A sound you hear…

Those moments of silence we often wish for? I have them, although I’m not complaining. Each one is much like a refresher, a welcome pause, from life’s daily ruckus. Finding that necessary mental space as time keeps hurling fast-pitched thoughts at you can be a blessing. Silence is a sound you hear.

For a brief time, I can listen to rain softly falling, almost appreciating the sound as opposed to focusing on how it might impact plans which are on my schedule. Music drifts into my office from the kitchen and the song playing brings back a memory or two. Memories. They have a way of waiting until you stop long enough to let them in the door; that only happens when the sounds of silence take over.

Wrapped in the surrounding quiet, I hear footsteps running up my stairs and I think back to when my grandchildren were little and needed me more than they do now. I miss those precious sounds. I miss those precious “little’s” in my life even more.

Off in the living room, a chiming clock signals the passing, or arrival, of one more hour. This monitor of passing time seems even louder when everything else is so quiet. It makes me wonder just how many more chimes will I hear as time keeps moving along at warp speed?

A beep in the kitchen signals the shutdown of the coffeemaker, reminding me that another cup is called for while I can enjoy it in my silent surroundings. There is just something about doing that, whether early in the morning before the rest of my world awakens or, at any moment, where it’s just me and silence, my old friend.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Listen to the sounds in your house for 5 or 10 minutes. Write about what you hear.


Later is now…

Along with my first cup of coffee, daily stresses and worries set in; I think about them for a bit, a bit longer, and end up carrying them with me all day long. I do my best to let go of this baggage and focus on things positive, like family; grateful that they are here and reminders that they represent life’s beginnings and love which will never end.

My focus turns to doing whatever I can to help others and reap the heartwarming rewards of seeing their emotions; I remind myself to use the talents I have and not allow others to minimize my capabilities.

In all which surrounds me, memories are tucked away; things forgotten by my family, a few things they no longer need but things I hold on to. Shells gathered at a beach, pictures drawn by my children and grandchildren, a few drops of a perfume once worn by my mother.

So many pleasantries to think about but, for now, the overwhelming fear of the unknown, all that’s so uncertain and so much which needs to be done takes center stage in my mind; it may be too late to be more, to do more, in this lifetime.

I’ll get back to whatever my happy place is, later.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Write a blog post in exactly 7 lines. Write a blog post that ends with the word: later.


Memories and sketches…

Memories. They have a way of popping up at random times in life. A reason? I’d like to think so, maybe more of a reminder, a needed lookback when you just need to recall things positive, perhaps?

Recently, The Husband (as he’s known in my writing world) needed linseed oil for a repair project. I recalled my high school art case, tucked away up in our attic and gave him exact “PPS” (my version of navigation) directions. Up he went, promptly located the wooden case, and brought it down, asking “when was the last time you opened this?”. I ignored him, and for good reason; he’s like our attic police chief, each time he ventures up there, there is some interrogation from above as to the origins/necessity of every damn thing he ends up climbing over. Come on now, it’s an attic, you know, the epicenter of storage for things seasonal, useful and plumb forgotton about? Kind of like the center console or glove compartment in the car, or, that one drawer in the kitchen?

In any event, my art case was handed to me, the linseed oil given to the attic warden and I pulled out a sketch book while thinking back to art work I left at my late mother’s home years ago. Sadly, during her rampage with Alzheimer’s, much of my work was discarded by her, mainly because she had no idea where it came from or who it belonged to…that person being me.

Tucked in between the pages of the book were two charcoal sketches I did, way back in the 60’s, both of sailboats. One sketch was of a vessel belonging to my late father, a 36′ Gaff Rigged Cutter and that bit of artwork was done from a photograph taken during a cruise on Long Island Sound, here in New York. The odd memory which presented itself was the date I again found these old sketches, July 7th, the very date my father purchased his sailboat, back in 1963.

Memories can be an emotional road trip; even bittersweet ones are better than nothing.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop…Throwback Thursday: Share an old photo and let it inspire your blog post