The Door Reopened

If memory serves me when I was little I said I wanted to be an artist and a writer. We are talking little, like six years old kind of little. After college my brother used to ask me why I didn't "do" that dream. Ummm... because I was six when I decided that. 

Dreams change. Lots of six year olds want to be astronauts and rock stars and ninjas and... right? Problem was, I wasn't writing because I was sure I wasn't good at it. There was plenty of evidence during my college years that pointed to quite the contrary. Great grades in English classes that required nothing more than the ability to read a novel, process it and write a paper about it. Easy-peasy. 10 pages due at 8am? I'll do it later, let's go out! (Yes, I wrote some of my best stuff at 2am. My roommate loved me.) But still, that fear of rejection, of negative feedback, of failure kept me away.

So why am I suddenly ravenously writing a blog? Well, a month or so ago my sister sent me this text: "Made me cry". Attached was a photo of a set of poems I had written in college for one of my classes. Of all the papers I wrote, this was the only thing I remembered. But I was certain it was gone forever. I can't find my copies anywhere. (Of course I have yet to jimmy open the lock on the fire safe they could be in.) Shari scanned and emailed the copies to me and I put them in my "writing" folder. On the top.

The Mailbox

Paul Harvey begins today's story

and blonde pigtails bounce

over grilled cheese crumbs and milk.

Huggy Bear waits patiently

until dishes are cleared.

Pulled from the wooden highchair

Huggy's tan body awaits the trip

as eagerly as the girl. 

Conversations surrounding everything,

senses absorbing more.

Wagon wheels push gravel into tracks

while girl and Huggy ride

searching for the signals of uniqueness-

anything worthy of attention

and commitment to memory-

fowers, bugs, rocks.

The sun is high and hot

and cool metal pipes quench

head-high corn stalks

and beckon to young eyes and ears,

a heart in love with water

and a tongue seeking perfect flavor.

Cold pipes under sticky legs

while a silvery tanned face

peeks under with bright eyes.

The mud meets blonde bangs.

A fascinated child in love for the first time,

forever,

with life and memories.

Quarter mile, half hour.

Mailbox greets excited mind.

Hoping for letters from sister

only thirteen years older,

always trying to remember,

print. 

At five years old, can read- 

not cursive.

Taught by many hours of 

Cookie Trees and Sunday comic strips-

anything in print.

Sister and mother with endless patience.

"College going well, send popcorn,

Love Ya Lots"

Seventeen years later the same 

"Love Ya Lots"

Paul Harvey said, "good day".

She says, "the best".

This isn't the one that probably made her cry... but that's ok. Sometimes sisters have special things they only share with each other.

So to give credit where credit is due, I give some to my sister. She opened that door again. She reminded me of what I'd done in the past and what I love to do. Other credit to my brother for wondering why that door wasn't open (even if he might not remember those conversations). More credit to my mom for loving to write. She loves it too. There's still some to go to my dad. For creativity and sincerity. Never have you met a man like my father... but that's another blog post.

I've begun to overcome that fear. I know there will be a day when someone will make a negative comment about what I've written. I'm working through how to handle that when it comes. But tonight I owe everyone who has read this jumbled mess that comes out just the way I think it in my mind, everyone who has given such crazy, love-filled feedback about my posts, everyone who has shown me love in this tender-hearted endeavor a crazy, love-filled thank you. Thank you for the encouragement, the faith and the motivation to keep going. 


What door are you going to reopen? 


Dear Lord,

Thank you for this gift. Thank you for a family who nudges without knowing. Thank you for friends who encourage and support and motivate. Thank you for reminding me of the something I want to do, just because I want to. Let me use my gifts to your glory. And give me the strength and confidence to deal with any negativity that may find its way to me.

Amen