Write Your Life Story

REVERSE THE BURDEN

2010-03-02T13:27:00Z

Already it became a burden to assemble all the years of words into some order.

Order alone can be a burden, yet a necessary part of the whole process.
A beginning has taken place since the writing teacher held a class,
actually a workshop to jump start the assembling.
Shirley Ann Dormish, workshop participant
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org July, 2009

WHAT IS GEEZER-LIT?

2010-02-19T17:24:00Z

Mike Befeler mystery novels prove that getting old can be murder
Article by Denver Authors ExaminerEd Hickok Feb 18, 2010

Local Denver author, Mike Befeler, created his own genre, ‘Geezer-lit,’ and has published two books that show how life may begin at sixty, but so can murder. Retirement Homes Are Murder (2007) and
Living With Your Kids Is Murder (2009) are both part of the Five Star Mystery Series. Living With Your Kids Is Murder is a finalist for the Lefty Award for the most humorous mystery novel published in 2009.

Befeler said, “I started looking ahead to what I wanted to do when I retired. In 2001, at the age of 56, I made the decision to pursue fiction writing. I sold my first novel in 2005 as the result of a pitch session at the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Conference.”

Befeler strives to do more than simply publish books. He wants to promote a positive image of aging. He said, “I have a presentation titled Aging and Other Minor Inconveniences that I give at retirement homes and service organizations such as Kiwanis, Rotary, and Optimist. I'm always willing to speak to groups along the Front Range.”

Befeler described the manuscript he is currently working on. “Imagine Dirk Pitt morphed into a retired mathematics professor and conspiracy nut with a butt-kicking, surrogate-daughter sidekick. Elmore Kranz bombards the police with his predictions of disaster until one of them actually happens, to the point that he’s implicated in the plot. Even with the assistance of his one ally, rookie cop Britney Chase, people start dying around Elmore as attempts are made on his life. Elmore and Brittney team up to solve a hundred year old puzzle while thwarting a secret government agency and an Afghani terrorist group trying to get their hands on a doomsday weapon.”

But isn’t that everyone’s idea of a cozy retirement?

Befeler’s advice to new authors: “Start writing and keep doing it. I meet so many people who have stories to tell but never sit down to start. Others start and get discouraged. You need to develop sound writing skills and be willing to learn, but beyond that, successful writing is 90% perseverance.”

Befeler’s novels can be purchased at: Amazon.com

Fans can visit the Befeler’s website at www.mikebefeler.com

Anna, The Ant

2010-01-17T22:07:00Z

This was an exercise done with puppets. You could use a stuffed animal and tell your own story. Send me a copy for a prize to info@WriteYourLifeStory.org or info@AnneRandolph.com

Anna, The Ant - by Jean Caggiano Wed AM www.WriteYourLifeStory.org

Once upon a time there was beautiful little ant named Anna. She was born into a family of eight red ants, all female, except for the last baby ant to emerge who was named Alvin. Anna was beautiful but one of her antennae was flawed. It was crooked, actually, horribly misshapen, so that when she tried to straighten it in order to listen to all of the sounds of the forest, all she heard was a kind of ‘blurp’ which always caused her to lose her focus and direction. Thus poor Anna always walked in a lopsided fashion, canting to the right, the side of her one perfectly tall, straight antennae, as she was always guided in that direction . This often caused her to veer off course, missing many morsels of food-especially the gnats and mosquitoes -which her gleeful sisters and brother could find so easily by just closing their eyes and listening through their two pair of perfectly good antennae. Anna often wandered far off into the forest alone and one night she became so disoriented that she couldn’t find her way home.

She tried to snuggle down under a bed of pine needles but alas, it began to rain so hard that soon she was drenched, shivering, and her big silvery tears mingled with the heavy raindrops for hours until, finally, exhausted, she fell asleep. Luckily, when she awoke the next morning, the sun was shinning brightly and as she stretched her one good antennae ,a strange thing began to happen. She realized she was hearing more than the usual ‘blurp’ from her left, faulty antennae. It was more of a hum, almost a note, like the sound of a ‘c’ note played on the piano! How could this be? The sound grew louder and louder until suddenly she realized it matched the ‘c’ sound in her right antennae.

She was hearing perfect pitch in both antennae-they were matched and she was in balance, hearing perfectly for the first time in her life! Anna easily found a breakfast of plump gnats and mosquitoes and hurried home to tell her family the astounding news. When she arrived home and looked into the mirror, surrounded by her amazed family, she saw two perfectly straight antennae sprouting from her head!

She realized it must have been the way she had slept in the forest or perhaps it was the depth of the despair she had felt and had been able to release through her tears which had enabled her crooked antennae to stretch full-length and become straight again. She was never really sure but knew that something which had been pent up inside her had been magically allowed to release, to let go, enabling her to breathe deeply and come into her full, beautiful, delightful self. Anna spent some of every day after her antennae had healed in the forest helping those bugs and animals who were in some kind of distress and paying homage to the forest, the place of her healing.

It didn’t matter that she would never quite understand what had happened to her -it was enough that she felt whole again.

Among Writers by Taryn Browne

2009-07-26T12:24:09Z

Among Writers

Who could know the consequences of a pink plastic tablecloth,
pastries on little fancy dishes, windows bellowing in light
and strangers sitting under a white ceiling?

Who could know the consequences of the small voices
asking for room on the fresh page sitting before each writer?
The room smells of cinnamon, coffee and perfume.

I can hear the breathing of writers.
They breathe deep as they spread themselves upon the page.
They dip into ink pots of their souls
and make tiny dancers of their pens.

The table is a stage and each a ballerina for a pen.
The melody is heard, it is silence.
From their movements, the shape of their dancer bodies,
music is written.
A mountain is climbed.

Courage is the lover
and away they ascend to dance in the clouds.
Writers, the dreamers they are, don’t believe what you see.
The creative fidget, the bangle bracelets
and lipstick conceal the holy genius
who has found their feet upon a mystic ground,
singing in the silence.

It is a process,
a lonely motion
and down the dancers go into the well
and back up they rise to catch their breath,
dripping in the juice of creation,

the pulp of human living and down again they hit the vein,
plunge beneath the surface
swimming in the waters of their spirits.

Not a splash is made, not a resistant movement,
the flow has come and away they go.

And in their hands these writers carry all those they love.
They never leave anyone behind.
Their hearts are bigger than their sleeves.

Their hearts pound with intensity because
something has moved them.

The writers push off from every shoreline
with the heel of one hand
and reach into the unknown with the other.
Tiny dancers in their hands, big dreams in their ink.

They are dangerous people;
they draw upon the unformed and go beyond words
but speak languages unknown.

They are the revolutionaries;
they are the channels of freshness, newness and genius.
They are the canals of new birth

and when in their midst we can see the fog rising,
clarity is crystal
a new day commences.

By Taryn Browne
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
January, 2009

Family Alphabet Soup

2009-07-21T12:02:00Z

A is for applause for achieving ones goal.

B is for beauty surrounding us daily. It is , also, for my great grandsons Bill, Branson and my step daughter Bonnie.

C is for my late husband Charles, one of the loves of my life. It is , also, for my grandson Curt and my great grandsons Cruz and Cory.

D is for diamonds, my birth stone.

E is for energy to get through the day.

F is for the fantastic DVD that Kim sent me of our Japan Friendship group trip.

G is for the goals I set each day. He is for humor which graces my day. It is also for my late husband Harlan, my soul mate. It is for

H Harlene my step daughter.

I is for ingenuity.

J is for the joy of life and my grandson John.

K is for kindness given by friend.

L is for my son Lee who is handsome, handy, soft spoken, but knowledgeable about most things, and often my right hand when I need help.

M is for my daughter Monica. She is a wonderful mom. She has gorgeous curly hair, is talented like her brother. She is a great writer and can do crafts.

N is of the things I need to accomplish daily.

O is for opportunity abounding and my grand daughter, Olivia.

P is for possibilities.

Q is quizzical when it comes to this letter.

R is for my son Richard, who lives in Bangkok Thailand and teaches English there. He is musically inclined, great cook and bilingual. Re is for relaxing.

S is for surprise of daily happenings like listening to the Gershwin tunes at the Ford Amphitheater in Vial this Thursday, sitting on the green lawn looking out at Vail mountain and gorgeous green colors and beautiful wild flowers.

T is for Tom my grandson who just graduated from High School and plans to go to Regis for college.

U is for unusual happenings.

V is for my grand daughter who will be 16 months tomorrow. Watching her learn is a joy. She makes me laugh. Her new word is baby. Vi is for Vail where I spent the week taking bridge lesson.

W is for wanderings.

X is for xtra things that happen in ones life.

Y am I writing this alphabet.

Z is for zealous.

Marlene Shields Write At Home www.WriteYourLifeStory.org July 2009

WE STOP HERE

2009-05-12T00:21:00Z

What a lovely tribute from a member of the Write Your Life Story Workshop. Try your own writing with the opening line. The first exercise was "We start here" followed by the opposite thought:

"We stop here..." Add your writing to comments or sent to info@WriteYourLifeStory.org

WEDNESDAY MORNING WRITING

I stop here.
It’s a place to share the words,
hear the talent
and move the pen quietly
over the lined pages.

I love the unique way each writer speaks his or her story
and it feels safe to tell mine.

Our teacher is special, an encourager.
Each person has enriched my life.

I stop here each Wednesday with anticipation
and wonder what the future will reveal
in regard to all the words laid lovingly in boxes,
in notebooks and on tiny scraps of paper.

One day perhaps, a book will bear
my name and make a difference.

I stop here with hope.

Shirley Ann Dormish
2/11/09

www.WriteYourLifeStory.org

WE START HERE

2009-02-06T18:23:00Z

We start here.
So sit down and get started in on that looming yet inviting gathering of writing clouds.
You can pull things from the air, if you like.
You can also weave in the special things you are intrigued with in nature.

You are welcome to write for 15 minutes or a whole day, breaking only for food, coffee, water and bathroom trips.
You are welcome in your finest clothes, or your comfy pajamas.
Your most angry self, your envious, hateful self, your loving self your transcended self are all welcome at this writing space.

And so, have a seat and have a seat and have a seat for your many selves you wish to spill onto paper.
There is always forgiveness given.
Even my shaking hands and cloudy memory and neurons’ miss-firings are all forgiven.

It is a place for you to become whole, to see the whole of your life
or the missing pieces or the oh-so-very rich pieces.

They are welcome to show their shiny hopefulness,
or your tender, scratched places,
and your priceless hope and tears.

by Dana Bennett
5 Feb 2009
Soup Kitchen Evening Writing Gathering

TRY THIS START LINE

2009-02-02T21:25:00Z

My last email announcement asked folks to send me writing for a suggested start line. Here is an intense response.
Try this opening line yourself "Stop me the next time I..." and email me at info@WriteYourLifeStory.org or www.AnneRandolph.com

Mike McNern from Colorado Springs wrote from Subject: Re: Try Kitchen Table Writing opening lines

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stop me the next time I ...

reach for the pen. My arms are leaden and I struggle like an animal to move, and reach for a pen one last time. I try to think back, how did I get this way.

I sit in my tiny cage, the smell of rust and stale urine make my nose want to close up tightly against the onslaught. I reach for the pen hidden under the lid of of the smooth industrial toilet. Hidden from the prying fingers of the screws taunting me, trying to wrench the pen out of my hand, if I let them find it.

I remove the pen from it's secret place, hidden among all that remains of an unspeakable, wasted life. I feel compelled to write down a litany of my sins, real and imagined on the only paper afforded me. Rolled neatly, but too thin for writing, the toilet paper rips as I write upon it feverishly. My imagination spills out onto the paper. Are these my sins, or that leering pedofile down the hall. I write feverishly and tell the worst thoughts I have ever thought.

The screws have seen me. The paper tastes terrible. Maybe I can flush the paper. There is too much paper to swallow. If I could only get it into the toilet. I shoot, it falls short. I'm no Michael Jordan. The screws read my work. They laugh at me, as I lay beaten on the concrete floor. "It isn't real", I scream.

I sit before the judge. Everyone looks at me. My lawyer, that young pencil-neck right out of school is writing. I move like a cat and wrench the pen from his soft hands. I must write. The screws drag me out of court.

I lay on the cot. Waiting. I must write. I run my fingers around the inside of the toilet. No pen there anymore. I write with my soiled fingers on the wall, but I don't get very far. The screws return. "It's time", they say. I am roughly lead by the shoulders down the hall. A door opens and I am shoved like a rabid dog onto the rough hewn chair. They strap my arms to the chair, I can't move. The screws talk, but I can't hear them. I want to write. I writhe in the chair," I want a pen!" The screws yell at me, but I don't know what they're saying. Finally I hear "Any last words?". I scream "I want a pen!". Ten thousand volts short circuit my muse. ZZZZZZZZZZZ.

Message for the New Year!

2009-02-02T17:57:00Z

What a great comment from one writer to another. See Barbara's entry below under A MESSAGE FOR THE NEW YEAR!

Barbara, what an incredible legacy you are giving to your grandchildren. It is a wisdom they can inherit from you now. What comfort in the last line, that they will always have the help of their family.
Taryn www.WriteYourLifeStory.org Writer

I AM BORN

2009-01-30T18:02:00Z

I AM BORN

I AM BORN, I AM BORN, I AM BORN, I AM BORN

I AM BORN TO BE WILD
I AM BORN TO BE FREE
I AM BORN TO BE ELECTRIC
I AM BORN TO LEARN
I AM BORN TO SEE
I AM BORN TO LIVE LIFE FULLY
I AM BORN FROM THE EARTH
I AM BORN TO THE SKY
I AM BORN TO LOVE
I AM BORN TO DISAGREE
I AM BORN TO LAUGH
I AM BORN TO CRY
I AM BORN TO TEACH
I AM BORN TO CARE
I AM BORN TO HEAL
I AM BORN TO CREATE
I AM BORN TO TAKE RISK
I AM BORN TO TRAVEL
I AM BORN TO ENJOY MY HOME
I AM BORN TO COOK
I AM BORN TO CLEAN
I AM BORN TO READ
I AM BORN TO WRITE
I AM BORN TO PLAY
I AM BORN TO RUN
I AM BORN TO SKIP
I AM BORN TO FALL
I AM BORN TO SHOP
I AM BORN TO EXERCISE
I AM BORN TO COMPETE
I AM BORN TO WIN
I AM BORN TO LOSE
I AM BORN TO BE HUMBLE
I AM BORN TO BE GENEROUS
I AM BORN TO DRINK WINE
I AM BORN TO GROW GRAPES
I AM BORN TO HARVEST GRAPES
I AM BORN TO BUILD HOMES
I AM BORN TO LOVE ARCHITECTURE
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE MOUNTAINS
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE SEA
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE LAKES
I AM BORN TO UNDERSTAND
I AM BORN TO BE HEARD
I AM BORN TO EXPERIENCE
I AM BORN TO SLEEP
I AM BORN TO MATE
I AM BORN TO GET MARRIED
I AM BORN TO GET DIVORCED
I AM BORN TO LIVE AS ONE
I AM BORN TO LIVE AS TWO
I AM BORN TO LOVE ALL ANIMALS
I AM BORN TO BE A FRIEND
I AM BORN TO BE A SISTER
I AM BORN TO BE A DAUGHTER
I AM BORN TO BE A GRANDDAUGHTER
I AM BORN TO BE A COUSIN
I AM BORN TO BE AN AUNT
I AM BORN TO BE A NIECE
I AM BORN TO BE A DOG AND CAT MOTHER
I AM BORN TO BE A WIFE
I AM BORN TO CHANGE
I AM BORN TO GET OLDER
I AM BORN TO REFLECT
I AM BORN TO DISCREET
I AM BORN TO TEAR AWAY
I AM BORN TO FLY
I AM BORN TO DIE
I AM BORN TO BE REBORN

SASHEELA
Write Your Life Story class member
January 27, 2009

NIBBLING WORDS

2009-01-29T18:07:00Z

This writing was inspired by a passage from Carolyn Jennings wonderful poem about writing, "Invocation." Take this line and begin writing and see where it goes. Email me your results or post in comments. Anne info@WriteYourLifeStory.org

Let them Nibble at the Tips of My Fingers -Jean Caggiano September 14, 2008

Let them nibble at the tips of my fingers, all of those unspoken, fearful thoughts, desires, and secrets that fill my heart and I yearn to share but stop myself, often abruptly, as I clench, glancing furtively over my shoulder, not yet sure that it is safe to do so. Let them nibble at the tips of my fingers as I sit composed, resplendent on my muted green-gold couch with the Mexican red and green throw pillows atop my heating pad, drinking in its warmth as rays of sunlight glance across the room. I sign, contented, sip the delicious coffee Tony has brewed, each day a mix of different roasted beans-vanilla and Carmel this morning- as I sink into myself. Usually thoughts come first of the past, warm and happy, and I smile as I remember John as a toddler, throwing stones beside me into the creek behind our house, laughing gleefully. Then I think of my father, gone almost two years now but still beside me as I remember the sheer delight of speeding down the ski slope after him, able even at an early age to almost keep up with him. I drift as I read a little, do a little of my Jin Shin, acupressure work on myself and then often I dissolve into tears as sad thoughts engulf me, usually as my hour of repose comes to an end, as it often takes me that long to sink into stillness, to trust that" yes, I won't disintegrate, there there will be something to access, something to connect with when the daily frenzy and security of constant motion is put to rest. " It's safe now, at last, to feel my feelings, to let them surface, uncensored, and even to write them if I so choose, so I let them nibble at the tips of my fingers.

Great Workshop comment

2009-01-27T13:14:00Z

"Yesterday afternoon with the Parker Writer's Group was wonderful. Whether you have four people or forty people in your class - you get it done with ease! I know each in attendance left the library inspired and anxious to "make writing my first task" daily. I know I did!" Barbara Goldy www.WriteYourLifeStory.org class participant

Message for the New Year!

2009-01-15T15:30:00Z

This is wonderful advice for all of us for writing, for living. Thank you for sharing this New Year message. Anne

Dear Precious Grandchildren,

A new year begins, I write goals and by looking at them frequently I achieve the things that are important to me. I hope you have each written goals for yourself as your parents did every New Year’s Eve when they were young. One of this year’s goals for me is to write you often during the year.   I was trying to think of advice I could give each of you and decided that the best advice would be for me to speak to the little girl Barbara who turned out to be your grandmother. Picturing myself as a child I write……

•   You are lucky, little girl - there are so many loving people in your life.
•   You will have fun, learn life’s lessons and enjoy good health, a loving family, and good friends in your lifetime.
•   Meet lots of people – go to parties, classes, volunteer – these people will support you, teach you, become your friend and make you laugh your life long.
•   Don’t be afraid of the unknown – for it is there your happiness lies. Make decisions for yourself – don’t follow others.
•   Take chances – failure is an event, not a person. You’ll be surprised at the success you will have by just saying to yourself and others “I’ll try that!”
•   Be strong in everything you do, but allow your softness to help you care for others. Forgive others quickly, because there will be times when you need forgiveness yourself. Avoid anger as it gets you nowhere and takes you away from the NOW.
•   Always have daydreams – no matter what your age. There are a million dreams for everyone and they are often exactly what happens. Dreams help you make good decisions. Visualize yourself succeeding.
•   Don’t worry what others have – no one will ever have all you have.
•   Try to stay in the NOW – don’t live in the past or think only of the future.
•   It is not the things you own, but who you are that is important. Make certain you have personal power, not power of position.
•   Celebrate everything – make traditions, cherish even the smallest moments.
•   Treat everyone with dignity – appreciate the people who influence your life’s path. They are teachers, parents, friends - and the person you least expect who will make that difference.
•   Work hard, play hard. Make a difference.
•   Never lose your sense of humor – and always – laugh at yourself.
•   Don’t be afraid to move away from home or across the county – the opportunities for you and your family are huge.
•   What will matter most in your life is your integrity, compassion and courage. Be principled and a role model.
•   You get your looks from God – what you do with them will make you beautiful.
•   Thank God often for the life you have been given. Enjoy your life – you are blessed.
•   And above all, live it up and write it down.

Some of you will understand every word of this letter…others will need a few years. But know that whatever you need in life there is a parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or cousin who will help. That is the greatest of gifts.

Love you, Grandma Goldy

Barbara Goldy, January 2009
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org

BEGIN THE NEW YEAR WRITING!

2009-01-01T15:11:00Z

“Write first always!” Henry Miller

Try these start lines to ignite your writing. Begin with one of these openers.
Enjoy! Ignore, or create your own!
The Trick: Repeat the start line until ideas starts churning.

Write whatever comes out of your pen.
Allow yourself to say anything, from your "grocery list" to "I’m darn made at ..."

Write 10 minutes or three pages. If you get stuck, repeat the start line.

One writer surprised at his reaction to his writing exclaimed, “It’s the pen’s fault!”
Try timed writing.   Set a timer for at least 15 minutes, 20 minutes, 45 minutes.
When the buzzer goes off, give myself a few minutes to complete your work.
With timed writing, your body adjusts to the time, giving you a natural beginning, middle and end.
Tell yourself to “wrap up” and your body will cap your time with a great closing line. Let the pen lead!

1.    Begin with these Opening Lines:
                    “If it wasn’t for...”
                   “If only...”
                   “What I really mean is...”

2.    Try writing by subjects: My Grandmother, Wind, My Most Embracing Moment.

3.    Read what you wrote aloud. Mark the images that moved you.

4.    Write everyday and watch your material grow!

For comments click blog.WriteYourLifeStory.org info@AnneRandolph.com.

After work as director of two opera companies and the Colorado Symphony, Anne Randolph
writes full time and leads Soup Kitchen Writing and www.WriteYourLifeStory.org workshops in
Denver and at conferences including the Screenwriters Conference in Santa Fe. “Soup Kitchen
Writing helps writers find the courage and craft to create!” Her workbook, Soup Kitchen
Writing: An Easy Guide to Kitchen Table Writing available at www.AnneRandolph.com
www.SoupKitchenWriting.com 303-758-3426

CELEBRATE FRIENDS AND THEIR WISDOM!

2008-12-29T20:53:00Z

You know, this economy and all the change is really making me alive and aware...

now we are trying to figure out how to live well...

and the writing has been the most clarity I have ever gotten

about who I am,

things I love, and things I've just settled for..

I am full of life and optimism.

Why not take tap dancing

and write your life story,

get the "stuff" sorted and packed away.

Time to repack for the next chapter...

Writing has given me insight to my own timelines,

characters, motivations and endings.

I am the writer of my own story.

Carolyn Fineran

www.WriteYourLifeStory.org

NO BETTER FRIEND for all who understand dogs

2008-10-06T22:43:00Z

“No greater companion, no better friend.” My dogs: the dogs I have loved and lost and the dogs I am blessed to know today. They carry with them a sacred knowledge, mystery and divine love. They brave conditions I am not sure I could face. I have seen dogs dying of cancer, dogs with dementia, dogs separated because of divorce, dogs alone too long, dogs tied to a stake limiting their movement, dogs abused, dogs starved, dogs hit by cars, dogs running the streets lost, dogs abandoned and dogs ignored. Yet they still contain a great measure of hope, an admirable quality of contentment, and a resiliency I envy. And I wonder why we deserve such loyalty, such devotion and such companionship. I come home to two dogs who leap with joy at my return, run circles around the backyard to show their excitement. I have two dogs who without fail and without hesitation protect and alert me at the slightest of noises or the most innocent of approaches. They are consistent and reliable. I wonder if I would feel as safe living alone, without them. I’ve always had a noisy pack of wild dogs around me and it is to them my gratitude runs deepest because my independence has flourished due to their protective presence; not only my independence but also my emotional stability during the darkest of days. Nothing is more soothing to me than a warm dog body curled up beside me. They have this otherworldly charm and a faith in me I don’t think I always deserve. And a wisdom tapped in their silent presence; and losing a dear dog, losing a best friend, even one less than perfect cuts to the core of me.

I have not known a greater companion or a better friend. They are angels fleshed out around the bones of a dog, they are angels sent into the trenches of human living to provide mercy, laughter, loyalty, and safety to people who may only know a dog as a source of real love. The dogs who without judgment listen to children too shy to read out loud to people. The dogs who bravely search for life beneath an avalanche or pile of rubble to find anyone alive or dead with equal intensity. The dogs who partner with police. The dogs of war, sent into places people are too afraid to go. The dogs of prisons rehabilitating the most damaged people among us to love again, to care and feel again. The dogs who visit hospitals and nursing homes offering their healing abilities through laughter and comfort. The dogs who give to the disabled independence and freedom. To the dogs of the world I am touched by your presence and the gift of your purity. You are shafts of light in the darkest of places, all fur and tail wagging, you make for me a life that is deeply enriched by your generosity. The world has not known a greater companion or better friend.

Taryn Browne www.WriteYourLifeStory.com

Let words nibble the tips of your fingers

2008-09-15T14:45:00Z

Let them nibble the tips of your fingers those little voices that rejoice in being alive, those little sensations of gratitude and those little whispers of anticipation and enthusiasm. Let all this nibble at your juicy fingertips and let them move up your arm, your sun kissed arm, warm from the sunshine, smoothed from fresh rain and sparkling with scent. Let the reminders of who you are, where you come from nibble from your forearms up to your shoulder and down the vault of your collarbone and as they move and nibble their gentle way to your heart they swell with pride at the past, despite any regret. And the nibbling begins to tickle and joy sprouts its hearty wings to take flight into the pain, into the anxieties and into the dark to leave a soft fragrance of peace and acceptance.

Let them nibble the tips of your misunderstandings, let them ease the discomfort and let these winged ones of your dreams descend from circling above to find a place to land so that the planet of your being may burst with a greater degree of living, a fresher perspective and a redemptive bask in the sunshine of realized dreams. Let the voices of excitement rush the valleys of your being with their healing waters and may they deepen into the oceans of mystery and all that is unseen and hidden from view. Let the voices of hope nibble at the edges of your isolation to open you to the open spaces of communion, the open spaces of love, the open spaces with paths that lead to an honest reclamation of what is wanting to live through you.

Taryn Browne Soup Kitchen Writer September, 2008

See Yourself in Print

2008-09-14T20:13:00Z

Six In The Morning - By Jean Caggiano

At six in the morning my head is clear and I breathe in deeply as I feel the dew from the Iris in my mother's garden on my skin, fresh and lovely. It was often at six in the morning that my father would creep into my teenage room, clad in his white tennis shorts and shirt and, racquet in hand, gently whisper "time to get up now." It would take me all of two minutes to be ready to go in those days. Quick as a flash I'd be out of bed, dressed in my pink shorts and faded blue t-shirt, gulp down some orange juice in a paper cup on the way to the car and we'd be off to the park for our morning tennis game. How I miss those times with my father, those carefree summer days of tennis, bike riding, and hiking when the only agenda I had was to soak up the sun or ride my bike to the nearby corner grocery store with a friend to check out the guys and buy our favorite sugary treat, usually a Mounds bar or a Nestles Crunch ice cream bar. We were so expert on our bikes then that we could easily balance, steering with one hand as we ate our ice cream bars with the other.

My father also often woke me at six in the morning during the winter months, as he ran the Pikes Peak Ski Area on weekends- as much for fun as for profit in those days. He and I would pack up the entire concession stand for the ski area, taking the hot dogs, soda pop, glazed doughnuts and assorted candy bars from the back porch room off the kitchen and load them into the old, dilapidated, faded brown pick up truck he'd bought just for this purpose. I'd practically memorized every curve of the Pikes Peak highway after the first year of doing this and after a few years, I think I could have driven up Pikes Peak blindfolded! We had such fun then, he and I, sharing and skiing together. We rarely spoke in lengthy sentences or shared our deepest thoughts but there was a communion in us being together, in the things we did, a deep connection. I always felt totally approved of by him, secure in the knowledge that he'd chosen me to be his side kick, his buddy, at six in the morning.

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2008-08-18T20:50:00Z

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2008-08-03T23:17:00Z

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Ruby The Pack Mule - by Jean Caggiano

It was too small. The opening between the two trees was too small for Ruby to fit through with the heavy saddle bags weighing down her hips, causing her joints to ache. "I'll never make it" she sighed to herself as she pushed first one hip and than the other against the two trees, straining until her chestnut hair was drenched from the effort. Finally, suddenly, she burst through the crevice of the trees and, exhausted, began to once again plod slowly, laboriously behind Sarah, her favorite pack mule. Ruby had been born and bred to be a pack mule and years ago when she'd complained to her mother that she wanted a different life, wanted to run free in the lush green fields, savoring the wild oats and barley instead of eating domestic hay, her mother had scolded her soundly. "Now Ruby," she'd said, "You were meant to be a pack mule, were born and bred to carry the load of masters like all the generations before you. You come from a long line of pack mules so don't ever think for a moment you can shirk your duty girl, or dream of being anything more; dreams only cause you heartache." Ruby loved her mother and her family, so when she became of age she stood perfectly still when they loaded her young back with saddle bags and didn't even flinch as they clipped her beautiful chestnut mane even though she cried inside, knowing she'd miss feeling it blowing in the wind as she ran. No, she would fit in and soon she was too tired to even think about running. As the years passed, Ruby's dreams began to fade and soon she forgot all about everything and anything but being a pack mule, plodding along day after day, laden down with the masters' goods. Then one day it happened. One brisk fall, day long after her chestnut hair had begun to turn grey, Ruby fell- Splat! Just like that, her feet went out from under her and she lay sprawled in the sticky, black wet mud. Her back had finally given way from the huge weight of her load. The masters had heaped more and more saddle bags on her as the years passed as they'd realized she was one of the strongest pack mules they'd ever had. Ruby was left all alone by the side of the road, as, after all, what use is a pack mule who can no longer carry her load? Ruby just lay there, paralyzed, for the first week, weakly munching the grass beside her when she wasn't too tired to lift her head. Then, a strange thing began to happen. During the second week, Ruby began to dream, every night, the same dream. Lying prone in the moonlight, she dreamed of herself as a youngster, running through the lush green fields with her beautiful, long, chestnut mane flowing out behind her. One moonlit night, as she dreamed of herself feasting on wild oats and barley and drinking the cool, clear water from a mountain stream, Ruby suddenly awoke, startled but happy somehow, as if a great weight had been lifted and she noticed that her two forelegs were pawing the ground, almost as if they wanted to dance! Slowly, tenuously, arduously, Ruby gently rose on her four trembling legs, still sore but standing at last. At first she stood still, getting used to the feel of her legs being under her once again. Then , as she grew stronger, each day she stood for more and more hours until one day she was able to walk gingerly around the fields filled with wild oats and barley. Finally, one moonlit night she awoke, suddenly sprang up and began to dance through the fields, tossing her head gleefully back and forth as she ran. Ruby thought, "What is this strange new sensation I'm feeling?" And then she knew-it was joy!