Never Forget

Last year, while attending the water fires in Providence, RI, I happened upon the Wall Of Hope: a community response to September 11th. Set beneath the street, the area is decorated with hundreds of tiles, many created by children.

Beyond the Wall of Hope, the canal was filled with people laughing, music blaring, and the scent of fire. Yet, in the area of the wall, no one spoke. People of all ages moved silently about, reading, taking pictures, crying, remembering.

For those who have not had the opportunity to see this memorial, I wanted to share some of the images that touched my heart, and have stayed with me ever since.

We must never forget the lives lost that day, and the lives affected by diligently working at Ground Zero. Firefighters and police officers are honored and remembered (and rightly so), but paramedics and EMTs were also present, and are mentioned less frequently. They deserve to be recognized.

A peaceful day of remembrance for all.

Searching for Butterflies

Whenever I work in my gardens, go for a walk, or play outside with my granddaughter, I look for butterflies to photograph. If a flicker of yellow or orange flits past me, I run for my camera, hoping. Have the butterflies arrived?  Might one linger on top of a flower long enough for me to capture it in a photograph? What does their arrival mean to me?

By the time I return with camera in hand, the bright colors have disappeared, and I begin to wonder if my imagination is playing tricks on me. Yet, I do not give up. I continue to wait for their arrival and instead, focus on the insects invading our yard: bees, wasps, beetles, mosquitos, and pincer bugs. Just to name a few. This has surprised me, as typically, I abhor bugs. I do not want to touch them, nor do I want them to land and crawl on me.  They destroy my gardens and are obsessed with the scent of my skin. Ticks cling to me as if I were a magnet. And last summer, bees built an underground nest beneath my front garden. Not knowing this, I was happily weeding early one evening when a swarm of bees flew from their hole and attacked me.  As I ran screaming for safety, three followed me into the house. My face was swollen for days.

Last month I visited my nine-year-old nieces in Idaho, who are fascinated by bugs. And rocks. Mostly, bugs. I put aside my fear and disdain for insects and saw them through the eyes of a child. Through my camera, I became fascinated by these tiny creatures. And that change grew out of seeing the tiniest details. The way some insects’ eyes look like an alien’s. How they scratch at their heads with one of their legs while resting on a flower. How hard they work. How comical and cartoonish they appear. How they court and mate in similar patterns to humans.

As in all well-written stories, details are what bring the pages to life for a reader. They allow us to go deeper into the story, tugging at us until we unconsciously slip through the pages and into the world we are reading about. As I followed the insects with my nieces in Idaho, I felt as if I was falling, and being pulled, into a world I had never visited: a world of the tiniest of creatures from another planet. The details sparked my interest. They drew in me, and surprisingly, made me yearn for more.  This desire reminded me of how I feel upon reading the final page of a well-written novel. (A good book leaves you satisfied at the end, yet sad. Sad, because you don’t want the book to end. You want to linger with the character, remaining in their world.) These are the books I covet; lined up on my shelf where I see them early every morning as I settle down to write.

And so, while I wait for the butterflies to arrive, I photograph bugs, still unsure why I am compelled to follow them. Perhaps, there is a story there. A character longing for my attention. All I know is that I will follow the insects as long as I am inspired to do so. Until the pieces fall into their places. Until I understand why a small bee captured my attention for thirty minutes. Why I let my dinner get cold while I photographed a cricket couple in the pouring rain, clinging to a daylily. Why I cry at the sight of dragonflies chasing each other in the early evening, their bodies zipping over my head.

I have opened my eyes to the world of bees and beetles and dragonflies, following the advice quoted on an Idaho shopping bag: “Do one thing each day that scares you.” And that I have done, never knowing how much pleasure I would get in return.

The Stable

One of the things that I live for are those moments of surprise. Moments you don’t anticipate. Moments which take your breath away. For me, this week, it involved a stable. And a horse. And a bale of hay on which I sat on a warm day in Boise, Idaho.

I have spent the last five weeks revising a novel, trying to finish a second novel, attending SCBWI conferences, and working on a web site for the toy store where I work.( I had the pleasure of doing the photography for the site.) While I reminded myself to do my weekly blog, the days and weeks passed by so quickly, I soon discovered that over a month had gone by. I had hoped to slip back into a routine of blogging, but after three days, I had ten drafts. None of which were complete.

And then one of my niece’s needed to be taken to her horseback riding lesson at a farm, where not only twenty horses lived, but also sheep, llamas, chickens, goats, ducks, and a stray turkey. After the class practiced in the ring, they set out to ride at the base of the mountains, and any waiting parents retired to their car. With a camera by my side, and the exquisite landscape before me, I had no desire to follow suit. Instead, I followed the baby lambs, visited the turkey, and when the sun became too unbearable,  I headed to the stable to escape the heat. Except for the occasional rooster crow, the building was quiet, the temperature cool, and the thoroughbred spotted horse captured my attention, as well as my heart.

I never go anywhere without a notebook and pen, and so I sat on two bales of hay, which pushed against the stall of a brown horse. (Before my sister retired to the loft above to rest, I snapped a picture of her sitting at the same spot.) I leaned against the wooden planks, while the horse nuzzled my head. I expected the pen to dangle from my fingers. I expected to be stuck, but then I looked at the door at the end of the stable, and inspiration poured in like the sun peeking through the stable doors. Pen to paper, I wrote, finding the voice of one of my characters who has eluded me in the past week. I saw the stable as she did. In the moment.  Breaking only to shoot pictures of the two horses, I completed four pages by hand, and not once, did I miss having my computer. 

When I return to Connecticut, I will carry these memories with me, as well as the inspiration, and the honor of having been in the presence of such magnificent creatures.

Unexpected Joys in Boston

May - July 09 Norman 214I spent the last three days in Boston where I found unexpected joy and moments of being in the right place at the right time, without realizing you were meant to be there all along.  I gave Pack, the duck statue stolen this spring, an extra hug.  I admit that I wanted to sit on Mrs. Mallard, in line with all the other children, but I refrained. I had the joy of watching a pair of Mallards lead their offspring around the pond.  Two babies lagged behind by twenty feet–until their momma noticed. Then, like mini speedboats, the wanderers zipped through the water, and in seconds caught up with their family. I watched parents laughing with their children in the frog pond; teens relating to their friends without their heads bent over lost in the world of texting; and I quacked along with all the other passengers on a duck tour, where my newest hero struggles with his love of fast-food. In form-fitting spandex and a cape, he drives his beloved duck, Molly Molasses. Though his humor is irresistable,  his obvious sensitivity for children is what won me over.  Captain SuperSwift made sure that every child on our tour, even the ones hiding in the back, had a turn at driving Molly Molasses, once we were safely in the water. I did hold my breath when one over-enthusiastic young boy turned the wheel too sharply to the left and was obviously very independent, but SuperSwift came to the rescue with compassion.

That evening, my husband and I wandered through the streets of the North End.  We walked by a restaurant and stood next to the open windows. Two elderly gentlemen sang and played accordians.  Soon, there was a gathering of couples on the sidewalk, all of us holding our partners and singing along. My belly full of rich italian food we happened upon a sunset where the sky was an exquisite shade of rich turquoise blue.  As soon as I took several photos, the night sky appeared.

On the way back to the T, I heard a banging of metal, shuffling, and clanging.  The sound pulled me into a circle of people.  And on the sidewalk, in front of a closed florist shop at Faneuil Hall Marketplace, sat a young man. He was deep into his own world.  With his head bent over, he seemed to have no knowledge of his audience, nor did he seem to care.  His hands beat against the white buckets used for cut flowers. To his left were old oven racks, frying pans, metal pots and pans.  His talent was raw and I was privileged to be invited. I was inspired.

This is how a writer should create.  Bury yourself into the words and go deep into the story as if no one is watching. Open up your soul and allow your heart to sing.