writing inspiration

I remember these

/ Fran Haley / 17 Comments

I just so happened to see it there in the store window next to the Chinese fast-food restaurant where my colleague and I were picking up lunch:

A big, round, tan-and-brown can of Charles Chips.

“Look at that! I haven’t seen those in years!” I shouted, to my colleague’s amusement.

These tins were delivered by truck to our house when I was a kid, if I recall correctly. Like Dy-Dee Diaper service…only not taking something horrifically pungent away (I remember that, too, up until I was about four; I had a sister two years younger).

Instantly I was thrown back to the 1970s, beginning with this scene:

The sewing room that is supposed to be a dining room. Mama’s Singer sewing machine, threads, pins, patterns galore. The ironing board. Daddy’s shoeshine box and bench in the corner. The distinct scent of Kiwi shoe polish in hanging in this space…the Charles Chip can, long missing its lid, heaped to the brim with socks that had lost their mates. Mama calls it the sock box. How are there so many? The washer (that lasted over twenty-five years) ate them, maybe? Mama tries to keep socks matched by sewing a knot of thread in the toe tips, a different color for each pair… me, age seven, on the day of my baptism, walking down the baptistry steps into the surprisingly warm water, looking down at my white-socked feet, seeing the coordinating navy-blue knots…

All this, triggered by mere sight of a Charles Chip can after so many years.

I was there.

The Statler Brothers had a nostalgic song about things they remembered from their youth, entitled “Do You Remember These?”

Here’s what the Charles Chips started dredging up for me…see if any of you remember these, from the late 1960s to early ’70s:

The Archies cartoon (and the song “Sugar Sugar”)
Penelope Pitstop cartoon
Josie and the Pussycats cartoon
Rocky and Bullwinkle
The Flintstones
The Jetsons
H. R. Pufnstuf show
The Banana Splits show
The Munsters
The Addams Family (our family friends had a black lab named Thing)
The Wonderful World of Disney, Sunday nights
Wild Kingdom
Family Affair and Mrs. Beasley dolls
Easy-Bake ovens
The Wizard of Oz on TV once a year
Paper dolls, such as “Mod Maude”
Squirmles, the Magical Pet (a furry worm that “moved”)
Silly Putty for placing & peeling on the Sunday comics – so fun
The Pink Panther Show
The Partridge Family (how is it I can still sing every song?)
Donny and Marie
The Monkees
sea monkeys
bellbottoms
pet rocks
mood rings
tetherball
jacks
macrame
decoupage
Tupperware parties
Beeline parties
Avon ladies calling
Choco’Lite candy bars
Count Chocula cereal (back in stores now at Halloween!)
upper elementary girls wearing wigs to school
shag haircuts
The Brady Bunch
Gilligan’s Island
Viewmasters and reels
Spirograph art
Romper Stompers
Hippity Hop (ball with handle, for sitting on and bouncing wherever you wanted to go)
Super Elastic Bubble Plastic
rabbits’ feet (I am so, so sorry now, dear Rabbits)
Popeye
Looney Tunes
Star Trek
Lassie

and last but not least
Sonny and Cher

…these are just the first ripples in my memory. There’s a story surrounding each. There are more memories just below the surface, waiting to be stirred… so many, many more.

Funny, crazy, wondrous, strange, sweet slices of life. So long ago.

Seems fitting to end with this song (imagine me singing it with gusto around age five).

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Writing challenge

Crows

/ Fran Haley / 12 Comments

I could hardly wait to try the Cornell Lab Bird ID app during February’s Great Backyard Bird Count.

Especially the sound identification feature.

When you select it, ‘Merlin’ listens and tells you which birds it hears.

I already know the beautiful songs of house finches, cardinals, and Carolina wrens. The low, mournful coo of doves. I know birds of the night by sound: the haunting, onomatopoetic call of the whippoorwill in summer, the hair-raising screech and who? who? who? of owls. What other wonders are hidden in the woods surrounding my home?

And so it was one damp, drab morning that I stepped out on the back deck with my phone and opened up the bird wizard (the name Merlin is too good).

First bird heard:

CAW! CAW! CAW!

The words American crow popped up in the app.

Thanks, Merlin. That’s only the easiest bird sound in the world. I knew it as a little kid watching Kornfield Kounty in Hee Haw.

Globally speaking, however: Is there a bird more steeped in superstition, legend, and lore? Or with more conflicted symbolism?

Harbinger of death and sickness. Psychopomp, spiritual guide for the human soul. A sign of transformation, balance, wisdom, confidence, trickery… crows are even said to carry a person’s prayers to heaven.

They are scavengers but they cannot tear flesh open with their own beaks and have to wait for some other toothed predator to start the process; they’ve been known to lead wolves or other hunters to prey. Crows don’t dine exclusively on meat; they’ll eat “almost anything,” researchers say.

Scientists say that crows have big brains and are aware of their own thoughts. In Norse mythology, two crows (or ravens, depending on the source) whose names meant Thought and Memory rode the shoulders of Odin. Crows act with deliberation. They are keen observers. They use tools like sticks and shells when needed to get their food. They learn to recognize human faces and have been known to leave gifts such as pebbles or pretty shards of broken pottery as a thank you for humans who have fed them…

CAW! CAW! CAW!

Crows also prey on songbirds…

There’s Papa House Finch singing like Tevye on the roof of my house while Mama Finch is nestled on little blue eggs so perfectly hidden in the wreath on my front door…

Don’t even think about it, Crows. The finches are mine.

Yet.

In all my dreams about birds—for there’ve been many—I’ve not seen finches. Eagles, peacocks, owls, and whippoorwills (I think) have appeared.

And one bright-eyed crow, sitting in the gravel beside a car, with a bright green stone or ball, waiting to give it to me.

What does it mean?? That is the question…

CAW! CAW! CAW!

I feel pretty sure about this one thing: If a crow offers you a gift…take it.

AMERICAN CROW. cuatrok77. CC BY-SA 2.0.

One more bit of food for thought: The name Merlin has a controversial origin history itself… possibly derived from French merle, which means blackbird.

*******

with thanks to two fellow Slicers in the Two Writing Teachers community:
Kim Johnson, for pointing me to the Great Backyard Bird Count, and
Ms. Chiubooka (Cindy), for recently wondering what my take on crows would be.

We’re all in the daily Slice of Life Story Challenge together.

Writing life.

I can’t be the only one poem

/ Fran Haley / 2 Comments

Today on Ethical ELA’s Open Write, Britt Decker shares a beloved C.S. Lewis quote: “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’” She invites participants to share “quirky, unusual, uncommon things you do, believe, or say and turn the list into a poem… starting with the line ‘I can’t be the only one who’…”

To begin with: I have loved Lewis since I was ten years old and first landed in Narnia. I have a shelf of his books. When I read Britt’s words about Lewis, I echoed his own: “What! You, too?”

And so I keep that as my title…

What! You, Too?

I can’t be the only one who

would rather write than speak

drinks more black coffee than water

puts pepper on popcorn

is enchanted by abandoned houses
in various stages of falling down

left my Christmas tree up
until February this year
simply because it was beautiful
and looking at it
made me happy

barely dips in social media anymore

follows murder cases daily
for the latest developments

loves my Grandma name (Franna)
better than my actual given name

looks for hawks and herons
on my drive to work

grieves over the blue heron
not having been at a certain pond
in weeks
(please be all right)

savors the harsh rattling
of cicadas in summer
(heartsong
in the background orchestration
of my life)

senses the presence of my father
in the fragrance
of fresh-mown grass

thinks best and sees solutions
in the dark morning hours
before I’m fully awake

journals my dreams, to be awed
by the constant presence of birds
and the recurrence of
vivid green

The original sign from The Eagle and Child (at CS Lewis’ home, The Kilns). #TXinUK. david_norman. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Tale-based poem: The Legend of Water Rabbit

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

Today on the Ethical ELA Open Write, poet Stacey Joy invited participants to read a few short folktales, fables, fairytales, myths, or legends to inspire a poem: “Your poem might be a response to, a retelling of, or a new version of the original piece.”

I wanted to work with a fable but the children’s tale that came to mind first was… well, maybe you will recognize it… my poem is meant to be something of a mythological sequel–tribute.

The Legend of Water Rabbit

In the forest deep
upon a cushion of emerald moss
Water Rabbit sleeps

and dreams

of the Child.

In his dream
he cannot tell the Child
how much
he loves him

for to the Child,
the Rabbit isn’t real

and there is no language
for conjuring a bridge
across the chasm
of unbelief.

Water Rabbit twitches,
remembering

the nursery
the toys
the Wise Horse
who spoke of love

and longsuffering.

It was Fate that placed
the Rabbit in the arms
of the Child that night
when a favorite toy
was lost.

It was only for a season
that the Child embraced him
and carried stuffed Rabbit
everywhere he went…

Water Rabbit’s whiskers tremble
with dream-reliving.

He sighs.

Other rabbits nearby
cock their heads
and perk their long ears

for in a moment,
Water Rabbit begins
to whimper
and weep
and wail
in his sleep

—the dream
is all too real:
the Child’s fever,
the separation,
the command that
Rabbit and all the other toys
be burned.

It isn’t fire or fears
that brings Rabbit’s tears

but the thought
of never being
with the Child again.

—Wake up! Wake up!
The colony surrounds
Water Rabbit,
dozens of their small front feet
against his shimmery fur,
shaking, shaking him

into reality.

Water Rabbit gazes at them
through his tears
from his emerald-moss bed

and asks…Is it time?
 
The colony nods in unison.

Water Rabbit rises
wiping tear tracks
from his velvety face.

The colony parts
Water Rabbit
makes his way through…

he hops and hops with 
boundless energy until
he reaches the clearing 

where the Child
bigger now
(for he’s bigger every Spring)

sits on the blanket
spread over the grass
with a picnic feast 
made ready.

Into the Child’s arms
leaps the Rabbit. 

There are no words
for there is no language
that can capture
love so great
and eternal
and real

as real as the solitary tear
of a toy Rabbit
about to be burned
for the sake of the Child.

For it was that teardrop
the inevitable price
of love
and sacrifice
that brought life,
transformation,
salvation.

That is how
Water Rabbit
came to be.

*******
-with thanks and apologies to Margery Williams and The Velveteen Rabbit.

2023 is the Chinese Year of the Rabbit.

More specifically, the Year of the Water Rabbit.

“You make vita cry!” jpockele. CC BY 2.0.

Colors of my life: Spiritual Journey

/ Fran Haley / 11 Comments

As host of my fellow Spiritual Journey writers on the first Thursday of this new month, Bob Arjeha asks: What colors make up your life? Do you shine bold…? Are you a more quiet light…? Are you a combination of both? What colors do you shine so that others may follow?

How creative, Bob. Thank you for providing such a compelling lens…

*******

It’s not a color I’d automatically choose to represent myself.

But then again, I have a hard time saying what my favorite color is. I love red for its bright power and cheer (think cardinals there by the roadside, bits of brilliant crimson against the drab gray-brown backdrop of winter, without snow). I love shades of coral for its vitality and unexpected freshness. I am drawn to neutral tones, grays, browns, taupes, creams, black and white, as far as a wardrobe goes, for they can be endlessly mixed and matched with every other color. I took a color personality test once and was told I am gold, which is quite gratifying on a number of levels, considering its value and connotations of endurance, faithfulness, and love.

I come at last to green.

It does not come readily to mind as one of my life’s colors.

For most of my life, in fact, I didn’t even appreciate that my birthstone is green. Why couldn’t it have been the lovely pale-purple alexandrite of June? The costly, iridescent-sparkling diamond of April? The fiery opal of October? I absolutely love opals…but no, my birthstone is an emerald. As a child I took a little consolation from Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz, but still… I didn’t love the color. Aside: children today do not know what their birthstone is. I remember poring over catalogs as a child, studying birthstones. Women proudly wore mothers’ and grandmothers’ rings bearing stones for every child and grandchild. I memorized the birthstone, modern and traditional, for every month.

I was given a little emerald necklace as a child (by Grandma, I think), and my Grannie bought me a simulated emerald-and-diamond ring for my tenth or eleventh birthday. Both pieces of jewelry have been lost over the years. I liked having them, but…green wasn’t really “my color”.

As a child of the 70’s, avocado green was a staple of home decor. Our telephone (with a wildly long cord that I stretched infinitely longer as a teenager) was this color. The panels on the front of my childhood house were this color. For years my dad owned only two suits, one polyester and one brushed suede, and they were both green. I didn’t like either one of them. My childhood bedroom had dark green carpet (and blue walls); my cat had kittens under my bed and Daddy had to cut away a good bit of that rug. My first car, a hand-me-down, was army green (an LTD Ford the size of an army tank; in those days, five bucks of gas would get you through the week). My high school colors were green and gold; most kids chose an emerald-green stone for their class rings. I chose pearl.

Why, then, does the color come tapping on the backdoor of my mind now, calling, Hello, it’s me, Green; I am important in your life. Let me in-?

How do I know Green is up to this, you ask?

Because of my dreams.

As a writer, I’ve learned to capture intriguing images for use later. My dreams are typically vivid. I know there’s much fascinating symbolism to them that I’m not able (and probably really don’t want) to analyze. I think of Jung. I recall the mighty gift of dream interpretation in the Bible. I decided to record my more compelling dreams in a journal. I’ve been astonished by several recurring patterns and images…including the number of times green has appeared in my dreams.

For the record, green isn’t always positive; we know it can represent illness, poison, envy, and even evil. Let’s go ahead and get that acknowledgement out of the way.

The rich, deep green in my dreams doesn’t manifest itself in any of these ways. At all.

Consider…

a friendly crow coming to see me and dropping a mysterious green ball (—stone?—fruit?) into my hand

vivid green grass growing on patches of barren ground

vast vivid green fields, going on and on

rich green leaves of trees at night, where owls are perched and calling

more than one dream of cicadas (which I love) with shiny emerald-green shells; in one dream, the yard was full of them, and they seemed to be burrowing in the ground. I so wanted to linger and watch…

There is more, but a couple of things are obvious: the green in these dreams is that of living things. It is the color of life, of nature, of growth. The cicada connection is one of my favorites; these green creatures represent fidelity and resurrection. There are clear overtones of wisdom beckoning in these dreams. Of being given some kind of gift. Of restfulness and rejuvenation: He maketh me to lie down in green pastures… of cycles and endurance and sustainability. Of being sustained. Green is the color of abundance and well-being and comfort. It makes me think about how we really don’t live as close to nature as we should, and what a terrible price we pay for that. I really didn’t recognize this great pull of nature at the core of my existence until I started writing consistently several years ago, and that’s when nature began revealing inextricable interconnectedness to human life on a spiritual level…just now I think of evergreen trees, enduring winter.

It is the color most often present in my dreams, by far. I may not have chosen it but it has chosen me, and I have come to treasure its significance in my spiritual life. I believe it is connected to my writing as well…for wring is a deeply spiritual activity. Green is, after all, a combination of blue, the color of sky and sea, and yellow, like the sun…life and eternity. Come what may, I shall go on. I know in Whom I trust. While I live, let me use the gifts given to me wisely and well.

Speaking of which: At Christmas my husband gave me a beautiful emerald necklace. He’d forgotten it was my birthstone; he chose it as a symbol of our Irish roots. I was wearing it when his sister came to exchange gifts… without any clue that her brother had given me the necklace, she gave me emerald earrings in the exact same shade, plus a jacket to match.

As it has chosen to wrap itself around me so…. let me be an open door, a window, to a world rippling infinitely rich and green with possibility.

Intimate conversation poem

/ Fran Haley / 3 Comments

–with thanks to Barb Edler for the Open Write inspiration on Ethical ELA. Barb invited poets to speak directly to a subject, perhaps a person from the past or present, a beloved or loathed object, or even a dream, frustration, or desire.

Refuge

In the dead of winter
in the dark of night
in the starlit silence
you come

to sleep
in the old
twig-vine wreath
on the front door

tiny warm presence
of which I’d be unaware
if not for the pull
of the stars

the frigid bite
of the night
is worth the sight
if only for a moment

so I open
the door

soft sudden flutter
wings taking flight
in the cold cold night

oh little bird
that I cannot see
you cannot know
how your presence
comforts me

that in this barren season
before the time
of nesting
you find your place
of resting

upon my door

little winged creature
of first blessing

*******

Note: Sea creatures and birds were the first living things blessed by God, Genesis 1:22.

Said wreath. When I woke before dawn, remembering there’s a comet to be observed, I bundled up to try for a view from the front porch. The little unseen bird flew out of the wreath as I opened the door. There is no nest; I am not sure where the bird tucks in but the idea of it sleeping against the safety of my door in winter makes a metaphor of immense comfort to me. I can’t determine if it’s a house finch (they build nests in my wreaths each spring) or a Carolina wren, tiny bird with a big, gorgeous song. In the darkness I can only hear small wings beating for a split second as it takes flight. Whatever it is… it is welcome.

Light bucket

/ Fran Haley / Leave a comment


to the astronomer
light bucket
means a telescope
with a wide aperture
and parabolic mirrors
that collect
and reflect
great quantities of light
from objects
in deep space

for the universe
is a dark place

to the starry-eyed poet
light bucket
is a means
of picking up bits
of divine spark

for keeping
the mind’s aperture wide
the soul and spirit aligned
humanity’s parabola
so intelligently designed

for collecting
for reflecting
great buckets of light

for the universe
is a dark place

Image. Danielle Scott. CC BY-SA 2.0

Mystery prompts…

/ Fran Haley / 5 Comments

As a follow-up to yesterday’s post, Exploring mysteries, here’s a list of questions that have magically appeared in my supposed-to-be-empty WordPress blog posts this month:

What is one thing that you would change about myself?

What are five things you’re good at?

Do you have a favorite place you’ve visited? Where is it?

What big events have taken place in your life over the last year?

What could you do less of?

Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?

Tell about your first day at something—school, work, as a parent, etc.

What skills or lessons have you learned recently?

Is your life today where you pictured it a year ago?

All you writer-friends out there know the power of a good prompt for overcoming writer’s block, for reaching far and deep, tapping into memory and emotion. Writing itself is a release. It is healing. Perhaps even preventive medicine. Writing is a unique means of expression, of thinking, of creativity, of craftsmanship. It is a singular key for unlocking many mysteries, the greatest of all being yourself.

When gifts are offered, take them…they’re meant for your benefit, enjoyment, edification. The WordPress elves at work behind the scenes here clearly know this. These prompts are likely meant to be answered one by one (I have written to two: one thing I would change about myself and what skills I’ve learned recently) but today I wonder if I could tie them all into one reflection. For better or worse, here goes…

It is said that change is constant. I am constantly changing, growing older, a little slower. I would not change this. It is the price of having been alive a while. I’m willing to pay it. What one thing would I change about myself? My answer now would be different than it would have been years ago. I might have chosen something superficial, having to do with my appearance. Now I am much more concerned with my spirit. How do I narrow what I’d change to just one thing? I should choose to be more gracious, patient, forgiving, even loving…but as I write, the word listen blankets everything else that comes to mind. I would listen to others more. Not with my ears. With my soul. To hear what lies behind their words, their actions. Words are a thing I’m good with, usually. Were I to comprise a list of five things I’m good at, words are linked to at least half of it: I’m good at reading, writing (so I’m told…I do love it and work at it), imagining, wondering, and drinking coffee. In a way these are the five pillars of my daily life, the things I enjoy most, next to time spent with my family. When my boys were small my grandmothers told me that I was a good mother. Their simple proclamation, a revelation of their great esteem for motherhood, felt like the bestowment of a royal title. My boys have the final say, however. Children know all their parents’ flaws, eventually. What matters is that they know how much they are loved and that they learn to love. It is the beginning of belonging. It is why, when asked if I have a favorite place, I’m always going to talk about my grandparents’ home deep in the countryside, along an old dirt road (it’s gravel now). I haven’t been since the house has been torn down and a new one built for a young family. While I dread going because of that, another part of me desperately longs to go…to walk the old road once more, to remember being a child, hearing my grandmother’s old, old stories and my grandfather’s raspy, warm I love you when he offered his clean-shaven cheek to me for a goodnight kiss… again, listen. I imagine sensing them near even if all I hear is the breeze rustling the Spanish moss which wasn’t there, hanging there from the treetops, when I was a child. Once upon a time, though, there were little bridges along the road, due to the many canals…I don’t know what became of those bridges. But the tiny church at the crossroads remains, where my grandparents are buried with generations of my ancestors. One day soon, I must go. I carry them all and their stories with me… I am their story, the continuation of it, as my granddaughters are mine. They are the greatest event of my life in the last three years, one coming into our family at age three and the other born just over a year ago. They are the big event of my every day. I can almost hear Grandma chuckling…now you understand. Listen, listen. Carve time away from the clamor of the world to be still…to minimize distractions, to be fully present when another human is speaking to me, especially my young ones, especially my quiet son with the musical gifts and beautiful singing voice. So many layers there. Listen. I need to be less concerned with work; it is my livelihood, not my life. The family is my life. My pastor-husband, my pastor-son and his girls, The Boy and his music and funeral ministry, all our dogs, the church, the faith, the Lord God, Giver of all good gifts, including life, are my life. How perfect are His ways. Long ago when I was performing in plays and traveling to audition for acting school in New York, I could not have dreamed it would lead me to where I am now, that at nineteen I’d meet the man I’d marry through community theater. The title of that play: Whose Life Is It Anyway? Not just mine. Ours. It was ordained. I had an inkling of it, that first day after we were married, when we stood in the crashing ocean waves and I held onto my new gold wedding band for dear life, for fear of losing it. I knew salt isn’t good for jewelry. I just couldn’t bring myself to remove the ring. New beginnings are so fragile at first. As are new ideas. All these years into our journey, we still look for the new even within the old: we are going to learn how to use that Dobsonian telescope I got us for Christmas. We shall soon be wandering among the stars, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, all extending their glittering invitation every cold, cold night. I just learned I wasn’t using the finderscope properly. How poetic. Metaphorical. That’s what writing is for me… a finderscope. Through it I see the memories, the gratitude, the loves of my life…the light from years past, still meeting me right where I am today; I would not change a thing about that.

*******

with thanks to WordPress for the magical prompts and to Two Writing Teachers for the story-sharing place.

Happy holidays to all.

Of angels and stairways

/ Fran Haley / 2 Comments

with thanks to Carolina Lopez for the Open Write prompt on Ethical ELA today

I’ve Been Writing This Since

I’ve been writing this since
I looked into the wide vent-grates
of the upper room floor
of my grandparents’ apartment, 
sure that I saw angels
in the depths

in the same way 
that I saw stairsteps to Heaven
in the light fixtures
of the doctor’s office ceiling
when I was a sick child.

Yeah, well.

I am still here
believing
when those I loved
are long gone
yet cheering me on
from the other side of portals
I cannot see

perhaps they are looking
through vent-grates
and light-fixture stairways
at me.

Lighting & grate. Photos by Portland_Mike. CC BY-ND 2.0.

Autopsy data

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

a poem inspired by a professional development facilitator

The educator
in analyzing
student
scores
numbers
and notes
must DO
something
in response
otherwise
all you have is
autopsy data

Rembrandt —The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp. Public domain.