Out Like A Lion

So far, 2015 has been full. Of surprises, of challenges, of revelations, of responsibilities. But I can see a bit of space opening up in the near future and I'm looking forward to getting my thoughts down more often. I'm happy to share this week's 99 word flash fiction challenge, Courtesy of Carrot Ranch Communications. Check out the contributions from the many talented Rough Writers. 

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My head hurts. The pressure has been building for two days in advance of the storm that's moving our way. I want to lie down. I want to get in the car and drive away. I want to forget the way he left this morning. What he said. What I didn’t.

Instead, as the dark rumbles grow louder, I move out to the porch to feel the wind. To watch it whip up leaves and the dirt in ever expanding dervishes. To watch the chaos of rain and light that’s working its way through me and into the sky.

The Worst Kept Secret

Thanks to my friend Sarah Brentyn, who tagged me to write about a secret (her post is here). If you're a parent who labours under the delusion that you have to be perfect to give your kids what they need, Sarah is the woman you want to follow. She writes with humble, genuine emotion and humour about the joy and despair that accompany parenthood in equal measure.

But on to my secret, right? My secret isn't really so secret anymore. But, you should know (dramatic pause)...I'm not who I used to be. I've changed. A lot. If you met me in the last year, it might not be so obvious. Perhaps, at most, you'll have noticed a slight upswing in my unpredictability. Or, more to the point, my shift from being rule based to rule breaking. I swear more now. And drink more scotch. And stay up too late. 

Don't get me wrong. There are glimmers of who I used to be, here and there. I still love to run. And my husband (who has changed, too) is still my best friend. I still like chocolate and escargot and fine dining and dancing. And relationships and romance in all forms are still mysteries that I hope I never tire of exploring with words, and in music, and through experience. 

But the other stuff? The things I used to think defined me? They're almost all gone. I once embraced my Type A traits with the ferocity of a straight jacket. I WILL ACCOMPLISH could have been a tattoo I wore proudly on my arm. I WILL PERSEVERE would be the t-shirt I would don every morning to show you that I would not be beaten. I would overcome. I would not give up.

Except, that's not me anymore. I've given up a few times when it no longer served my purpose to persevere. I've moved on from things that might have been satisfying, but didn't fit the changing shape of my life. I've let go of the idea that WHO I AM is any one thing I do. In fact, I think who I am shifts on the regular. Currently, I'm a writer who isn't writing very much and a reader who isn't reading regularly. But where that would have caused panic in previous years (why can't I read? I HAVE to write), I now greet the rise and fall of my interests like waves on the shore. 

And that has left space for new parts of me to emerge. A few weeks ago I decided I wanted to learn to play guitar and that feels great. A few months ago I became interested in marketing and I've run with that, too. And more recently, I've learned that just because I said I would do something, doesn't mean I have to do it. In fact, changing my mind, being flexible, being gentle with my limitations, means that I can see other people, and their choices with more compassion, too. 

Sometimes I miss the me that was so driven, so sure she knew what she was doing. That version of me would give advice without blinking. She knew what decisions to make. Now? Uncertainty is my constant companion. I no longer have any idea what is right or wrong for anyone but me. But I like this lighter, less serious version of myself. The me who makes mistakes, laughs more easily, and is way less afraid of taking risks. The me who puts family and friends above order and organization. The me who believes that embracing chaos is more important than taming it. 

Now that you know me, it's time to get to know some other amazing people who have their own secrets to tell (or not, friends - your choice). 

Sonia Verma at Momstown.ca: The new Momstown website is very lucky to have Sonia as their national editor. Not only is she a genius with words, but she's kind and funny and has real knack for finding the humour in almost any parenting mishap. She also named some really amazing cookies in my honour. 

Augusta at All in One Basket: Smart, compassionate, vulnerable, wise. If you know anyone struggling with infertility (or parenting after infertility), this is the blog to send them to. Augusta has a knack for making people feel like they're not alone. 

Cate Moore at The Art of Authenticity: Cate is a kind soul and a funny, meditative blogger whose tweets and posts make me smile. She writes about her experiences without "watering down or shining it up…just beautiful, messy life." 

I'd also tag Sarah Brentyn and Amy Good, but Sarah tagged me and I know Amy has already been tagged. Regardless, you should check them out. 

Climbing my own Mountain.

This week's 99 word flash fiction was to write a lifespan. The prompt reminded me of a metaphor often used in therapy to explain the relationship between a therapist and client. Instead of imagining the therapist has more wisdom or knows more answers, a client is asked to imagine the therapist is climbing their own mountain, but because they have a different perspective, they can see the obstacles on the client's mountain a little more clearly. Writing a lifespan means taking a step back, seeing the forest and the trees, having a long view. Maybe one day, I'll have that too. 

Check out the contributions from the other Rough Writers. 

*****

She started and ended the same way. Fragile, dependent, full of curiosity and wonder. In between her first and last breath, she learned to love, to hate, to be brave, to forgive. She learned that grief made her life more meaningful and taking risks is what kept her alive. She became stronger than she thought she’d ever be, and softer too. Able to soothe the glorious, savage beast her body brought into the world. She watched the tiny boy grow into a man she loved as much as the one she had lost. She had lived. She was proud.

Day Six: 99 Words

Another Carrot Ranch contribution. This week's prompt is rare gems. Surprise, surprise - I'm writing about romantic angst. 

And on the sixth day of flashing, here is what I wrote: 

*****

She’d found the picture the other day. Rummaging through the box that held keepsakes she mostly forgot were important. She’d studied it for a moment and then tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.

But later, when the kids were in bed and her husband was watching the game, she poured herself a glass of wine and held it gently between her fingers.

His smile.
The way her hair had curled gently around her ears.

His hand resting on her elbow.
The look in her eyes. Excitement. Anticipation.

She exhaled and carefully tore it up into tiny pieces. 

I'm Sorry

Simple words. Loaded with meaning. Or not, I guess. Depends on the context. Being Canadian, I use them a lot for all matter of inane reasons. Bumping into someone. Cutting someone off when they're talking. Stepping forward in a line out of turn. But I also say I'm sorry when I feel bad about what I've done. And I wonder whether being sorry - even knowing I wouldn't change a thing - is really enough. Does saying I'm sorry actually help the other person who I'm sure I've hurt? Or does it just to make me feel less accountable for my actions? 

And on the fifth day of flashing, here is what I wrote: 

*******

She watched him drive away and checked her gut for the kick that she hoped would be there.

Nothing.

It was getting worse each time. This lack of reaction. This lack of feeling.

She knew that instead of the emptiness inside of her, there should have been some kind of emotion. But the hollow place within her echoed with silence as the wind whipped her hair around.

She hunched into the coat he’d wrapped around her shoulders before he said goodbye.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he’d said and she’d nodded, forcing a smile.
She didn’t plan on seeing him again.

Say Goodnight Gracie

Some days my head calls the shots. Sometimes it's my heart. But I'm working towards some sort of a compromise and I think the lines of communication are open. 

On the fourth day of flashing, here is what I wrote. 

**********

The zipper broke and she swore as she tried to stuff her sweater back inside the tattered suitcase. She sank down on the curb.

“You staying or going?” the bus driver asked, holding the door open.

She brushed the tears from her cheeks and nodded.

It was time to go.