The House 5

I woke before the sun. The sky was the color of ash in all shades. It was going to be a foggy morning. I slipped out from between the still sleeping babes. There was a chill in the air and I realized the minute my feet hit the floor that I would be needing a pair of slippers. Taking a spare blanket I wrapped it around myself and headed for the kitchen. I love my early morning coffee before the demands of motherhood wake up and plan my day for me. I love to sit in the conservatory, sip my first cup and watch the sun rise. I sat in Grandpa’s chair. He must have been a big man because I always feel like such a little girl sitting here staring out at the large space around me. Perhaps today I will fix this room up. I could find some plants in town. We could go to the city. It may be a good day to find some new bikes for the kids. I sat there dreamily sipping my coffee which was disappearing much more quickly than I like. I like this moment. Making plans for this room. Washing all the windows will be interesting. I stood up and walked toward the center windows, a flash of color startled me. I stopped abruptly. The sun was illuminating a wall of thick fog and the gray was giving way to a blanket of white. I looked out the window and saw a what appeared to be a reflection of the room. A little girl in white nightgown was fixated on a beautiful huge Christmas tree. I blinked. Could it be a memory? Was I at this house at Christmas time? I will have to ask Grandma. There is so much I don’t know. So much I don’t remember. I looked at the spot where the reflection had come from. It was a great place for a Christmas tree. Maybe I am having a memory. Feeling as though the room was full of people walking around, talking and laughing, a warmth and peacefulness surrounding me, I stood in the place where the tree may have been and looked around at the bare room. This room has seen a lot of times, celebrations and sorrows. I wondered why the tree would have been in the conservatory and not in the great room. Lots of questions for Grandma were crowding into my head but they were interrupted by the patter of little feet.
After breakfast we set to cleaning the windows in the conservatory. Greta and Teddy started off using a whole roll of paper towels on the lower windows. They became distracted once they got to the cardboard roll and began to fight over it. I let them unroll another roll of towel so that there could be one for each. My goodness but I think I will use all of that on these windows. I soon decided to use cloth towels and put the wad of paper in a drawer. Mid morning we made a field trip to the garages to find a ladder and Teddy decided he should be the one to use it. Greta didn’t want either of us on the ladder, she said it frightened her. We didn’t make much progress and soon abandoned the project for lunch.
Great Nana was extra tired today so I didn’t ask her any of my hundreds of questions. They could wait until tomorrow. It was warm outside and we walked around the grounds together. But she didn’t want to stay out long.
On the way home we stopped at a small Walmart on the other side of town where we found new bikes and several decent plants for the conservatory. Most nurseries were already closed this time of year so these would have to do for now. Greta and Teddy were nodding off on the drive home. They still needed their afternoon naps. I feel so privileged to have this place to drive home to. This place to bring the children. It has so much space and is so full of adventure. They have been so happy here these last few months. I turned into the driveway with so much thankfulness in my thoughts. I feel as though I can deal with almost anything when I have a good safe place to call my home. The gate stood open. I know I closed the gate when we left. I wondered who could be here. I haven’t had a visitor here since I moved in. Aunt Melinda keeps saying she will stop out, but she hasn’t made it out yet. The neighbor who mows the lawns just rides his lawn mower over. The guy who farms the hay fields, he drives his tractor across the field. He doesn’t use the driveway. I pulled slowly up the long drive and turned the corner around the garages.

An empty black Audi Convertible sat idling off to the side. A Kentucky license plate disclosed the owners identity. Could it be? Would he dare to come here? No phone call, just show up? Was he alone? Where is he? My thoughts a mess, and feeling so vulnerable I pulled into the garage and closed the door behind me. He is not here to pick up the children with a car like that. Greta had noticed the car in the drive. She wanted to know who is here and then Teddy started asking questions. Both of them so tired, I rushed them through the house to the bedroom. We lay down on the bed together. Whoever is out there can wait. I’m not very good at pretending because both of them sensing my tension sat up and looked at me. “Mommy,” said Greta, “shall we look for the person who belongs to the car?” “Let’s make it an adventure!” I bravely announced. We looked out one window and then another, to see if anyone was there. Not seeing anyone we went outside. The car was gone. We walked down the drive a short distance to see if the gate was closed and it was. Puzzled we went inside again to try for that nap.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, The House, 1,036 words.

Previous chapters of The House:  The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1
To read the next chapter:  The House 6, The House 7, The House 8

A Brand New Book

On Saturday I woke up late.  Well I didn't really because I had two wake ups since I went back to bed after I let the chickens out.

My second wake up was around 11 am.  Did I just admit that?  Anyway I sat up really surprised that I had slept in so late and partly really glad that I had and there on the head board was a brand new book.  I love my daughter so much.  She knows me so well.  It must have come in the mail and she opened it and brought it up, ever so quietly and placed it there on top of my phone so I would be sure to see it.  

This book has a wonderful cover.  Writing and eating all mixed up on the cover.  A beautiful plate next to a pen and a spoon.  It was a delicious sight.  I picked it up and went downstairs holding it close to my heart and grabbed a cup of coffee.  I read only one chapter Saturday and one more on Sunday.  I am soon to read the third chapter.  The book is called The Writing Diet by Julia Cameron.  Write Yourself Right-Size.  It's not really about dieting though.  Whew.  Glad I cleared that up.  I'm not a diet kind of person, although I've been through a number of diets.  I still end up the weight I am and less healthy for the effort.  I'm a real food person and I believe there are too many other factors involved in weight problems for them to be addressed only by strict restrictions or additions.  This book is more about unlocking and unblocking ones creativity which ends up changing ones life around to reflect that.  Being free to be who I am meant to be changes everything about me.  

The writing diet is a life-style change which uses writing as a discovery tool.  I've already been on this path now since the middle of July and I am taking it a step forward. I have gotten into the habit of writing first thing in the morning.  It is a habit now.  I just want to tell you that if I can do this and create this habit in me then you can too.  You just have to be brave and get started. In this book the morning pages is a type of writing done early in the morning before your other writing or duties.  

 Morning pages are very personal so I won't be sharing them.  I am not going to be sharing my 1,000 words at all anymore.  I will be posting the next chapter in 1,000 words or more of the story I'm writing for you, The House, every week.  So you will get to keep reading it.  I find that the 1,000 words I'm writing in my morning pages are not taking as long to do as a proper piece for posting so I have some extra time which I need to start using to work on Elsie's Easter.  I'll still be making regular daily posts on my facebook page.

The Writing Diet by Julia Cameron is one in a lot of books by this author.  You can find it on Amazon.  I don't get any kind of benefit from you buying anything on Amazon unless you buy one of my used school textbooks.  I'm just putting this here for your benefit in case you want to read this book along with me and discuss it with me on my page.  I paid 1 cent for the book and it is brand new plus shipping, 3.99.  Regularly 13.95. US

Fluff

I want to write the happy stuff. I want to explore a world full of good. I have created a little world here of my own, full of good stuff. Yes, there are weeds, and there is mud, but those are good things too. Natures stuff. My fingers want to write about sorrow and grief but I want to write about the good stuff. I keep having to start a new page and there it is again. I want to tell stories about fluff. Good things that make us laugh and tickle our funny bones. I used to get in trouble as a child, because I couldn’t be serious. I would cause such a ruckus at the dinner table where my mother, bless her heart, was trying to keep order while feeding ten hungry children. She did a pretty good job as well, and I spent many a meal-time eating my dinner alone in the bathroom. I wasn’t one of those picky eaters that make you wonder how they survive let alone grow. I was a wiry active child with a hearty appetite and could put down a lot of food. No one at my mothers table was allowed to be picky. It really was no joke, finding enough food to fill that many tummies and my mother worked hard to get each meal on the table. She did it without my father who traveled with missionaries most of the time. Life was so much more peaceful, I imagine, with me in the bathroom that I was often forgotten about until someone had to go. I would have promised to not be funny anymore but such a thing never occurred to me. My mother reprimanded me in my adult years many times for not taking life more seriously. When I was expecting my youngest and also going through empty nest syndrome I became severely depressed. I sat in the doctors office with my husband one day, he unaware that anything was out of order, and I began to tell the doctor how I was hoping to drive straight off the highway on the curve going sixty-five and how it alarmed me that I had such thoughts. I told her that every day on my way home from work the feeling gets stronger and I’m afraid that one day I’ll do it. My husband is completely surprised by this because he had no idea. I told the doctor that the only reason I had for not having done that yet was that I knew it wouldn’t be fair to the baby who hasn’t gotten to live yet and if there was a way to know that she would live I might try it. I blurted it out in a gush of tears. She said it was a very serious matter and put me on an antidepressant which I took faithfully to the end of the pregnancy and a little after. In a few days all my tears had turned to laughter. I laughed at work, I laughed on the way home, I laughed after work. Anytime I wanted to talk it would come out in a kind of laughing voice. Everything was so funny. Hence a telephone conversation with my mother where she is asking me if I take anything seriously at all. I’m telling her about the kids, how grown up they are and what they are doing. None of it approved by my mothers strict religious standards. I’m so proud of them. I’m laughing and happy. I was truly on happy pills. I told her I was on pills to make me happy and they also make me laugh even if I’m trying to be serious but it was much better than killing myself. Oh dear. My poor mother.

I’ve been through a lot more since then and so have my children. I know that I need to write it out but I’m afraid. I’m afraid the depth of the sorrow and grief will overwhelm me again. The repercussions of living with grief on the body and on those I live with. I want to brush it aside and see beyond. What is beyond? It can’t only be fluff. I’m afraid to look inside at the world of pain and suffering. Not all of it has to do with the one grief. There are other griefs. There are years of pain from other sources from my own past choices to the choices of others. The term ‘move on’ doesn’t always apply and often makes me angry. Very often we need to ‘move through’. There is a path to freedom. To sidestep the path may only prolong the journey. My fingers seem to know the way, but I don’t want to go. I want to find a lighter, easier, more fun solution. But my fingers know the way. I wonder if there is anyone who has an easy fluffy life. Can you relate to an easy life where everything is always great and never a word of hurt. A life where everyone understands everyone and no-one is lonely or tired. Where no one is selfish or greedy for gain and no one is bitter nor mean. Where we don’t have to deal with anything or have nothing to overcome. Where no one is sick and no one is poor and no one is lame or blind. Where there is no war or unfair law and government works for our good. I don’t know of that life and I can’t really relate. I don’t suppose many would. I don’t take any pills now. I don’t try to laugh my way through. I have wanted to truly feel, as unpleasant as it may be, the feelings that come with life and death. The feelings of grief and fear. Real feelings, real life, real writing. Once I decided to grow, to begin a journey toward freedom, the words began to flow. I am still afraid. There is so much hidden. Yet there is so much to look forward to and the journey has just begun.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,015 words.

Free

Sometimes I want to run. Sometimes I want to fly. Sometimes I want to climb a mountain high and yell my voice into the sky. I want to skim across the water letting my fingers feel the sparkling droplets showering me. What I really want is to be free. I want to walk with my head held high, my arms hang loose and my footsteps sure. I want to reach wide with my arms and lift you up and hug you close and swing you round. I want to be that butterfly that gently flies from flower to flower, and barely sits to sip the nectar. I want to test them, the flowers, every one. I want to be free. I want to sing like the little birds and let my tune mingle in, with all the creatures far and near who’s little voices blend. I want to hear my echo bounce from cliff to cliff and around the world to come back to me in muffled waves and greet me like a friend. I love to be above the noise and hear the silence still. Like the rolling hills of Scotland high, the silence greeting me. I’m tempted at the break of dawn, as the mists of night disappear, to open my door and shout, “happy day” to the glow of the rising sun. I wish that every moment here was full of grins and giggles and happy smiles from peaceful faces, wishing me well today. I want to be free. I want my work to be easy and quick. Like a shake of a god-fairy wand. And the place is clean and orderly and we’re ready for lots of fun. I treasure the days when my heart is free and I sing through the morning chores. We dance lightly and happily to the barn and chatter with the hens in the yard. We scatter the corn and gently scold the two who are pecking each other. I am so amazed at the greeting I get, when they run with flapping wings and flying leaps squawking loudly. They come from everywhere, full of excitement to see what we have brought. It is a greeting for me. I love that about them. I’d love to be that free. I love to pick the garden’s fruit and dig them from the ground. It gives so much and for so long before it sleeps again. The weeds grow too and nourish it and bless the ground between. The insects work all summer long and at night they sing their song. I long to be so carefree here. They don’t mind who listens in. They don’t have leaders and don’t organize, they simple lift their song and all together one and all they cheer the garden on. The frogs lay lazy by the pond waiting for food to fly by. They sit so still and for so long they look like they’ve turned to stone. Their tongues so fast you can’t see them grab the fly as it passes by. Sometimes I’d like to tell the world to stop and listen to the earth with me. The roosters sit atop the perch and greet the morning in. They each take turns and crow the very best crow that they can give, then they crow together. The chorus reaches to the sky, they keep on crowing until the sun is high and the mists are gone. They say, “It’s a new day, it’s a new day, wake up everyone.” That’s what they say in the mornings. In the afternoon if the day is long they stand in open space and crow to the clouds as they scurry past, “It’s a great day, it’s a great day, today is a great day.” The cat and the squirrel give such a show in the late afternoon, up and down in the trees and across the grass, they play in the rustling leaves. And sometimes the squirrel is chasing the cat and I laugh at the crazy pair. The ducks waddle from side to side and push the hens out of the way. They open their bills and “Quack, quack, quack,” “Look out!” they say, “We’re coming through.” And the little girl chases the ducks today and makes them mind their manners. She takes a stick and says to them, “This is the way, go home, you great big bullies.” They waddle back home and slide into the pond and “Quack, quack, quack.” The pond is good. I would like to be able to climb like a cat or a squirrel, to be so quick and light. I could swim like a duck in a pond and try to go under but be too light and make the water splash everywhere. To have that grin that the ducks have and look like a silly thing, but be ever so smart, because you know they are. But I wouldn’t want to live with their mess. They can’t fly because they are too big, but they run with wings open wide. The underneath feathers look like angel wings all beautiful, creamy, white. They wear such beautiful clothes and they care for them with pride. I love how they put each feather in place and squeeze the water out. They find a spot where the grass is long and in the weeds they hide. The drake keeps watch as his ducks take naps and rest in the evening sun. I gather the eggs and carry them in my shirt. I’m happy as I walk to the house. I sure am glad that I have a bed and I don’t have to sleep in the weeds. I’m not that fond of the mud and I couldn’t sleep in the trees. I love to listen to the crickets at night and the croaking of toads and frogs. The chorus is loud as the day is done. “It’s been a wonderful day!” they yell. I want to shout to the moon. Like the nearby coyotes howl at night. “It’s been a wonderful day.” I want to be free like that. 

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,018 words.

Talents

I looked up the word talent this morning. It has several meanings yet all of them are related. Talent can be a gift, aptitude, characteristic bent, flair, endowment, unit of weight or money, a measure of giftedness, or ability. The dictionary quotes the story of the talents in the Bible. Matthew 25:14-30. The story goes that a higher power has given a different amount of talent to three individuals. It is assumed that the talent is money. It could be anything, really. The talent is your gift. One of the people buried the talent because he didn’t want to ruin it and perhaps lose it. He later gave it back to his owner untouched. The other two people, used their talents and increased them. When the owner came back they had grown in talent, both of them. They got to keep using their talents and continued to grow, but that first person has his talent taken away from him because he didn’t use it. I think everyone has some talent or gift. It may be helping, with money or things. Maybe it’s artistic and creative. Perhaps it’s something else like caring for other people. That is a gift. Nurses, teachers, service providers, there are a lot of people in those fields but some are really gifted making a difference in another persons life. One talent isn’t really more important than another yet some are valued more than others. Musical talents are held in high regard by most. We mostly all love some kind of music. Music is deep in our souls. It’s not just using our voice or instruments it’s much more than that. Music is in the ground reverberating all around us, a rhythm. The birds and bugs and flying things and creeping and crawling things all in time with time. Roots and wiggly things, moving and growing and bursting out. Children clapping, shouting, running, crying, playing. It’s all music. The ocean heaving, sighing, crashing and rivers spilling, it’s all a song. We all have it. Breathing, blinking, shivering, relaxing. Music is everywhere and it is definitely a gift and we all love some form of it. Some folks open their mouths and it is beautiful music. Not everyone can do that. Some have gifts with children and really caring for them, like foster parents and others who give their time making a difference in the lives of children. You know there are so many gifts, the more I think about it the more I realize that I’m surrounded by gifted people doing awesome things in this world.

I remember sitting in church and hearing about gifts and talents and using them. I could never figure out what my gift was, though I tried and tried. I thought perhaps it was taking care of children, but then their was always those really annoying ones. I thought maybe it was music, but I couldn’t get the rhythm nor could I hold a tone. I struggled to learn every note on the piano and every instrument I could lay my hands on, but none of them bonded back with me. I love to listen to music, but I don’t think that counts as a gift. I thought maybe it would be in crafts, but while I’m great at following someone else’s plans I don’t have any real gift there and I quickly get bored with it. I couldn’t be a nurse because I don’t like to clean up after other people and I faint at the sight of blood. I couldn’t teach a regular classroom because I think kids should be outside playing and I fall apart at the whining. Anyway I’m much too childish. I love to cook but I wouldn’t call it a gift. That’s more of a need, really.

I loved it when I worked in a company that let me develop the entire plan and structure for publishing their books and then develop my own skills in graphic design and proper layout and pagination. Working with the public and taking pride in my work. That job got deleted because someone from the big city came and bought the company out, taking it away to automation. Thankfully I had already left the company to be a stay-at-home mother and wasn’t left stranded like so many others. I could take my skills somewhere else but the methods have changed and their are so many gifted people in that field that have three year degrees in graphic design or four years in management. But skills and interests are not the same thing as gifts and talents.

So what is my talent? I like to talk. I like to tell stories, and listen to people. Inside me is an undeveloped and much neglected desire to write stories. To write them down. To find the truth and explore it in my own words. To show in writing the world as I feel it. My mind is inquisitive, not about real things, but about hidden things. Things between the lines. Curios about what isn’t seen and can only be felt. To find the words and write them down. Things we have all felt but brushed aside. To capture a moment in words much as an artist captures with oils on canvass a feeling in colors, hues and textures. It is a gift which needs to grow and develop into a skill. To use your gift is to become more skillful in it. To discover it more fully and find the joy in giving it, like a nurse who feels the blessing of having blessed the helpless. Like a crafter who has something of value to give and a musician who’s music is chosen to celebrate defining moments in other’s lives. Like the helper who knows exactly when to help and what is needed. The discovery of using the gift is as much a part of becoming skillful as the continued use. So the writer’s gift doesn’t grow and become more skilled without the reader. I am discovering my talent is in writing and am sharing it with you before it becomes lost or taken away.

The House 4

Those first few months in the house were like a dream. The kids loved the large spaces and investigated every corner in every room. I worked in one room after another dusting and vacuuming. Generally cleaning. I didn’t move much or do any deep cleaning yet, but I gave that huge house a fresh dose of love. The kids considered it a big adventure and gave names to the rooms. They investigated the grounds and buildings around the house. Every afternoon we took a walk, discovering together, the size and shape of the land around us. I spent the mornings looking for work. I hoped to get work which I could do at home. I was a graphic design artist and web designer. There were no jobs in this rural setting in my field. I did however land a small contract for a website design, but usually spent several hours every few days searching the assignment lists on-line. I took one here and there. It wasn’t much but it helped. After our noon meal each day we went to sit with Grandma. The children’s great grandmother. Today Teddy clutched in his little fist a crumpled bunch of wild flowers for Great-Nanna. The nurse put them in a vase and set it on her window sill. Great-Nanna’s eyes lit up when the children came in. Great-Nanna was sitting in her armchair. Her feet on the little stool. A light blanket which Aunt Melinda had crocheted for her draped over her lap. She was so little and frail. Yet her eyes shone with a bigness which declared the largeness of the soul inside her small body. She looked forward to these visits, the guide around which her day revolved. I couldn’t think how it was for her before I brought the children to live up here. Long silent days. I couldn’t imagine the hours upon hours spent wondering and remembering but still so silent. The only noise that of the nursing home residences and the nurses inquiring at scheduled intervals if she needed anything. Aunt Melinda had always been there for Grandma, a faithful loving daughter, yet Aunt Melinda was getting older and had health issues of her own. I hadn’t known much about what was going on until I took a weekend vacation from my life. I was at a turning point myself and had come at Aunt Melinda’s request to sit with Grandma after her surgery. It was a time of respite for me. A time to sit with my beautiful Grandma and think about my life. The anger and confusion of a love grown cold. The meaninglessness of my anxious life. The emotions and feelings that rose to the surface because of the rejection by the one person I had left everything else for. The little clues all coming together and making sense now. I had sat there beside her and wept. I had wept for myself. The years, I imagined, were lost now. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. I wept for my children. How different their life will be. What will they want and yearn for in time because of what is happening to their parents. Will it hurt them permanently? Will they be all right? At the end of that weekend I promised Grandma I would be back. I came back every weekend and sat beside her. She became a little stronger but we were sure that she would not be going home. That last weekend before I brought little Greta and Teddy up to the house she had pressed a key into my hand. She said in a whisper, “Lottie, this is the key to my house. It is your house now. You take this key and use the house for your own. Melinda will give you the book. Take care of it.” I was in awe. I hadn’t seen the house since I was a child and my parents had taken us up there for summer vacations. It was as though Grandma was giving me the key to freedom. Aunt Melinda confirmed what Grandma had said. She wanted me to sign the documents to be a caretaker on the property. We went to the bank and did all the necessary signing. That was the day I went to the house for the first time since I had been a child. I had made some hard decisions that weekend. I knew the house was home. It was drawing me in, into it’s walls, it’s history, it’s safety. It was much too big, but what a world it was. I wasn’t used to being able to breathe freely. I didn’t have to watch my step here. I didn’t have to worry about the children because this was their heaven. Our lives had settled into a routine with Great-Nanna as the center. In the evening I settled Greta and Teddy down in Grandma’s big bed. I lay between them and we talked and I told stories to them until they fell asleep. It was so peaceful here. After I was sure they were sleeping I got up. I got a glass of cold tea from the fridge and a piece of leftover cake and sat at the desk in the library. I put a piece of paper in the old typewriter and began to type. I typed for about an hour. It was relaxing, well not for my fingers but for my soul. Putting words onto paper that way. It was also invigorating. I can write anything I want. I can be anybody I want to be. Be anywhere I want to be. I can do anything at all that I want to do when I put my fingers on the keys and start to type. I looked at the typed pages. This typewriter definitely needs a new ribbon. But it was gratifying to see the words I had typed. They lay across the pages unrivaled. I ate the cake and drank the tea. Sleep was sweet between my two babes, in the middle of my Grandma’s bed.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,017 words.

Previous chapters of The House:   The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1

To read the next chapter: The House 5 , The House 6, The House 7, The House 8

Labor Day

Today is Labor Day in the United States. It is a national holiday to honor the working class citizens. I love it since it is usually the last big swim, for the kids, of the summer. Since my oldest daughter lives close by and she has to work today, definite irony here, we celebrated Labor Day yesterday. It rained and sprinkled but the kids had a great swim, or splash. I was so happy because it has not been a great pool summer. I chopped tomatoes, onions, green peppers, parsley and basil and shaped hamburger patties in my new summer kitchen, with my beautiful daughter. We watched the children swim and splash and only had to moderate a couple of times. When the children weren’t swimming they were only too glad to be given a job to do. They love to help in the kitchen. They also designed their own t-shirts, a craft Chloe my youngest daughter provided for them. I watched as they became completely absorbed in their projects and each of them had a different outcome. So much creativity. If you give a child the tools, it seems they already know what to do. We had a birthday cake for Great-grandpa who turned 78 last week. The house was clean as well, well somewhat clean. One of the doors was closed. The playroom door. I asked the children to please not open that door. I probably don’t need to say anymore about that, but there may be someone reading this story who can’t imagine why. The children couldn’t imagine why the playroom door was closed. It’s not really a playroom and hasn’t been used as such for a long time. It is a spare bedroom/sewing room/ironing room/storage room/toy room. I call it my angel room and I long to reclaim it. I have a horrible habit of gathering piles up around myself. My youngest daughter has the same habit and so does my husband. We all love it when the decks are cleared and it is easy to move about. But somehow it all just comes back. I have some sewing jobs to do but can not get near to the sewing machine. Sometimes I read about minimalists and I look around my little house. How could we have so much stuff? It just keeps coming. So I put it in the room and close the door. I am then able to quickly dust and vacuum and the home is clean and inviting. I am sure that the stuff in that room is important stuff and absolutely necessary to our survival but what I just realized is that I already moved everything into that room and didn’t take it out yet to deal with it before I had to make another contribution to it. This means that none of it was important at all, really. Doesn’t it? Writing this is making me want to stop writing and get in there and box it all up and send it away. I love that room. It is a light azure or bleu de france. It has strong pink and deep yellow and dark wood tones. I hung Elijah’s name on the wall as it was his room when he lived here with his mother before she passed from our world. Angels hang around his name and stand on the sills and shelves. When the room is orderly and clean it is a beautiful room. Why does it have to be either that room or the rest of the house? I am searching for the answer but until then the house is clean and inviting and might I say functional. Perhaps it is a symbol of the disorder of my soul. The conflicts which have plagued my life and still lay hidden deep inside. The disorder which writing has begun to discover and uncover. Who am I? What do I want to be? What do I want to do? The pushing away of oneself in a survival technique not so rare. Someday I will uncover the truth for you but today it is still hidden. Still hidden also for me. Like the mess in the room with the door closed. The order is taking shape where others can see but the mess hidden in the room is still to be dealt with. The soul is becoming free but the chains are still falling. The voice is being heard quietly, timidly for only a few. But courage is taking hold, is beginning like the popping open of a tiny seed, swelling from the moisture, in the dark. Sending it’s tiny tendril up to test the light, to see if it’s good. To see if it will hurt. What it finds is good. What it finds is strengthening. Courage builds courage, and truth brings more truth. Joy grows joy and faith becomes more faith. Discovery leads to more discovery and adventure blossoms. I relaxed in the evening on the couch with the children and we laughed together. My oldest daughter and I laughed. I laughed so hard I cried. These children, all unruly and bouncing around with life and curiosity, this is what Heaven is made of. How surprised will all the proper, dignified people be when they get to heaven and it’s all children just like these and their is no decorum or logic to their theories. They just are. They crawl all over me and their mother. My youngest who is for the most part the only child is surrounded by her niece and nephews and she thinks she is in heaven as well. My grandson who is nine got up in church last week and announced that he will be a pastor. But he doesn’t want to wait until he’s grown up because that is a long time from now. He wants to be a pastor now. The whole congregation praised the Lord for him that Sunday. Now here he is causing me, his grandmother to laugh so hard I am one of the children.  

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,011 words.