.blogspot.com/2018/06/memoir-why-i-do-it.html" target="_blank"><i>Memoir & Why I Do It</i></a> only to discover that the link to the complete essay no longer functions. To remedy that issue, I've reposted the essay below. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">As to the workshop, the title remains the same as that of prior workshops I've offered, but it has been expanded to a three-hour format. Thanks to our wonderful system of public libraries, it is FREE. If you're in the Pacific Northwest and have a story you're eager to get on paper, I hope you'll join us.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Writing Memoir - What? Why? How?<br /></b><b>Mill Creek Library</b></div><div style="text-align: center;">15429 Bothell Everett Hwy, Mill Creek, WA</div><div style="text-align: center;">425-337-4822, <a href="http://sno-isle.org">sno-isle.org</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Saturday, October 7, 2023</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>1:00 - 4:00 p.m.</b></div><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Memoir & Why I Do It</b></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">A few
weeks ago, I was driving home to Seattle from eastern Washington with my
sisters. I sat in the back seat. As we drove over Snoqualmie Pass and started
the descent into the Puget Sound lowlands, I noticed two police vehicles parked
in an open area, perhaps a weigh station parking lot, to the north of the
highway. One was an SUV, the other a sedan. Both were black. They were parked
head-to-head with the drivers’ windows aligned. The SUV was on the highway
side, almost blocking the view of the sedan.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>“Looks
like that’s where the cops take a break,” I said.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>“But
there’s no donut shop around,” said my sister, the one riding shotgun.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>We laughed
and thought nothing more of it. Five
minutes down the road, a police SUV passed on our left. A moment later they’d
pulled someone over.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>“Where’d
that guy come from?” I wondered.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>“Same one
we just saw,” my sister said.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>“No way. The
parked cars were black. That one’s white.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>“No,” my
sister said. “It’s the same white SUV.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">So what
happened? The paint color of the cop cars obviously hadn’t changed, so one of
us had to be wrong. Was it her or me? Was the white SUV the same vehicle we’d
seen parked or another? Was it possible that when we joked about donuts, my
sister and I were actually looking at different cars?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">If I were
writing a memoir that included this scene, I’d write them as different
vehicles. The two parked cars were black. The SUV that passed us was white.
That’s what I saw and that’s what I remember. I also know my sister would tell
me I was wrong. And maybe she’d be right.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I could
contact the Washington State Patrol to find out what vehicles were patrolling
the I-90 corridor that Saturday at that precise place and time. But for a
memoirist the actual color of the SUV is not of primary concern unless it is an
essential element of the story. Memoir is not the reporting of researched,
measurable facts. It is the sharing of perception and personal memory.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>I write
memoir not only to remember people, places and events in my life, but also to
make sense of those events, as well as the decisions I made and paths I took. I
also write memoir because memory, how the human brain remembers or doesn’t
remember, intrigues me.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>I believe
memoir—whether poetry, short essay or book-length work—is the most challenging
form of creative nonfiction because while memoir allows us the freedom to
revisit our past, it demands we dig deep with brutal honesty to make sense of
life lived, choices made, and the consequences of those choices. If a writer is
able, if I am able to write that deep personal truth, pain subsides, joy
deepens and life goes on, richer and fuller than ever before. This is my
experience writing memoir.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p> </o:p>As a memoirist,
I write my own memories, my personal version of events I struggle to
understand. All the while I am aware that the simple act of recalling and
transcribing memory, the act of turning memory into story and hopefully into
art, alters the memory.<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Memory is
a sneaky devil, a slippery thing. As soon as I come close to what I believe to
be an honest truth, shape-shifting is a risk. Especially when excavating
memories from years past. The person remembering is not the same as the person
who lived the experience. The me today—the rememberer, if you will—is not the
same me as the young woman living in Mexico City, or the ex-pat moved back to
Seattle after the disappearance of her youngest sister, or even the middle-aged
daughter caring for her aging mother. The me changes, and as it changes so too
does the way I perceive past events. The act of remembering alters the
memories. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I am not
the same woman or the same writer today as I was in 2002 when I began <i>The Thirty-Ninth Victim</i>. If I were to
write that story today with the life experience, knowledge and understanding I now
possess, I have no doubt it would be a different book from the one I wrote
fifteen years ago. My perspective has changed. But that in no way invalidates
the memories recalled or the story told back in 2002 when I began writing or in
2008 when the book was published.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Here’s
another way to think about memory. There’s plenty of evidence about eyewitnesses
to the same crime reporting extremely different versions of what they saw, just
as my sister and I saw different colored police vehicles. Witnesses have also
changed testimony over time. Were they wrong? Did time and distance, life
experience and perspective, change the way they saw the event?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Truth, like
the perception of beauty, is individual. Imagine you are in a crowded bookshop
reading. Look around you. If you were to describe the event, you might include
furniture or wall color, the aroma of rich coffee, the sounds of voices and
music. You might add an emotional layer. How are you feeling? How was your day?
What is causing you fear, sadness, joy? That story of the event would be your
truth. But what about if you were blind or deaf? Then your memory would be
markedly different. What if you’d just had a fight with a loved one or just
celebrated a milestone? Would your telling of the reading be the same if you were
to write your memoir right now or later this evening, a week or month from
tonight, or ten years from today? Would the versions be the same if you wrote
the piece multiple times? If everyone in the room wrote a description, I
venture that they would be quite different. Sure, there’d be some consistent
facts—a middle-aged reader, a dozen people on an assortment of chairs, a
barista in the back room—but the details each chose to include or omit would
vary widely. If everyone wrote of the event ten years from today, the stories
would vary both from each other’s as well as from personal versions written on
the spot. Such is the truth of memoir.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Another
challenge the memoirist faces is that of shaping memory into story, ideally
story with universal appeal, story that readers can relate to, feel connected
with, be inspired or entertained by. As William
Zinsser explains in <i>Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir</i>
“A good memoir requires two elements—one of art, the other of craft. The first
is integrity of intention … Memoir is how we try to make sense of who we are,
who we once were, and what values and heritage shaped us. If a writer seriously
embarks on that quest, readers will be nourished by the journey, bringing along
many associations with quests of their own.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">The other
element is carpentry. Good memoirs are a careful act of construction. We like
to think that an interesting life will simply fall into place on the page. It
won’t work … Memoir writers must manufacture a text, imposing narrative order
on a jumble of half-remembered events. With that feat of manipulation they
arrive at a truth that is theirs alone, not quite like that of anybody else who
was present at the same events.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Zinsser
uses Henry David Thoreau to illustrate this. He reminds us that Thoreau did not
simply return to Concord and transcribe his notes. <i>Walden</i> took eight years and almost as many drafts to complete.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Memoir,
like fiction, needs narrative structure: plot line, character development,
beginning, middle and end. Just as in
fiction writing, the writer must also consider genre. The Swenson Book
Development website (<a href="http://www.swensonbookdevelopment.com/blog/2013/the-many-subgenres-of-memoir/">http://www.swensonbookdevelopment.com/blog/2013/the-many-subgenres-of-memoir/</a>)
lists sixteen “subgenres” of memoir including travel, humor and grief. So a memoir must be crafted, but truth must be
retained. The writer’s truth must be honored.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Why write
memoir in the face of such challenge? Factual, perceptional and emotional truth
are all aspects of personal truth, and all equally valid and essential to a
memoirist. Yet finding and sharing personal truth and facing those who may not
accept my version, my personal truth, of shared events is not easy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I write
memoir because I’m fascinated by memory, by how the human brain processes and
retains information as well as how it deals with extreme stress. I laid the
groundwork for memoir writing in my late teens when I began my first journal.
But let’s not confuse memoir with journal or diary writing. Memoir writing is
the art and craft of taking a life event and creating a story in much the same
way as one writes a short story or novel, with the added challenge of creating
universal interest in what is essentially a personal experience.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I’ve
written two book-length memoirs and am working on a third. I’ve explored three
different aspects of my life, three areas to excavate pain, examine it from all
sides, accept it, and then set it aside and move along in this short journey of
life. I’ve also taught college classes, given conference presentations, led
library workshops on memoir writing, but still I feel like a fraud, like I
don’t really know what I’m talking about, like I’m snorkeling in murky water,
blinded by the agitation around me. Such is the nature of memoir.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I wrote <i>The Thirty-Ninth Victim</i> to understand my
sister’s murder and how our early family dynamics may have contributed to her
dangerous missteps and flawed decisions. I wrote a yet unpublished memoir I’m calling <i>Moving Mom</i> to try to make sense of
motherhood, memory loss, and the consequences of writing memoir as I cared for
my mother and witnessed her deepening dementia. I’m currently working on a new story about the
years I spent as an undocumented ex-pat in the Mexico City of the early 1980s.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">With the
first memoir, I struggled with collective memory and family myth as well as
with the effects of emotion on how we choose to remember or to avoid memories
of events we’d rather have never experienced.
Just as perception affects memory, emotion and memory are also strongly
linked.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I’m from a
family of nine siblings. Just as witnesses to a crime report widely divergent
versions of the same event, so too my siblings and I hold different memories of
our early years. World events and family circumstances changed. Kids grew into
teens. Parenting styles transformed through the years.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Then
there’s memory loss due to the emotional blocking of memories too painful to
endure or the altering of memories to create a more manageable personal
reality. As I watched my mother slowly lose memory after my father’s death in 2002
until her own death eleven years later in 2013, I couldn’t help but question
what brought on such a dramatic decline. The simple physiological
explanation—mini infract syndrome—felt inadequate. I believe my mother could no
longer handle the emotional overload of loss. Losing her youngest daughter to
murder had been traumatic enough, but now she’d lost the love of her life, her
reason for living, her life partner of fifty-five years. With Dad gone, and
only a few years later his dog, Mom had no one to take care of, to keep alive.
So she let go. But the remarkable thing was that in memory loss she became in
some ways the happy carefree woman she must have once been, the woman I only
caught a glimpse of at a point in her life when she no longer remembered my
name, when she confused me with a favorite sister who always made her laugh. A
comparison I was happy to embrace.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Now as I
work on <i>The Ex-Mexican Wives Club,</i>
I’m reminded of a complaint I’ve heard echoed repeatedly throughout a lifetime
of teaching English as a Second Language. “Teacher, I cannot remember
anything,” my students tell me. The burden of learning a new language in a
foreign culture layered over the trauma of immigration and day-to-day survival
jumbles the mind. I experienced the same frustration when I was learning
Spanish, a feeling of such confusion that all memory, even the simplest To Do
list, slipped from grasp. Was this because the memory was stored in Spanish and
I was trying to remember or visualize it in English?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">In “Working
memory: looking back and looking forward” published in <i>Nature Reviews Neuroscience</i> (1 October 2003) <a href="http://www.nature.com/nrn/journal/v4/n10/execsumm/nrn1201.html">http://www.nature.com/nrn/journal/v4/n10/execsumm/nrn1201.html</a>
Alan Baddeley wrote, “The concept of working memory proposes that a dedicated
system maintains and stores information in the short term, and that this system
underlies human thought processes. Current views of working memory involve a
central executive and two storage systems: the phonological loop and the
visuospatial sketchpad.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I imagine
two storage systems, two file drawers or computer files, one full of sound, the
other images, both in neat alphabetical order. When you learn a second
language, do these drawers or files become a muddled mess? My minimal research
shows equally minimal research has been conducted to address that question.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">My current
memoir project focuses on a six-year period I experienced over thirty years ago,
in a culture utterly different from that of my youth, at a time when I spoke
fluent Spanish. Is it linguistic and cultural differences that challenge my
ability to remember people and events? Perhaps trying to retrieve memories in
English creates a barrier to events experienced and remembered in Spanish.
Perhaps returning to Mexico and relearning Spanish would allow greater access
to memory.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">Or is it
that one moment, the moment I opened the letter from my mother telling me my
youngest sister had gone missing? Did that moment short-circuit my memory?
That’s my husband’s theory. At first I laughed him off. But shock treatment was
once used to block memory or deter behavior. Life experiences can do the same.
That’s what PTSD does, block some memories and intensify others.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">So I keep
writing. I have a treasure trove of letters, journals and photographs I am mining.
I have contact with some, but not all, of the friends I once shared Mexico
with. I have the ease of modern day research at my fingertips. And I have
timed-writing practice. I set a timer, alone or in a group, plant my feet on
the ground and go deep in hopes of being surprised by the memories that emerge
on the page.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">With all
the challenges and pitfalls a memoirist faces, why publish? Why do I share my
work—either as blog posts, magazine pieces or as books? This is a question
every memoirist must address, a difficult question, especially if the memoir
explores painful events involving others who may not want the story to be told
or who do not agree with your version of events. Given that few of us live in a
vacuum, it’s likely that our work will include characters in addition to the
narrator. How do we justify writing about others and why publish?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;">I walk a razor’s edge. I am from a very large first family that is not at all fond of
having a writer amongst them, particularly a memoirist. I understand their
position, but that does not change who I am or what I do. When I write memoir, I
include others where their lives intersect with my own and are essential to the
story I’m writing. I do not tell their stories or pretend to know where their
truths lie. I tell my own.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
publish because finding voice necessitates the bearing of witness to that
voice. I began writing to understand, and I published my first memoir because I
understood that if I did not publish I was allowing others to censor my voice.
Personal growth and strength came in learning from readers that my story
touched many lives in a variety of positive ways. I found voice, and I found
myself, by seeking publication for that first memoir. I will continue to write
and publish memoir despite the challenges, and I hope you will do the same. </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-63535288647260608672023-05-19T15:06:00.003-07:002023-05-19T15:07:31.545-07:00Getting Through<p><span style="font-family: times;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBg_f5WuqSYYUplAarTqZc6D_otZO3WEUlpQCQAF4j3nFxzwSBb1HmCnNnNt34LJ1tD1Hvx1gkDvRLk9-_UC7DYE4kB0q4EH31mS_dqxLfsU4rxeP1KDLMbgA1AGan0WeqSbtk8bzKNXpzLd0gyFmDfxNy3BKB-lglnh9HmHzrvlwsRlarh9OBeoRjqw/s637/Jack%20in%20Tree.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="498" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBg_f5WuqSYYUplAarTqZc6D_otZO3WEUlpQCQAF4j3nFxzwSBb1HmCnNnNt34LJ1tD1Hvx1gkDvRLk9-_UC7DYE4kB0q4EH31mS_dqxLfsU4rxeP1KDLMbgA1AGan0WeqSbtk8bzKNXpzLd0gyFmDfxNy3BKB-lglnh9HmHzrvlwsRlarh9OBeoRjqw/s320/Jack%20in%20Tree.png" width="250" /></a></div><br />These past two and a half years have been like no others for
all of us. We each experienced them in varying unexpected ways, sometimes
tragic, sometimes just okay, and others joyful. At least that was my reality.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">I found myself retired from teaching sooner than planned. I also found isolation a great excuse for gaining ten pounds – I still can’t explain why I
didn’t just get outside and cycle. Fear of the dreadful unknown virus? Depression
about the state of our world?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">In June 2020 I became a grandmother. With the strength of a mini tornado, Jack
brought a new kind of intense joy (and fear) into my life. When my daughter’s family
leave ended, I began caring for him a few days each week. I watched and learned
from this tiny bundle of new life, always acutely aware of the gift, the
privilege, I enjoyed by having him close, aware that others suffered from not
seeing, smelling, holding loved ones – new and old – because of isolation
mandates. My husband, daughter, son-in-law, grandson, and I made a pod of five. We
got through together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">And I wrote. Over time, my scribbles turned
into a manuscript. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet, but the process of
writing <i>Pandemic Baby: Letters to My Grandson Before He Could Read </i>helped
me get through these past few years, in the way of all creative work, through
the temporary escape from the day-to-day. </span></span></p><p><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMxYDEJJ4DROQmDuRkqVJ92wZSkxWrRR_P0LSlkTRkbE7Zn9YXYTI1z6tnhoajHKQ4XJe_jS2_CI5csUxxAmudg8DjtLnhfKbvOJ-jN3s9uG2ilFJ1rL3ptYn6s4rf6KiNqki5q9lM5lU-hj_kWG1t2TAy9Asz3emzTh_m9OocDt6tTmTVoA4hXko-g/s570/Screenshot%202023-05-19%20144321.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="442" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMxYDEJJ4DROQmDuRkqVJ92wZSkxWrRR_P0LSlkTRkbE7Zn9YXYTI1z6tnhoajHKQ4XJe_jS2_CI5csUxxAmudg8DjtLnhfKbvOJ-jN3s9uG2ilFJ1rL3ptYn6s4rf6KiNqki5q9lM5lU-hj_kWG1t2TAy9Asz3emzTh_m9OocDt6tTmTVoA4hXko-g/s320/Screenshot%202023-05-19%20144321.png" width="248" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-79916183598495628962022-12-12T10:31:00.000-08:002022-12-12T10:31:36.424-08:00Pure Joy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFI42970kEQJMOMLzUm6hRlur1IBqrdU45Zaka4chUIy8CRMgpVSs4svYFZ98P0JSzk7dFnjdsnMWMKu-direcok1A9lDZP8eDCLWWxkqoTOBy2YfUkxUwuzYzh4UbnX62eRIigeKngRLSXuOXq6FLbFAsuyIUo_qWz2UFa4fqerVmShY3nJItG-yVJg/s933/postcard.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="933" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFI42970kEQJMOMLzUm6hRlur1IBqrdU45Zaka4chUIy8CRMgpVSs4svYFZ98P0JSzk7dFnjdsnMWMKu-direcok1A9lDZP8eDCLWWxkqoTOBy2YfUkxUwuzYzh4UbnX62eRIigeKngRLSXuOXq6FLbFAsuyIUo_qWz2UFa4fqerVmShY3nJItG-yVJg/s320/postcard.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Last week I got an email that read “Congratulations!
You qualified to have a chance to sign a deal for your very first movie
adaptation.” I’ll admit it caught my attention.</span><p></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I read further despite being fairly certain it was a pay-for-representation offer. At “... upon scrutinizing your book …” I almost hit Delete. Instead, I
emailed back asking which of my six books he was interested in representing.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">After some back and forth, I
knew this was not an avenue I was interested in pursuing. Still, the interaction got
me reading the Amazon listing of </span><b style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=the+Alki+trilogy&crid=1SRL4OHM6IFYR&sprefix=the+alki+trilogy%2Caps%2C166&ref=nb_sb_noss">The Alki Trilogy</a></b><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> for the first time in ages. What I found was pure joy.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In today’s world of online shopping, reviews matter. The joy I found were the wonderful reviews from readers I
do not know. Don’t get me wrong. All reviews are great no matter who writes
them or even if the reader finds fault with the book, but reviews from readers who do not know me personally indicates my books
have traveled beyond my small circle of family and friends.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">With deep gratitude to all readers who take the time to share their thoughts, I’m including a few reviews below. You are of course invited to read more online. </span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">If you are
enticed to read my novels or gift them this holiday season, the eBooks are on
sale for one week, December 13th to 20th for only 99 cents!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTxdH4HpoeIqohy_DukyJD6Dc8RfFPKwR6ierjVwL73G296EYSUbRa0XVuR5WyDk4KL5zzRP1mWQjapwbEBUtEgtAfG8x5emMMC_qFe_qQOZm7sqjxTZDnp1RfLlPtA0o8Ho838yvIzG7ldv0Af4qbw_Y7llLzRpzYr3-KleAASy6_TgRWzDLgXmb2g/s2550/Running%20Secrets%20front%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1650" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTxdH4HpoeIqohy_DukyJD6Dc8RfFPKwR6ierjVwL73G296EYSUbRa0XVuR5WyDk4KL5zzRP1mWQjapwbEBUtEgtAfG8x5emMMC_qFe_qQOZm7sqjxTZDnp1RfLlPtA0o8Ho838yvIzG7ldv0Af4qbw_Y7llLzRpzYr3-KleAASy6_TgRWzDLgXmb2g/w129-h200/Running%20Secrets%20front%20cover.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R2KYXZGNE2OTVN/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1974128156" title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #007185; font-size: 10.5pt; text-decoration-line: none;">5.0 out of 5 stars</span></i></a><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R2KYXZGNE2OTVN/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1974128156"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Running Secrets</span></b></a><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt;">I read this book in one weekend. It was hard
to put down and only did when I had to. I loved the characters in the story and
the building relationships, especially the mother/daughter relationship between
Chris and Gemi because I was adopted as an adult and I know how that can heal
old wounds. Wonderful book. Highly recommended.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHN1HsPq71A_7x9SqZoGZpbJuEHmGvMbD0HascfX4mT7_sRMH_uXcxtRFcd-olm6qBvsHhfOsESt7mTKnuxMYZ_3UVWdI9OYGg58nAo9JGjKawpRac3_aDxov1kvUODLkVH5bDc5xHeF67IEh5k_HOWu_u_o6IiM-fsbVZV-hpMSjQFINj3GVuwwjkzw/s1800/BU_e-book%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1164" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHN1HsPq71A_7x9SqZoGZpbJuEHmGvMbD0HascfX4mT7_sRMH_uXcxtRFcd-olm6qBvsHhfOsESt7mTKnuxMYZ_3UVWdI9OYGg58nAo9JGjKawpRac3_aDxov1kvUODLkVH5bDc5xHeF67IEh5k_HOWu_u_o6IiM-fsbVZV-hpMSjQFINj3GVuwwjkzw/w129-h200/BU_e-book%20cover.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R1T1KV8G398X1P/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1620153491" title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #007185; font-size: 10.5pt; text-decoration-line: none;">5.0 out of 5 stars</span></i></a><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R1T1KV8G398X1P/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1620153491"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Some books are a great read, but other
books are ...</span></b></a><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt;">Some books are a great read, but other books
are a great reading experience couched in an important read. I feel that Biking
Uphill is the latter. In Biking Uphill, Arleen Williams captures your attention
with the pictures she paints, which somehow evoke the warmth and sincerity of
photographer, Paul Taylor's pictures of the migrant workers from an era more
than half a century before. Her story is a rich and earthy stew of friendship,
desperation, triumph, and the power of love in the face of hopelessness. All
these are wrapped in a running theme of the gross injustices of humanity. But
it's her gift for imagery that prevented me from putting the book down. It's
not symbolic imagery, but real, almost photographic pictures she presents of
the characters and places, right down to the smells and the light....all my
senses were aware while gathering more secrets of each character. I felt more
like I was watching a movie than reading a book. As for the story itself, it's
timely and brave for its vivid portrayal of the universal pain caused by
arbitrary borders, learned prejudice, and the sorrow of separation these things
create. She is making an important contribution to society through her honest
writing, and I am certain, through her teaching, as well. I can't wait to read
the rest of the trilogy!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCySuED5RElV0V1sB4TbbK7UDWd5A33fReH37sE6Vlwy7_ASuU-i5BIHUQwoJYDWrgTWR24dZrnJiR8pCGhVUAm3jsLwKG0-FQ0Noy39OJwdcUIGarGqraAE_7Sh1HNsLYPtzEXh2QbNgOTCvXC9_qURiEjSrwaawCR11hbrLtqeQPejQa_YqJlHQTGg/s2164/WH_e-book%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2164" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCySuED5RElV0V1sB4TbbK7UDWd5A33fReH37sE6Vlwy7_ASuU-i5BIHUQwoJYDWrgTWR24dZrnJiR8pCGhVUAm3jsLwKG0-FQ0Noy39OJwdcUIGarGqraAE_7Sh1HNsLYPtzEXh2QbNgOTCvXC9_qURiEjSrwaawCR11hbrLtqeQPejQa_YqJlHQTGg/w129-h200/WH_e-book%20cover.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R1MOC6AZKUQFV4/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1974165744" title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #007185; font-size: 10.5pt; text-decoration-line: none;">5.0 out of 5 stars</span></i></a><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R1MOC6AZKUQFV4/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1974165744"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> A Trilogy to Savor Again and Again</span></b></a><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">If you're an avid reader, you know well the
thrill of stumbling upon a book that resonates with you so powerfully you just
can't put it down. When it ends, there is a feeling of sadness and a longing
for more. That is how I felt when I first discovered the Alki Trilogy by Arleen
Williams. It started with Running Secrets, the story of a young woman hurtling
toward </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">self-destruction</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> before meeting Gemi Kemmal, a healthcare provider and
survivor of the horrific political and civil clashes in Ethiopia.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15pt; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">
Gemi is the binding thread in each of the books in the trilogy, which continues
with Biking Uphill, and culminates with Walking Home, a beautiful and very
true-to-life story of an Eritrean refugee called Kidane seeking to build a new
life in Seattle. Sadly, in spite of Kidane's best efforts, he remains plagued
with nightmares and flashbacks from his own struggles in the Horn of Africa,
until he, too, meets Gemi. This time, the caregiver becomes the care receiver
at the heart of a tale that brings each character from the trilogy together in
beautiful fashion.</span></span><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">
What I appreciate most about Walking Home, Biking Uphill, and Running Secrets,
is that each of the characters are so believable. So real. So many authors
choose to make their characters human, but still somehow detached from reality.
Williams doesn't. Instead, each of her characters, from Kidane and Gemi, to
Talisha, Kidane's future wife, and their growing circle of friends, is so true
one half expects to visit the Alki area and run into them.</span></span><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Also,</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> unlike other novels of the genre, or similar genres, the drama the
characters face is also believable, and therefore makes it easy for readers to
identify with in some way. I found myself in Chris, the main protagonist of
Running Secrets, right away, but also saw glimpses of me in others in the
trilogy as well.</span></span><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">
What I especially appreciate is that each of the books is so compelling, you'll
want to read them again, and because of Williams's flowing style - not too
lofty and not too simplistic - you </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">can and</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> will discover something new when
you do. But I caution you, there are moments in these books, particularly
Walking Home, that will leave you breathless and stunned. There is a plot twist
so unimaginable in Walking Home it spins the head. But do continue reading
until the end or you'll miss an amazing finale.</span></span><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">
I truly hope that Williams continues to gift readers with more stories with
rich, multifaceted characters, stunning backdrops (if Alki Beach is real, I
MUST visit!!), and stories that leave readers feeling a sense of "yes!"
after the last page. Williams is a gifted writer and storyteller, and the Alki
Trilogy proves it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-16706104008346880502022-08-29T12:00:00.088-07:002022-08-29T14:02:50.915-07:00What an August ...<p><br />... and it's not over yet!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSAmoA6yfqWbp44EpvZWjBG6WvBGrVbH3EcJIuoelsMlGtludh-eLZ3bXRFXQjE61RiKLZHM2vf0DV_MzhVskTUO1Z1oHYqLp6Z_BWQq_GJoZcWoY87jjPOBeEPrDia5Ntt-hHToLARGAeKMPaWnVDlepcX_Ugw5zxPGPf5TQju9hFhg6g_erJ73UyA/s1361/IU%20Campus.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1361" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSAmoA6yfqWbp44EpvZWjBG6WvBGrVbH3EcJIuoelsMlGtludh-eLZ3bXRFXQjE61RiKLZHM2vf0DV_MzhVskTUO1Z1oHYqLp6Z_BWQq_GJoZcWoY87jjPOBeEPrDia5Ntt-hHToLARGAeKMPaWnVDlepcX_Ugw5zxPGPf5TQju9hFhg6g_erJ73UyA/s320/IU%20Campus.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">We began the month in Bloomington, Indiana for a
family reunion to celebrate my mother-in-law’s 80</span><sup style="text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"> birthday. We planned a ten-day visit and enjoyed most of it exploring Bloomington and Lake
Monroe, doing watercolors on the Indiana University campus, and visiting with relatives.</span></div></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz8f_DHhYirEmpIhiSoVlpaY7scQ7s6SSlSvsgNkOM3MAdW1oHoxXQqPwtlkc02EngmjAH__9MznC9PCS8xYEeudCCmaMeoaAYfeCMjgfKTgzmM6ZkxPUK5mruPKK3tk1iLzVF73Pq3Pssr4b5HALMATED7W-ExE671hxTKzRsCdvT2I6tjZIjEKZUVA/s1299/family%20reunion.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="1299" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz8f_DHhYirEmpIhiSoVlpaY7scQ7s6SSlSvsgNkOM3MAdW1oHoxXQqPwtlkc02EngmjAH__9MznC9PCS8xYEeudCCmaMeoaAYfeCMjgfKTgzmM6ZkxPUK5mruPKK3tk1iLzVF73Pq3Pssr4b5HALMATED7W-ExE671hxTKzRsCdvT2I6tjZIjEKZUVA/s320/family%20reunion.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It was lovely until day nine when we were awakened
with the news that one of the cousins had tested positive for COVID-19. Within
a few hours and a flurry of texts, we learned that many others in the group,
some already enroute home, also tested positive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">My husband, Tom, our daughter, Erin, and our grandson,
Jack were staying together in a small rental house. Using the
tests I’d thrown into my bag at the last minute, we tested. Three positives.
Only my husband was still negative.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In a flurry of decision-making, we cancelled our
flights, extended our car rental, packed our belongings, and began a four-day
cross-country trek home to Seattle. So much beautiful country we drove through
without a single sight-seeing stop!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8Xo3Md5wpAR8C6ungFV4lAhjuZhCxR61TtfyRZ4E77LzOzwZj_brGlbV__hgKiRtHdOeE8EY5jL6GieoCZsLxZ82b51B2aNyVVkY-nKtu85rw1BZVJr60ZTC2ggg83Sts9Kmp_O_3dZExIXyMX8DKcqklP9wPGXy0zJJh5g78aFSGIEIo8qqj4MRoA/s1804/sunflowers.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="1804" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8Xo3Md5wpAR8C6ungFV4lAhjuZhCxR61TtfyRZ4E77LzOzwZj_brGlbV__hgKiRtHdOeE8EY5jL6GieoCZsLxZ82b51B2aNyVVkY-nKtu85rw1BZVJr60ZTC2ggg83Sts9Kmp_O_3dZExIXyMX8DKcqklP9wPGXy0zJJh5g78aFSGIEIo8qqj4MRoA/s320/sunflowers.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Jack was a little trooper. Can you imagine four
days strapped into a kid’s car seat? At least the big people could squirm
around a bit for comfort. After long days of continuous driving and three
nights in roadside motels, getting home felt like checking into a 5-star hotel.
That evening, Tom tested positive.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ23gIvHL-eqKYNFXHueYXP1SlWP-CIBgxBH-cuOaSjp-hG-0u94OYTDASAEmDvXFp56IEP7h9sgebIcpS88lyvsmP_588tIXG8zsBQlBtnXnCijq_bggC7avfqHAMRAQoGWGu_85pq7L3zPCZxluQ2P43I96xM0l1Y5Zc9rqVI7gU4jjgir8MWhidSw/s857/J%20in%20car.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="686" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ23gIvHL-eqKYNFXHueYXP1SlWP-CIBgxBH-cuOaSjp-hG-0u94OYTDASAEmDvXFp56IEP7h9sgebIcpS88lyvsmP_588tIXG8zsBQlBtnXnCijq_bggC7avfqHAMRAQoGWGu_85pq7L3zPCZxluQ2P43I96xM0l1Y5Zc9rqVI7gU4jjgir8MWhidSw/s320/J%20in%20car.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Fortunately, none of us were horribly ill. The fatigue
lingers, but it is manageable. I am so glad that not only the three adults
(and everyone at the reunion) were fully vaccinated, but that even two-year-old
Jack had already received two of the three injections in the recently approved protocol for young
children.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9-L0M2RFeCZ5NLFCuplSG9ickpwqTFO3uJHiTh6Xla19QZNSMjnCWebtJCBSJDUW6wtAkEPpNJwhvxWxt2j3Djmew3sQbibVeaTHytOFSLZHInD6Yo3yChLKEmgC3d-zfwWBOwWqBWNeO1QUUH-K8zxy1rrw5QvXXyWiWyCcRmu3vYr1d9Ztzb60bg/s1303/Me%20and%20J3.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="1303" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9-L0M2RFeCZ5NLFCuplSG9ickpwqTFO3uJHiTh6Xla19QZNSMjnCWebtJCBSJDUW6wtAkEPpNJwhvxWxt2j3Djmew3sQbibVeaTHytOFSLZHInD6Yo3yChLKEmgC3d-zfwWBOwWqBWNeO1QUUH-K8zxy1rrw5QvXXyWiWyCcRmu3vYr1d9Ztzb60bg/s320/Me%20and%20J3.JPG" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Two weeks later, we were on the road
again. This time for less than four hours to Cape Disappointment State Park at the
mouth of the Columbia River. Erin had booked the reservation to coincide with the
International Kite Festival in Long Beach, and fo</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">rtunately, our son-in-law, Elliot, was able to join us on this trip</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">. It was s</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">uch a joy to watch all the amazing
kites, but even more so to watch Jack learning to fly his
own. It was more like walking a dog than standing or sitting in one spot like
the pros, but the adorable factor made up for any deficiency in skill.</span></div></div></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgoJ4_Ml-ZNi0li0DDcHhT0T5-f-5iFpxkK9Uk_phSIU0CLWMIN8Wqfo2xnSDzGc8Lo9jk-VhyWTNXknV9qmihM5mEfYla_uZvvZylEMyF6eF8oBrZ5_062DZHoLDLpZjW_k42aQ8kh3b08y225X0H79eyD1GQ3WnW1rENxkan_ELM7gNijcOTXt9JA/s988/J%20and%20Kite3.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="752" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgoJ4_Ml-ZNi0li0DDcHhT0T5-f-5iFpxkK9Uk_phSIU0CLWMIN8Wqfo2xnSDzGc8Lo9jk-VhyWTNXknV9qmihM5mEfYla_uZvvZylEMyF6eF8oBrZ5_062DZHoLDLpZjW_k42aQ8kh3b08y225X0H79eyD1GQ3WnW1rENxkan_ELM7gNijcOTXt9JA/s320/J%20and%20Kite3.JPG" width="244" /></a></div><br /></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Home again it’s time to settle into a routine of
writing and drawing, cycling and watching Jack a day or two each week. And just
maybe we’ll finish this summer’s home improvement project – a backyard patio to
replace the hazelnut shell surface, I enjoyed for years. It seems I was
alone in that appreciation, but I'll admit the new brick surface will be lovely!</span><p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">What about you? How
have you spent this August? What have you planned for the remaining month of
summer?</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-22851627186316985662022-06-23T12:57:00.001-07:002022-06-23T13:17:02.574-07:00Join Me for Indie Author Night!<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm pleased to invite you (again) to another COVID-cancelled/now rescheduled book event! </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNclzl1Pl35TTIkzHOUaWnU_EXnTeDfeLWSP3TP5EfyoxoQ9ufuz6G42xZtN8pe3rvX0UX-xibIY1WOjUwMirvkbzWfzjmPgQI_EbJoto6CN9GiA2o4vGKCD1WcofPFuJyNChiFjyZLu_5m680KPDaJabLyRbvvNm1flzevNcZY4Vu-lkm9VOI53gyiA/s1849/Brick%20@%20Mortar.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1026" data-original-width="1849" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNclzl1Pl35TTIkzHOUaWnU_EXnTeDfeLWSP3TP5EfyoxoQ9ufuz6G42xZtN8pe3rvX0UX-xibIY1WOjUwMirvkbzWfzjmPgQI_EbJoto6CN9GiA2o4vGKCD1WcofPFuJyNChiFjyZLu_5m680KPDaJabLyRbvvNm1flzevNcZY4Vu-lkm9VOI53gyiA/s320/Brick%20@%20Mortar.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As described on the<a href="https://www.brickandmortarbooks.com/"> Brick & Mortar Books website</a>: </span></p><p><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6)" face="freight-sans-pro" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Indie Author Night is an event that we host in order to support local self-published or small-published authors. Join us to celebrate our local writers and learn about their latest books!</i></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Participating authors:</strong> Marie Ballard, J.P. Barnett, Kelly Vincent, Gowri Nat, Alison Kimble, Arleen Williams, Deborah Voll, Brent Archer, Laura Smestad, A.E. Hearn</span></i></p><p style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This will be a fun <span style="background-color: transparent;">opportunity to hear ten authors talk about their books, ask questions, and purchase (perhaps discounted!) signed copies of books for your own reading pleasure or perhaps a few gifts. </span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">The authors each have four minutes to present their work. I'm looking forward to sharing my three memoirs with a special focus on </span><i style="background-color: transparent;"><b>The Ex-Mexican Wives Club.</b> </i></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit;">In this third memoir, I return to my years working as an undocumented teacher in Mexico City in the 1980s and reconnecting with the women I knew during those turbulent years. <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgb2wYW8LWUpL6rsJJ8xlhzOnIRpOM_yIsCLByY-SUwBltHy2Logd8ZdDA7ERgtR2oZE5FFa1BCXQLAZlo4SLTwPk3cdKNEJY-GPt5CCFqon0dNu-clknU1DNTe97RiPu6SJcuut3wuagwt1ulZmu-a8h8RNM8wr7hvnNcsaXsmS-eCi74G87GsGGSg/s666/Ex%20mex%20cover.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgb2wYW8LWUpL6rsJJ8xlhzOnIRpOM_yIsCLByY-SUwBltHy2Logd8ZdDA7ERgtR2oZE5FFa1BCXQLAZlo4SLTwPk3cdKNEJY-GPt5CCFqon0dNu-clknU1DNTe97RiPu6SJcuut3wuagwt1ulZmu-a8h8RNM8wr7hvnNcsaXsmS-eCi74G87GsGGSg/s320/Ex%20mex%20cover.png" width="237" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Please join me ...</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Brick & Mortar Books</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Redmond Town Center</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">7430 164th Ave NE Suite B105</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Redmond, WA</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Monday, July 25, 2022</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">6:30 PM to 8:00 PM</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><ul class="eventlist-meta event-meta" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1656015054094_2904" style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); font-size: 18px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px 0px 17px; padding: 0px; text-align: start;"><li class="eventlist-meta-item eventlist-meta-date event-meta-item" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.5); font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 2px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-transform: uppercase;"><br /></li></ul></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-63296167461062913972022-05-09T12:07:00.000-07:002022-05-09T12:07:49.096-07:00It's Happening!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwfpsIIPtaIb4E_Xb24QbVrhqI4_92L_w1oSQsaFYsAaIHbBDvCe5lnzNq0akFYa9g8ds9qfG3usrPqlDiZ2gIsRLKmCXB7iHcxACz9nn6V5_9X6UEpmd5w1ZqdcBc6gVklgTaOOLSrUau0llpRWr5g_MN9htsaLV3UrGLKtV_0RHUky2s0BhcCMJxw/s1029/PoetryBridge%20Poster.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="784" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwfpsIIPtaIb4E_Xb24QbVrhqI4_92L_w1oSQsaFYsAaIHbBDvCe5lnzNq0akFYa9g8ds9qfG3usrPqlDiZ2gIsRLKmCXB7iHcxACz9nn6V5_9X6UEpmd5w1ZqdcBc6gVklgTaOOLSrUau0llpRWr5g_MN9htsaLV3UrGLKtV_0RHUky2s0BhcCMJxw/s320/PoetryBridge%20Poster.JPG" width="244" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The "tenth" anniversary celebration of PoetryBridge is happening! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">PoetryBridge, a monthly reading series in West Seattle hosting two featured readers and open mic, had a 10th Anniversary celebration scheduled for March 2020. Eight of the poets and writers who had been featured during the first decade of PoetryBridge were invited to read. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When the coronavirus hit, the</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> party was cancelled. Leopoldo Sequel, self-proclaimed "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;">Chief Provocateur</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;"> inciting suspected poets, storytellers and other word-artists to commit the act of sharing their art," </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;">graciously</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;"> </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;">moved into the cyper world of Zoom and YouTube, keeping PoetryBridge active and thriving throughout the pandemic.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-size: 15px;">Last spring, the "10th" Anniversary was rescheduled as a live reading, but a COVID surge caused a second postponement. So here we are, two years later, in May 2022. I hope you can join us for an in-person reading this Wednesday to celebrate the 10th anniversary of this 12-year-old community event!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-size: 15px;">Please contact </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4c2613; font-size: 16px;">Leopoldo </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4c2613; font-size: 16px;">at </span><a href="mailto:info@poetrybridge.net" style="background-color: white; color: #bb3300; font-size: 16px;">info@poetrybridge.net</a><span style="color: #4c2613;"><span style="background-color: white;"> to get your name on the guest list. Not in the Seattle area? The event will also be live streamed on YouTube at</span></span><b style="background-color: white; color: #201f1e; font-size: 15px;"> </b></span><span style="color: #201f1e;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-ByNL3oW80">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-ByNL3oW80</a>.</b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #201f1e;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">PoetryBridge Anniversary Reading</div><div style="text-align: center;">C & P Coffee House</div><div style="text-align: center;">5612 California Ave. Seattle</div><div style="text-align: center;">7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.</div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-56432324897106501292022-03-18T09:32:00.001-07:002022-03-18T09:32:38.740-07:00It Didn't Work (For Me)<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The practice of keeping two journals I explored in <a href="http://arleenkaywilliams.blogspot.com/2022/02/pages-waiting-for-words.html" target="_blank">my last post</a>– one for personal writing, the other for works
in progress – didn’t work for me. Two journals just created two problems.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">First,
I don’t want to carry two notebooks around with me. I usually carry a notebook stashed
in backpack or purse wherever I go. Always when travelling, even cycling or backpacking. A
recent trip to visit family in California and explore Joshua Tree National Park
showed me the absolute flaw in my experiment. I travel light and rarely check
luggage. An extra notebook was one too many. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
second problem, more important than a simple space issue, is that I am uncomfortable with what for me feels like a clumsy separation of personal and public writing. As a memoirist, and even
when writing fiction or the infrequent poem, my mind and my pen flow freely between the personal and the current work-in-progress</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I found having
two notebooks stymied rather than supported my creative process. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
currently working on a memoir of the COVID years. The
working structure is in the form of letters to my grandson. As I write morning
pages in a personal notebook, I may think of something I want to tell Jack, but
I stop myself because I in the “wrong” notebook. By the time I get to
the “right” notebook, I forget whatever it was I wanted to capture. The
muse is gone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0pzgs2pFXRWMc4mJFeF6UnvWRhs0Vnwl2zVRCts_t5JQz2u19zNMw8OUi1JW1R8_NoMMR3fSrHUTVp5Q_ROgDbDsBMYMMYyr_CynH88_IUh73owUD4VJqkDuqJktLu2llr1d0upLeEPcbdkuKe-usNT3-O7ajJxtYua4Y5_EttKsMGJkXXpoZ_zv8w/s938/Jack and ball.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="811" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0pzgs2pFXRWMc4mJFeF6UnvWRhs0Vnwl2zVRCts_t5JQz2u19zNMw8OUi1JW1R8_NoMMR3fSrHUTVp5Q_ROgDbDsBMYMMYyr_CynH88_IUh73owUD4VJqkDuqJktLu2llr1d0upLeEPcbdkuKe-usNT3-O7ajJxtYua4Y5_EttKsMGJkXXpoZ_zv8w/s320/Jack and ball.JPG" width="277" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">But if I return to my one notebook protocol, what will I do with all those lovely, gifted notebooks I planned to use for my morning pages? Simple solution – I’ll use them for ALL my writing, mixed up and messy like it’s always been. I will set aside my compulsion for steno pads and use the wonderful variety of notebooks stashed away in that desk drawer.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And <i>The Artist’s Way</i> group with monthly zoom meetings led by an on-line writer friend? Unfortunately, the schedule doesn't work for me. The meetings are at a time when I’m giving Jack his afternoon snack or we’re heading out on an adventure – with a notebook tucked in my backpack just in case there’s a free moment to scribble.</span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">What works best for you? Are you a multiple notebook or a one-at-a-time writer? </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-9363533331883421552022-02-07T19:25:00.000-08:002022-02-07T19:25:53.614-08:00Pages Waiting for Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaepvE1wCjXE36Rs5KdPoJXpuaS_R_Yr27mM2MVH4j_w6eu9am6sZ9Z_HznySaQwmzD7jpZ56BXXoJIjP0_0BoBIJ6Pu5SZRuw9t8bQa1y-es5yESLbuwwVSfl1HIiFlQLhZmMqz6XZSzSIPWdXJalOvLUywGbHc1x-j3p5hfnZWqvdinoq847jNhneQ/s1394/journals3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1041" data-original-width="1394" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaepvE1wCjXE36Rs5KdPoJXpuaS_R_Yr27mM2MVH4j_w6eu9am6sZ9Z_HznySaQwmzD7jpZ56BXXoJIjP0_0BoBIJ6Pu5SZRuw9t8bQa1y-es5yESLbuwwVSfl1HIiFlQLhZmMqz6XZSzSIPWdXJalOvLUywGbHc1x-j3p5hfnZWqvdinoq847jNhneQ/s320/journals3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;">Because I
write, it is not uncommon to receive blank books as gifts. These books come in
a wonderful variety of shapes, sizes, and decorative styles. Despite using assorted blank books in my early years, since beginning my first memoir two decades ago, I have used steno pads. I buy them in bulk from my local office
supply store and use them for all my writing. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This past
holiday season, I was gifted two lovely blank books. As I went to add them to the unused
collection, I hesitated. At a holiday book
club gathering, a dear friend presented a blank book to each member suggesting we write
moments of joy during this difficult pandemic, something I readily agreed to
do. As I fingered the texture of the cover and admired the floral line drawing adorning
it, I could not stuff it into that tight drawer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The same month a writer-friend on the opposite coast invited folks to join her
in a year-long <i>Artist’s Way </i>workshop. I'd read Julia
Cameron’s book early in my writing career, but I'd completed the 12-week program alone. I was curious about taking a 12-month zoom journey with this distant
friend, and I decided to write
my “morning pages” in the beautiful floral book. Within seven weeks, the pages
were full of joy and anger, dreams and disappointments.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After
filling the final page, I returned to the desk drawer and extracted a
stack of blank books. I will use them for personal writing, for “morning pages”
whether I write in the morning or evening, whether I write daily or
less-than-daily. I will journal in these thoughtful gifts just as I
will continue writing first drafts of my public
writing on the pale green pages of steno pads. It will be interesting to see where this leads me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Do you keep a journal? Do you write longhand? What kind of notebook do you prefer? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps
you’re wondering how to organize those journals into memoir. Or perhaps, you
have a story you’re struggling to get on the page. If so, and if you’re in the
Seattle area, I invite you to join a one-day memoir class I’ll be teaching at Hugo
House. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">To learn more and register, <a href="https://hugohouse.org/store/class/exploring-the-memoir-in-person-arleen-williams/">CLICK HERE</a>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">For information on scholarships, <a href="https://hugohouse.org/classes/scholarships/">CLICK HERE</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-12964000490939725082022-01-17T17:33:00.000-08:002022-01-17T17:33:39.109-08:00Silence and Reflection<p>2021 has ended. The pandemic has not. The group reading to
celebrate the 10<sup>th</sup> anniversary of PoetryBridge at C&P
Coffeehouse originally scheduled in 2020 and cancelled because of COVID, rescheduled
and cancelled again in 2021, was on my calendar for January 12, 2022. Then Omicron surfaced and the 12<sup>th</sup> anniversary<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">was also </span>cancelled.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These are the times we are living. Times demanding difficult
decisions and flexibility. While we never know what will come next
in life, the current reality is unique in that it is a shared event with no clear parameters. Risk-tolerance varies from person to person as does the need to return to a sense of normalcy. But what will the new normal look like?<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvrbApnhVku66QOEcEem-L6jRJRR2jPbi4wI3e6SsuAnxqrLLZKD9cvsi6nSfXyFo40FyNzc8QV8u_ekGkWo9dFfiUlxu1NxJXVjpj3LaQ0kde11jwmrOVGUsmgMCW3LOVfWkK66lodqxbscWzKBAXlHHiRsR6qQJu2Or-0xSMdJHk7v_Qj2KrZI5Tfw=s1213" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1213" data-original-width="924" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvrbApnhVku66QOEcEem-L6jRJRR2jPbi4wI3e6SsuAnxqrLLZKD9cvsi6nSfXyFo40FyNzc8QV8u_ekGkWo9dFfiUlxu1NxJXVjpj3LaQ0kde11jwmrOVGUsmgMCW3LOVfWkK66lodqxbscWzKBAXlHHiRsR6qQJu2Or-0xSMdJHk7v_Qj2KrZI5Tfw=s320" width="244" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">So, what to do? I continue to read and write, walk and cycle. I juggle my need for solitude and creativity with
the joy and exhaustion of caring for an active nineteen-month-old grandson. A
little boy who stands before a large houseplant, the heavy iron fireplace
screen, a stack of Grandma’s books, hand extended, eyes twinkling, waiting for
me to say “No!” before reaching for the object he knows he is not to touch. I’m learning to silently remove him from temptation. When he grabs my
hair, I swallow my screech – he loves loud noises! – unravel my hair from his small
fingers and walk away.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been thinking about solitude as I read May Sarton.
Perhaps the need for solitude grows as we get older. Or maybe it’s self-awareness
that grows with age. Solitude is a choice which should not be confused with isolation or loneliness. In <i>Journal of a Solitude</i>, Sarton writes “I must not
forget that, for me, being with people or even with one beloved person for any
length of time without solitude is even worse [than the challenge of maintaining
balance in solitude.] I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces.”
I understand this. I share these feelings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My daughter had a wonderful primary school teacher who established
a regular practice of “Silence and Reflection.” He usually took the children
outdoors. Journals in hand, they each chose a place to sit at a distance from
one another to write or draw or daydream. And while there was no true solitude,
there was silence. For my girl, this was at times boring but always settling. Perhaps
I need, perhaps we all need, time each day for silence and reflection in our
overly loud, overly screen-dominated, overly stressed world.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-56172497373029489532021-11-26T15:48:00.001-08:002021-11-26T15:48:18.763-08:00Did I Cheat?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bx6MzairHQLYNLFTghmVLhGsjNHjk1udVKIyNYO2I_GZyOCkW7PEJhk0jFsJCMAq52BxoJDsyH_BIcy3j0FZt4ybTkFf3n-IEzTcVMseRYdOZDFnDZsXEWSfZQUK2qY0hmJYK32PBERx/s1091/hugo+house2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="1091" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bx6MzairHQLYNLFTghmVLhGsjNHjk1udVKIyNYO2I_GZyOCkW7PEJhk0jFsJCMAq52BxoJDsyH_BIcy3j0FZt4ybTkFf3n-IEzTcVMseRYdOZDFnDZsXEWSfZQUK2qY0hmJYK32PBERx/s320/hugo+house2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">November is
<a href="https://nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a> – National Novel Writing Month</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">. The idea is to jump start a novel by writing 50,000 words in a single month. That’s
a load of words!</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I cheated. Well, I
didn’t actually sign up, so maybe I can’t really be accused of cheating. But
still… </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I reached the
50,000-word goal earlier this week. But they weren’t all “new” words. And I’m
not working on a novel. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I began a pandemic diary early last year – a desktop file where I wrote to
untangle the insanity of 2020: from Trump to COVID, social justice to global warming, unemployment to homelessness. And on a
personal level, my unplanned retirement and the birth of my grandson.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In late October
2020 when my daughter’s family leave ended, I began
caring for my grandson a few days each week, and an odd thing happened. I began
addressing my daily journal entries to my grandson. I began calling the file <i>Pandemic
Baby</i>. I began thinking of it as a new memoir project.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A year of letters
to Jack accumulated by the time NaNoWriMo 2021 rolled around. It
seemed the perfect challenge: Could I shape these ramblings into a draft
memoir? To answer that question, I cheated. I began cutting and pasting,
rewriting and, yes, writing some “new” words as well. The manuscript is far from
a finished first draft, but it’s a start. The challenge got me this far.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">What about you? Do
you have a memoir you’ve been wanting to get on the page? Perhaps for
publication or perhaps for family? Do you need a challenge to get you started
or instruction to keep you going?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m excited to be
teaching a one-day memoir class on March 14, 2022 at Hugo House in Seattle.
Perhaps that’s the challenge you need to breathe life into your project. If
so, I look forward to seeing you in class. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Registration opens soon. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://hugohouse.org/store/class/exploring-the-memoir-in-person-arleen-williams/" target="_blank">CLICK HERE</a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> for course description and registration information.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-78524095243773287922021-10-05T13:31:00.000-07:002021-10-05T13:31:45.812-07:00Personal Freedom or Selfish Ignorance?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHp8X_fWPnIUMaNhTFFt9KlrDd2xNIrwlV9h5A2yNVzzM_a3lJ1b-f137vJDzgWTtfCsI7KPjiZJPtGLU7rG9jXT5RQBKbCgepCejcxUl1yiIYW5xjyJTnF8bLwCx0tcl8UsmIBLvoeLD1/s1198/girl.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="945" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHp8X_fWPnIUMaNhTFFt9KlrDd2xNIrwlV9h5A2yNVzzM_a3lJ1b-f137vJDzgWTtfCsI7KPjiZJPtGLU7rG9jXT5RQBKbCgepCejcxUl1yiIYW5xjyJTnF8bLwCx0tcl8UsmIBLvoeLD1/w252-h320/girl.JPG" title=""Coronavirus children" by https://www.vperemen.com is licensed under CC BY 2.0" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/187518593@N07/49738276868" target="_blank"><span style="background: white; color: black; text-decoration-line: none;">"Coronavirus children"</span></a><span style="background: white;"><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span data-v-e1c1f65a="" style="box-sizing: inherit; text-align: start;">by <a data-v-e1c1f65a="" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/187518593@N07" style="box-sizing: inherit; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank"><span style="color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">https://www.vperemen.com</span></a></span><span style="text-align: start;"> is licensed under </span></span><a data-v-e1c1f65a="" href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/?ref=ccsearch&atype=rich" style="box-sizing: inherit; cursor: pointer; text-align: start;" target="_blank"><span style="background: white; color: black; text-decoration-line: none;">CC BY 2.0</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My family and I have been among the fortunate during these
nineteen months of the coronavirus and emerging variants, a pandemic with a
death toll now exceeding that of the Spanish Flu despite the easy availability
of multiple, free, effective vaccines. I look out my front window to the fenced
yard, imagining a small fortress, protection against the disease and mayhem of our
world. Am I choosing ignorance, denying the realities of this horrible pandemic,
of devastating global warming, of homelessness, of warfare driven by greed and
manipulated by religion? Or, am I simply struggling for sanity?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We live behind a vine-laden fence in relative ease, privileged
not only by good health, food on our table, and a solid roof overhead, but also
by family. Becoming a grandmother and caring for my pandemic-born grandson has
been a source of pure pleasure during these dreadful times. Yet, my words flounder
as my anger festers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I began a post a while back announcing two upcoming in-person
readings. Both events were originally scheduled for early 2020. Both were
events where I looked forward to sharing from my latest memoir, <i>The
Ex-Mexican Wives Club</i>, published in late 2019. Both events were cancelled
with the outbreak of COVID. So I was pleased, joyous actually, to be invited to
participate in these events when they were re-scheduled for the second week of
September 2021. Then the Delta variant hit and both events were once again
cancelled. Cancelling made sense, it was the right thing to do. Still, I felt the
dark tentacles of anger, fear, and hopelessness tighten around me. I do not
believe I am alone with these feelings. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My anger builds as far too many put self before community in
empty arguments favoring personal freedom. With children dying, vaccinated
adults getting sick, hospitals overflowing, schools and businesses shutting
down once again, we must put the well-being of local communities, our country and
the world above all else. As I hold my young grandson in my arms, I cannot
comprehend putting selfish interpretations of personal freedom above the life
of any child. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We have a medical solution. Deaths and variants rest in the
hands of anti-vaccers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-8042927344754954462021-07-05T09:55:00.002-07:002021-07-05T09:55:33.861-07:00Antiracist Grandma = Antiracist Grandson<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMrbaFZ0DjLapfXU3B3WYj-22Q9xPc1aMT0z0J5wW7xUEe9IsC0271tCJkcR2wcbNgrik0Bhf_IVI6GNgUqos47PlQ-VGlaEA9KjF0wxwMH7FQyNhuVpzWLO_KCIf4UqIyx5QIe-xHmpm/s1234/Breathe+cover_July+issue_Tania+Abramson.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="1234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMrbaFZ0DjLapfXU3B3WYj-22Q9xPc1aMT0z0J5wW7xUEe9IsC0271tCJkcR2wcbNgrik0Bhf_IVI6GNgUqos47PlQ-VGlaEA9KjF0wxwMH7FQyNhuVpzWLO_KCIf4UqIyx5QIe-xHmpm/s320/Breathe+cover_July+issue_Tania+Abramson.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Breathe</b>, July 2021, Artwork by Tania L. Abramson</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">I'm happy to share a recent essay titled </span><i style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.breatheeveryone.net/">Antiracist Grandma = Antiracist Grandson</a></i><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> published in the online journal, </span><b style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Breathe</b><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">.</span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"<b>Breathe</b> makes a difference by rallying dissent against racially discriminatory policies through the publication of artworks, poetry, and essays to counter the protracted disavowals and lethargy that allow racial coercion to persist." </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This <a href="https://www.breatheeveryone.net/mission">mission</a> appeals to my sense of justice while offering an opportunity to use creative expression to combat feelings of helplessness, and yes, perhaps lethargy, in the face of social injustice. I invite you to explore the journal and consider submitting your own written or visual work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last month the submission invitation included the follow theme: <span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;">“What has changed? What remains the same? How have you changed? What have you done differently?" I was intrigued. I wrote. I submitted. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;">I am grateful to the editorial staff - </span></span><span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;">Tania Abramson, Paul Abramson, and </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;">Leopoldo Segue - </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;">for publishing my work: </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;"></span></p><h1 class="entry-title entry-title--large p-name" data-content-field="title" itemprop="headline" style="background-color: #e7d1b5; font-family: granville; line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Antiracist Grandma = Antiracist Grandson</span></h1><p style="background-color: #e7d1b5; font-family: granville; margin: 1rem 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">My grandson is a year old this month. A privileged white male born to the cacophony of social justice marchers below his parents’ hospital window in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood during the worst pandemic since 1918 and the most divisive federal government in U.S. history.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="background-color: #e7d1b5; font-family: granville; margin: 1rem 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a white woman in her mid-sixties. Spurred by the murder of George Floyd, I embarked on a journey of personal education and became deeply engrossed in social justice reading, devouring the works of Michelle Alexander, James Baldwin, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Ibram X. Kendi, Kiese Laymon, Wesley Lowery, Ijeoma Oluo, Mychal Denzel Smith, William Still, Isabel Wilkerson, and others. I read to make sense of the growing violence in our streets and growing discord on the college campus where I had taught for decades. I thought I had a decent understanding of the history of racial injustice and the roots of police violence against people of color in my country. I was wrong. </p></div><p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;"><a href="https://www.breatheeveryone.net/july-2021-art/blog-post-title-one-jh38w-yz3xj-hkcr2-y6eaw-wywcm-5h3wr-prxrx-9zkrd-l4py8-tb8r3-cmrtw-xs54f-wlyka-hj5yf-h4rd4-9reg7-3wzkb-h4bd7-nmtne" target="_blank">Read more ...<br /></a><br /></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-74844871088402434222021-06-25T11:19:00.000-07:002021-06-25T11:19:38.298-07:00Paintings and Poems: Shadows of Caravans Pass<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflXDck76TzoJ5utKo1r6umqnCeU-j_IoRTlTtd7jk3AeuI8_np7BY-DyLo4i8iscyu8HzszZb7l9Fr08srVwFAL5eSWSYTXzdc23XvKfOc8gHywfev4co-zQPryUHAc7NUKsJWTz2nTb2/s311/Vero%2527s+Painting_Shadows+of+Caravans+Pass.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflXDck76TzoJ5utKo1r6umqnCeU-j_IoRTlTtd7jk3AeuI8_np7BY-DyLo4i8iscyu8HzszZb7l9Fr08srVwFAL5eSWSYTXzdc23XvKfOc8gHywfev4co-zQPryUHAc7NUKsJWTz2nTb2/s0/Vero%2527s+Painting_Shadows+of+Caravans+Pass.jpeg" /></a></div>On May 11, 2021 I lost another sister. Unlike Maureen, she was not a victim of a horrendous crime, not <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Thirty-Ninth-Victim-Memoir-Arleen-Williams-ebook/dp/B07CSR3C69/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1526063566&sr=8-1&keywords=arleen+williams">the thirty-ninth victim</a> of a mass murderer. That is, unless you consider the snail-slow progress in cancer and dementia research a crime. Colleen was a victim of Lewy Body dementia, as well as mesothelioma, a type of lung cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. One month after her sixty-ninth birthday her suffering ended.<p></p><p>As I returned to writing poems to pair with <a href="http://arleenkaywilliams.blogspot.com/2021/06/paintings-and-poems-coastal-dawn.html">Veronique Burke's paintings</a>, I was drawn to the image above and found myself awash in memories. Those memories took shape in the following poem:</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Shadows of Caravans Pass<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Childhood under starlit skies,</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">her endless stories filling my young ears.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Treading water – who could last longer?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Riding, grooming, feeding, mucking.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Who left the pasture gate open <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">that day the nag nearly died?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">She shouldered the shame, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">but it could have been me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><i>Somewhere over the rainbow …<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">A forgotten
teen production leaving </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">no trace of her young voice.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Only echoes of barnyard rehearsals remain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">She left for college, and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">our wilderness adventures ended.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">A solitary bus ride to her dorm across state: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">first jolt of my early independence.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Flower child wedding of flowing white. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Floppy straw hat over fringe of curls.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Bridesmaid skirts of yellow daisies. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">What dreams held this young bride’s heart?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Did she imagine caravans in exotic lands?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; tab-stops: 317.7pt;">Long dark shadows on desert sands?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Woman warrior of mystery and magic?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Or perhaps her dreams hung closer to home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">No longer woman warrior, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">nor stoic farmer, nor solid teacher.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Where did she travel when life left her?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">A long dreamless sleep – nothing more?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Caravans of memories pass, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">tethered by cherished moments in parallel lives.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Woman warrior was here. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Now is gone.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-83590624955850673602021-06-04T11:22:00.003-07:002021-06-05T10:39:39.058-07:00Paintings and Poetry: Coastal Dawn<p>In February I wrote <a href="http://arleenkaywilliams.blogspot.com/2021/02/covid-creativity.html">COVID & Creativity</a>, a piece highlighting artist and friend, Veronique Burke, whose creativity finds voice on canvas as well as in paper mache, pottery and mosaic. The joy she experiences through creative expression is clear in her work. </p><p>Recently Veronique decided to assemble a collection of her favorite paintings and asked some of her writer friends to create poems to pair with her work. I loved the idea and the opportunity to join her in this fun project. To date I've completed four pairings. Here's the first I'd like to share ...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3J0xVu6WymSmfLdD-Iojvlr8wn2JHKs9KOlic5wHBNABd7n6aTM0N5FVrsJkPoXKCk7FK-5QOXuf03KRbJCGG0dyeE22gt-0cVW5gGc5l6H6rbzbuCapynfq-JxPg-oVA5yD5h0nIPdO/s320/Vero%2527s+painting_Coastal+Dawn.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="320" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3J0xVu6WymSmfLdD-Iojvlr8wn2JHKs9KOlic5wHBNABd7n6aTM0N5FVrsJkPoXKCk7FK-5QOXuf03KRbJCGG0dyeE22gt-0cVW5gGc5l6H6rbzbuCapynfq-JxPg-oVA5yD5h0nIPdO/w400-h191/Vero%2527s+painting_Coastal+Dawn.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Coastal Dawn</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">On a cold gray Pacific dawn<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">In a damp bag inside a damp tent<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Salt air, seaweed tang, and strong coffee<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Permeate the tight air<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">The coffee drags me from our tent<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Ocean vista my reward<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">He knows this, he does this for me<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">To get my aching body moving, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">to begin a new day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Huddled tight on a driftwood log<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Coffee hot in gloved hands, we listen<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">To gulls and heron call overhead, and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Gentle waves lap the sandy shore<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">Awash with sunset memories under bluing sky<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">We plan our day in early morning calm<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">As the chatter of day hikers invades,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">We hoist our backpacks and head out,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">in search of solitude<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-45285231606641746052021-04-09T11:53:00.000-07:002021-04-09T11:53:30.843-07:00A New First!<p>Many thanks to those of you who were able to attend my poetry reading last week. It was wonderful to share this first with my talented friend, Pamela Hobart Carter. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_DSeWTeHw7nDXYEbb3RMVf48PG9jpfvTqmFIe_IvVwFKyl6s-R_JZa9pK3BY8Y6TXqFtF9_RFX6X8V10CC4uxAU5fnRqiPW-fp8SvkWwuMGkuYu0t07ixSt17IF-drYxMZQi5NgGUu_R/s920/Pam2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_DSeWTeHw7nDXYEbb3RMVf48PG9jpfvTqmFIe_IvVwFKyl6s-R_JZa9pK3BY8Y6TXqFtF9_RFX6X8V10CC4uxAU5fnRqiPW-fp8SvkWwuMGkuYu0t07ixSt17IF-drYxMZQi5NgGUu_R/s320/Pam2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I'm also grateful to Leopoldo Seguel, the dedicated energy behind the <a href="https://www.poetrybridgetimes.net/" target="_blank">PoetryBridge</a> reading series, for transitioning from a <i>monthly</i> in-person event at <a href="https://candpcoffee.com/">C&P Coffee Company</a> in West Seattle to a <i>weekly </i>online event throughout this year of COVID isolation. If you'd like to receive the weekly zoom link to participate as a viewer, open micer or featured reader, please email Leopoldo at <a href="mailto:www.info@poetrybridge.net"><span style="color: #bb3300; font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">info@poetrybridge.net</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #4c2613; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKo85cwJ00-yjVSkTyuhFXiQg-3ACx-_BjGsP5xQjjwQzIdKV9VP38urYRZdkR5UguRgZjj13NRuqHX3fL7DzmP_sd3n0G-yXHUp3Y_TILTL1rthOMD_y4eMoXqEWNA6H58K4VBE89f01h/s940/Capture2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="940" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKo85cwJ00-yjVSkTyuhFXiQg-3ACx-_BjGsP5xQjjwQzIdKV9VP38urYRZdkR5UguRgZjj13NRuqHX3fL7DzmP_sd3n0G-yXHUp3Y_TILTL1rthOMD_y4eMoXqEWNA6H58K4VBE89f01h/s320/Capture2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>To those of you who were unable to attend, Leopoldo has graciously shared the video of this event at: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmOb5yjZWhE">PB LIVE! #35 - YouTube</a> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-70074377664446854552021-03-26T12:24:00.004-07:002021-04-09T10:54:07.430-07:00Watch Us Wednesday!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Last July I posted a short history of the PoetryBridge
reading series titled </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><a href="http://arleenkaywilliams.blogspot.com/2020/07/a-reading-event-in-time-of-covid.html">A Reading Event in the Time of COVID</a></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"> so I won’t repeat
myself here. Suffice to say, you’re invited!</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">On Wednesday, March 31, I am honored to be sharing
the virtual stage with Pamela Hobart Carter. Honored and frankly, intimidated.
Unlike me, a neophyte in the world of poetry, Pam is a Pushcart nominee whose
work is widely published. She is currently celebrating the release of her first
poetry book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Imaginary-Museum-Pamela-Hobart-Carter/dp/1952326656/ref=sr_1_14?dchild=1&keywords=pamela+hobart+carter&qid=1616785044&sr=8-14">Her Imaginary Museum</a>,</i> and awaiting the release of her
second, <i>Held Together by Tape and Glue. </i>She is a gifted and dedicated
poet, playwright and novelist who I am fortunate to call my writing partner and
friend.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvMtpiadG4eBkJGnFhNuEmTQRwUMcvBMO4gQtsFeXlN-UXMzXRpowP51cPKV_GTPlParrEclHRGDAntS5peoe0vL4A_v3E7ESZ2Pi_9jVqqSWc4Zr6rdsgUwQY8BLsYMHJlRRyJQl4DYu/s1040/A%2526P2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1040" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvMtpiadG4eBkJGnFhNuEmTQRwUMcvBMO4gQtsFeXlN-UXMzXRpowP51cPKV_GTPlParrEclHRGDAntS5peoe0vL4A_v3E7ESZ2Pi_9jVqqSWc4Zr6rdsgUwQY8BLsYMHJlRRyJQl4DYu/s320/A%2526P2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Together we have created an intertwined presentation
of our poetry that I think you will enjoy. I hope you can join us next Wednesday,
March 31 at 7:00pm PDT. The zoom link is usually shared the morning of the
event. To get your name on the list, please email Leopoldo Seguel at <a href="mailto:info@poetrybridge.net">info@poetrybridge.net</a>. Or, drop me a
line at <a href="mailto:aw@arleenwilliams.com">aw@arleenwilliams.com</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-84951468544564766522021-02-19T06:35:00.001-08:002021-05-31T12:05:52.736-07:00COVID & Creativity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39tiFuNqcy73QToG8I_bfwXXoaGdZG3UfXL01w2WKxUBXWEd002MZolb7_0BxdD0ljT6zVO0ubk18fskElj0d9kkeDDqRYGXIZtq3opiMt9jiXxoqdvR0a4srbg5Mf4Fmj15SxdohPLgU/s1550/Capture.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1011" data-original-width="1550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39tiFuNqcy73QToG8I_bfwXXoaGdZG3UfXL01w2WKxUBXWEd002MZolb7_0BxdD0ljT6zVO0ubk18fskElj0d9kkeDDqRYGXIZtq3opiMt9jiXxoqdvR0a4srbg5Mf4Fmj15SxdohPLgU/s320/Capture.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>This was my day: I woke at 6 am and dozed for another hour. The first upright hour, I wasted on my cell – email, news, social
media. I watched a Roy Orbison and KD Lang duet, started a load of laundry,
then decided I needed to hear more KD Lang. I spent another hour or two
listening to music, researching Canadian songwriters - Leonardo Cohen, Gordon Lightfoot,
Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Jane Siberry, Sarah McLachlan, Leon Redbone (a
rabbit hole of talent) – while reading about inspiration and creativity.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The reading was inspired by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YoHtO0psgcU&feature=youtu.be">this wonderful video clip</a> my
friend, Veronique Burke, shared of the work she’s created during this pandemic
year. It got me wondering about how little I’ve been writing and the reasons
for that change. Then I made chocolate chip banana bread, cleaned out the
refrigerator and made a shopping list. If not for the falling rain, melting snow
and slushy sidewalks, I might have walked to the store, or driven.
Instead, I folded laundry before sitting down to finish Isabel Wilkerson’s masterpiece,
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Warmth-Other-Suns-Americas-Migration/dp/1469233010/ref=asc_df_1469233010/?tag=bingshoppinga-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=&hvpos=&hvnetw=o&hvrand=&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=e&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=&hvtargid=pla-4583657821786772&psc=1"><i>The Warmth of Other Suns – The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration</i>. </a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, after numerous additional texts with sisters and
friends, I sat and scribbled a draft of this post with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YoHtO0psgcU&feature=youtu.be">Veronique’s video</a> looping through my brain. Veronique’s creativity explodes in image, paper mache and mosaic. It’s
clear that she had a blast expressing herself and decorating her world. I
admire that, and I’m grateful to her for the reminder that self-expression can
do wonders for the soul and that creativity doesn’t bloom on its own but grows through regular attention, a practice that’s easy to lose during these endless months of isolation.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How are you expressing your creativity these days? <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-2643162959394436012021-01-20T13:17:00.007-08:002021-01-20T13:26:56.046-08:00Hope in Portland?<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pc2js5zbSFI3t8rbRXAuoF_9X-qkWBjqwIvQP2YzZJAj12JeBVONYsqIP3eIp-PgthrKj1HYwl24NC4zCvIT2THk4G7XqEk3TvT6LJE27PBgpSK7nBlqyJNFjOXojmtkUWn2vpW6KzSe/s1246/Bridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="1246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pc2js5zbSFI3t8rbRXAuoF_9X-qkWBjqwIvQP2YzZJAj12JeBVONYsqIP3eIp-PgthrKj1HYwl24NC4zCvIT2THk4G7XqEk3TvT6LJE27PBgpSK7nBlqyJNFjOXojmtkUWn2vpW6KzSe/s320/Bridge.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">Portland, Oregon
is a city of memories. A quirky, friendly, fun city. A place for
back-to-school shopping trips with my daughter and romantic getaways with my
husband. Built on the Willamette River, it reminds me a bit of Paris or London,
with parks and paths along both banks and crossed by
numerous bridges. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">Ten days after the insurrection in D.C., my
husband needed to make the three-hour drive from Seattle to Portland for
business. I decided to tag along, and we booked a room in one of Portland’s
historic downtown hotels. We assumed the low rates were pandemic related.
After checking in and parking the car in the garage – for us walking or cycling
is the best way to enjoy Portland – we headed toward the river and soon discovered
that Portland is no longer the City of Roses I have long loved.</span></span><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5aHNLs1mCoNUlV9S9meCtS73jGiTXx6yrkfz9F2Y9Ds8IngHJo_C9uV8P9xyps_MLk9Yb5gnMr_5ODTACK9KPrJMpUx_AQ_MKdTp8QrSnin0_TAcOpLl0YTklu2qy4tzSoNYLLU5FJiS/s1251/yellow.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="1251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5aHNLs1mCoNUlV9S9meCtS73jGiTXx6yrkfz9F2Y9Ds8IngHJo_C9uV8P9xyps_MLk9Yb5gnMr_5ODTACK9KPrJMpUx_AQ_MKdTp8QrSnin0_TAcOpLl0YTklu2qy4tzSoNYLLU5FJiS/s320/yellow.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last summer’s
peaceful Black Lives Matter demonstrations in response to the May 25th murder of George
Floyd turned violent when white supremacists, anarchists, and Trump
supporters converged on the city. When federal agents were called in, violence
escalated. It is still smoldering.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBOTodinQkxNpEgEzcUhln2XYoHyD5-ZGBDT7aRliprUFBwKNbA1-RZQbFdVuSWi5OEdHO8SeKoUQU-v_04blH12cPDQsVFO7CR5feIGZ6Z4gJnC0XZkTQx9e1GrXbGwa6iF7UQiKbgLR/s1512/blm.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="1512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBOTodinQkxNpEgEzcUhln2XYoHyD5-ZGBDT7aRliprUFBwKNbA1-RZQbFdVuSWi5OEdHO8SeKoUQU-v_04blH12cPDQsVFO7CR5feIGZ6Z4gJnC0XZkTQx9e1GrXbGwa6iF7UQiKbgLR/s320/blm.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">That violence
combined with the financial crisis caused by the pandemic has left a wasteland
of boarded up buildings. Some stores are open
for limited business with entrances through reinforced doors. A few restaurants
offer outdoor dining, but most we saw offer take-out only or remain closed. Chain link fences surround official
buildings, monuments, and parks. Homeless
people, tents and garbage are visible at every turn.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhuNHl1LSyOSHZEVgGrPQ_fZrUqT9TuRRX5vlXxGdRpRFpXYYvkt3SGfLq0JLY6vaRC5aj423tUrNikyitjldWCAIzhQgQwX3wr4MCVcITg3cNxm_Hn9ihN4rkzpcOU_51oxMU_35XIP4/s1242/homeless.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="1242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhuNHl1LSyOSHZEVgGrPQ_fZrUqT9TuRRX5vlXxGdRpRFpXYYvkt3SGfLq0JLY6vaRC5aj423tUrNikyitjldWCAIzhQgQwX3wr4MCVcITg3cNxm_Hn9ihN4rkzpcOU_51oxMU_35XIP4/s320/homeless.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">We headed toward Portland’s famous food trucks for a late lunch. There are
several areas we have enjoyed on prior visits. This time we found them amid seas
of homeless encampments. After being approached a few times for handouts, we opted to move on.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">W</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">alking away, we
saw police activity: police vehicles with flashing lights barricading the street,
officers holding pointed guns over cruiser roofs, a pedestrian filming with her
cell. But the pain is in pockets. We found another cluster of food trucks only a
few blocks away and we ate.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExoKUAWN53ipO-OnzViJadh36npFQvnmBwFyMroAqHXdLktwra_ztKanjrVg7g5tY6NQztihmmQf6Q2CYna04Z5EPbkBDriGPn0WC_warZEZJmHO7eEbBBTE3yd-6h_xm0mK-MO5MtXvR/s1172/wheel+chair.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="836" data-original-width="1172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExoKUAWN53ipO-OnzViJadh36npFQvnmBwFyMroAqHXdLktwra_ztKanjrVg7g5tY6NQztihmmQf6Q2CYna04Z5EPbkBDriGPn0WC_warZEZJmHO7eEbBBTE3yd-6h_xm0mK-MO5MtXvR/s320/wheel+chair.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everywhere the
buildings are boarded up. Many are framed with two-by-fours, as though for a
new wall. This allows easy removal and replacement of plywood boards. A
necessity in an unstable environment. I was reminded of the roll-down metal security
doors I became familiar with during my years in Mexico City. According to the desk clerk at our hotel, these barriers have come down and been replaced
several times in the past eight months. She said some were removed last
autumn only to be replaced before the presidential election. Some were removed after
the election only to be replaced in response to the January 6 attack on the U.S.
Capitol. Now the city seems to be waiting, holding its breath, for the inauguration.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlJjWH76QT19qwIhFGxyIAuD7qWj3QZoCNw4HbuM2DIc1IkTJAqFuT8mT3cf1VBWZEtmZq5cJAV9R2rEuaMyy210JfoCMtjqpDmBEnDxPXnt8OvOU1kJ1xbYGf_IH6nofch_kojYMRn6s/s1230/splotches2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="1230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlJjWH76QT19qwIhFGxyIAuD7qWj3QZoCNw4HbuM2DIc1IkTJAqFuT8mT3cf1VBWZEtmZq5cJAV9R2rEuaMyy210JfoCMtjqpDmBEnDxPXnt8OvOU1kJ1xbYGf_IH6nofch_kojYMRn6s/s320/splotches2.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Some of the plywood boards are painted, others are raw wood. Many have splotches of different colored paint as though nobody could settle on a color choice. Those splotches testify to a constant battle by some to stop the graffiti. The boards on other buildings display creative and artistic expression. The Apple store boasts large black panels and invitation to folks to decorate them. They remain untouched.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUZBCNRvPHF0O2lF3KaLjALG_r53wemyieWjHXQg2vIFIUwBTmsV67xhi2nYR-449GoG-UjA7TKXn_YA921eZfFbJcXu0px2Y06-hMpoOcrfI04fSGo-9SbSLQGiieK5rGchnVZo5thod/s1248/Apple.JPG" style="font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUZBCNRvPHF0O2lF3KaLjALG_r53wemyieWjHXQg2vIFIUwBTmsV67xhi2nYR-449GoG-UjA7TKXn_YA921eZfFbJcXu0px2Y06-hMpoOcrfI04fSGo-9SbSLQGiieK5rGchnVZo5thod/s320/Apple.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That evening in our comfortable hotel room with take-out </span></span><span style="font-size: 16px;">from a nearby grocery store, we watched Anand Giridharas </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">on MSNBC’s </span><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/AnandWrites/status/1350442465849913347?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Etweet" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank"><i>The Last Word</i> with Lawrence O’Donnell</a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">. He described what we are experiencing in America today as the beginning of something new and better for our unique nation.</span></div><div><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anand
Giridharadas, publisher of The.Ink, says that what the country experienced last
week is the chaos at the end of white supremacy. “This is not a launch party,
this is a funeral for something. It is a funeral for white supremacy. It is a
funeral for a kind of outdated, outmoded male power. It is a mourning for a
time in which certain Americans could claim to be the default of America and
not have to share.” </span></i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">(</span><a href="https://www.msnbc.com/the-last-word/watch/the-january-6-insurrection-was-a-last-gasp-for-white-supremacy-99557445706?cid=sm_npd_ms_tw_lw" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank">Source</a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">)</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's an excerpt from an essay Giridharadas published in The.Ink:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><i><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are falling on our face because we are jumping
very high right now. We are trying to do something that does not work in
theory. </span></span></i><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;">To be a country of all the world, a country made up of all the
countries, a country without a center of identity, without a default idea of
what a human being is or looks like, without a shared religious belief, without
a shared language that is people's first language at home. And what we're
trying to do is awesome. It is literally awesome in the correct sense of that
word. </span></i><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: inherit;">(<a href="https://the.ink/p/hope" rel="" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While it is hard to imagine Portland’s
downtown returning to peace and prosperity from such extremes of unrest and
poverty, I find hope in Giridharadas’ words. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFW00c2iIFt1FIzhgWuhvqAcHCfm00rNPf1HXKNQ3DzR0N3J-ruD3iYYC_gTvaAdV4DCWSgIUcaRBh8QDRR5DtYFiymkOxJJhxn62bCtON3edz9Vz5I6dZkIWNbDJtwdClTihROpduGzqW/s1253/couple.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFW00c2iIFt1FIzhgWuhvqAcHCfm00rNPf1HXKNQ3DzR0N3J-ruD3iYYC_gTvaAdV4DCWSgIUcaRBh8QDRR5DtYFiymkOxJJhxn62bCtON3edz9Vz5I6dZkIWNbDJtwdClTihROpduGzqW/s320/couple.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-1396077222275507782020-12-17T09:58:00.001-08:002020-12-17T09:58:50.850-08:00Yesterday I Cancelled Thanksgiving in Passager's Pandemic Diaries <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXo41nvr2K41wB5H2xZ4Ct3PDxaYQ8-uBk9S-6W53UGUAuU9-yzXN-xCk0MQGS1-gX410TnGDuDwpDCLeDxc_j3HlkvFeLkBDqZOGR2qnP6cP6eb1eHfwqL_L8ztGbZNci2XJPzPj-37W/s1905/header.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="1905" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXo41nvr2K41wB5H2xZ4Ct3PDxaYQ8-uBk9S-6W53UGUAuU9-yzXN-xCk0MQGS1-gX410TnGDuDwpDCLeDxc_j3HlkvFeLkBDqZOGR2qnP6cP6eb1eHfwqL_L8ztGbZNci2XJPzPj-37W/s320/header.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><p>Diary, journal, morning pages - like many I write (almost) daily to record my thoughts and observations. Sometimes that writing finds its way into a book or poem or blog piece. Sometimes it remains scribbles in a notebook. This year started no differently. Then the pandemic hit in March and I started typing everything and saving it by month in a desktop file labeled COVID Diary. </p><p>Three months later my grandson was born. I began to imagine the comments this little boy may receive throughout his life when he mentions his birthdate. When I found myself addressing my writing to him, I renamed the file - The Year You Were Born.</p><p>A friend gifted me a copy of <i>Passager</i>, a collection of the 2019 poetry contest winners and I learned of their call for submissions to the <i>Passager's Pandemic Diaries.</i> I'm pleased to share that a piece I wrote about cancelling our Thanksgiving dinner plans was included.</p><p>Please <a href="https://www.passagerbooks.com/pandemic-diaries/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">CLICK HERE</a> to read the many wonderful journal entries included and consider submitting your own.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-28624888004449023992020-12-07T14:53:00.000-08:002020-12-07T14:53:09.015-08:00Scheduling for Sanity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-Bi868Z7dCO7VzkWSHUsPDofLMrQ1epsnN0kVTsNu1P3C10QxQ0XPLAxqxyZgDeiLalrYvWNz7rmEsLV_b-akQDF4TjNhQ8U55A3fvROUEgXIQpnl3q8biy80MzIjMhFEVKJ-7yuWprb/s1110/dayplanner2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1110" data-original-width="880" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-Bi868Z7dCO7VzkWSHUsPDofLMrQ1epsnN0kVTsNu1P3C10QxQ0XPLAxqxyZgDeiLalrYvWNz7rmEsLV_b-akQDF4TjNhQ8U55A3fvROUEgXIQpnl3q8biy80MzIjMhFEVKJ-7yuWprb/s320/dayplanner2.PNG" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal">As I embark on retirement, I am pleased to settle
into a schedule that ensures my personal essentials for a rewarding life – family
and friends, reading and writing, and physical activity. <o:p></o:p></p></div></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I now have a schedule that I admit is not
self-imposed but structured around my daughter and son-in-law’s childcare needs.
Two days each week are dedicated to my grandson. Two days of
absolute joy and total exhaustion. Two days that include two or three hours of
pushing a stroller up and down the West Seattle hills. I call him my personal
trainer – the lull of the stroller overcoming his refusal to nap spurs me on. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So exercise overlaps with family time, as it does with
friend time on other days of cycling or walking. On lousy wet Seattle
days, cycling becomes a solitary indoor activity with my bike in a
trainer. But still, I try to exercise daily. To keep my sanity.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though most days writing is a solitary activity, I’m fortunate to
share the writing habit with friends a couple of days each week. Hours are spent writing together in silence, sharing newly drafted work, discussing craft
and more. The love of words and storytelling, of self-expression and
creativity bind us together.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My life is full even during this time of COVID isolation,
even as I make this shift from a lifetime of work to one of retirement, but creating
a weekly schedule and a daily To Do list definitely helps. Not a rigid
schedule, not a schedule with no wiggle room, but still a schedule that ensures
family and friends, reading and writing, and exercise are all a part of each
day. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Are you working from home? Are you retired? How does scheduling
your time work best for you?<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2bE-OwjAvjDXTO1mZRTwgMYPlafw9Ejvb4OatzK9ig6Erp33HsjdhEPe8OfbQHbkKQA7W2KZWp8kSEUi8VxrA57uUUlmTOoY-enhSNH_2E1md6y-Niez-_doWRXCpa0-30kJ8z-MQWff/s1338/dec+2020.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="1338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2bE-OwjAvjDXTO1mZRTwgMYPlafw9Ejvb4OatzK9ig6Erp33HsjdhEPe8OfbQHbkKQA7W2KZWp8kSEUi8VxrA57uUUlmTOoY-enhSNH_2E1md6y-Niez-_doWRXCpa0-30kJ8z-MQWff/s320/dec+2020.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-79406980373485193382020-11-16T09:34:00.001-08:002020-11-16T09:34:44.612-08:00Facebook Memory<p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDNKwH4XQv_9jIU94BH_x_a91YGicDObgDEidXQk7hHSc_XXgN5vaYOr0ps_r38GqGQC_UiZX8GSeuKoo4O6u1NhGk25H1qv8PP6F4tF6zmNHdRzGXgP-FlXjCtQLaABdQi2yAb4EdIgDa/s881/Cindy.PNG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="621" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDNKwH4XQv_9jIU94BH_x_a91YGicDObgDEidXQk7hHSc_XXgN5vaYOr0ps_r38GqGQC_UiZX8GSeuKoo4O6u1NhGk25H1qv8PP6F4tF6zmNHdRzGXgP-FlXjCtQLaABdQi2yAb4EdIgDa/s320/Cindy.PNG" /></a></p>A Facebook “memory” greeted me a few weeks ago. A high school classmate had posted a photo of herself holding her new copy of my latest memoir<i>. </i>I clicked “share” and added a thank you. Cindy’s
follow up comment read <i>I need another book from you</i>. For fun, I asked <i>Fiction
or memoir?</i> <i>Either,</i> she said. That brief exchange got me thinking
about the year that has slipped away.<p></p><p>Around the time of that last publication, a writer friend
asked what was next. I confessed I was tired, that maybe I needed a break,
maybe I’d try poetry for a while. Something different. Something I knew nothing
about. But what I’ve discovered or maybe what I’ve known all along is that I’m
a book person – fiction, nonfiction, memoir – but book length. Something that
pulls me into a different world and holds me there. I’m currently reading a
collection of wonderful short stories by Langston Hughes titled <i>The Ways of
White Folks, </i>and I find I want each story to continue. I’m greedy for
more. I can’t move from one to the next with ease. As with stories and essays,
I find it hard to read a book of poems from cover to cover. So the accumulation
of collections scatter throughout my small home for quick visits at random
moments throughout the day when I’ve lost track of what it was I was doing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I read, I want to be pulled into a world of characters
and events. When I write, I want the same. I want to see the story in my head,
eyes closed. I want to know the bookends, beginning and end. I want to get to
know the characters, watch them develop. I usually don’t know how everyone will get from beginning to end, but I know where they’re headed. It’s not unusual for
surprises to arise, for the bookends to shift, for characters to take
unintended paths. The planned ending and the changes that appear along the
journey create a pull, a tug to the table, to the pen and paper, that keep me
writing, keep me in the story for the months, the years it can take to create
even the first draft of a book-length manuscript.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So where am I now? With a notebook of draft poems and the
start of a novel manuscript that requires in-person research – impossible during the pandemic. This time of COVID has no bookends, and the
writer in me is floundering. So my apologies, Cindy, but the next book will be
slow in coming. Blame it on the pandemic.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-50928341353495738102020-11-03T13:47:00.001-08:002020-11-03T13:47:54.832-08:00What Country Will My Grandson Know?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDc1WzPNgCHcgi6lrkdxODYGdEYrsL7xhncOMSN8j_p2WyYc1Ma1TN32Gr_CQuCtYqggKGAFFDMys9QafLRXVcUmCXOb_U4o75hSfifstN2IRRd1nF5GapSjUKo8HlvfUGChxhLDzaoNB/s901/Jack.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="872" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDc1WzPNgCHcgi6lrkdxODYGdEYrsL7xhncOMSN8j_p2WyYc1Ma1TN32Gr_CQuCtYqggKGAFFDMys9QafLRXVcUmCXOb_U4o75hSfifstN2IRRd1nF5GapSjUKo8HlvfUGChxhLDzaoNB/s320/Jack.PNG" /></a></div><p>According to Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary,
anxiety refers to “a painful or apprehensive uneasiness of mind <i>usu.</i> over
an impending or anticipated ill.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The online Oxford Languages Dictionary defines anxiety as “a
feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or
something with an uncertain outcome.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anxiety affects each of us in unique ways. For me, it feels
like someone has slugged me in the stomach, knocking the air out of me and leaving
lingering pain for days. It is physical, but also “of mind.” Take last night. I
was awake for hours, my thoughts churning. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">2020 has provided plenty of “uncertain outcome(s)” from the
pandemic to politics. Anxiety slithers through our terrors and pain with
absolute abandon. The “impending or anticipated ill” of our shared future
feeding the hungry snake. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The pandemic began with my first experience in online
teaching in March and unexpected retirement in September. It began with intense
concern for my pregnant daughter’s well-being and the premature birth of my
grandson in June as social justice activists marched below their hospital
window. Now retirement allows me to provide childcare for this grandson as my
daughter returns to work at Harborview ER on the eve of another projected spike
in COVID infections.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I scribble these thoughts, people across this vast
country are standing in long lines for the opportunity to practice their constitutional
right to cast their vote. The outcome is still uncertain, and anxiety remains
unabated. The result of this election will determine the direction of our
country. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-17918752961598132932020-10-09T08:17:00.001-07:002020-10-09T08:17:49.296-07:00Retirement? Now?<p>I had not planned on retiring yet. Not this year. Not next.
I taught at an urban college for 33 years. 35 seemed like a good number. Two
more years to take that serious look at our "financial future" and "potential healthcare costs." Something my husband and I have never given much
attention.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Besides, who in their right mind retires during an
international pandemic? Who walks away from a secure tenured professorship in
the midst of the worst national unrest since the mid-1800s? Who abandons
financial security on the cusp of an election that will shape the future of our
world as we know it?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Apparently, I do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The District, consisting of three colleges including the one
where I spent half my life, is in serious financial crisis. Rather than downsizing
the top-heavy administration or reducing the inflated salaries of the chancellor,
his ten vice chancellors and three presidents, they opted to reduce the tenured
teaching staff. Inflated you ask? The chancellor makes $303K, thirty percent more than our state
governor. Besides, reducing tenured faculty allows greater flexibility for future
adjunct faculty layoffs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t forced to retire. None of
us were (on my campus alone, nine tenured faculty have opted to leave). We were
offered a tenure buyout (50% of 2020-2021 salary) with five weeks to make
the decision and complete the retirement process. I cannot speak for the other
eight, but I couldn’t teach for a year knowing that if I stayed home, I’d still
receive half my salary. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I will miss my students and all they taught me. I will miss
having the opportunity to develop my online teaching skills this academic year
with an eye toward building a hybrid English language program for immigrants
and refugees when the campus eventually reopens. And I will miss participating in campus-wide efforts to create a truly antiracist environment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I am now retired. My head is spinning, and I am still
trying to figure out how to structure my days. I have cycling
and hiking, reading and writing, despite COVID. And best of all, by some inexplicable gift of
synchronicity, my unexpected retirement coincides with the end of my daughter’s family
leave and an offer she received to work dayshift. So, as she returns to Harborview ER, the
joy of spending time with this little guy a few days each week will be all mine.
How wonderful is that?!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1Vt-A58p3L8FLjI1AeEvu9WDZrTbKkkuL0_hCEqGZcETeXruw0YdXrX27MUXjJVBh4eVhvLsN9jx8LDej5qTG6gUph-0p1s48knJjoJ_DoOseOCCahJ-5wB96aFnrVAia8OGmEBz5yhZ/s1023/Capture2.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1023" data-original-width="846" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1Vt-A58p3L8FLjI1AeEvu9WDZrTbKkkuL0_hCEqGZcETeXruw0YdXrX27MUXjJVBh4eVhvLsN9jx8LDej5qTG6gUph-0p1s48knJjoJ_DoOseOCCahJ-5wB96aFnrVAia8OGmEBz5yhZ/s320/Capture2.PNG" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2785865165535747312.post-37674756250747046392020-08-18T14:12:00.001-07:002020-08-18T14:12:59.108-07:00When Empathy is Not Enough<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8KVFI9FGjOKxp8K4CsKRQAQIICUvKrKMkkf5-ZyvnCmLR3wUTBRboy9l7XQoFqsqujxKJTEs4kvnpOLb2swGEcIZavcMul7PPBe1Q_M81EUw1MMdBHZghk8PYdZ-8ERXcrb-RB4zZmn8S/s2043/Street2.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1151" data-original-width="2043" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8KVFI9FGjOKxp8K4CsKRQAQIICUvKrKMkkf5-ZyvnCmLR3wUTBRboy9l7XQoFqsqujxKJTEs4kvnpOLb2swGEcIZavcMul7PPBe1Q_M81EUw1MMdBHZghk8PYdZ-8ERXcrb-RB4zZmn8S/w410-h231/Street2.JPEG" width="410" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal">At least once a week, maybe twice I cycle or walk Beach
Drive in West Seattle. Every time I pass this memorial at Seacrest Park it gives
me pause, brings tears to my eyes. I am often pulled to a stop by an invisible
thread, to see, to read, to honor the dead. <o:p></o:p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYkU10qFj_PUqTG0W3aoS69PYNaJbEPMnhV29pZyyqjpDXVHeuETy2LFkglrWti7aSBKBsVQxKtpFyHpf8FaPEr_lEJ1dFBy2_Os1jKfvvRFnU1EbSdGDh6QWmpxESxhpFphtPS5XTKmV/s2048/Seattle+George+Floyd2.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYkU10qFj_PUqTG0W3aoS69PYNaJbEPMnhV29pZyyqjpDXVHeuETy2LFkglrWti7aSBKBsVQxKtpFyHpf8FaPEr_lEJ1dFBy2_Os1jKfvvRFnU1EbSdGDh6QWmpxESxhpFphtPS5XTKmV/w410-h307/Seattle+George+Floyd2.JPEG" width="410" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">I do not know who created this memorial or even when.
I do not know who periodically adds photos or changes the flowers. It does not
matter. What I do know is that I photographed it on July 20</span><span style="text-align: left;">.
A month ago I took dozens of photos I never posted. So why now?</span></div></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was inspired by Michelle Obama’s words
last night at the Democratic National Convention, by her challenge to move our
empathy to action, action that will move our country toward a racially just
home for all: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">... it is up to us to add
our voices and our votes to the course of history, echoing heroes like John
Lewis who said, “When you see something that is not right, you must say
something. You must do something.” That is the truest form of empathy: not just
feeling, but doing; not just for ourselves or our kids, but for everyone, for
all our kids.</span></i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">These photos in my phone have been a painful <i>personal</i>
reminder of injustice, of violence, of hatred. But I have used my empathy for
nothing. I have done nothing. Now, I share a few of them with a plea to vote, to
request your ballot now and to vote early. </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I do not know if a new president can alone change the direction our country has taken for the past
four years, but I do know that we cannot survive another four years on the same
crash course we are on now. A course of racist and sexist violence and a denial of science
that has led to over a 160,000 COVID deaths, a number that continues to grow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I stare into the eyes of my tiny White grandson, I want a
better country, a more just world for him and for all the babies – Brown, Black
and White – born during this time of COVID-19, of economic insecurity, of racial
injustice. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvmiQfA2LPxt2OkVqsQqTI8lNJAlkucBeuIXONAhnsJffYBoWVtXmq8I6I62PZnszouVpmUZRtIBpyZQs5Et27GKtT_aK6iJsPDbGA7qubZ3q_AlRuEHh3xZGBNSATZ1XMj2uPM1VGhtM/w410-h307/Just+Kids.JPEG" width="410" /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These 186 people, young and old, were murdered. Some for their
political voice. Most for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All for the color of their skin. </p><p class="MsoNormal">This is not the country I want my grandson to inherit,
a country with a long history of systematic racism. We must do better, be better. We must elect
representatives who will listen, who will acknowledge and change the racist policies
continuing to shape our country. Four hundred years of racist policies. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I believe my vote matters. I believe your vote matters. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I believe we can change if we listen beyond the headlines, if
we read our history from all voices, if we question the beliefs held by the dominate White culture. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I believe we must change, if not for ourselves, for our
children. For our grandchildren.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKSvlmak8gBDI0vok1uvNYx6kEx9tMfihhvRNabtVQr1vca_tGv8dI-eq64sUWCstyDTOiVb32kVakaW4UP6ozwl2LwYsWNg-CFboUnTDKEmv2G6ZFJrPxONNReNrBdPumszSGNNSIFBbi/s535/IMG_2591+%25283%2529.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="387" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKSvlmak8gBDI0vok1uvNYx6kEx9tMfihhvRNabtVQr1vca_tGv8dI-eq64sUWCstyDTOiVb32kVakaW4UP6ozwl2LwYsWNg-CFboUnTDKEmv2G6ZFJrPxONNReNrBdPumszSGNNSIFBbi/w310-h428/IMG_2591+%25283%2529.JPEG" width="310" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1