Layers of Life: A Writer's Journey as an Artist

Life Along the Rivers, #1                                                                                                       Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

A gray overcast morning when geese flying by honking as they start the day's journey, crows cawing, doves cooing, and cats purring, oblivious one to the other as day begins. Mourning Doves, always in twos, who, who who to one another from their perches atop the trees. Puddles collected in the night's gentle rain reflect abstracts of tree tops on the chairs out on the deck. A lull in the spaces between sleep and ready-set-go.

Refreshed from a night's sleep, lingering edginess from dreams that reflect a growing anxiety about a world out of control, I turn to find a way to keep this sense of peace with me as the day ahead looms. This is the time of the year when I participate in the local annual artists' studios tour, and today is the second and final day. The studio I'm sharing with another artist, is lovely. Located right on the riverfront high up over the river, we have fresh salty air breezes keeping us cool and refreshed all day. We have a commanding view of the beautiful Meglar Bridge that connects across the mouth of the river from Oregon to Washington, or vice versa depending where you live. On Friday morning, I cleared out the room that had been stuffed with old camp chairs, boxes and bags of leftover stuff, and various and sundry junk, and my fellow artist and I set about making it our own.

Our art hangs on the walls, the room is full of fresh air and light, and we each have set up work station. She is working on a wood carving of narwhales, and I am designing cards and organizing photography, in between running to the window to hang out and take shots of passing boats and ships passing nearby on the river. From before opening time, people began arriving at our studio yesterday, many friends and neighbors. Some of the conversations with those who visited our studio were so interesting. Learned that the oldest and largest houseboat upriver on the John Day, was the home of one woman's parents. She told me the story of how the larger 3-story white houseboat would sail downriver during fishing season and anchor off Tongue Point for the season. Probably around the time of WWII, that stopped, as Tongue Point became an important port for military ships.

Another woman, a recently retired nurse and I talked about the sounds of the river, and she shared with me the special magic that she found of the changing sounds that you could find while walking from one side of the Sacred Mountain, Tongue Point, as you walked from one side to the other. She sparked my curiosity even more to explore this ancient sacred site.

One man and his wife recognized a river I had shot one near where they live.  They couldn't figure out where I'd been to get the shot. I knew where it was exactly, and we both decided we had to go  back there to see if the river had changed course in some way or not. Rivers are all about change, and are constantly changing. You never see the same river twice, and over the course of your own lifetime, it may be damned up or a dam may be removed, changing the entire river almost beyond recognition from one day to the next. Much of my photography is an attempt to chronicle in some of the changes of one large river system here in the Pacific Northwest.

That photographic chronicle coincides with the research and exploration of the layers of cultures who have lived along the streams and rivers that feed into the Columbia River, N'chia wana (the Great River). At different stages of my life, I've been working on this project, and am nearing a point where I'm bringing it all together. Another artist who is in the same building is the local Artist-in-Residence, a woman named Andi. Her work is so stunning, and her depictions of the river and life along the river are so inspiring to me.

The artist I'm sharing space with, Katie George, paints, draws, and etches the animal life in and around the riparian system. Her work is exquisite. Her one large watercolor depicting the mouth of the river is something I would love to get. Being surrounded by all this beautiful artwork is so inspiring, and having many of my pieces of photography hanging together on the walls also reminds me of the layers of life that I have lived already. They inspire more living, more capturing of beauty and curiosities, more ideas to finish, begin, and imagine into being.

Talking to the other artists, I'm reminded of the other lives we live. Andy's beautiful son, about 8-9 sits peacefully nearby her, engaged in a creative and imaginative life of his own as his mother paints and creates, and works out pieces of how her installation is coming together. Katie and I have had some conversations about how to fit everything into your schedule that you want to do, how to keep on something that requires focus and attention, when life requires something else of you. Layering training, preparing, earning, interest, time, and commitments over one another. And as we chat about needing to get back to something or let go of something else, I'm reminded that, what needs or wants to arrive at completion, will. In time. When it and you are ready.

And so as I write and reveal my inner me to my outer, I remember how important it is to me as a writer, to use my writing to find release from all the demands that I might feel I'm unable to do quite as well as I'd like to, or from the need to feel I'm not wasting time doing something that's difficult and challenging, or how I might not want to run away from the challenge as it just might open a door of insight, a window of perception, that could be the key to discovering even more beauty in the layers of life I'm living and creating.  What would your layers of life be? How do your dreams overlap with your frustrations? What has been on the shelf gathering dust or yellowing with age, that needs to find the light of day so you can etch away, or dab a drop or two of paint on it, or sketch out a design for a plan yet to be reveals? Drop into your wish jar, and pull out a small step to take today, and see what is brought to life.

Perspective: A Writer's Enemy or Friend

Rising Crow                                                                                                                                 Catherine Meyers

Writing, like many other kinds of work, is a process.  A poem may be born out of a dream, a reflection, or a moment's inspiration. It may form of necessity or out of need to express something inexplicable. Short stories, are by nature, shorter than longer pieces of writing. Some of us are good at writing short stories, others of us are not as adept at the form. Research and long works of non-fiction require one skill set; novels and other types of fiction (film, graphic art) require other skills. Today was one of those days when an issue I'd been struggling with for a few weeks, suddenly came into focus. And it was then, at that precise, crystal clear moment, I understood, how important perspective is when writing.

The first novel, in fact the only novel I have written, took me many years. Part of why it took so long is that I didn't take the project seriously enough to do the writing. I did a lot of research, because after all, what does a scholar and researcher do but find facts to back up ideas? While this is somewhat important in fiction, the whole point of fiction is that it is make believe. It does not have to conform to fact, reality, or common sense. It does have to be credible within the context of the story you tell, so if you've moved a coffee shop to another city, you might want to rename it. And if you set a whole series, ala Sue Grafton, in a city everyone is familiar with, you either use the exact names and streets and reality of that city, or you rename it and make everything up. In that case you can still call Hwy 101 and State Street by their names, but they do not have to conform to the actual streets or highways to be believable. This is one of the joys of writing fiction.

Like I said, though, it still all has to be believable. We must keep track of what we've said before. Did Lincoln Blvd., run north and south or east and west? Did Lake Street run near a lake or was there no lake in sight? Did the main character turn right or left to get home last time? All these details are vital to remember so we keep the readers flowing through the reading of the novel. We want all the distractions to be in the plot and twists that turn the characters' lives upside down. Story boards are helpful for this. Making a map of any town or location you're writing about. This is especially useful for those of us who are visual and direction-impaired.  Make a map, and sit in front of it while writing.

Another important device is doing character studies of your characters. That is in addition to having a readily available list or file of all the characters, their descriptions (age, heights, hair, dress, anything that makes the character stand out). Use file cards or use character software like that on Scrivener's software for writers. Scrivener's software is excellent. It allows a ever present character files, a place for notes and research, and a chapter by chapter approach to putting a novel together.  Personally, I use as many devices as possible...story board, file cards, online character file, and a map to remind me who lives where.  A really good idea, one I haven't done yet, is to put the maps in the book itself. Line the front and back covered with maps, or include maps in between chapters. This helps the reader, especially helpful when you're writing a long, complex novel. I often wished P.D. James had done this, though I found that her novels were worthy of rereading. They were more fun to reread because I kept finding new pieces I'd missed the first time though. Regardless of how you organize your characters, plots, and settings,  using devices that work for you do help. One perspective that I have of the first novel I wrote is to experiment with different ways of maintaining tighter control of your characters, plots, and settings. This is especially important for those of us whose stories flow from the imagination and aren't planned out in detail ahead of time.

Having people edit and read what I'm writing, is helpful, only when I've reached a certain point in the process. That point, for me, is when I've established my characters and initial direction for the plot. In other words, when the story is underway and already set in a time and place. At that time, I find someone who can follow me down the path, picking up lost characters, finding missing pieces, or repeated paragraphs or events so that I don't have to backtrack and reread. For someone who has done as much editing work as I have, it is deadly for me to go back and edit a piece of my own work too much. What happens is I get bogged down in the minutia, and the story stops in its tracks. Having a reader/editor is key. Short of that, I'd suggest that you try to keep writing, stopping only periodically, say once a month or at some designated time, to reread. The editing and the copyrighting processes are and should be separate. Of course we do rewriter vast swathes of plot at times. And simple editing is both necessary and possible at times, but it slows things down considerably if we keep rewriting, editing and rewriting something to death.

When we haven't gone through an experience before, it always helps to hear about other peoples' experiences. Provided we keep in mind, individual differences, listening to others' talk or write about their experience with the writing process can be helpful. However, sour own experience will be different. It's kind of like having a baby. There are stages we go through. First we debate 'having a baby' either in our own heads or with our partners and friends. Then there's 'trying to get pregnant'.  For some of us, this isn't an issue; for others it can be quite an arduous journey. Again, we have to go through it ourselves to determine what the experience is like, for us. Then there's being pregnant. Months of advice, usually by month 4, wholly unsolicited. We learn to either be patient or just say, "Thanks but no thanks" to anyone who starts in trying to help us figure it out. If it's our first pregnancy, we want to do everything right. By the second or third, I'm sure this changes, though I wouldn't know since I was blessed with one child. Her pregnancy in her late 30s, made me an older grandmother and mother. One day I recall her struggling with a newborn issue. She stood looking harried and at sea in the kitchen, turned and asked me, "What did you do when this happened to you."
I was at a total loss because it had been not years but decades since I'd been a new mother. Life and writing are all about living and learning. My lovely daughter figured it out. I did my best to help and try to keep my opinions and advice to myself, unless asked for. We do figure things out, for ourselves.

While writing per se was not new to me, writing fiction with an aim to finish a mystery novel, was. As much as I knew about mysteries and the process of writing, I had not done it myself before. In fact one of the main reasons it took so long to write is that I was writing thousands of pages of other kinds of writing: theses, dissertations, essays, articles, research for books, a memoir, poetry, and even advice columns. Ever so often, I'd pull the three-ring binder and my index card file off the shelf and head out for a 3-day retreat, or a week away on vacation where I'd work on writing. By work on writing I refer to the process of deciding who to write. I outlined to death. I worked on character sketches. I read books on writing. I read other fiction writers write and talk about writing, and I even helped other writers hold book events and co-hosted workshops with other writers. It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I decided to let someone else read what I'd manage to write. Five chapters. That's right, in all those years, just five chapters. I knew the characters though, very well. They had traveled around with me, living on the edge of my imagination for decades. I also knew the town where the action took place. I had visited that town many times over the years. In fact that was where the idea for the story was born.

Five chapters though, isn't much. But I wanted to know if what I had written would hold anyone's attention. Because if it wouldn't, I'd have to rethink whether I had any talent for doing this. A woman I had struck up an acquaintance with, kept saying she wanted to help me if she could. She'd worked in publishing, and was interested in seeing if she could help me. I took her up on her offer, reluctantly. I was terrified she would think my writing was awful.  Fortunately, she didn't. In fact, she liked it, and as we talked, I realized, I would listen to her. I would be able to trust her with my baby, and I'd listen so that maybe I'd learn how to do this properly. For you see, doing things properly is a thing with me.
Well, and I'm sure I've told this story more than once or twice, we began the journey of me doing the writing and her following behind, finding the potholes, and urging me forward. That got me through from beginning to end.

Then began the editing and rewrites and edits, and well the list goes on because this is one of the hardest parts. Fixing things so they are ready to go to print. And then when I'm also the publisher, I have to change hats, and separate myself from the work to get things ready to print and proof. That is hard, and I wish I could hire the job out because really, no one should try it. Let's just leave it at that. The good news is, when I had to go back and re-edit the book, I had enough distance on the writing to actually enjoy reading what I wrote.  Once the book was in its final form, and I won't go into all the software and finding the right programs headaches I went through, but final form did happen. And somewhere in the last few days of this crawling through snakes in the desert on the hottest day of the year experience, I realized, enough was enough. It's done and I'm pleased. It's on the market, and the pr and marketing is another skill set I'm still working on, but the writing, the pleasure is done.

And what made me think of how important perspective was is the new writing I am doing. The sequel to my first mystery novel was born almost right away, after writing the last lines of the first book. I put myself in the mode of writing again, and began heading in daily to write a  new chapter, work on characters, and get going.  I'm up to chapter 30 already, but somewhere a week or so ago, I started hearing that voice in my head shouting, "Faster, faster, you've got a deadline!"  And then I started feeling weighed down and counting the years I had left and wondering if I had what it took to do this. And then that magic moment hit. That bubble over my head moment. Aha. The first book was years in the works in my brain. The actual writing took a little more than a year. I was the one who set the pace and could remove the deadline any time I felt like it. What I loved about writing the first one, was the joy of writing. So instead of worrying about when it's going to be done, or is there a new idea ready to roll out onto paper or not, I'm back to doing what I love. Writing and letting go of the need for things to fall into place in a particular way. That understanding alone, released a lot of energy.

This morning, I received a message from a friend who had just finished reading my book. He wanted me to know he liked it, and couldn't wait for the next one. That kind of encouragement energizes my creative spirit, and I can discipline my mind to let go and let my imagination take over. New characters are born, ideas flow from scene to scene, and I'm as curious as anyone to see how this is all going to play out. Who knows what we can do when we get our of our own way.  I remember a few summers or five ago reading about one of my mystery writer friends who was working on the final writing of her first mystery novel. C.Hope Clarke, was writing about her own desire to follow through on the dream she had of writing her novel, Low Country Bribe. I was working on something else, a book of poetry I believe, but we wrote occasional notes to one another encouraging each other. I recall that by Christmas that year, she had finished. I also recall her going through the rewrites, edits, and other grunt work. At the same time, she was beginning her second novel. That all seems like a long time ago, but it's not.

We are influenced by the best and worst of what we experience, by who we connect with, and by wha we go through. We write in spite of accidents, births, deaths, daily life, elections, and the demands and stresses of our lives It helps though, once in a while, to step back and look at the whole process from the inception of an idea, the first niggling sensations all the way through to the 'okay it's enough' point. Our lives are full of many successes, some miserable failures, and a whole lot of exciting and challenging hard work and joy in between. Hope you are contemplating doing something that pulls at your soul. Let something come to life now, to be born of your blood, sweat, tears, and joy.

Riding the Wave: Shifts,Transition. Flow

Waves in Motion                                                                                                                  Catherine Al-Meten Meyers             

For most writers, the greatest passion is the writing itself. For an author of a published piece or ten, the marketing or business end of the work becomes increasingly more important. For authors like myself who prefer the creative, solitary lifestyle that writers need, the business end of things can become cumbersome. On top of that, unless your books are best sellers and are generating a large income, you probably are involved in other kinds of work. This morning as I peruse the calls for submissions and writing gigs that are available, I'm very much aware of the broad range of skills it takes for a writer to remain semi-balanced, body, mind, spirit, and emotions. How do we ride the waves of energy that propel us forward with our work? How do we find the gentle lulls between the waves where we can catch our breath and refresh ourselves for the next surge?

For any of you who have ever surfed, you understand that point between a set of waves where you have some time to rest in motion as you keep an eye out for the next set to appear on the horizon. Today, that's what I am doing. Just back from nearly two weeks away, I've been resting and getting my house in order. Unlike some, I usually have more than one project going on at a time. Each year I attempt to pick two major projects to focus on, along with some smaller more regular assignments or events. Summer is a busy time, and this summer in addition to the Open Studio Tour I'm doing to showcase my photography, I'm also doing book events throughout the summer. Each month I'm participating in a monthly artwalk to get my books out, and I'm planning on two other book events to get my new fiction novel, Body on the Beach, launched.  This will be the start of about 6 book events for that book over the next 6 months.

At the same time, I'm working on two other books. One is the sequel to Body on the Beach, the other is  a new series that is in the 'thinking up and researching stage. That's the fun part of writing. While visiting my family, my Granddaughter and I played around with some new characters and now I'm ready to start laying out the new series. This, to me, is the really fun part of writing. The creative part. The writing part. Even the research and musing part, for now I understand that those musing times are also a great part of the writing process.

While packing for my recent trip, I  pulled out my sketch book. I noticed I'd started the sketch book in the mid-90s, and it was full of impressions and sketches that fed my imagination for the Body on the Beach book.  Little did I know at the time, watching the seagulls caught up in the wind, flying backwards in a storm was going to play a crucial part in a plot line years later. Or the detail I drew of an old piece of machinery by a light house. Or the seashells and fauna along the beach on the Central Coast of Oregon.  Everything churns together in a kind of magic stew of ideas, images, and impressions. And it's all there to draw upon when writing a scene or plotting a story.

This period between seasons, between one phase of a book project and another, before one project or event and another, is a time when walks on beaches, time spent in coffee shops, and snippets and scraps of impressions, conversations, or odd encounters combine together in that soupy elixir of imagination and memory.Yesterday when writing a blog post, I compared the process of writing as something akin to a mental illness...not in its pathology but rather in its invisibility. No one can see a mental illness; it becomes apparanet by outward behavior. Writing too is more than the finished product; it is about all that goes into creating the impressions, images, storyline ideas, characters and characterizations, and then the will to put pen to paper or hands to keys to let the story be told.

This seasonal lull is a busy time, mentally. Lining up writing assignments, keeping up with regular blogs, and keeping  a steady pace of daily writing on the big projects. In addition, my mind is busily deciding what the focus of the Open Studio exhibit will be, and making time to get all the final photography done and getting  the framing and preparation for the event planned. This is also a time when my discernment process is challenged. When my mind is scattered in too many different directions, my work suffers. My challenge at this time is to make some choices about what carries the highest priorities, what kinds of time and energy will be needed for each, and when can each task be carried out. My working calendar is filling up, and this is the time when I separate that which draws me closer from that which is less important or interesting.

With my photography, I've chose one subject I have a great passion for--boats, and am making that my focal point. I will include some other pieces that provide a contrast to the pastoral nature of the boat theme, and will limit the number of pieces I do. Sometimes I try to do too much, and that leaves me exhausted at the starting gate. The choices I'm making this 5th year of doing the Open Studio, are more in keeping with the pace I've fallen into...the pace that allows me to ride the crest of the preparation wave, to flow into the weekend of meeting and greeting, and the aftermath and lull that follows when the event is over. Discerning what matters most, focusing on that, and then allowing the natural flow to happen. That's the part I cannot predict, and so I am less likely to anticipate what's going to happen or how the outcome is going to be. Instead, I have learned to enjoy this annual event.

It gives me a forced break from writing, for at least two weeks every summer. Many of the writing assignments I've chosen, have July deadlines. That means that some of the more short-term kinds of writing will provide me with my writing fix, and will give me a sense of how much of that kind of writing I want to do in the future. Trying out different types of writing assignments helps me explore ways that I might expand my audience, or move beyond a certain limit that  I may have set for myself. As a writer, I find myself passionate about all types of writing. Ever once in a while, I like to try out different styles of writing, just to see how it feels, or what comes our of me. That's how I discovered my love for fiction writing, and so instead of being afraid to try new things, I let myself go. I'm not great at everything, for certain, but it's fun to see how a different style of poetry sounds like or what kind of short story I can turn out when pressed to.

When I leave the shore and paddle or swim out to where the waves begin to break, I am full of anticipation. Wanting to get out beyond the breaking point before a wave crashes on me. As a swimmer, this is less of a problem, for when I see or sense a wave ready to break over me, I dive deeper, and go under the wave. As a writer, I try to get beyond this period of time when my mind is wide open to ideas, possibilities, and plans. I long to get to the place where I can dive deeper and just let myself write, without regard to the other distractions that I sometimes feel I must engage in. For at the heart of things for me, for most writers, the joy and satisfaction comes in the still quiet moments when we sit down and engage in our craft. When we let our imaginations rule, when the wave of creativity flows, and we flow with it. Writing is the wave of my imagination, and as I flow with it, I am amazed at how something I had not anticipated comes out to surprise me, each and every time.

Day 5 5-min. Writing Challenge Painting

Painting. A Painting. The act of painting. Painting what? A painting of what?

It used to be that my admiration for art was so great that the idea of painting, the act of doing, felt far beyond me. In many ways it still does. It does when I look at the artwork that attracts my attention. The great Dutch Masters, Leonardo DaVinci. My own preferences range widely, and over a lifetime, my tastes have changed. What I rejected as a young woman, I now find value in, much like I do with certain pieces of literature. As I grow, the works grow on me. My appreciation sees below something I didn't notice or understand earlier.

Still, to make even the smallest attempt to paint, to do the act, has been beyond me. That is until I had a grandchild. It was my great pleasure and responsibility to be with her almost daily from the time she was about a month old until she entered pre-school at 4 1/2. That made me the one who got to have all the fun...including playing around with paint. I learned at that time, that my attitude would have an impact on her, and so wanting that impact to be positive, encouraging, and devoid of my own psychological hang ups, I listened to how I talke to her about paints and painting. I painted with her, and listened to myself as I began mentally berating myself about how I was painting. I stopped myself from expressing those cruel thoughts, and instead changed my thinking. I looked for what it was I loved about the experience.

What I found was pleasure. Pure pleasure in getting paint all over myself as I used my brush to swipe the thick, viscous paint across the surface of the paper. Swirling the brush on the surface, and turning the brush handle in my hand, to use the very tip of the brush to plot raindrops on the garden path I sloshed about on with my wide edge of the brush. Using colors and mixing blues and yellows to get greens. Reds and whites to find pinks. Blues and pinks to find lavenders, and mixing it all together to make a messy soddy brown. Remembering what I'd learned as a child about the spectrum of colors. Recalling too what I'd learned about taking care of my tools, staying in the lines, and later, of breaking all the rules to find new paths.

Now painting is a pure pleasure, I combine with other parts of most days. Daringly, I have taken a class or two, and have allowed painting to enter my vernacular--as part of my vocabulary of life.

While the artists I love, whose work I most admire, include new artists who live near me like Jill McVarish, Robert Paulmenn, Noel Thomas, Erin Gafill, Cindy Kerwin-Cori, and Shirley Novack--their talent, gifts, and crafts though not mine, do not prohibit me, any longer, to avoid touching paint to canvas, brush to pad, or imagination to the paints on my canvas.

May Photo Challenge, Day 4 Hotel

Has there ever really been a moment in a hotel, when I felt I would rather be there than at home? Moments that stand out regarding hotels are the ones that were out of the ordinary for one reason or another.

The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.

Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.

A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?

Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.

A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.

A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.

Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina  Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.

The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.

Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.

I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after  long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.

 In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.

May Writing Challenge, Day 3 Photographs

A photograph captures a moment in time. It tells a small piece of a narrative, it records an event, or it glimpses into a relationship. Imagine if you will, a photograph of this very moment, or this one. What would that photograph capture?

This morning a series of photographs would reveal the ritual of my daily life.   A shot of the cats chasing around in the dark, just before dawn. Me stumbling into the kitchen, nearly dipping my fingers in the water bowl to check to see if the cats need to be fed. Standing at the stove, lighting the burner underneath the red metal tea pot...preparation for the morning tea ceremony.

Odd photographs depict the drudgery of a mind obssessed on organizing the closet...so much so that one snapshot depicts me standing in front of the open closet, pulling item after item out to inspect, fold, and put in an assigned position. Or lugging out the bags of dirty laundry in preparation for the weekly trek to the laundromat. Scooping out the cat box, replacing litter, and twisting the blue plastic bag into a secure knot before heading out the kitchen door to toss the bag in the bin.

Outside on the wooden porch, still in the morning air. Chilly, foggy, and damp. Standing barefoot on the wet wood, I stand, my long red print dress clinging to my legs, listening to the birds singing in the trees. The Sun has not yet risen, so the photograph is dark, illuminating only the spots that hold light. What a photograph can only hint at are the feelings and thoughts that fill the subject. An expression, a look in the eyes, a stance, the juxtaposition of one to another or to an object.

A photograph of me would show a woman propped up on a bed, one she'd already made, a small lap desk on her upper thighs. Another photograph would catch an angle of her hands dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, laying out words in neat phrases and lines. Still another would see me watching the cats playing. What it couldn't catch would be the sounds of one of my cats snoring, his head propped up against the sliding glass door window, already exhausted from his morning romp around the house, satisfied with Fancy Feast in his belly.

A photograph depicts a piece of time, a moment in space, and hints at much more. A photograph is an invitation to go deeper, look more closely, and to use  imagination to dream of being somewhere. A photograph transports you through time and space, and wakes up the senses with a simple stirring of memory. A photograph invites you to dream or forget or keep exploring.

Since my first adventures in a photographic dark room many years ago, photography has held a special place in my heart and life. My Father gifted me with his beautiful 35mm camera, and invited me, without a word, to go wandering, to look deeper, and to remember. Always to remember, the special times I've recorded in a life full of rich moments and relationships. His gift of a tool and his invitation to use the tool, has given me a new vocation and a way into art that might otherwise have eluded me. It has made me aware of my own unique view, my eye for beauty and my sense of detail.

In the darkroom, I learned to look deeper. To isolate a piece of the whole in order to highlight some unique feature. Photographs can expand to include more, or shrink to leave things and people out. Photographs tell a story, a piece of the tale.  Holding a photograph of an old lover in my hand today, I wonder if burning that piece of history will do anything at all to erase his memory? Photographs help us or require us to hold onto something that is in the past. Is that a good thing, or not? Ask me when I make my decision about burning this one.

May Writing Challenge, Day 2 Brunch

Brunches are lost on me. The massive display of food items, the alcohol-fueled, mid-morning weekend gorging are not my thing. And kind of ruins the whole idea of a resful  weekend. The idea of a brunch, a combination of lunch and breakfast, sounds good at first. Eating at a reasonable hour, having a choice of anything to eat, and spending time with loved ones, family, or friends. Not to mention, brunch is usually served in a very nice hotel and environment. How could anyone not like that?

Easy, that is if you don't like to eat a lot. Having 16 choices of dishes, rashers of bacon, sausage, or ham, and piles and plates of pastries, fruit,  side dishes and Mimosas galore is about as appealing as facing the freeway during rush hour. Love the idea of eating mid morning mind you, however too much food and too much drinking do not always lead to a good result. My personal problem, though it's not really a problem is I don't like to eat that much food. Preferring small portions, and much lighter food than is usually found at a brunch, I find it hard to face the prospects of a brunch invitation. Also, if I did drink with my meals, I wouldn't want to get sloshed at 10 or 11 on a Sunday morning. Something about that feels all wrong to me. Partly because it is traditionally Sabbath time, but more so because its' too early to drink alcohol. For me, a glass of alcohol in the morning would not go down well. And sitting at the brunch table with people who are overeating and drinking, can only end badly.

Are my opinions based on never having experienced the joys of a brunch? Not at all. Mine are based on my own experiences. When I used to go to brunch with my husband or with friends, I would initially be seduced by the aromas and artfully arranged pork products and the handsome chefs making omelettes to my exact taste. I would sip a Mimosa or two, and that would lead me into a haze of feeling bloated and woozy. Normally, I'd pile too much food on my plate, and then not be able to eat more than 3-4 bites of anything. Worse than not liking brunch is hating to waste food. Throwing out food is painful to me, because I think of all the starving people. I heard about them at my dinner table growing up (There are people in China starving who'd be grateful for what's on your plate) and I witnessed them myself on the streets and at the end of the month when my cupboards are as bare as my wallet. No, wasting food is high on my list of priorities of what not to do.

Too much food, too many choices, and too much waste. Often any alcohol is too much, especially at mid morning. That brings me to the residual fallout from brunches.  The experiences that come to mind are none too pleasant. On one occasion, my husband (#1) and I were invited to play tennis with a couple who we thought were our friends. We met at their house for brunch, at which we were served Screwdrivers (the early version of Mimosas without the sugar). On the tennis court, we were beaten soundly...the result my husband declared of them "gettng us smashed before we hit the courts". Whether that was true or not, I will never know.  At my 50th reunion, I didn't bring it up when I met the wife of that couple. Her husband had just died, and I didn't think it was the proper time to bring up old grievance.

Another chilling brunch event stands out in my mind. My husband (#2) and I used to enjoy driving out to the 'farmland' where a Hilton or Sheraton was on Sundays for the brunch. Normally, it had been fine. The day before he was set to leave the country for a stint in the military, we made the mistake of going to brunch. Due to the impending gloom of the separation that faced us, we both had too much to drink and probably weren't that interested in food, feeling instead the need to say everything we had to say before we ran out of time. Big mistake. All I remember is walking out on the golf course with him, taking my shoes off, and crying. I doubt I would have ended the brunch like that had alcohol not been involved. I'm such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Two small glasses of anything is way over my limit, so I abstain from drinking most of the time now.

When the topic of brunch appeared, I had no trouble coming up with examples of what a disaster brunches have been. I love going out to breakfast however, where I can pick and choose what I want without feeling any guilt. If by brunch you mean a late breakfast, then I think some of my favorite meals have been brunch, sans the buffet, sans the alcohol. The Park Pantry by Cherry Park in Long Beach used to have the best Huevos Rancheros. I have not found a place since that beats their wonderful breakfasts. Going out to breakfast with my Daughter has always been a favorite pastime. Going out with her family now still is. Better yet, making breakfast in the kitchen together and eating around our table, is the best place for any means. Brunch may be nice for many if not most, but for me, it's just not my cup of tea. Rather fix that cup of tea at home, and enjoy the ambiance of my own table or that of my family.