Notebooks

Writer’s Notebooks

“A notebook is a place to gather what inspires you.”

Today a cloud cover blankets the city and those getting ready for Amsterdam’s Queen’s Day.. The canal dredgers are searching their way through the canals recovering drowned bikes. The crowds are growing in enormous numbers; up to one million will occupy the Centrum. So much activity is spinning around me; everywhere I go I want to remember the scene, the senses, the story – I have this fixation to jot down all the important little details - that is what makes my writings come alive for me. I need to write my inspirations and thoughts before they leave me. I reach for my camera, my Rhodia notebook and I begin my script…. crunching loud racket - splashing murky waves swelling with boats in these 10 fee deep canals – waterways sealed from the North Sea more than one hundred kilometers of canals, 90 islands and over 1300 bridges- bridges lined with horrified tourist shocked at the 6 to 8 foot high pile of rusted dark slim coated steel bikes – tires flattened, twisted, missing, crunched, big bionic orange steel arm plunging unmercifully into the dark waters, the claws open and closing, smells of gasoline, switch of the wind ……details details filling my pages..

A French Treasure

Rhodia

I am a blank book collector.

Shyly, I admit to my extravagant little secret of collecting blank books. Of late, I learned that Jimmy Buffett collected blank books, and like mine, they too remain blank. Somehow this validates my compilation of all my beautifully hand stitched blank books. There is something mystifying about a blank book that drives my obsession.

But my Rhodia notebooks are quite different. My family of Rhodia notebooks are my “incubators”; they are a safe place to keep the birth of my ideas and a warm place where the seeds of my stories are germinated… where ideas gather and inspire me.

My Rhodia gives me a place to live like a writer, a place to share what moves me.

I fill my 5 x7 graphed-ruled notebooks with flavorful dialogue. I am learning to listen purposefully wherever I go and I am training myself to notice the sensory details around me.

I use my Rhodia notebook, not as a diary, but a notebook to hold what I have noticed and don’t want to forget: they hold ideas for all sorts of writing projects, my muses, quotes and my most favorite, unusual, new and remarkable words... I love words!

I leave the Netherlands after three months where I have filled seven Amsterdam-orange-colored Rhodia notebooks – they will safely travel in my carry-on.

Yes this is my French treasure - a Rhodia notebook: The Rhodia name comes from Rhone, a river flowing by Lyon, that separates the Alps from the Massif Central. The Rhodia logo trees symbolize the two founding brothers of 1932. To this very day, members of the family are working at the company; next year marks their 80^th birth of these notebooks.. Thank you Rhodia!

When something stirs inside of you, take out your notebook and write!

Life Letters

Life Letter

“The history of the world is not complete until your story is told. Your life is a legacy, a gift that only you can give. Like the campfires of old, stories light our way, stir our spirits, and warm our hearts.”

It is nearing the end of our stay here in Amsterdam; today we sat canal side enjoying the fragrance of spring and the warmth of the mid-day sun. This canal corner is one of the busiest of the Centrum, it being the entranceway for the river traffic – the entrance into the floating maze of the four main - 1280 bridged - canals. Bikes and vehicles are constantly mingling their ways through one another; makes me anxious.. It is chaos of movement and people watching at its best.

The accordion player was my muse today. While he serenaded us, my mind drifted back to my father; I closed my eyes and envisioned that it was his fingers moving across the accordion keyboard like he did when I was a child.

“Today, I hold close what memories I have of him and those I don’t have.”

I was born the last child of an already raised family; I have a different set of memories and a limited knowledge of my family’s legacy.

As I am passing through a time in my life that I crave to know more, I crave for that conversation I never had or the letter that was never written. I possess a few 3x3 black & white childhood photos but I have no words, nothing that describes what was in my parents’ or grandparents’ hearts.

A post-marked manila envelope arrived early February and I was curious as what was concealed inside. It was my birthday and this just seemed too oversized for a traditional birthday greeting.

Clipped together were several typed pages.. My eyes immediately glanced at the first words….

“Several memories are still very vivid and I will attempt to share them with you with this writing”

I felt clamminess in my hands and the fast pulse of my heart.. The words were traditionally aligned on the stark white typing paper. I hesitated to begin. I had the same anticipation a reader gets with a new book….

I held in my hand a Legacy Letter from my oldest sibling… beyond all my material wealth and possessions, this might be one of the most valuable gifts I have ever received.

…”These now have become the treasured memories that I didn’t experience but I hold closely… a true gift from the heart”…

Memories

Memories

Passage:

As I reflect on my early childhood, several memories are still very vivid and I will attempt to share them with you with this writing.

We lived in quite a large home in the little town of Balta. Five bedrooms on the upper level, the lower level consisting of formal dining, living rooms, master bedroom, Dad’s office, kitchen, etc. A detached double garage was across from one of the two lawns in our yard. The house no longer stands as it was destroyed by fire several years ago.

The public school was located about three or four blocks from home. We had Catholic Nuns for teachers, how they were able to teach in a public school remains a puzzle to me. Dad served on the school board for several years.

I remember my first bicycle, about five years old, and rode it to Church every summer morning for daily Mass on gravel roads,. Grandpa and Grandma (mom’s parents) lived across the street from the Church, which afforded us the opportunity to visit them on a daily basis. Grandpa at one time was the Mayor of the town of Balta. He was a very respected man in the town and the outlying communities. He was the Standard Oil Company distributor for gasoline and oil, the business which he subsequently sold to Dad.

When Mom and Dad got married, Grandpa (dad’s father) gave them a farm just south of the original homestead. After a couple of years or so, Dad sold the farm and purchased a bar and dance hall in Balta. He sold the business to his brother-in-law and he then went into the oil business. Dad’s business provided all the necessities even during the days of WWII. Dad was very generous not only to our family but to others in need.

The family farm, where Grandpa and Grandma lived was about sixteen miles northwest of Balta, which offered us the opportunity to visit them often. As a very young boy probably nine or ten, I would drive a team of horses to and from the harvesting area loaded with grain. Grandpa would be sitting on his favorite chair next to the grain elevators awaiting every trip. When I reached the age of eleven or twelve I drove a tractor pulling the combine. Grandpa had retired and Uncle Nat was doing the farming at that time. Grandpa was not only a successful farmer but also a carpenter by trade. Grandma was kept busy raising all the children and in the summertime tending to her large garden. I enjoyed my visits to the farm where we were able to ride the horses and enjoy Grandma’s delicious dinners…..

Eye Prefer

Eye Prefer

Eye prefer sitting here window side in an Amsterdam Kennel writing…

In the moonless hour of the morning I made my way through the dimly lighted Portland Oregon neighborhood to my favorite coffee house. The morning chilliness called for being wrapped up in an oversized wool scarf and wearing my sheep skinned boots. As I entered this antique decorated small sized establishment, my home away from home, the sweet smell of fresh baked goods and the warmth from the ovens wrapped around me like a soft winter blanket. Coffee awakened my senses and my cravings ….

I found my place window side; the table lamp provided a soft glow that warmed up the space and this is where I settled in. I love this space.

On this particular day I was to create a narrative, a character-profile of myself using the two-worded muse “ I prefer”.

My writing became simplistic and rhythmic - my fingers performed across the keyboard, like a guitarist fingers his guitar strings. The assignment pulled me inward – my challenge was to find the preferences that described who I was – what was my greater taste for one thing over another…

I gained great insight to my “preference”, my character. This assignment was an inspiration and a challenge. I appreciated the stretch.

I Prefer The Dragon Fly

Dragonfly

I prefer “Blues”.

I prefer black.

I prefer the snarls of long curls.

I prefer the fit of pants to the looseness of a dress.

I prefer the height of stilettos to the soles of running shoes.

I prefer the chaos of the city to the normalcy of suburban dwelling.

I prefer the nakedness of a minimalist to a blanket of clutter.

I prefer a convertible to hard tops.

I prefer a new sense of consciousness.

I prefer opportunity to luck.

I prefer lattes to the drip.

I prefer creative non-fiction to novels of mystery.

I prefer the power of a meditative bath.

I prefer creative and quiet spaces.

I prefer a still camera to cinematography.

I prefer the art of long hand to stroking of keys.

I prefer being behind the camera to being in front.

I prefer the existence of two as one in longevity.

I prefer the company of family to commitments to friends.

I prefer calm to drama.

I prefer integrity without compromise.

I prefer big skies and field of grain.

I prefer the light of morning to the night’s darkness.

I prefer to have no expectations to being disappointed.

I prefer peace and rebuilding to the tortures of war.

I prefer traveling to undeveloped countries.

I prefer humanitarians and spiritual journeys.

I prefer the sanctuary of the Dragonfly.

February 2008 - PNCA Writing With The Muse

Letter Writing

The Art Of Letter Writing…

“proves to be a faithful friend in your absence”

My collection of letters and cards are one of my most treasured possessions. For me, letters not only serve a purpose in the present, they also stand as our records of “time”, giving us a unique window into the past. Anyone who has ever come across the old letters of parents and grandparents suddenly feel transported back to another time and place; they understand and know well the legacy-leaving power of letters. The longevity aspect of letters - cherished pieces of paper – remains as important as photographs for preserving family history.

Letters are the gifts we leave to our children’s children.

Letter writing for me has been my means of communication to those who are oceans away or to friends and loved ones in an expression of love and support... I do not know of a richer and more satisfying way of getting to know a person, of expressing your feelings or being present with them.

I love fine stationery and all the accessories that goes with letter writing, but modern postal equipment is incompatible with my wax seals and delivery does not offer me optional flexibility.. So more often than not, I am without pen and paper to do my letter writing …

Within the silence of my writing space, I often hear a classical symphony of music, as my fingers orchestrate themselves across the keyboard…

“Writing a thoughtful letter is a discipline that stands out as a hallmark of a civilized society. Written with forethought, a well-tailored letter or email often proves to be a faithful friend in your absence, serves as your personal ambassador, and remains an excellent way to demonstrate a godly example. Words and how we use them are important to God (Prov. 25:11).”

Letter to my daughter..

Flower Child

It is early morning here and almost time of my 38 year old daughter’s birth – she was the first baby born that day…… Oh how I vividly remember those moments. I don’t recall in vivid detail the un-comfortableness of it all, but the images of that day and that moment will never leave me - it was then, that I was forever changed. I became a mother.

So I sit here window side in the quiet of this morning, looking out onto the canal waterways – there is no movement – silence wraps around me like a soft blanket. The murky water remains glass like and the trees are barely showing their tiny buds. It is here where I will embrace her in my mind and in my heart.

What I would really wish on this day is to have her next to me so I could hold her serving hands in mine, and as the tears would well up in my eyes, I would communicate to her how very beautiful that I think she is, how proud I am of her and how very blessed I feel being her mother… she truly is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

So for now, I will just imagine her here with me and I will do what I love to do… write. I will write to her and celebrate ‘her’ with the affection of words.

I have contemplated for days as what I was going to write, perfection and expectations suffocating my muses, it is not for lack of content, but rather the limitation of having so much to say and keeping it somewhat reasonable in length.

“My Beautiful daughter ~ you are the fragrance of a fine perfume …

I love that you have blossomed into the most beautiful of flowers. You carry a ‘strong’ fragrance of who you are and what you stand for – but you leave the ‘sweetness’ of your scent in your every movement…….

….Flowers are the language of love. You are the flower of love and beauty in our family garden. Yes, you are the fragrance of a fine perfume …”

With tender love ~ Mom

The Eagle Has Landed

For one month I mused about the “moon” I went out each night to find my way with the “moon”. I must admit that this self-imposed assignment challenged me and stretched my way of musing. It wasn’t long before musing, took on a whole different meaning for me. Everywhere I went I saw something related to the moon; my awareness was heightened, my senses awakened. I kept little files with cards, quotes, photos, and information. Little notes of paper with one-liners were stuffed inside the file pocket – notebooks scribbled with one-liners… After my musing assignment of “Moonstruck” was written - I filed away my musing thoughts on the “moon” and my paper files laid dormant until now….

…. …. here I am in the Centrum of Amsterdam, sitting window side, with a fiction novel writing assignment to do..

“PAGE ONE” … write page one for your fictional Apollo XI novel with one of the following narrators.. Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin, Michael Collins, or someone close to them (e.g. wife, parent, child, best friend) ….and the point of time in which your novel begins …before, during or after the mission.

Ahhhh the “moon” musing began, it is now that I have come to appreciate and understand how the musing process blends into our other writings. I enjoyed this assignment of fiction and the introduction to writing Page One of a novel.

I chose Neil Armstrong’s child as the Narrator with the following plot:

His father was the Apollo XI Astronaut who took the fist step on the moon. Forty years after his famous father stepped onto the moon; his father was faced with the challenge of making a decision to help end his son’s life. Legislation passed for assisted suicide. Neil Jr. was diagnosed with ASL, leaving him debilitated for the last five years. The last five years had aged both of them beyond imagination. Both father and son have shared together this great passion for space research. Now, his famous father is challenged with making the final decision. He is struggling to find the courage. He had won three air medals while serving in the Korean War at the young age of 20 but nothing has prepared him for this. The pain is getting unbearable for his son. The story plot is a tangled web of moral values and debate of the right to end a life – death with dignity.

~

“The Eagle has landed” … my father’s voice transmitted from outer space through the side speaker of the cabinet style television.

I sat in front of our new colored screen TV, my fingers twisted and interlocked with one another, my body erect with nervous tension. Minutes passed before I released my held breath. My father’s left foot was floating without control; finally he reached forward with great effort and historically steeped onto the powdered surface of the moon.

Now, this historical year of the first African American president, I lay here in this Bluelake hospital bed; I have become a shell of a man, gaunt and sick, my eyes sunk back into my head. I have no voice but I am capable of sight and sound. My fingers remain interlocked with one another lying across my lifeless body; I have no control of my muscles. I am in pain.

My famous aged father sits by my bedside, his head is pocketed deep in his hands, his long fingers pressed into his skull, and his knees indented from his elbows. His life is being torn away in a gust, similar to when his footprints on the moon were blown away by the engine blast as he thrust into space on that July 22^nd 1969.

When I close my eyes I feel the tears well up under my eyelids. The prognosis is without hope - rapid and final. “The Eagle has landed”.

I can sense that my father is searching for courage to carry him through this. “Will he take this step?”

The room is dark, except for the glint of moonlight though the window. I watch him stare out the window; the moonlight is floating over the water like lace on black velvet. He suddenly bends in half, he bursts into tears and cries like a lost child.

Moonstruck

To surrender myself to the task of observing the moon each evening was daunting in itself. The task not only summoned my observation skills, but it challenged my scheduling abilities, my commitment, and most of the evenings, my patience.

For the past few days, amongst an acre of Douglas firs, alders, cedars and mountain spruce, I made my way out into the darkness each night in search for the moon. It was the deep darkness, the intense silence and the slushy snowflakes that awakened my senses – the moon was not there.

In conversation with my son, he reminded me of when he was a young boy, he would look up into the night sky and see only the moon. He felt that the stars were dimmed by the urban lights of the boulevards; and the cars and street lights were the campfire that warmed his nights.

He explained that as bedtime approached each night the moon would appear in his window – he always felt comforted by the moon’s presence. The moon seemed to be everywhere when he was a young boy; the moon was a signal to him to go home in summer and a blanket for him to hide under from the unknown in the winter.

My son continued to share with me, in his customary poetic way, how he now lies awake at night with his daughter’s legs wrapped around his arm, her breathing constant - a sound that soothes him; his wife and son, lie next to him drifting into a deep sleep. He said that his mind then floats back to those days when he could always see the moon through his window; when the 238,855 miles to the moon’s surface was a short ride away and then became a blanket for his soul.

He then noted that he no longer relies on the moon. He goes to bed well after dark. The window of his bed is hidden by the tree of the plum and now he lives in the sun and just remembers the time that he was raised under the moon.

He was Moonstruck