Order and Appearance

Order and Appearance

The mimosa tree was a place of refuge with it’s smooth bark short truck, not too high limbs that were perfect for climbing, sitting in and reading. 

The Seuss-like spiky, pink, white with a bit of yellow puffball blossoms shot up from fern like leaves and put out a faint sweet smell.

Girlfriends came over to climb with me, photos give evidence that we are related to monkeys.

It was the only tree in our large front yard that was mainly green St. Augustine grass with a couple of low growing red azalea bush flower beds. 

Our yard was neat and tidy. In fact, we were Yard of the Month once, and a sign was placed by the local garden club near the street for all to see. Certainly, John Henry, our sweet yard man should have been given this award, but that’s another story.

One day Daddy cut down my mimosa tree because the blossoms were messy. 

Writing A Memoir Can Be Dangerous Work. Protect Yourself!

“Write from the scar, not the wound” is advice given to those writing memoir. However, that’s not always possible. Then you attempt to turn that wound into wisdom.
There is an art to radical vulnerability and I’m trying to learn it. Trying to take care of myself in the midst of writing memoir while getting re-triggered when looking through old journals, pictures, emails and texts.
Is this necessary, one might ask.

I believe it is.

I have been stripped of many things I love. Some things are because of my doing, my wrong doing. I don’t want to hide behind secrets, especially my own.
But I have not been stripped of writing.

I’m finding my own rituals to empower and protect me. Last night I stayed up late making play lists. One for dancing, so I move my body to get energized then dance it off after the tough stuff. Yea, songs that might motivate you in an aerobics class, corny and upbeat. Everybody Dance Now, Can’t Stop That Feeling or Love Shack. My empowering playlist includes, Lizzo’s Good As Hell, Girl by Maren Morris and Dianna Ross I’m Coming Out. U2’s Walk On continues to be my theme song.

My friend, Wendy, suggested a monster doll to sit with me. I like that idea and found a very cute one on Etsy. It’s got to be cute, not scary.  Cute felted monster.

Thanks Chris for sending me this Brevity essay by Aimee Christine.

Writing memoir can be dangerous. Protect yourself.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

By Aimee Christian

I thought I knew what I was getting into when I started my memoir because I’d been writing personal essays and creative nonfiction for some time. It didn’t take me long to learn that I was wrong. Writing memoir meant wandering around in my past in a whole new way, and I learned that my past can be a pretty bad neighborhood to be in alone.

When I try to re-immerse myself in how it felt to be a child or a teenager, it’s nearly impossible not to feel all the feelings from those early years, which is great for the story but, as it turns out, is terrible for my marriage and my children. In revisiting my memories to write, I found myself mourning breakups, looking up old apartments on Zillow, Googling my bullies from summer camp, and spending hours rereading old journals and old yearbooks…

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Damn it y’all!

Damn it y’all. Yesterday was a blur, filled with shock and sadness. This country truly is divided. I so wanted Mike Espy to win Senate in Mississippi, get Mitch McConnell and Lindsay Graham voted out. So wanted Steve Bullock in Montana to win the Senate seat and not have Daines. Not have Greg Gianforte win the governorship in Montana, remember he is the one who body slammed a reporter back in 2017. Yea, great guy. This list could go on.
Biden’s looking good though, there’s that. As Bishop Michael Curry says, the struggle continues, but love is the way. I’m going to hang onto those words.

On another subject, I just started an online memoir writing class through Creative Nonfiction. Already, I love the way it is structured, the way it gets thoughts and writing organized. First assignment is: Free-write on this question: ‘The story I want to tell is…’. Follow the first thought that comes and see where the words lead you. 
My Side of The Story:

Dismissed without discussion. That’s how it’s been for many years. And I still cry from the loss most days. It’s been four years since I’ve seen my now six year old twin grandchildren, a boy and a girl. I meet them at birth. I was an integral part of their lives for the first two and half years.

I have always been a “kid” person. Babysitting from a young age, being a nanny and then owning my own childcare. Children are so full of promise, innocence and fun. Being a part of their development is an honor. I love seeing the individual emerge and encouraging their curiosities as they  present themselves. It’s been twenty years since I closed my childcare. I am still in touch with many of the children I cared for and close friends with some their parents. Caring for someone else’s children is an intimate service. The joys and challenges of a child’s development allowed me to become a part of some of my childcare client’s families. 

Once I became a grandparent, I thought this is the life, the one I have been waiting for.