Tag Archives: featured post

Writing Me: I Remember {Lindsey}

Writing Me is Bigger Picture Blogs series of writing exercises created to help our community dive deeper into writing, grow creatively, and learn about ourselves and each other. This quarter we are writing from the prompt “I Remember…” and each week we will feature one of our community members.

This week’s post comes to us from Lindsey, who is writing about remembering why she writes… 

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Manifesto

I am a writer. I write because I feel compelled to write. I write because the lines and phrases put themselves together inside my mind and beg to be released. If I did not write, my brain might explode.

I write because there are hundreds of people trapped inside me. It is unfair of me to keep them jailed in such a restrictive environment. I write to let them out to explore the world.

I write because children sing jump rope songs and nursery rhymes on the playground, then shoot each other. I write because my son is precious and I want the world to know. I write because the forests are not just trees, they are entire cities. I write because Nature sings her own quiet song that she has privileged me to hear.

But why do I write poetry?

I write poetry because in the lines and spaces I can hear myself think. I can hear my voice reaching out and breaking the mirror that covers consciousness. The fragments escape in many directions as do the meanings of my words. I write poetry because only with poetry can the mundane and ordinary become magical and romantic.

Poetry is a form of expression that lets crazies like me sound like we understand the world, or some small place in it. Or maybe poetry is a form of expression that lets crazies like me prove to the world that we understand nothing and so one day decided to make everything up ourselves. Poetry is the life blood of letters, words, lines, and spaces. Poetry is everything and nothing all at once. Poetry is not just a writing genre, but a living, breathing entity.

Poetry gives me the courage to remember. Poetry gives me the courage to remember on paper. Poetry is a friend, a confidante, and psychiatrist. Poetry lets me take all of my emotions and thoughts and release them to the world as you release balloons to the sky – someone will find them.

Poetry is voice.

Poetry is my voice.

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Lindsey writes at Dishwater Dreams. Thank you for your words today Lindsey!

Writing Me: I Remember {Stephanie}

Writing Me is Bigger Picture Blogs series of writing exercises created to help our community dive deeper into writing, grow creatively, and learn about ourselves and each other. This quarter we are writing from the prompt “I Remember…” and each week we will feature one of our community members.

This week’s post comes to us from Stephanie.

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I remember her smile that illuminated a room with a love that grew with each new addition to her family.

I remember the curve of her shoulder and the steady hand pulling me close.

I remember crochet lessons and lunch at the senior center where she proudly introduce me as her great granddaughter.

I remember her patience and quiet strength and the way she so carefully wrote letters and birthday cards for those she loved.

I remember her stories of decades gone by and the twenty-eight years I was blessed with her life.

I remember the way she gently rocked my newborn daughter and whispered words of love.

I remember the way she hugged my husband and loved him as deeply as she did her own grandchildren.

I remember Christmas Eve gathered in her basement singing Christmas carols and waiting for Santa to ring the doorbell.

I remember how she opened her apartment doors to a steady stream of family, a genuine smile of welcome to each and every one.

I remember being surprised by her spunk and laughter and how well she managed to live on her own for so long.

I remember my husband opening the door to her new home, steadying her hands as she climbed in our car for a lunch date.

I remember her voice on the other end of the phone quickly telling me about her day so she could hear more of my stories and share in my joys.

I remember spontaneous visits and the look of joyful surprise that spread from her arms to mine.

I remember picking her up at her home to drive the few blocks to my grandparents’ home and the sighs of contentment and sparkle in her eye as she fell into place in this circle of family.

I remember holding her hand, stroking her hair, and leaning close to hear her whisper, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

I remember her eyes, begging me to keep holding her hand as her body grew weaker and her spirit slowly faded.

I remember kissing her one last time and the way my soul ached all the way home and how the tears finally came in gut-wrenching sobs from the hole in my heart that can never fully heal here on earth.

I remember my husband holding me closing and whispering softly what I already knew: “she’s gone…”

I remember a woman who lived a rich and full life, whose legacy lives on in the multitude of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren.

I remember and I will never forget this piece of my heart that forever belongs to my one and only Grandma D.

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I am Stephanie, writer at Girl of Grace.  I blog about family, marriage, and motherhood, but, most importantly, about grace, God’s beautiful and undeserved gift of grace.  I am a stay-at-home mom of two, soon-to-be three, and wife of over 6 years to my best friend.  My story is about learning to live in the joy of the Lord and embracing the life He has blessed me with, both in seasons of plenty and seasons of drought.  I may be the hands writing the words, but God is the one directing my path and creating beauty out of my mess.

Writing Me: I Remember {Sarah }

Writing Me is Bigger Picture Blogs series of writing exercises created to help our community dive deeper into writing, grow creatively, and learn about ourselves and each other. This quarter we are writing from the prompt “I Remember…” and each week we will feature one of our community members.

This week’s post comes to us from Sarah

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I remember when a merry-go-round was just that: a playground ride. A colourful and fun spinning circle, separated into segments via bars to keep children safe.

I remember spending hours spinning on them with friends, trying to get mum and dad (or anyone really) to push us round faster and faster. Sometimes you felt as though you might slide off altogether. You definitely had to hold on tight.

Some kids never held on. They seemed to have no fear of falling, no matter how fast the ride went around.

I always held on.

As a teenager, we would still use the merry-go-round, but not so much as a ride. It was more a place to sit and talk and plan and dream. We would sit there on sunny days and rainy ones. We didn’t mind the weather too much. We just wanted somewhere we could go and just be. Not have to do anything, say anything, be quieter, watch what we say. We just wanted to be allowed to be
ourselves. However imperfect and moody and grumpy ourselves might be.

It was only ever a ride if some boys tagged along. They generally didn’t want to talk. They would push us round until we made them stop. Probably to distract us from our conversations. Probably also to make us pay attention to them a bit more.

We couldn’t always use the merry-go-round. Sometimes it was full of little kids spinning like mad things. We’d wait them out or even kind of intimidate them into going on a different ride so we could have it to ourselves. Then we were happy. If the parents were there with the kids we had no chance. The mums would often ask us to get off so the kids could go on. It was a kids ride after all.
And we’d get off kind of moodily. And wait our turn once more.

Now I never go on merry-go-rounds. Never at all. But they mean something different to me now. They remind me of my struggles, of my dark times. The merry-go-round became a symbol for me. A symbol of my struggle with my emotions. Of my struggle with depression.

Each segment is usually a different colour. These different colours represent my different feelings and emotions. I worked this out after much counselling and soul searching and frankly hours of pain and tears. I was so worried once I got out the other side of my depression that it might come bouncing back that I worried myself depressed instead. Nightmare. The importance of this merr-go-
round is the fact that it does in fact go around. No matter what bad feelings I may be facing at any given time, they will not be in place forever. The merry-go-round will keep on turning.

It may get a little stuck. I may have to give it a push to get it moving. But it will move on. The dark feelings, the low feelings, the soul sucking mind mashing black feelings can be moved along. They can be pushed on. They are not the end destination. There is no end destination when it comes to feelings. They will always be shifting and moving with you.

I remember the merry-go-round fondly: as a childhood ride, a teenage conference room and as an aide memoire. I remember it each and every day.

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You can visit Sarah at A Cat Like Curiosity.