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.

"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

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

 
  “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

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 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 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

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.

 

 

Have friends said you ought to Write Your Life Story? Get started now.

To warm up your writing here’s a tip from soon to be published,
Write Your Life Story, One Page At A Time.

LET THE PEN MOVE!

Let anything come out of your pen. Save spelling, grammar, punctuation for another day. Let your hand lead.
Start with this opening line: "Back when..."

Write anything. Just get going.

Or write these subject: My Grandmother, Cherries, My Most Embracing Moment

WRITING PROMPT:    Write about something that holds you down.  WRITE YOUR LIFE STORY meets Wed AM.  Join us.
Contact AnneRandolph@comcast.net 

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!