D is for Dreams–Day 4

Imagine that! It’s day four of the A-Z challenge, and I’m still in it. While I have a daily writing practice more or less following the guidelines set forth by Julia Camera (The Artist’s Way), daily blogging is not part of my routines. I’ve managed to post once or twice a month over the last year or so, mainly documenting my reading with short book reviews and overviews. Yet i’ve had this dream of being a writer since high school.

I wrote a story that I gave to my high school English teacher at the end of my junior year. It was the last year I would have her as my teacher. Mrs. Richardson taught ninth, tenth, and eleventh grade English; Miss Bedenbaugh would teach twelfth grade English. Back then, we weren’t separated into college prep, honors, or AP classes; we were all treated as college prep students. She like my story, but I wasn’t encouraged to pursue creative writing. After all, creative writing wasn’t necessarily an academic pursuit. It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that I knew that people could major in creative writing! But I was on track for Masters degree in English literature and did not even consider a creative track.

And then came the children, two boys four years apart in age, and a career as a full-time high school English teacher myself. There was no possibility of thinking about creative writing, not with small boys, soccer practice and games, then baseball, and marching band, not to mention Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts and church. . . . Did I mention lesson plans and grading and reading for my classes? The dream to be a writer had been deferred once again.

And then came retirement and a free class (though not exactly) with guidance to write that first novel. I did it. I wrote the novel, and. . . . well, it’s still written; it’s just not published. Dream deferred again? I don’t know. Sometimes, writing–or any art–just has to sit for a while before it goes public. The same is true about my photography. I “dream” one day that I will be able to create those fine art photographs in the vein of Ansel Adams and others. And yet. . . dream deferred. I use the excuse that I don’t know enough about photography as art to make those kinds of photos. Still, I dream. Maybe one day. . .

Langston Hughes wrote, “What happens to a dream deferred?” Something’s absolutely nothing happens; sometimes it does explode. I will just have to wait and see what happens to my deferred dreams.

Finding Joy

[NOTE: This piece is inspired by the poem “I Do Not Order Two Sugars in My Americano” and the prompts from Linda Wagner’s 27 Powers Wild Writing prompts.]

Joy always finds me when I see the egret and the heron wading in the weeds at the shallow edges of the pond. I watch their stillness, statue-like, as they stare into the water for the dart of a small, silver fish. I study the graceful curve of their necks, the jaunty-jolty steps as they stalk their prey along the green edges. How can they see those small fish in that dark, murky water? I admire their graceful take-off when they spread their wide wings and lift off to glide inches above the sunlit water of the pond.

Joy finds me in the soft lapping of the water at the edge of the Lakeshore as I walk around the park or the shore at the church.

Joy finds me in the bright smile and giggles of my three-year-old grandson as he plays with his cars and trucks or wages a dinosaur war with his Nana.

I find joy in hearing and singing those old hymns of faith–and hearing in my head the sound of my father’s baritone as he sang those same hymns when he came home from church and walked through the house to change into his “everyday clothes.” I find joy in singing the hymns we used for his funeral service–even as the tears form and run down my face. (Has it really been nine years since he passed on?)

I find joy in seeing words crawl across the blank page when I write–and write and write more. Joy finds me in the old-fashioned fountain pens even when they spring a leak and my fingers are covering in black ink.

I find joy in hearing the birds sing and chatter outside my window. Joy finds me in the migration of those black birds (whose name I do not know, grackles, maybe?) that chatter and fly in in droves to cover the limbs of the trees and the brown grass each autumn. It won’t be long before they arrive again.

Joy finds me in the cup of hot cinnamon spiced tea served up in my favorite Pioneer Woman mugs. Before I take that first sip, I hold my hand over the cup to let the steam soothe the ache of muscles around the surgical scar. Then I take that first not-so-scalding hot sip and let the cinnamon “burn” across my tongue and down my throat to warm me through and through.

Even when I least expect it, joy always finds me.