Writing Workshop

I know... it has been entirely too long!  I often wonder if I'm just not cut out to be a blogger.  I sure don't keep up with it much at all.  I long to.  But, I long for so many other things as well that take my time and attention.  All good things (or at least most of the time), but things that distract from the discipline of writing nonetheless.

Knowing this is true of myself, I signed up for a six-week online writing course.  I'm loving it.  And it's very difficult.  It's forcing me to be disciplined because there are "due dates" I have to meet in order to not let down my fellow co-writers.  It's so good, and so hard.

Here's a piece I worked on for the first two weeks of the workshop... It's long.  And yes, I cut and paste the entire thing on here. Don't feel obligated to read it all.  But if you choose to, thank you. :)

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     I felt very motherly. I had just fed my 3-month old nephew and was watching my four-year old, in the room next door coloring, when I felt the flutters of the new life growing within. The flutters felt more like kicks this time, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my nephew felt them too. I was comfortably perched on the couch, feet on the coffee table, knees bent, and he was nestled with his head between my knees, facing me. It’s one of my favorite times with newborns, freshly fed, ever-so happy and ready to interact. The kick produced an instant smile and giggle from him. Could it be that he was aware of what was going on?
     

     Feeling a sudden pang for the lone big sister-to-be, I steered my attention toward checking in with her in the adjacent room.
“How are you doing in there girlie?” A pause.
“Fine mom.”
“Would you like to come in here in and color?” Another thoughtful pause.
“No. I just want some time to myself. I’m OK.”
The transformation is nothing short of amazing. She went from being completely dependent upon us for her every need, to a little person with her own ambitions and desires. She was a little girl, who in this very moment, just needed some time to herself. This was my lovely, my sweet, sweet girl and she was growing up. 

     Just last week, I was able to spend time at the ocean. A few peaceful days, just my husband and I. I was able to walk every morning on the beach. During those walks, I watched families collecting sea shells, slowly and quietly waking with each sandy step. I was reminded of idyllic summer vacations with my family at the beach. I remember my fears of the ocean as a small child. I'd finally venture out, play in the fierce waves and slowly begin to feel comfortable. Sun-drenched and carefree, I'd never see the wave coming as it knocked me over. I'd feel the rough sand on my legs, the sting of salt water in my eyes and somehow blindly crying, make it back to my mom, ever ready with a fresh towel and water.

     
     Fear.
     

     Would I be able to love her enough, in the way she needs me to? Would she know how amazing she is to us even with a new little one in our lives? Would she be able to come to me with her deepest fears and worries? Would she always remember that although we love them both the same, we loved her first? God gave her to us first? That even the order of our little ones’ births is a part of this great plan?


     I took a deep breath and in an instant it felt as if I were standing on the shore of the ocean again, breathing in the freshness that always comes for me when close to an expanse in creation much greater than myself. It smelled clean and salty at the same time. Refreshing and yet a bit scary, a bit unknown. In that moment the word that came quickly to my mind was singular and precise.

     Surrender.

     
     My fears are held in the hands of a Creator who also holds the fierce and raw power of the oceans. Will the fear of the one destructive wave cripple me? No. Indeed, the beauty of surrender is found in the sun-drenched, carefree, childlike wonder of the unknown.

     
     As I watch, I see her independent little hands moving rapidly across the page, the markers smearing together on her arm in a rainbow of her efforts. She concentrates, putting all of her little being into creating her masterpiece. One of her legs is tucked under her and another dangling below, swinging a good six inches from the ground. Her still-pudgy toes and feet are swinging in rhythm to her methodical coloring. She is not afraid.

     
     I breathe it in deeply, inhaling the smells of a fresh-new baby in my lap, powder and milk, mixed with the lingering smells of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from our lunch we’d had earlier that day. The sticky lunch that she’d asked me to wipe from her little fingers. With them spread wide, she looked, unsure of how exactly to manage it by herself, and confident that mommy would be there to help.

     
     I taste salt. I sigh deeply. It takes me a moment to realize that the salt is from my tears... tasting just like the ocean air. And there I am again, standing before the powerful beauty of the expansive ocean, fully surrendered.