Heptadecagon

Others left early, he continued to watch , marveling at the sight of the rays peeking between the thin wisps of the rain cloud. Storms had always bothered him deep within, where the drops of water hurled themselves against his soul, marking him for life. But today, with the mix of sun and rain, somehow, he felt more alive than he had in weeks. As the last of the rain melted away he turned and caught a glimpse of the rainbow he'd hoped to see. Life is good, he thought. Finally.

Slim line-- more than a scratch but not much more hovering on the smooth layer of an otherwise unmarred surface-- speaks the tale  that only she can tell. For years, it lay there, unwanted, unnoticed, but waiting. Wanting, really, ready to spill its secrets to the first person to minister to her. Years passed and not one being dared to observe what lay beyond the shallow line. And with time, her energy turned inward, compressed her core, and pushed outward, like an exploding supernova. Instead of healing and erasing that single line, she's left with nothing but a litany of cracks and a compromised structure.

After two days on the couch, I woke up to hear this lovely song by Rachel Platten. Sure, it's somewhat sappy, but sometimes, we can all use a little sap in our lives. And sap and Tim go hand in hand, so this episode of Lyric Lover is dedicated to my husband. It's definitely a better place since you came along. Thank you.

Due to some raging illness that overtook me quickly, I sat on the couch yesterday and did nothing but watch White Collar and take pictures of the cats. Not a bad way to spend a sick day, if you ask me, although it would have been better if Matt Bomer himself sat next to me on the couch. Since I was stuck on the couch, I never managed to get a picture of Heathcliff. Next time...

 Remember the sandbox? All you needed was bare toes in warm sand, and maybe a great bucket. Then you could build your own world. ~Sark The above quote opened a letter I wrote almost 20 years ago to a dear person in my life. At the time, I wanted to convey to him that despite the turmoil our relationship had been through, I would always consider him a friend, I'd always wish him well, and I hoped to stand witness as he built his own world someday, complete with vibrant joy, laughter, and love. I said a lot in that letter (I was verbose even then, of course), most of which I won't reveal here. But at the end of it, I asked him to keep a copy of the letter so that "every once in a while, when [he] might not be feeling very good about" himself, he could take it out, reread the letter, and know that he had made a monumental impact on at least one person. I don't know if he still has the letter, or if he does, if he's ever taken it out and looked at

My first stop was the doctor of philosophy. Without a word, I dropped to my knees, head bent and eyes closed. I could feel his gaze on me as he accessed my small form. quickly, too quickly, a reply came. I am sorry: I cannot help you. Deflated, not defeated, I departed. The parish priest was next. This time, I lay prostrate at his feet, face covered, eyes shut. His mediation and prayer, earnest, heartfelt, did nothing. I quietly left his dominion. Humans failing, I chose next the wind. High upon the mountaintop, free, blowing, I asked her. Face upturned, hair flailing helplessly I felt the touch of her hand, soft, cold, wet, against my cheek. yet soon, too soon, it was gone. And I knew she could do nothing. The same can be said of the river. Winding, deep, treacherous, her tendrils reached out to me. Gently patting my hanging head as I gazed into her mirroring pools. Her waves tried to console me, her waters tried to warm me. I departed as the tide reced

He found her in the garden, lying flat on her back among the long stems of the daisies, face to the sun, eyes closed. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Shhhh." He sat down next to her and looked at her face, so serene, unlined. She still hadn't moved. The freckles across her nose would deepen with the sun and her cheeks would turn rosy soon, if she didn't leave the sun. "What are you doing?" he whispered. "Being." "Being?" "Yes. I'm being. Sometimes I feel like I'm just not anything. And today...this sun? It reminds me that I'm something . So I'm being. Come on, just try it." He expected her to open one eye, or maybe both eyes, and he'd see the mirth that lay inside. But she didn't bother to look at him. So he glanced around the garden. The wind ruffled the leaves of the Japanese maple tree to his left and an orange butterfly danced across the phlox. Aside from that insect, though

Words. A barrage of letters, all connected into dainty necklaces that manage to deliver agonizing news. A thud against his barrel chest, like the newspaper thwacks against the cement stoop in the darkness of the morning hours. I watch as he cracks open from top to bottom down his sternum, and then side to side. A large ravine stares at me, dares me to do something, to fix him and his broken body. But I realize that there's nothing  that will help him now. That words will never be enough to mend the gaping hole. But that's all I have now to offer him, and all he can trust. He hopes to unjumble the letters and weave together a blanket of words that relieve and soothe and heal. Words that tell a story.   Photos found at http://www.mnn.com/lifestyle/arts-culture/stories/why-your-brain-can-read-jumbled-letters; http://news.discovery.com/earth/odd-cause-of-gaping-siberian-holes-possibly-found-14

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away, someone taught me to share. "Sharing is caring," this person said. And while it took me a long time to learn how to share in the best way--each situation encompasses very different details, of course--I'm happy to report that eventually, I learned my lesson. Now I find myself sharing my food, time, talent, and energy with so many people, I'm quite overtaxed at times. But that's not the point of this post. After all, every one of us can conjure a plethora of reasons for why we might be spent these days, and I don't expect you to take pity on me. So as usual, then, what is the point of this post? Does it have anything to do with my introductory theme of sharing? Yes, yes, it does. Because a few years ago, I decided to fulfill a life-long dream of mine and write a novel. When I finished that novel, I went on to the next, and the next and the next. I have four complete novels and one draft of another novel,

Stretching her fingers, she tries to reach the other side of her wants. She views them there, clinging, like vines that dance across the distressed cement siding of her former home. Lovely, and yet suffocating. These wants, they mimic and taunt and she questions when, and if, she will be able to touch them. And whether or not a single glance will quench her fierce thirst. for all the desires she does not possess. These wants, they serve a grand purpose and distract her from the here, the now. They tether her to the past instead of propelling her forward to the place she needs to be to succeed, to grow, to flourish. She never thinks about why  her fingers stray off the mark. And she should think. She should.

Let's just jump right to the point of this post: for me to tell you how I really feel. Since I've been actually writing in my spare time--this week I already put together a short story and a blog entry for HuffPost --what I'm going to tell you today are a few items that really get on my nerves as of late. No need to dilly dally, I say... I'm not sure why people seek out my advice and then cringe when I give it to them. If you don't want my opinion, and you don't want an honest opinion, then don't ask me my opinion. I'm proud to be a mother, and it's my favorite of all the hats I wear. But when I'm at work, I expect to be looked at with and given the same respect as any other colleague. Just because I choose not to work outside the home full-time doesn't mean that I'm not good at what I do at school. Life can suck, but most of the time, for most people, it doesn't. Remember that getting through those sucky times can be difficul

Go to her , I want to say, go to her . Peel off the gossamer layers of shame and guilt and madness, Confess your sins, and place them before her, carefully, willfully, let her inspect them, these things that have  desiccated you. Have her thread her fingers between the crevices and then, she can decide whether or not to judge you. I have no answers , I want to say I have no answers . but I know how much the past can adhere and wrench the vitality out of everything, such that it jeopardizes the present, the future. But you will feel  clean, pure, rejuvenated and more content than ever if you go to her.

On Saturday, despite the blanket of snow that covered the ground in Yellow Springs, Ohio, I attended the spring (ha!) seminar from Antioch Writers' Workshop . The topic of the seminar was "The Writing Life," and Margaret Wrinkle led the pack as the featured speaker. I took this photo from the AWW website . I hadn't heard of Margaret Wrinkle before registering for the seminar, but I took a peek at her bio, which intrigued me (excerpted from her website ): Born and raised in Birmingham Alabama, Margaret Wrinkle is a writer, filmmaker, educator and visual artist. Her debut novel,  Wash ,  published by Grove Atlantic, reexamines American slavery in ways that challenge contemporary assumptions about race, power, history and healing. It has won the Center for Fiction’s Flaherty-Dunnan First Novel Prize and an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation. Wash  has also been named the Fiction Runner Up for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, a finalist fo

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The pat of creamy, yellow butter is expected to last past the center of the toasted bread, over the deep ravine that exists on the left, all the way to the very edge  of toast civilization. But halfway through its progression, despite the warmth, the fluidity, it becomes very clear that there's not enough-- not nearly enough-- to satisfy anyone.  The pat of creamy, yellow butter is spread too thin once again.

Dear Student, Good morning! How are you? Can you believe we only have about five weeks left to this semester? That's right, only five weeks left, and if you pass, you'll be done with the Anatomy and Physiology series. You might even be ready for the nursing or dental school track in the fall. Where did the time go? I can tell you where it didn't go. It didn't go into studying. How do I know? Well, let me tell you a little story that will serve to explain everything. Way back in the fall of last year, when we immersed ourselves in the first course of the Anatomy and Physiology series, we stumbled upon Chapter 4: Tissues. Now Chapter 4 is full of facts and interesting information on all of the tissues in the body, and it requires you, the student, to look at different histological slides. I know what you're going to say. You hate slides. I know this because you said it every day I saw you and asked you to study the slides (thanks for the bad attitude, by the

The day dawned dull and gray and the clouds hung low in the sky. And I needed a little bit of spring in my step. What better way to get that than to look at some pictures I'd taken a few days before of the spring glories waking up around the yard. This picture is my favorite. The dogwood hasn't bloomed yet, but it's peeking out. The picture could be centered better, but I like how the filter worked on this photo of our front door. For years, I've tried to get rid of this plant. Lovely flowers, no? But it invades my space. Bright green shoots from the hastas on the side of the house appeared last week. I fear the frost last night might have killed them.

Yesterday morning, as I cleaned up the kitchen in preparation for a brunch we would be having with friends, I found Tim's hammer and pliers resting on the kitchen counter. I'm not sure why these tools were in the kitchen; he hadn't used them recently. But Tim has a habit of not putting away his things. So I wasn't surprised to see them sitting on the counter. I was simply surprised that I hadn't put them away before then. Of course, as I placed the tools into the box, the phrase "What's in your toolbox?" came to mind, most likely because of Capital One . I don't have a physical toolbox, per se. I just use Tim's tools when I feel the need to construct or repair an item. But in my day to day life, I do a lot of fixing, and metaphorically, I guess I have several toolboxes. One of those boxes is for writing, of course. And many people—most notably in my mind, Stephen King and Natalie Goldberg—have talked about what's in their toolboxes. T

Dear Teacher, Back in July of last year, I decided to take on the role of substitute teacher. I didn't make that decision lightly. I knew that I'd need to be flexible with my schedule as well as with my knowledge. I could expect to teach English one day and Biology the next; third grade on a Monday and seniors on a Friday. But I wanted to add a bit more cash to the "three kids in braces" fund, the "vacation" fund, the "let's try to retire before we're 80" fund, or the "four kids need to go to college" fund. And making $10 an hour was better than making $0 an hour at home. So far, I've coped pretty well, I think. I've gotten used to your surly students and the lack of respect in the classroom. I know my way around two schools better and have confirmed that I am not made out to be a second grade teacher. I've also learned that I can take direction well, as sometimes, I even get to teach a lesson left by you, the reg