Tag Archives: memory

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Z is for Zoo

500 Words on……the Zoo.

~~Something tells me it’s all happenin’ at the zoo. I do believe it, I do believe it’s true...~~Paul Simon, “At the Zoo“

Air and Space Museum - first, quick visit, 45 minutes before closing time.

When Jeremiah was a few weeks away from his seventh birthday, he requested that we go to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

Setting up camp in Greenbelt National Park, Maryland...about 12 miles from DC.

Although we live a few hundred miles from Washington, DC, and our budget is comprised of a single income, Jim and I decided to see if we could make it happen for him. We found a campground a few miles away, in Maryland, and realized that we could stay for a lot less than what a hotel would cost us.

So, the early part of September found us in our nation’s capital. We toured the Air and Space Musuem, of course, and the Natural History Museum. We ate lunch at the National Museum of the American Indian, and admired their gardens. We rode the Metro, and toured the Hirshorn Sculpture Garden.

At the Museum of Natural History.

We visited the Capitol Building  – the tour was not suitable for 7 and 4 year olds, and the Bush era security required us to ditch all our food and even the water in our bottles – but we got to see the sculpture by Vinnie Ream that we had come for, and we learned a few things, and feasted our eyes on the art and splendor.

Capitol Building loveliness.

We saw the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Reflecting Pool, and the Vietnam Wall.

Views about town - we walked a lot!

The children rode the carousel, played at the camp playground, and loved the subway…

Playful happy moments.

And, on the last day of our three day stay, we went to the National Zoo. Although Jeremiah loves animals, this part of the trip was for Annalise.  From the time she was one, she has loved all primates, and gorillas in particular.

Gorilla gorilla gorilla!

We had visited a zoo in Syracuse the summer before, where we saw primates of several varieties. Gorillas, though, are large, and endangered, and not easy to house, and there were none to see close to us. The National Zoo, also  famed for its giant pandas (which we never got around to seeing), has a gorilla family.

More scenes around the zoo....

So we entered at the archway, and spent half a day wandering the Zoo. We saw the hippos and elephants, first, and Jeremiah got to touch a hippo tooth. Then we found the gorillas – Annalise was awed and a bit intimidated by their bigness and closeness. We watched a magnificent silverback picking grass and carefully separating the blades he wanted to eat.

Cool explorations in the Invertebrate House.

There were orangutans who had the freedom to pass between two buildings on a specially designed device known as the O-Line. We watched them pass over us with a combination of fascination and nervousness, although there was an electrified line running beneath, to prevent descent.

At the Hirshorn Sculpture Gardens, enjoying art, and a bit more cool.

We enjoyed giant tortoises and other reptiles, tigers-SO-close on the other side of a Plexiglass barrier, lynxes and wolves. We watched a prairie dog village, and giraffes. The entire trip had been very hot, and we had spent the majority of it out-of-doors.

Capitol Building sculptures - the Vinnie Reams Lincoln is in the center.

So, when we found ourselves outside the invertebrate house, we ducked inside for the shade and the cool. There, both children were  enchanted by jellyfish and anemomes, coral and Madagascar hissing cockroaches, the bird-eating and orb-weaving spiders, and a little crab that followed Lise as she moved from one side of its tank to the other.

At the Smithsonian Castle, and in front of the Air and Space Museum.

We spent some time in the Think Tank, where primate intelligence was studied through a series of activities and experiments, and where there were many specimens for Annalise, especially, to explore.

At the Greenbelt National Park playground.

In the invertebrate house, we were able to watch the exhibit curators preparing specimens in a well-equipped lab.

Scenes from the Metro....

While we were outside, we enjoyed sprayer stations set up for cooling guests on hot days, and the kids enjoyed the prairie dog playground before we headed back to the campground for one last sleep before heading home.

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V is for Vision

500 Words On….Vision.

Nockatee was with him – and then, all at once, she was not.

Her eyes were still turned toward the makeshift stage made of the White Hart‘s wide porch, but he could feel that her vision had turned far inward, to places within her awakening memories that made no sense to him…

The part of her that needed the life she had known before he found her crumpled upon the forest floor worried at the scrap of dialogue that had set the swirling energies of that life once more to life within her….

She was sitting beside him, but she was elsewhere.

The words echoed in her mind, and images and feelings and thoughts gathered around them.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire.”

And, although it was, as Horatio had said, “wondrous strange”,  she -  felt - that it was true. She knew the fire of the stars,  within  Everdeep.  She was unafraid, there, and cherished the sight of starfire streaming past the bow of…..

She made a small, gasping, sound, and her fingers groped for his, clutching with that desperate strength that had so frightened him when first they  met.

Her breath was coming fast, short and sharp, and, within her mind, the pain gathered.  She could feel the stars; she could feel, too, her mother, whose arms and breasts and scent meant comfort, whose voice was always, it seemed, at the edge of song. and whose laughter was a tickling delight in her soul…

And, of course, Father was there, quiet, kind, endlessly patient, answering all the questions her mind could ask – she was, in the memory, too young to speak – in a way that made sense and gave her always more to wonder upon.  Father, whose gentleness was endless, who did not hunt or eat meat, and who held her upon his lap to read old stories, for as long as she chose.

The memory was clear, and sharp, and for a moment, Henry could see their faces, and knew them with her same infant love.

And the loss of that struck her to her quick, sharpened the hurt he could not take from her….

All he could offer, against her mourning, still sharp and fresh, was himself, and what they shared between them.

~~I love you, my wildling.~

He sent the thought to her, along with all the waves of what he felt for her.  He opened to her in a way he never had with anyone, offered himself as the shelter for her pain and sorrow – and even for her rage that all she knew had been taken from her….

But she could not take his offering of love and devotion, not yet. Once her vision fixed on her past, she could only strain to know, to understand, to find her way back to the life she had known.

She exerted all her effort, her body taut with the struggle. Her short, blunt nails dug wounds into his palm; Henry bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Sweat stood on her lip, and her jaw was set tight, but as nothing to the tensing in her mind, and in their bond.

And then, she relaxed, and she flowed into him, joyously, another piece of her jigsaw memory returned to her.  She did not try to understand, only reveled, for now, in the knowing.

Her eyes glinted with truth as they claimed his.

~I come from the stars, and their fire.~

I had no idea I was going to write a flash fiction piece for this one. I couldn’t find a way to begin an essay on vision; maybe I’m not quite ready for that.

Everything I wrote felt like lecturing.

So I deleted, and it occurred to me that what I was meant to write about was Henry and Nockatee.

And that is what I did.

Every time I write one of these little pieces, I connect more fully with the characters, and in a more visceral sense.

Maybe it’s because so much needs to be accomplished in a very small space. Maybe it’s because I’m not trying to create an entire novel, just to create a vignette.

It occurs to me that doing a slew of these before starting a novel would give me a much better sense of the characters and their interactions and motivations.

OOOH! I want to do some of these as the basis for each scene in Blood and Breath’s missing chapters…

If each scene is an embellishment of a flash fiction story, there will always be a degree of conflict and resolution, and probably tautness, too!

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R is for Resistance

500 Words On….Resistance.

Resistance is futile. You WILL be assimilated.

So goes the threat, warning, or merely informational greeting (depending on your viewpoint upon hearing it, I suppose) of the Borg.

The Borg have no sense of humor, and they don’t bluff. If they say you will be assimilated – well, it’ll take a lot of fight to prove them wrong.

I’ve been known to be pretty good at resisting. I think that can be said of most of us who are looked upon by others, and maybe even ourselves, as stubborn.

It can be a good thing, to resist, if I am resisting an impulse that leads to harm for someone.

Other times, though, resistance is not only futile, but actually self-destructive.

Some things simply are, and cannot be changed. As much as I wish it might be otherwise, Elijah died. As much as I might wish it to be otherwise, Jim was involved in a serious, life-threatening motorcycle accident a little less than two months ago, and, whether I or he or anyone else resists it, the lingering repercussions will be a part of our lives for quite some time to come.

As much as I might wish it to be otherwise, I cannot have peaceable relationships with certain of my family members, despite having spent the maority of my life resisting that knowledge – knowledge that I suspected long before I allowed myself to fully and consciously accept the fact of it.

Until then, I resisted. I capitulated. I apologized for wrongs I did not feel I had committed, accepted the responsibility of atoning for crimes that were of far lesser magnitude than those they  inflicted upon me. I allowed those who disregarded my well-being, who hurt me intentionally as a way to feel better about themselves or to punish me, do so with impunity.

More than once, I returned to the strongholds (in our family, the homes) of those who had physically, emotionally, and verbally abused me.

Once there, I watched my every step, every word, every action, knowing without doubt that I was being constantly watched and assessed. Those who assessed might appear sweet and friendly, or aloof and disinterested, or anywhere in between.

But I knew that, if their moods shifted, there would be another attack.

And still, I resisted, acquiesced, tried to get along despite knowing that, sooner or later, there would be rage, pain, and suffering. I resisted because I needed to be loved just for myself, as myself, even when I screwed up.

Always, I believed that I was somehow to blame for the rage and ugliness of those moments – until the day that two of my siblings spent 18 hours in a torrent of ugly and sometimes slanderous comments on my Facebook wall, because I had posted a general comment that they took objection too.

I had been away from my computer for the first 12 hours or so, and had contributed nothing, and yet the attacks went on and on….

From that point, I began to release my resistance. The thing is, when something is not right in my world, energy will be required to set things right. If I give some of my energy to resisting the facts, I have thrown that energy away, making the problem larger.

Resistance is futile.

I’ve stopped resisting the family dynamic – nor do I tolerate abuse. I simply accept each family member as they are – and avoid any private interactions with those who may become abusive.

Not perfect, maybe – but far more peaceful than resisting truth.  I have been assimilated, and that is healing.

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“Watersdeep’s Edge” – A Storyteller’s Writing Challenge

The Storyteller Writing Challenge

Are you a Storyteller? What inspires you?
What stirs you to pick up your pen, open your word doc. and write?

I offer TWO prompts for you to CHOOSE from:

 An Image prompt and an Other prompt. 

1. THE Image PROMPT:

Source within the picture.
For this weeks image prompt, tell us what is evoked by this image.
Where is it? What story tumbles from your imagination?
What is she doing? Who is she?

You decide.
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“Watersdeep’s Edge” - copyright 2012 by Shan Jeniah Burton

The stench of the pyres – for her son, her sire, and so many beloved others, caused her to retch each time she was minded of them, seared her each moment she left herself unguarded.

They twisted into the burning of her chosen Solemate, lost now to her, somewhere in the vastness of Everdeep.

To him, now, she was only madness…

She was stirring the huge stewpot, in Osiraan’s greatroom, bursting with a jumbled mass of Tribed and untribed, – so many faces blank, such a stench of burning and pain.

Shinjao took the ladle from her hand, and added stew to the handful of herbs in a wooden bowl. .

“Eat, Huntleader.”

She shook her head, trying to hide the dizziness. “Others have greater need.”

“You are three days past birthing, Huntleader. You ARE Huntleader, and Kai, and needed. If you don’t eat, I will sit on you and force you.”

She offered the bowl, but Jeniah didn’t move.

Shinjao drove her down and away from the cookfire – thick furs beneath her; Shinjao’s weight above. The spoon forced past her lips,and she spluttered, then swallowed.

The stew was laced with arytana nectar, and piqued her hunger. She allowed Shinjao to feed her, taking the spoon greedily, and the other woman chuckled. “You are a fine Huntress. There is more than enough. Of stew, time, support, and sleep….”

The words were like new fog. “Sleep?” She recognized the subtler taste of nightbalm, and knew she had been fooled….”No – the fires….”

“Will be there until you find healing. Sleep, dream – and begin to heal.”

~~She was standing on a rocky promontory, waves reaching almost to her shod toes. The seabirds cried raucously, tossed and wheeling in the stiff wind.

 

The reeky,  fertile scent of Watersdeep filled her nostrils, scrubbing away the char of death…

 

She was in garb more useless than any Mother would have demanded she wear, even when she most wanted to impress her Court. One of those new contrivances meant to keep rain off was in her right hand….and, in her left, the cast iron keys to the Kai’s Courtyard- Hallii’s killing grounds.

 

Grief constricted her soul; tighter than the laces that entrapped breath. She was apart from all of life, bereft. Liacivaar dead; Tacivaar – so many others.

 

All pointless… the damage Kaitiiraan and Tacivaar had birthed.

 

What profit had it been? Mother had poisoned her, and lost her throat…. Jeniah could still taste her blood, curdling, and she retched, gasping for what air she could draw into her compressed lungs.

 

Her breasts throbbed, and her milk let down suddenly, soaking the bodice of the dress, meant for the child who would never suckle. Her womb clenched, its emptiness tearing into her soul.

 

Tacivaar  had asked, cajoled, manipulated, and finally forced her to conceive his Truestborn.

 

It had taken longer for the old Huntleader’s machinations to kill him, but they had, as surely as Mother’s.

 

And my child, too – “Liacivaar,” she cried, to Everdeep, to Watersdeep…..

 

She yearned for her child, for her Chosen.

 

The wind whipped the long, spray-damped skirts; hobbled her legs.

 

All gone – freedom, Huntleader, child, sire, lover – all gone with nothing left but duty she hadn’t chosen, and did not want.

 

She felt something welling up from her depths, and she did nothing to stop its coming. “Sima garo provides…”

 

The screaming arched her back, drew her tight against the bones and lacings. She set her legs wide despite the layers of sodden cloth and ill-suited shoes. The seabirds cried answer.

 

Huntlust broke loose, and her arms swung out. The keys vanished beneath the breaking waves; the umbrella bobbed wildly, attracting the birds.

 

She clawed and tore away the clothing, until she stood naked on the wet rock, at last only herself, and nothing other.

 

And then she dove, sobbing, into the sea, letting the salty waters close over her.~~

“You will be fine, now, sisterkin,” Shinjao whispered, as she crawled into the furs to stroke Niah’s quaking back. “You have found your tears, and can cleanse now for healing.”

OR

2.THE Other PROMPT

TIMED WORD ASSOCIATION: Heat, Car, Longing.
Write whatever springs to mind from these three words, in 3 minutes:
No cheating or editing! Lets see what happens.
—————————————–

We are parked at the drive-in, a movie neither of us wanted to see, at least not really, blurred through the heat-fogged car windows.

Heedless of nothing but longing, not even the treacherous gear-shift, we do not realize we’ve dislodged the  shifter –  until we hit the police car parked behind us…..and we’re still tangled in our clothes as he approaches, his light a neon sign of our shame –  and then my elbow hits the car alarm button on my keys, as though to seal the legendary nature of our dalliance.

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N is for Names

500 Words On….Names.

A baby girl named Shannon Danielle...long, long ago.

Humans are the only animals who  feel a need to name things. All things. All ideas,  all colors, shapes, moods, and weather.

It’s as though we feel, as a species, that if we name something, we own it, or at least can control it.

We all use names on a near-constant basis. They seem to be in every thought.

But do we really take time to think about the names we assign to things, and what ideas and assumptions we get from those names; the associations they make for us?

This little girl still liked her name, and goats, too. =)

My parents named me, nearly 43 years ago. It was an unusual name, at the time: Shannon Danielle.

I enjoyed my name, when I was small. I knew that I had been named for a river in Ireland (one of my father’s favorite places from his Navy days), and for my severely  disabled Uncle Danny, who lived in an institution (and whom I would not meet until I was a teenager).

I thought it was a fine and distinctive name, although my parents seldom called me by it.

So Shannon became my school name. At home, I was Dee – and an endless stream of often-insulting nicknames my mother delighted in giving me…..one of the nicer ones of these was “Physical Wreck”.

Shannon, in choir, age 16.

It was almost as though I had two selves, and lived two lives.

In both of them, I was bullied and ridiculed.  In both of them, I thought that somehow I must deserve it.

I thought that for many years – well into my 30s.

Even when my eyes opened to the realities of my childhood, it was several more years before I could move beyond the phrase, “There were abusive incidents in my childhood, but I was not abused.”

...And Dee, age 19 or so.

And a few more still, before I realized that I was still holding on to that childhood, still allowing my parents (and an emotionally abusive sibling, as well) to hold a certain power over me.

I was still, in too many ways, a victim. Just as I had been at 19, when I came home after curfew (I had been in the emergency room with a friend after a night of particularly bad judgment on both our parts). My mother dragged me into the house, I think by a handful of my shirt, and then got a double handful of my hair and forced me backward down the hall and into my bedroom doorway, where there was a wall. Once I could go no further, she spent what seemed an eternity yelling in my face and hitting me in the face, head, shoulders, and upper chest.

Time to break free.....and searching for a name of my own.

It never occurred to me, then, that I was an adult, and that this was unprovoked assault. I had been powerless my whole life, and this was not by far the first violent incident in my life, from either of my parents. It never occurred to fight back: I was careful, even , of how I tried to protect myself, because experience had long since taught me that it might be interpreted as aggression against a parent. a felony in our home.

After some time, I realized that, to reclaim my own life and the power in it, I needed to shed the victim mentality. And, to do that, I would also need to shed my name….

Just call me Shan.......Shan Jeniah is MY name.

Some time and thought and feeling later, I renamed myself Shan Jeniah - a snappier form of my given name, and one borrowed from my alter-ego heroine, who will defend herself fiercely, capably, and without delay, when there is a need.

I like it much better this way!

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M is for Money, and Mindfulness

500 Words on… Money and Mindfulness.

Not anymore!

I had originally been going to write about money for this post, because money seems to take up a great deal of focus for many people, and our attitudes toward it, as individuals and as a family, have a huge impact on the peace – or lack thereof – in our home and lives.

Later, though, as I was reading through the list of upcoming posts I have scheduled, my subconscious replaced ‘money’ with ‘mindfulness’.

I have learned to listen to my subconscious. It has really good ideas, a good deal of the time.

So, I am going to combine the two words, and talk a little about Money and Mindfulness….

Loveliness.....

Mindfulness is a way of being I have been nurturing in myself for the last several years. I’m not claiming enlightenment, or even proficiency – only that I am getting better at paying attention to my emotions, and honoring them in ways that are far less reactive than what I could manage a few years ago.

And, as that has happened, I have begun to shift my feelings and thoughts about money and what to do with it.

I like money as art......

There was a time, not very many years ago, when I felt a driving need to spend money, and to acquire more and more things.

I was, without realizing it, trying to fill the empty places inside me, trying to heal the broken places, with pretty new things.

I was distracting myself from my pain with stuff; but the stuff could only distract so long as it was new and interesting. As soon as whatever shiny new object I last purchased was assimilated into the fabric of my life, its value as a distraction ended, and I was left feeling emptier and more broken than before.

Meditative and mindful movement.

As I said, I wasn’t aware of any of this then. It took time, and moving away from that place, before I could see why there was always a need for more and more new things.

Once I chose to live consciously, though, I realized that I would need to turn and face my pain – the emptiness and brokenness needed to be felt, understood, and moved through.

There is filling, and healing, I have found, that costs little or nothing, and that never loses its lustre.

Money in the service of love...is the best spent.

For me, it’s in writing, and reading, t’ai chi, yoga, walking, swimming, snuggling with my children and listening to the sweet harmony of their laughter. It is the things they choose, learn, and create, and the knowledge that they do these things as they are moved to, and not because it was required of them.

It’s long coffee fueled conversations with my husband, lounging in bed together. It’s lovemaking and travel and planning for our future and reminiscing about our past….

It’s going into myself, discovering the depths of what is contained within myself, and what I want to share.

Playing attention.....

And, these days, when I want to make a purchase, it is because it is needed, or what is truly useful to our lives, or what will bring us joy.

And these things may be outgrown or wear out, in time, but, until then, they serve us well, and are tools and beauty in our lives, and not distractions.

It might not be a traditional approach to economy, but it is a pleasant one!

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J is for Jeremiah

More than 500 Words On……Jeremiah, and relating!

At about 10 months old old, in love with the vacuum!

Sometimes, it can be hard to describe Jeremiah in terms that shows others the deepest and most fascinating parts of him. He’s a lot like Jim that way. His depths lie tucked away beneath a smooth surface, and, if you aren’t among the trusted few, they hardly seem to ripple.

I am thrilled to be a person my son trusts, as he gathers himself, in earnest, for the coming journey from boyhood to young manhood.

Age 3; first of many visits to Liberty Ridge Farm, in nearby Schagticoke, NY.

I didn’t start off as well as I might, if I were becoming his mother, and he my son, today. I made some mistakes, and I did things that wounded his spirit, in the way I was wounded by my own childhood. My wounds bled into his, as so often happens in families of abuse.

I was never comfortable with this – perhaps, no parent who enacts and inflicts their own brokenness on their child is. Perhaps they all look for ways to change the dynamic to something healthier and more gratifying, and only haven’t encountered it yet.

Or maybe not.

I love this.....age 4, I think, and in his favorite sweatshirt. =)

At any rate, when Miah was 7, the same age Annalise is now, I had learned enough to start making better choices in how I interacted with him, how I handled things like “disobedience” (in quotes because it is no longer a part of our reality)  children, in general, act in accordance with the degree to which their needs are met. Not necessarily the needs parents think they have, though – the respond in accordance with their own specific and unique personal needs; in other words, not just for food, sleep, and shelter, but for other things too.

Things like being taken seriously, being respected, being treated with kindness,  feeling safe – physically, mentally, and emotionally – , having freedom to live their own lives to the fullest possible degree, and knowing that the integrity of their beings is honored.

Jeremiah the Absolutely Awesome Big Brother

I am glad I began to change when I did. It’s been nearly four years since I began the transition.

At 7, Jeremiah deepened, and I was able to regain most of the trust I had squandered in those days that I valued the societal idea of being a “good mother” more than I valued being the mother Jeremiah needed me to be.

If I hadn’t, I think he would have simply slipped into himself, and I would not know this amazing person, who, at 9, spent 5 months saving for his own 3DS, although we would have bought him one.   Saving included getting up early several times to go work odd jobs for his grandfather.  He packed his own lunch,  made his own arrangements, and took the responsibility very seriously.  He chose not to spend money on several other things, in order to but it on his tenth birthday, although Jim and I told him we would buy it at Christmas.  He did his own research, and purchased it with his own money – an awesome feat! =)

Under the waterfall, age 6, Paint Mines Trail, Thacher State Park. First time I' saw the big boy he's become inside him.

He is interested in morals, ethics and laws. He has a keen sense of justice. He is planning his adolescence and early adulthood with an obvious grasp of what is involved – he thinks about saving for a car, what job he would like and how much he wants to make, getting his license, when he thinks he might like to get married, buy a house, and have children.

I wouldn’t have wandering late-night talks where it’s hard to remember he’s not yet 11. He seems wiser, and more thoughtful, than he is during the busyness of his days spent exploring various games and media, playing inside and out, building and planning and figuring out how things work.

I would not have his snuggles, that beautiful light in his eyes, and a welcome into those fascinating depths within him .

Warrior With a Self Made Boffer and His Cell Phone; Unschoolers Rock the Campground II, Plymouth, MA, age almost 9.

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E is for Enchantment

500 Words on… Enchantment.

So many sweet memories lie within these pages, and beyond....

Enchantment and entrancement are both words I have always felt pulled toward. Maybe it’s because both tend to deal with what feels to me like a very personal, subjective experience.

So what is enchantment, and what value does it have?

Babies and very small children are very often enchanted – and enchanting to adults, although that is certainly not their intent. Their world is new, filled with discoveries, challenges, possibilities, and wonder.

They don’t have their world pigeonholed, yet. Without these defining labels, which place rigid frames around so much of the typical adult life, everything is fluid and ceaselessly changeable.

Enchanting portrait of a childhood friend....

Nearly everything in a young child’s life is an adventure. If they are well-cared for and given as much freedom as possible, they will move about a wide variety of activities, and learn and grow from each.

Before memory is cemented and continuous, things can be surprising and delightful even when they’ve happened before, because they have been forgotten, and so are happening as though for the first time, never losing their joy. As an infant, Jeremiah went into the most delightful rounds of chortling every time I made farm animal noises. He was also incredibly enchanted by vacuum cleaners.

Enchanting adventure!

A little later, after memory is more reliable, a child will find enchantment, in , what Annalise used to call again and again and again and AGAIN!” She fell in love with The New Adventures of Little Toot the summer she turned five. She watched it hundreds of times. She asked questions about geology, meteorology, music, and animals.

Enchantment on the Thames.....

She learned to sing all the music, and then choreographed dances. In order to get Jeremiah, who had trouble learning her steps when she demonstrated them, to dance with her, she drew a chart ordering the steps for him.

She gathered up an inflatable yellow dolphin, three stuffed dogs, three stuffed cats, a mechanical pelican, and a toy tugboat, and acted out scenes from the cartoon, then began improvising her own.

This map enchanted Annalise - and her mother. =)

She became fascinated by the story of Little Toot, and, when we found a copy of the 1939 original by Hardie Gramatky on Ebay, we bought it for less than $10, and spent hours reading it together, Annalise’s understanding of English through history, geography, watercraft, and art blossoming.

Eventually, we added Little Toot Through the Golden Gate; Little Toot on the Thames; and Little Toot on the Mississippi. And we learned more geography, history, other cultures, a rich vocabulary, double-digit numbers, bits of other languages, and so so much more….

San Francisco has long been a source of enchantment for both children.

I might have been so busy with my own life that I didn’t notice the enchantment of my four-year-old. The length of the fascination was a single summer, and then, quite suddenly, she had absorbed all she needed from it, and moved on.

I would have lost so much joy and connection, if I had missed it.

Thankfully, I have always been enchanted by children and how they learn, and I was paying attention – and her life, and mine, are richer because of that.

Mississippi Riverboat enchantment.

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Spock – A Most Logical Character

One logical guy; one emotional guy - delightful synergy!

This post was written for The Lightning and the Lightning Bug‘s  Flicker of Inspiration Blog Hop.

I had seen him around a few times, ever since I was maybe 7 or so, and I knew his voice, in other contexts. He was like a neighbor I whose face, car, and house I recognized, but about whom I knew nothing of consequence.

Except that that voice could draw me from anywhere, when I heard it, and it spoke things I couldn’t yet understand to my wounded soul.

Scientist, musician, explorer, Shakespeare fan......layers and levels.

Until I was 13, and my best friend, after much attempted persuasion, pressed a book into my hand and said, “Just read the first story, before you refuse to read more.”  I had a long tradition of fiercely resisting things she was certain I would enjoy.

The story was “Spock’s Brain“, the James Blish novelization of the original Star Trek episode.

I read it, and I was hooked. Deeply and passionately in love with with a fictional half-Vulcan who managed, even with his brain severed from his body, to solve the problem of (however improbably), getting it back where it belonged.

The Essence of Cool.

I have never gotten over that passion. I love Spock, and I always will.

The relationship, however one-sided it may be, has grown with me, and the teenage lust has given way to a deep and abiding – well, I guess the appropriate word would be fascination.

Because of Spock, I learned that I could be smart and still be fallible. I could have integrity of self. I could live according to my internal compass rather than rely on external factors to define my life for me. I learned that I could sacrifice myself for the greater good – and that I could hope that, on occasion, others might think my well-being was the greater good, even when logic didn’t agree.

"Remember"...a mindmeld before logical self-sacrifice.

I learned that one can be stronger, but does not need to use their strength to bully or force others. I began to see that sometimes there is a gift in silence, and in the subtle shifts of expression.

It was from Spock that I first learned that there was a possibility of mastering my emotions, or at least of not being so utterly ruled by them as everyone around me seemed to be. In time, I became able to step back within myself, breathe, and attend to my  feeling more of the time, allowing  me to take necessary or desired action with less reactivity, at least most of the time.

Spock, revisited in 2009......

I learned that while there are things worth killing and dying for, and a time when only force can act as defense, striving for understanding and compassion  generally avoids coming to such dire straits.

I learned that passion is uncontrollable, sometimes, and must simply be given in to, and allowed to run its natural course.

I learned that there are always possibilities, and most of the trick in seeing them is recognizing that fact.

Spockish fun!

I cut my writing teeth on Spock, creating terrible plots and merrily defiling characters, logic, and even possibility, all in an erotic quest for my Vulcan, and largely conducted in high school classrooms, or on the bed in my unhappily shared bedroom –  a vital escape that kept my mind from stultifying, and disengaged me from at least some potential sibling conflict.

I know that fan fiction is frowned upon in serious circles -

And yet I know that a rich and vital world has sprung up in my life over the nearly 3 decades I have shared with Spock, and I know that, without him, I would not have this remarkable world for my subconscious to play in.

It took a while, but Spock integrated his conflicting instincts....and so can I.

I would not be leading the life that I am, because Spock showed me the way to courage.  I would not have the husband I have, because it was Spock who first showed me how to risk taking a flying leap off the deep end of logic, when that was needed.

I would not write as well as I do, for it was in reading back and seeing how badly I had corrupted the character I love more than any other, that I began to learn to never force my stories to comply to my ideas, but rather to be a faithful observer and narrator of those stories, without interfering in them.

Live Long and Prosper.

There are always possibilities.

And, with Spock tucked firmly and logically into my soul, I will continue to find them, and live them.

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B is for Books

500 Words On.… Books.

Maybe this was the one I had.....?

I have been in love with books nearly as far back in my life as I can remember. When I was three or so, I had a book (I think it was a Little Golden Book) about how babies grew inside their mothers. I remember being fascinated with the watercolored picture of a baby curled upside-down, snug inside a bag of water in its mother’s womb.

I remember spending a lot of time looking at that picture, running my fingers over the details, and knowing, even at that age, that the book held a wealth of information, right there in my hands.

It was somewhere in my fourth year when I received a personalized book with mirror writing in it. My parents were in the process of building us a new house; they had little time for helping me.

Da Vinci's mirror writing...

I could climb up on the toilet, and hold my book up to the mirror, without help, after some practice and experimentation. But, even in the mirror, at first, I could not read the words.

I learned to read so that I would be able to make the magic of the mirror writing without needing help.

Before long, I was an avowed bibliophile, although it would be many more years before I learned the word that described my passion.

I can just smell them, can't you?

I spent my childhood lost in books as often as I could manage. I was pulled away often. To eat, because we were required to eat at the table, and books were not allowed. To go to school and to do homework, because those things, however uninspiring, were more important to my parents than the endless (but uncontrolled) things I might learn in the pages of my books. To go outside and “get some fresh air’, which was often an excuse that allowed my mother to be alone in the house, where she would sometimes sit for hours and read romance magazines, as her own mother did. We were not allowed books outside, because we might leave them there.

But, as often as I could be, I was reading. I found an escape there for the volatility of my family life. I read to learn – about the way animals were treated in industrial England; what life was like in the Swiss Alps, what it was like to lose one’s mind, walk across America, be addicted to drugs, or trapped in a body that doesn’t suit one’s gender identity.

There were a few years, when my children were smaller, when reading books seemed like something I would never find time or focus for, again…..

And then, a few months ago, my children became much more capable, and needed me far less, in a moment to moment sense. Now, I am thoroughly enjoying the freedom to read, to revel, to learn from books.

My current reading material....

Even while I find myself captivated by the exciting new world of electronic books, I still adore my collection of bound and printed books – my friends throughout life; my first and cherished companions.

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