This floodgate of what I now call “sparks of light from the prism” amaze me. It is everywhere. I find good deeds in my newspaper’s letters to the editor, on Facebook, in books I’m given, and from random discoveries. A heightened awareness of good seems to foster more good. It also spins my Irish temper into an Irish toast. What would once have given me cause to jump all over some nincompoop now coerce me into smiles and humor.
Once again, it proved to me that during these times of challenge and change, forward movement fueled by positive words and vision naturally shuns opposing wills draped in negativity and self-service.
Today this wildly off-balance pendulum struck my personal life. Oh, there was no catastrophic tragedy, just a realization that things aren’t like they were or how I want them. Yes, I’m one of those former middle class Americans trying to find my way through the maze. I feel like Jack in the Jack in The Box commercial who whines, “I am so tired of this recession.”
Then I received a gift. An absolutely free gift—probably from bird poop.
I’ve obsessed so much that I’ve been off the blogosphere, and I just learned, off the tidysphere.
I woke up this morning to battalions of tiny black ants marching…
One can hike with Fein down into the depths of an ancient tomb in Israel; climb into Guatemala highlands; and then turn a page and land in Micronesia or even on a small, but well-traveled road in Spain.
And that, perhaps, is the purpose of memoirs. Really, who gives three flying pigs about my life? Much more interesting tales have and will be told. But at the same time, the writer in me wishes to connect with her readers and render that commonality we share. You know, ring a bell, strike a chord, hit a nerve.
Cowing’s 2009 Jackrabbit Highways juts along paths of loss, wonder, anger, self-revelation and discovery. Like a quick-moving jackrabbit, Cowing’s precise word movement is as pleasant juicy to read as the first bite into a September-ripened tomato as noted in her poem “Tomato.”
“Ca Girls” is a memoir in progress, that isn’t so much about me, as it is about a generation–My Generation. I can only show the story through my experience. My aging generation teeters
The only noise now, at 3 a.m. PST, is my stupid cell phone beeping every 15 minutes. It’s hidden deep inside my monstrous purse. I don’t wish to ruffle thru the purse to find the phone that will sing it’s Verizon lullaby and then wake up spouse. So I let it beep.
I’ve concluded that scribing a memoir, on line, on this blog site, is lunacy. If Hemingway were doing this, he’d have visited self-annihilation much earlier. Swimming with hungry sharks seems more rational.