• Current Reading List

    Peaceful Action, Open Heart - Thich Nhat Hanh*** Eat, Pray, Love*** Peaceful Living - Mary Mackenzie(daily reader)*** The Vein of Gold - Julia Cameron (this is a read a chapter a week type book)*** Dubliners - James Joyce*** Nursing: The Philosophy and Science of Caring - Jean Watson*** The Diary of Virginia Woolf. Volume I***
  • Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.
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Writing creatively (learning I can do it)

I really do love to write. I often feel words burgeoning in my mind that want to be written, but then time slips away or when I find myself actually in front of the computer I find the words themselves have slipped away, or otherwise refuse to put themselves together in a cogent formation. I have also had a long-standing desire to write works of fiction, but have been afraid that I could not create a plot that made sense or that was interesting to read. It is funny (not really haha) how I can allow fear of the unknown to hold me still.

So last night I stepped out of that fear and went to a creative writing workshop. It was not what I expected at all, and I truly felt inspired. The woman who led the workshop, Kelly Falzone,  was amazing. It was as if her love of writing flowed out of her and into my willing thoughts down to my hand and created an outpouring of stories that I didn’t know I was capable of . I have always loved words – love words that I can experience with all my senses -their different textures, scents, the way they can make my mouth tingle and the different images they can invoke in my mind. Kelly very effectively guided us in a sensory experience of words: hers, the words of others, and then the words of our own. This allowed me to create my very first short story of pure fiction. The character is not me, but I can see her and sense what she is going through, and she calls me to write more about her, to tell more of her story…but this is a start for now. This is really a breakthrough for me, as what I have been able to write about to now has been my reality, my thoughts and ideas. But this is a whole ‘nother enchilada.

So, I would like to share my first short story here, I think I will call it “The Rake” or “Tangleroots”


I feel heavy as I walk up the pebbled drive. I don’t want to look around me, don’t want to see the work in progress that is my yard. It seems just yesterday that this very same view would inspire me as I envisioned a picturesque landscape waiting to burst to life with the diligent work of four hands. My heart feels heavy as I acknowledges that it was just yesterday and that today there are only two hands  that cannot complete the work by themselves.  My unwilling eyes glance over a rake thrown carelessly against the fence, awaiting repair. The jagged edges of its broken handle yearn for the care and attention that would make it as new again.  Now perhaps, the wood will rot away and the tines will rust in uselessness. It is a thing of disgust to me, discarded as it is, and I have no motivation or desire to touch it or use it for its intended purpose ever again. It seems a hateful object, once full of so many promises of the beds it planned to tend. Broken now. It will never run its tines through the dark rich loam or free the earth from the choking tangle-roots of crabgrass and carpet weed. The roots of those weeds are so deep! I seem to hear mocking laughter that I once naively believed those deep dark entanglements could be undone and replaced with fragrant bursts of color. Still my mind strays back to that old fantasy. Luscious beds of eager daffodils, playful canturbury bells, timid crocus, shy daisies and maybe even bold snapdragons or astringent marigolds all married together in a harmonious landscape. My mind fills with the colors of possibilities. Then harsh reality snaps me back into the present. Despondency once again floods my heart and replaces my florid imaginings with the bleak reality of sickly yellow tangles of mean spirited crabgrass. It feels as if those pernicious roots have burrowed deep into my very soul. As if to defy this reality, I snatch the hateful rake to hurl it from my sight. A jagged splinter  fiercely pierces my palm. It painfully cuts to the very bone.

The end.

for now


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