With another week passing at mach speed again, is it any wonder that I have no trouble falling asleep at the end of the day? I am not complaining, for it is the chaos I always dreamed of having. My concern is that I will miss the forest for the trees. Thankfully there are tools such as "Old Friend From Far Away" (OFfFA) that causes me to pause and really ponder on the ordinary. Here is one of the entries . . .

"Rain. In movies it accompanies sadness and betrayal. It always seems to fall in scenes taking place in cemeteries. In dark lonely mansions. When the protagonist is at a cross-roads trying to decide what to dao, they take a walk or a drive in the rain. When the lover breaks up with their significant other, the rain helps shoulder the pain. Angrily it pelt on rooftops and cars unlike the mysterious, gentle snow. Responsible for floods, puddles and mud, the rain can come in spring showers or menacing winter tempests. It calls for the colorful golashes with matching slickers and umbrellas.

When it poured for 40 days and 40 nights, a righteous man named Noah and his family took refuge in a boat he was instructed to build by God. Aboard with him was two of every kind of animal and the discipline of God was spared on this family. A message of hope in rain?

Personally, I am not a fan of constant rain. It can soak you through and leave you feeling soggy. Chilled. Rain has two natures. Unleashed, it floods and erodes. If allowed to leak out of pipes, it can nourish mold and ruin the house value. Rain is also nuturing and causes growth. We can't live without water. How wonderful that God would provide it in due season.

And so, as the mantra goes, into every life a little rain must fall. When the sun returns (and it will,) it is only with both of these elements that one may witness a rainbow."

I am reminded that my busy-ness can be like the rain. Always falling to the point where I can drown out the sound and go about my schedule. But I would miss the rainbow. The arch stretched across the sky as if God was saying "I got all this covered with my promises." As winter approaches and the days shorten, I plan to bring an umbrella in the car . . . just in case. When you are looking for the rainbow, somehow the rain isn't so threatening. In fact, crazy as it sounds, with God . . . even the most challenging lessons of growth can be moments to cherish.

Old Friend From Far Away

Time flies. It's been a year since I last posted. Shameful for a writer, but for a busy mom with a chaotic schedule, totally understandable. Yet, life demands balance and time must be managed. Not dictated but directed. My heart's desire is to find nuggets of minutes that belong to me. Where I place aside my many hats . . . and I have a few . . . and wear the one that belongs to my soul. When did time grow wings? When I was a child, milestones like Christmas seem to come once every five years. The days had 108 hours in them, most of which I was tied to a desk at school. Now as an adult, Christmas comes around every 90 days (or so it seems) and no one has discovered the secret of multiplying the hours. Yes, instead of crawling, time now flies.

Writing is a passion. I've put words on a page since grade school and enjoy it almost as much as having my nose in a book. How then, did it fall so far on the priority scale? A whole year has gone by and my novels are still being written, but the blog? Well, it fell by the wayside for a season. Welcome back, my friend.

As a writing exercise with my writer's group, I came across a memoir book called "Old Friend from Far Away." (I will refer to it as "OFfFA") Memories help shape the character and like an old friend, they accompany you into the unwritten future. It was a good premise to begin my first novel, so I figure it is a good place to begin dusting off the keyboard for a blog. Each day, the book takes you on a writing exercise. To see if you can retrieve something interesting to say about the ordinary. To be able to take your reader by the hand and while you spin a story that belongs to you, it reminds them of a memory of their own. Relatability. Creating an emotional reaction. Ah, the writer's ultimate dream. The perfect wave to ride as a surfer. It's the reason I enjoy reading. The author takes me from my chaos and transports me to adventures unknown.

Day One. "Old Friend from Far Away" (OFfFA) describes the word 'memoir' as a French word on the study of memory. It starts with an fairly easy exercise. What do you remember? The goal is to 'wake up the mind in different angles.' Even if you can't remember details, we remember moments. Benchmarks in our life and how they made us feel. When I began to shake my long-term memory, kindergarten and grammar school popped into my head. Here's what came to focus.

"I remember kindergarten. The smell of paste. The mini kitchen set that stood in a dark corner that we were never allowed to play with. Mrs. Easter would come in with an accordian and we’d sing together. Her son David, and another boy named Seth were my only companions to the library. The three of us could read and were being monitored for a GATE program. I always wanted to be the 'wake-up fairy.' During nap time when the class retreated to our bath mats on the floor, the wake-up fairy was given a sceptor with a felt nob at the end. The wake-up fairy would gently tap her subjects on the back until the entire class was awake to resume the afternoon activities. There was a girl named Melissa who I thought was beautiful. She always wore pink. Another girl named Suzy Grant was my first Asian friend. I liked how her eyes disappeared when she smiled. The teacher would pin notes for our parents on our backs so we couldn’t lose them. I lived across the street from school. It was a short walk, but always seemed to be during the recess of the older kids. The note on my back was like a target for them to torment me during the gauntlet I ran to get home. One stormy afternoon, the wind was blowing my umbrella and I didn’t have the strength to move forward. Instinctively, I called out “help me!” That’s when my angel appeared. I can remember she had golden hair and a dress with saddle shoes. She said “I’ll help you get home” and taught me how to hold my umbrella down toward the wind to maneuver against it’s might."

The next exercise OFfFA gave me was a little more difficult. Red. One word to write about. Red. What does that mean? The color? Describing anger? A misspelling of one that has finished absorbing books on a page? My fingers began to type.

"The glass balls on the Christmas tree would reflect my image. The distortion was as entertaining as a mirror in a fun house. Like Rudolph’s nose, the holiday season shown through the mundane fog of everyday. The only thing missing was my father. His job always had him traveling south during the holidays like a bird fleeing for warmer weather. Red would grow to be my favorite color. It was vibrant. Commanding like a stop sign. It had people stand up and take notice. It is for all seasons. Christmas. Valentine’s Day. China. America. I can still smell the paste from all the Valentine assembly. Cutting apart the paper lace doilies and gluing them to construction paper with promises of eternal love for my mother or my dog. Opening my bagful of loot was even more fun. Extra points of friendship was given to those who gave out the conversation heart candy. It was the same candy as “Smarties” that my mom distributed at Halloween. But on that holiday, chocolate was preferred.

Red was energetic and is popular with fast food restaurants. I learned in college that it makes people hungry. Whether you are sitting in a McDonalds, In N’ Out or Carl’s Jr. the firey advertising coupled with yellow was a huge draw for the starving public. My other favorite color was purple. It was everything red wasn’t. Calm. Cold. Subdued. Sunsets are more interesting than a bunch of grapes. The painted face of a baboon catches attention more than an armadillo. The strip stands out more in a rainbow against a blue sky. It complements the stars on our flag. Red can be beaches with lawn chairs or snow chalets with fireplaces. Red can be welcoming, it can be dangerous."

Next was sound. I began to see a pattern. We were going to explore all five senses? Dutifully, I continued to type.

"The windows would shake and vibrate in their casing. I’d see my father, face first, prone on the floor like a swimmer perfecting a float. He wanted to physically immerse himself into his favorite song. It was loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I remember hoping that the songs were were cool. It made me fall in love with Abba, the Mamma’s & The Papas, and Elton John. Dad taught me how to listen to lyrics and mine their deeper meaning. Somehow, certain songs when played could conjure up specific memories at will. They would transport me to different times and places without leaving the comfort of my armchair.

I remember hearing thunderstorms. The windows would rattle in their panes much like they did with dad’s music. I would marvel at the force that was hiding in the clouds. It was delicious and frightening all at the same time. Rain was more satisfying to hear on the roof than silent snow. When it froze into hail, the excitement intensified. The mini pieces of ice would dance on the patio instead of disappearing into the puddles and gutters.

The school bell. Strumming of a guitar. The unharmonious blend of the orchestra when they are tuning up. The thunder of a thousand footsteps climbing a set of bleachers preparing for a football game. The slosh of a child trying out a new pair of galoshes. The squeak of wheels as that same child moved up the sidewalk on a red, shiny tricycle. The screech of tires right before the shattering of metal in a traffic accident. A scream of terror before the roar of a monster. Popcorn hitting the floor. Snoring. Hum of appliances. Bark of a dog desperately trying to get his master’s attention. The ring of a phone. Grating of my mailbox opening. Singing of a mockingbird. Whistling of a train going through town. The frustration of a cold when it plugs you ears and robs you of the everyday."

My brain and fingers were beginning to sync. I could envision these snippets of time and description finding themselves into a page in my novel. I could use these whisps of memory and weave them into a story of my own creation as an author. Luring an audience to ask me to tell them more was the goal. Alas, my busy life calls me away. But I will return . . . .