9/11 – 17 Years On

“No Day Shall Erase You from the Memory of Time”

Once the true horror of the attacks of September 11, 2001 became clear, once the magnitude of the attack, of the hate, of the vengeance against the West, had awakened us all, a true and gripping sense of community poured out. We saw it in the American flags so many in the States wore on their lapels, hung from poles, or secured magnetically to their bumpers. We saw it in the silence that followed, in the acceptance and warmth of neighbor to neighbor. In the support for our first responders, who had so much to lose and lost even more.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Sadly, what brought out the best in us, also brought out the worst. The acceptance and warmth of neighbors turned to suspicion and violence for some. For too many. Rather than truly pull together, some among us chose to wage their own attacks on people they deemed responsible. That suspicion and rage lingers still, all these years later, most noticeably from the people who are supposed to lead us, to assure us, but who have, of late, chosen to divide us.

Of course we can never assume 9/11 was an anomaly, a catastrophe the likes of which will never happen again. But neither was that sense of community, of a shared experience. That’s part of what America is about–an awareness and appreciation of our diversity, commonality in our unique experiences. That’s what has always been the secret to America’s “greatness”.

The 9/11 Memorial Museum displays, in rich profound detail, the many faces of NYC and her neighbors. People who worked here, lived here, protected here, came here to help in any way possible. During a recent tour of the museum, I was struck by the varied accents heard on recordings captured that day–of voice messages left for loved ones, of first responders calling out to their units, of reporters and witnesses.

I live here in NYC. I hear a wide variety of languages and accents daily, so much so that I no longer notice them. But while there, in the museum, listening to one account after another in full-throated and brusque New York-ese, in broken English, in Spanish, in a New England drawl and other accents not so easily identifiable, I felt at home. One among many. Sharing the same memories, the same pain, the same hope for a better future.


Scenes from The New York Memorial at Ground Zero:

Ladder 3

North Tower Antenna

 

The magnificent work of artist, Spencer Finch, titled: “Trying To Remember the Color of the Sky on That September Morning”. Each of the squares of Fabriano Italian paper that make up this piece is hand-painted a different shade of blue. There are 2,983 squares/shades in all–one for each person killed in the 1993 WTC bombing and on 9/11.

 

A 9/11 Memorial in New Paltz, New York – about 90 minutes north of the city:


Never Forget

Every year, on the anniversary of this heartbreaking day, we come together to remember those who perished. We remember their lives, their sacrifices and their humanity. In doing so, in standing together in remembrance, we’re reminded of the bond we have as citizens of this world. How I wish that understanding, that bond, held during our every-day existence and not just in times of tumult and pain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back to School

It’s the first day of school here in NYC. I can’t help feel sad for all the kids returning to the constant grind of early rising and carrying bookbags as big as themselves as they’re sent away from home and forced to work on command by strangers all day, only to then hurry home and have to work some more.

Perhaps it’s a true dislike of school or perhaps it’s PTSD, I’m not sure, but something about this time of year, the end of summer and beginning of an annual ten-month sentence, deeply saddens me.

At Summer’s End…

I feel a sense of loss and grief as if the sunny days of playtime and dreaming – of childhood innocence and wonder – are cruelly snuffed out then forgotten as the rigorous months ahead take form and distract.

Summer memories fade no matter how we wish they would linger. And every year at this time, I feel the same sense of despair.

I’m always surprised when I speak to other people about their childhood experiences with school. Many loved going, enjoyed the social aspect of it, the newness of it all, the discovery. That forces me to dig deeper to understand what it is that bothered me so – then as now. It wasn’t studying or learning as my wonder and thirst for knowledge was as keen as everyone else’s – then as now. Rather, for me, it was the feeling of being ripped away from home, of being sent somewhere that I didn’t want to be without having any say in the matter.

I’m a free spirit at heart and school felt like prison to me – so much that I doubled up on classes in my senior year so I could graduate early and never look back. I didn’t even attend graduation. Once I was out, I was out and glad to be rid of it.

And now, as I look out my window and see a small army of children trudging along with their weighty bookbags on their backs, I feel sad for them, too. I don’t share the ‘joy’ we see on TV commercials where parents are celebrating their children’s back-to-school days.

My Own Child Starts School

When my own child turned school age, I dreaded sending her. I feared she might feel as I did – that she was being shipped off, sent away from home, forced to be someplace she didn’t want to be. I made sure to prepare her, to let her know it would be as happy a place as she made it and that I’d be waiting for her when she came home. We, my husband and I, became actively involved in her school, letting her know she was not alone while still giving her room to roam, and grow, and learn.

But as elementary school ended for her, so did the excitement of it all, the newness, the discovery. The friendships formed remained; however, the drudgery became burdensome and overwhelming.

Middle school teachers in our district treated the kids in their care like tyrants, insisting that the pre-teen years were the worst, that kids needed to know who was boss. That they needed to be kept busy lest they find themselves with free time and get into trouble.

It was then that we decided enough was enough.

Our Homeschooling Adventure Began

As a child, I felt like school was a punishment for some unknown slight. As a parent, I refused to allow anyone to treat my child that way.

My daughter was one month into middle school when we began our homeschool adventure. With thousands of NYC children being homeschooled, finding programs, activities and social outings was easier than I could have hoped or imagined.

We formed additional friendships with other homeschooling families while discovering a new and exciting way of learning.

We discovered learning through play, adventure and exploration, which incorporated the wonder of a child’s imagination and the freedom to just ‘be’.

I do miss the homeschooling days. They were a magical time that not only fed my child’s hunger for knowledge but also soothed the confused and angry child that lingered within me.

Time Marches On

Now, as always, the summer has come to another close and children head back to school. And I feel the old familiar twinges of sadness for them as I did for myself all those years ago.

I’d love to hear your thoughts about your own school days or those of your children. Were they happy and exciting or burdensome and frustrating?

 

 

Here There be Hornets

Beneficial…or Deadly?

Anyone who knows me knows I’m not a fan of creepy critters. Of course, I realize if they’re not in my home but rather somewhere outside, then they’re where they’re supposed to be, and I will, mostly, leave them alone.

However, about a week ago, I happened to look out my dining room window and noticed a nest of some sort in the city tree at the curb in front of my house. It was quite large – and quite active, with what I thought were bees or yellow jackets busily flying in and out of it non-stop.

Turns out, they weren’t bees or yellow jackets. They were hornets.

Yes. Hornets.

I would assume this would frighten most people. However, for someone like me, with allergic reactions to simple mosquito bites, this was an absolutely terrifying discovery.

I calmed myself, though, after realizing, again, that this nest was in a city tree. Naturally, I ASSumed, the city would be responsible for it. I figured they’d want to know about it right away so they could take care of the situation before someone got hurt.

Alas.

“Beneficial Pests”

NYC – and other cities, I’m sure – has a policy that hornets fall into the category of “beneficial pests”, which I find both oxymoronic and ridiculous. Yes, I get it. Hornets, as predators, rid us of other pesky flying insects. In fact, hornets are so adept at reducing the number of destructive garden pests that the agricultural industry voluntarily uses them as a natural weapon to protect crops.

Yes. You read that right; they voluntarily deploy hornets into their gardens/fields as a natural pesticide.

That’s all well and fine, I suppose, and I do feel a certain respect for them now that I’ve learned that they are, indeed, ‘beneficial pests’. But they can also kill someone like me –yes,  KILL – if provoked, agitated or otherwise disturbed. And hornets attack as a group, each releasing a chemical to alert the others of a rumble, and the others will swarm with a ‘one-for-all-all-for-one’ focus. They will die for the hive. As if that isn’t enough to fuel nightmares for weeks to come, each one of those things can sting repeatedly so…

Yeah.

Not my idea of beneficial…not when they’re as close as this colony is to my front door, and not when their nest is sitting above a very busy street/walkway where kids ride their bikes and neighbors walk their dogs.

You Can’t Fight City Hall

So back to my efforts to make some headway with City Hall…

Permits

I spent this past week on the phone hoping to find a way to get rid of this nest. While I now realize killing the colony isn’t the way to go, my first thought was just that. Destroy the damn thing. I truly believed the city would feel the same way and send someone to spray the nest with something that would completely destroy it and everything inside.

How adorable.

Upon calling the city, I was informed that to do anything with this nest, I would first need to apply for a “tree-work permit”. That permit would come from the city, and it would be free. However, I would then have to find someone, on my own, who would not destroy the nest but *relocate* it. And…all costs related to that would fall on me. Once I found someone who would indeed relocate the nest, I’d have to provide their name to the city…and hope for their approval. If they did approve, then I would have to wait for the permit to arrive before any work could be started.

Knowing how speedy the city can be, I figured all that might happen somewhere around the winter holidays. If I were lucky.

Well, after three days and several more phone calls to 311, I finally received the application for the permit that was supposed to have arrived in my inbox within 24 hours of my first call.

Step one – done.

Insect Relocators

Step two – ha. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find someone to relocate a hornet’s nest?

For me, it was impossible.

I called various city offices with no luck, and then I called the state. The state was surprisingly easy and pleasant to deal with, and they showed concern and interest regarding my plight. A lovely gentleman I managed to reach by phone even provided me with an email for a beekeepers association. Additionally, through the state’s website, I found emails for a local arborist and for the city’s Parks Department.

Unfortunately, after contacting each of these groups, showing pictures and explaining to them how large and active this (to-me) terrifying nest was, and how close it was to my house, they all said that it was too high for them to reach. It seems 25-30 feet – which is about the height of this nest – is the natural height for a hornet’s nest and, as such, is unlikely to be dangerous to passersby. Or so I was told. My personal jury is not buying that fact. I was also told, repeatedly, that I should realize – and be comforted by – how beneficial these insects are.

I do realize. I’m not comforted.

Used then Abandoned

And yet, it seems, I will need to wait until November, by which time the colony should die out, leaving only the queen to hibernate through the winter. Come spring, she’ll go to a new nest somewhere far from my tree.

And that is the only plus I see in this whole frightening scenario – that a hornet’s nest is built for single use. Once the colony abandons this one, no hornet will ever come back to it.

Until they leave, however, everyone will know where to find me – cowering behind the curtains in my dining room, counting off the days until those killer stinging machines have gone.

By the way – while the sight of this nest has me breaking into a fear-filled sweat, it seems these nests are often seen as works of art. It’s true, I suppose, they are magnificent structures – the one in front of my home is the size of a football and the external layers are indeed compelling to gaze upon.

But, apparently, once abandoned, there are some people who have actually taken hornets’ nests down from their trees – or eaves or wherever they happen to be hanging – slice them in half and display them as wall art.

FYI – I will not be doing that.

 

 

“Happee Birthdae Harry”

The Magic Begins

 

Hedwig’s Theme, Opening Notes

Happee Birthdae, Harry Potter

On July 31st, 1991, Harry Potter turned 11. It was on that day, 27 years ago today, when Hagrid presented Harry with his Hogwarts’ letter. The same day Harry received his letter, his life – and the lives of nearly an entire generation of children – was forever changed.

I was introduced to the Harry Potter franchise when my daughter was in first grade. It was Halloween, and there was a parade at her elementary school. Children and teachers alike wore costumes – pirates, Power Puff Girls, Ninja Turtles, and more. Most memorable, however, was the school principal’s costume, which was a long black hooded robe, round glasses, a wand and a hand-drawn lightning-bolt scar on her forehead. I confess, I had to ask her who she was supposed to be. She looked at me, dumbfounded, and said, “Well…Harry Potter, of course!”

But of course.

 

Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived…and Learned

“It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.” Albus Dumbledore

Immediately after that, I introduced my daughter to the books, and then to the movies. And that was when we became a Harry Potter family. We watched in awe and wonder as Harry, Ron, Hermione – and all the rest – grew from wide-eyed wizards studying potions and wand-work, to young adults bravely fighting demons so fierce, so cruel, even the elders among them doubted their chance for success.

“The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters.” ―Sirius Black

As adults, we often teach our children that the world is not black and white, that our foes are sketched in as many shades of gray as our friends. Yet, I wonder whether we teach that lesson in word only, rather than by example. And I wonder, too, whether our children are wiser than we might expect and see those shades of gray all on their own.

“We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.” ―Sirius Black

As we read the books and watched the movies, Harry, his friends, and even Draco, grew into young adults with a healthy skepticism of those around them. They had a keen awareness of a complacent media unwilling to address the first hints of danger. They also harbored a healthy rebelliousness against language and ideas that were divisive, bitter, and cruel, even when that language and those ideas came from authority figures.

We watched young Harry become a man as he learned that while those who chose to be Death Eaters were one form of evil, so too were those who willingly ignored the slow and steady rise of evil in favor of personal gain. We even watched as Draco came into his own as he learned, too late, that ‘otherness’, which was so passionately loathed by the elders he idolized, was not, in fact a “crime” at all, nor was it an offense worthy of death.

“It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.” Albus Dumbledore

I wish our kids the same fortitude displayed by Harry and the gang as they face the challenges this world presents. I wish them stamina, foresight, and trust in themselves – no matter what others say – to know they have the ability to change the world. To turn on the lights when times are dark. To see the value in friends, family, and strangers – both familiar and unique. And I wish them the wisdom to know that, while they each have those abilities within themselves, we are all so much stronger together.

“We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.” Albus Dumbledore

Happy Birthday, Harry… or perhaps I should say “Happee Birthdae, Harry”, as Hagrid did that magical day so long ago. And thank you.

 

 

Related post – The  Potter Generation

 

 

Should I Stay or Should I Go

I started on my journey toward publication years ago, more than 15 in fact. I had a full-time job, a child, pets, and volunteer work at a local animal shelter. But, I also had the dream of seeing my name in print on the spine of a book on a bookstore shelf. I pursued that dream by scraping up time here and there, and writing.

I dreamt about it. I breathed it. I loved it.

But, it was a lonely and confusing process.

I’d heard people say I should look into organizations for people like me. People with the dream to be published. I heeded the advice and found an international organization that promised support and guidance and understanding. That promise was fulfilled many times over as the years passed and as I grew as a writer.

I took workshops, forged friendships, felt empowered and validated. I even found myself offering advice to newer newbies than I. It was an incredible experience. The memories of it – as well as the friendships I still have – will remain with me, hopefully, forever.

But… I’m no longer part of that organization. It changed. I changed. And I decided it was time to close that chapter and start a new one.

I’ve grown not only as a writer, which isn’t to say there isn’t a whole lot more for me to learn, but also as a person. A woman. I’m no longer concerned about doing things the ‘wrong’ way. Instead, I’m interested in finding the ‘right’ way. For me. Which, as I have found, isn’t necessarily right for others… especially those who believe the path that’s been laid out for them is the only path any of us should follow.

I learned, by meeting some amazing authors at all levels of their careers, that no single path works for everyone or for one person all the time. There has to be room for individuality. There has to be time for us to stand back for a bit and breathe, to relish the moment rather than be caught in the tsunami of deadlines and demands. And most of all, there has to be room for us to stumble without being made to feel inferior. We do that to ourselves often enough, we don’t need those we thought we could count on to do it to us as well.

And so I walked.

I thought I would feel lost and alone. Basically, I thought my world, as I knew it, would end. I thought my muse would pack up and leave in a huff, that the pleasure I received from my writing – the plotting, constant forming of story ideas, hearing characters’ voices in my head, the connection with other writers, the drive to continue writing and hoping and dreaming – would all dry up and become a memory. Nothing more.

Oh, boy was I wrong. By remaining as long as I did with an organization whose ideas, ideals, methods, restrictions and labels morphed into something that seemed rather strange to me, I stifled myself. I felt that to belong, I needed to fit myself into a mold not of my choosing… that everyone had to…and it finally dawned on me that my way of working, my process and my vision, were just that: mine.

No one, no matter how tightly they intend to hold the reigns, was–is– going to hold me back. Only I can do that. And only I can urge myself forward.

The beauty of having both options, and this new freedom, is that I and I alone get to choose in which direction I’d like to go.

I’m taking the high road without setting my nose in the air. My ears are open to suggestion, yet closed to the naysayers. My eyes are focused now that I know what’s right for me, and what is not. My hope remains and my respect for many in the industry is as great as ever.

Freedom – and the confidence to grab it – is an amazing thing. I can’t help wonder if this is how the women of Stepford would have felt had they been able to see their transformations reversed.

Starvation in Somalia…

One hundred and ten people in Somalia died of starvation within the last 48 hours. Starvation due to drought. Starvation. In 2017.

But it’s happening “over there”, so we don’t see it, we don’t feel it. It seems we don’t even know about it or… dare I say… care about it.

About 363,000 acutely malnourished children in Somalia “need urgent treatment and nutrition support, including 71,000 who are severely malnourished,” the U.S. Agency for International Development’s Famine Early Warning Systems Network has warned. – Associated Press  

Is it because we’re overwhelmed? Is it because we feel we’re incapable of preventing such horror? Is it because we’ve grown immune to the suffering of our fellow human beings? Of the aged, the infants, the mothers watching their children die?

Have we grown that cold or have we always been that way?

I’m editing this here to add an update regarding the cold reality of our times as the Trump Administration just, heartlessly, announced cuts in aid to starving nations. A question was asked during the budget director’s conference: “Are you worried that some of the most vulnerable people on earth will suffer?” To which Director Mulvaney callously responded: “We’re absolutely reducing funding to the UN and to the various foreign aid programs. That should come as a surprise to no one who watched the campaign.”

You can watch the video here (please do look past the liberties the poster of this video has taken with graphics and other special effect and listen to what’s actually being said):

We have to demand our tax dollars leave a detailed trail from our hands to their destinations. I want to know my money – money I don’t really have but spend because I am obligated to do so as a citizen of the US, and because I want to be part of the betterment of my community, both local and global – is going to places where it can do good. Where it can provide shelter, food and clean water to those in need. Where it can provide roads and education. Where it can provide proper, unrestricted healthcare. Where it will help to see that everyone has at least a chance to thrive.

If we can’t muster some concern for our extended human family then maybe we need to look closer. What would you do if your family were suffering as these people are? I wonder what would I do if I had to leave whatever I had – everything I had – carry my famished children as I struggle to take my family where help might be. What would I do if I arrived there, after watching others take that trek with me – some making it the whole way, others dying en route – only to realize there are too many of us seeking aid – medicine, food, water. What if I were told there was no help in sight. The drought that devastated my community had spread. There simply is no water.

The death toll, which was announced Saturday, was the first Somalia’s government has made public since it declared the drought a national disaster on Tuesday. The United Nations estimates that 5 million people in this Horn of Africa nation need aid, amid warnings of a full-blown famine. – Associated Press

We can’t pretend it won’t happen here. Our climate is changing. Temperatures are rising – as are sea levels. Crops are failing. Droughts alternate with flooding, each wreaking havoc. Scientists warn us it will get worse… that means there will be more climate refugees as times goes on.

When we find ourselves in need because of this, who will help us? Who will feed our crying children? Who will provide a sip, a life-saving sip, of clean water?

And why should they? Especially if we turn our back on them, on the cause of their plight and on what we could have done to mitigate at least some of these destructive changes to our climate.

We are one world. One people. Oceans may separate us. Walls may hinder us. Ideology might spark contention…or, perhaps, conversation. But we are supposed to be our brother’s keeper, are we not? And we are taught that we should treat our brothers and sisters as we wish to be treated.

Well, I wish to be cared for in my time of need. I wish to be celebrated in my time of joy. I wish to be someone who cares for and celebrates others the same.

These people wish only for food and water so they might survive.

What is your wish?

 

World Food Programme - Stamp Out Starvation - Zero Hunger - DonateTo read about what the UN is doing to help stamp out hunger, and to donate to the UN World Food Programme click the image above and it will take you to the UN’s World Food Program page.

 

 

Freddie Mercury – The Show Must Go On

Freddie Mercury
Freddie Mercury - The Show Must Go On

“I don’t have any aspirations to live to 70. I don’t want to sound morbid. I’ve lived a full life and if I’m dead tomorrow, I don’t give a damn. I’ve done it all I really have.”
– Freddie Mercury

Today would have been Freddie Mercury’s 70th birthday. As a life-long fan of the man, I know he wouldn’t have been on stage “prancing” about at this age, but I have no doubt he’d still be creating beautiful music. He might have even recorded a few songs himself – with that voice. That amazing, soaring voice.

No one knew it for sure, but he had less than a year of life left in him when he recorded this song. He was exhausted and in pain, yet he stuck with it, “downed some vodka” and, according to Brian May, Queen’s guitarist, he “lacerated the song” with his voice.

And that he did.

This one has always given me chills.

If you’re a Fred-aholic like I am, then you might also want to listen to this version of the same song – with Freddie’s vocals isolated:

My sincere thanks to QUEEN and to bart1997rinaz for posting these videos on Youtube.

American Exceptionalism, Indeed

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses...

In 1890, the superintendent of police in New Orleans was murdered. His dying words were: “The dagoes did it.”

At the time, Italian Americans – especially Sicilians – were viewed by the public and by many officials as “filthy”, “dangerous” and “bloodthirsty”.

Now, the roots of my family tree tunnel deep into Italian soil, with the deepest in Sicily. And while my family was not involved in any nefarious activities, and was not filthy, dangerous or blood thirsty, I admit there were some Sicilians who gave the rest a bad name. It should have been known that beyond the Sicilian mob – of which everyday Sicilians were also intimidated – most Sicilians were hard-working honorable family members with a gut-deep sense of community. I know this because my family, my grandparents and my great-grandparents, all valued family, personal integrity and community above all.

Sadly, despite the true heart of the Sicilian community as a whole, prejudice ruled, and after the murder of the New Orleans superintendent of police, the mayor of New Orleans ordered Sicilians in the area rounded up and jailed as suspects in the case. About 150 were taken into custody…but the courts, eventually, found most of them innocent.

With these verdicts, the community grew yet more intolerant and indignant. A mob descended on the jail where the remaining Sicilian men awaited for their turn in court. Officials did nothing to stop that mob from storming the jail, hauling the men out, lynching eleven right there in front of the prison and lining others up then shooting them, firing-squad style, until they were dead.

Afterward, upon hearing word of this ignorant, disgusting slaughter of innocents, Teddy Roosevelt, yes, THAT Teddy Roosevelt, a man who would eventually become the President of the United States, a man who had no tolerance for “hyphenated Americans”, said of the murders of these Sicilian men that it was “a rather good thing”. He boasted of saying this many times, proudly adding that he had said it in front of several “dago diplomats”.

Prejudice is nothing new in this country. Neither is Statue of Liberty - public domain imageignorance. Neither is danger or violence. One does not excuse the other yet each is fuel that feeds the fire of hatred, which in turn breeds further ignorance, further prejudice and further violence.

I like to think we’ve grown and matured, yet I look at people in my own state, in my own country…I look at men who wish to be President of the United States, Leader of the Free World, and I shudder in terror. Not because of the dangers they point out – how terrorism has come to our shores – but because of the ugly discourse they spout, the violence they carry out, the fuel of hatred which spills from their mouths and their actions to our kids and to people around the world, and I cry inside because this is not who we’re supposed to be.

Yet, clearly, it’s who we’ve been, who we are, and who, it seems, we’ll be for generations to come. American exceptionalism indeed.

 

 

Back in the New York Groove

When you live in the city, as I do, and your main view is either the concrete building next door or your neighbor’s laundry hanging on the line, you come to appreciate the grandeur of open space… after you get your bearings, that is.

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Over the summer, I spent time in Colorado. Boulder, Fort Collins, Estes Park, Red Rocks…  They were all magnificent.

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The open space, for all its wonder, was also a little disconcerting. I’m used to tight streets with cars parked on both sides. I’m used to stop signs and speed bumps. I’m used to waiting 5 minutes for a break in traffic so I can pull out of my own driveway, and I’m used to circling the block several times looking for parking when I shop or visit someone local.

Driving in Colorado was, at first, like driving an SUV after driving a Mini Cooper. All that space! I felt lost and a bit overwhelmed. Until I grew used to it. Then I fell in love.

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Besides the stunning views, I wanted to see wildlife. I’d heard about mountain lions coming into the town (not that I wanted an up-close and personal view of mountain lions), coyotes, wolves, elk and deer. I did see deer while taking a walk on one of the many green-area paths.

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And one morning, I had the pleasure of seeing this little guy outside my door. I’m sorry about the camera shake. It’s hard to hold a camera steady when you’re laughing. 🙂

But you know, as beautiful as it was there, as spacious and friendly and clean… Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home.

DSC08069 - CopyA New York sunset as seen from my window

 

DSC00790 - CopyCentral Park

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  Above and Below – View of NYC from the Observation Deck at 30 Rock

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And of course Times Square. Though not just Times Square, but the very symbol of my city…

NY Diversity - CopyDiversity.

Yes. It took some time to adjust to being home again but I must say, I am now happily back  in the New York groove.

Blue Satin Sashes – a writing prompt

My muse has been known to take wrong turns now and then, wandering as it does in a never-ending search for something dark and mysterious or sparkley and fun to play with. Because of that never-ending quest, it’s not uncommon for my wandering muse to wind up caught in some murky, quick-sandy bit of gray matter. How do I lure it out? Exercise, coffee, daydreaming… and writing prompts. Bits of story fodder lie everywhere but when the muse is otherwise occupied, they can be hard to find, or, once found, impossible to develop.

A story prompt sits right in front of your eyes, luring the muse from that darkened corner, tempting it with just what it’s been seeking. A dark and mysterious idea or a fun playful place in which to frolic.

Today, my muse has been lured by Jon Nathanial Corres and Willow Raven and my thanks go to them for providing a beautiful and magical writing prompt. You should see it full size – and can find it here – Willow Raven – BLUE SATIN SASHES.

Along with the prompt came a challenge which was, actually, posted in June even though I’ve just found it now. The challenge is to write a short piece inspired by the Blue Satin Sashes image… and, of course, a short piece has the potential to grow into a larger piece… unless the muse steps into quicksand again.

I’ve accepted the much-needed challenge, and I have titled my short piece: His Again. This was fun to write and I hope you find it fun to read.

Here’s a small version of Willow’s stunning visual prompt:

Willow Raven - Blue Satin Sashes Visual Writing Prompt

His Again

Debora Dale

Snow filled the air like down from a pillow, softly floating in waves playful and billowy. White and innocent, it shimmered in the moonlight, unfazed by the cold and dark.

He held out his hand, palm up, to capture the beauty. It faded, wounded by his heat, writhing until only a single droplet remained. Cold, small. Gone.

A low rumble of hooves broke through the silence, and a golden light bobbed in the distance. Snow stirred from the ground as the carriage neared and falling flakes scattered as to clear a path far and wide.

With a small nod and a touch to the brim of his hat, he welcomed the bundled coachman. And then on he strode to the carriage door.

Through the small window, he saw her. Her white winter cloak, as innocent as snow. Her bonnet tied beneath her chin with a blue satin sash.

He met her gaze, and saw moisture there. It was from cold, he would believe, for despite the past, she had chosen to see him again.

She rose and he hesitated, not wishing to mar such exquisite beauty. She waited. Her eyes, blue as the satin, challenged.

He dared hold out his hand, palm up, to capture the beauty. And she laid her hand upon it. Cold. Small. It did not fade but remained. Solid and warming. His to hold once again.

 


 

What do you think? Did the image stir your muse? I loved writing this short and would love to read yours, too. If you write one, please let me know in the comments.

 

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