A Start
It’s a shakedown. Actually it’s a write down. The truth is where to start?
How to begin? Why blog? What about pertinence? Whom is it for? What
does it mean? Practice, exercise, prepare, encourage, build, share messages.
Stop, look, listen. Stop, look left, look right, look left again, look straight ahead,
cross the street, don’t tarry, don’t dally, be brisk, only three more streets to cross, you’re almost there.
Two steps forward, three steps back, move a bit to the right, not too close, be quick.
Avoid a stumble, watch out for the curb, try not to tread on heels or stump toes.
Not a good idea to wear flip flops or slides. These will sometimes hamper your
stride. Only two blocks to go.
Stop, look, listen. A siren blasts. The television emergency signal elongates,
the high pitched beep interrupts, a weather warning, take heed.
Do I stay or do I go? Where is the safe room? Startled, I hasten my step. I approach
with caution. I get my bearings, find my purpose, give thanks for directions.
Stop now. You’ve arrived. Explore. Warm up. Settle in. Start.
First sentence commands STOP. Three practice pitches to
loosen the pen. I keep a notepad at hand to collect phrases.
Sometimes I struggle to sit and think. When I fidget a fresh thought
comes to mind and my process gets underway. This blog is committed
to practice. It may be drivel, it may make you snivel. It could cause you to
sniff, sneeze or wheeze. It might be pitter patter of feet that skip, scurry and whirl
in search of words. Hesitate or wait for the light to change. It’s a choice. What’s important is to cross the street, step out, take a risk, have courage to write.
Breathe
By Kelly Weathers
(Inspired by I Remember by Maja Ruznic and Bill Brown/ Tennessee Mountain Writer’s Poetry Jumpstart.)
I remember my ride atop the nurse’s cart
stroller slows, cheers soldiers’ sick ward.
I remember mother’s sobs, she waves good-bye, again.
Oxygen zipper enclosure primes constricted passages.
I remember the smell of camphor oil
the vaporizer puffed and billowed.
I remember the Murray spearmint, butter cream, lozenges
Grandmum sneaked in my palm before I went to sleep.
I remember wanting to breathe.
Paper Bag
~By Kelly Pena Weathers
“Simple gestures taking place on the surface of life, can be of central importance to the soul.” - Thomas Moore-
“Paper or plastic?” asks the grocery checker.
“Paper please.” Preoccupied, my head spins. My payment card won’t swipe. I’m in a hurry. The checker delays me. “Try again please.” The Verifone’s screen text queries: Do you need cash back? Yes? No? My index finger fumbles, pushes Cancel button. Disrupted, the processor resets a third time. Mortified, my mind reels a repeat command. Hand me a paper bag. Hand me a paper bag. I want to pull it over my head.
How would the shoppers who stand in line behind me react if I don my brown paper sack and march out of the store? Hand me a paper bag, I want to hyperventilate. Hand me a paper bag so I can jump in it and hide. I don’t have all day. I need to dash. Hand me a paper bag, I’m humiliated. I am green, ready to regurgitate. There is no time to meander. I need to recycle. Hand me a paper bag. Don’t let me waste this brainstorm.
I intend to store this surge to avoid the more than one hundred and one excuses that could hamper me to write. Hand me a paper bag, I will fill it with energy to salvage enough steam to propel my words into print for Tennessee Writers’ Alliance. Aha! I blink, I grimace, I shake my head and shudder, awakened and empowered. Be brave. Think positive, think gusto.
Brain splatter, don’t swoon. I fling my words about to concoct verse. Nit-wit, keep it straight. Cerebral vats teem. Invectives and derision spew forth, bubble and explode. Cockamamie schemes interfere. Storylines intertwine. Patterns emerge and re-emerge. Chaos prevails. Step away. Stop, manage that impulse. Clear away the clutter and confusion. My mind grapples, succession ensues. Organize random thoughts. Show meaning, connect. Sift through the emotion of writing. Find interest. Open up.
Within minutes whimsy takes hold. Euphoria materializes. I rant and ramble. Out of control I spiral. I laugh, whine, and change my mind. Self-doubt toys with my ability to explain my purpose. There is risk. I plunge into my journal, my Utopia, pages of nonsense, truth, fair play, creativity and treasure. I keep a wastebasket liner on standby for muck.
I remember Luca, my family friend’s astute child who, at the age of six, defined imagination with confidence. “It’s a book without pictures. You have to think about what you would see.” Keen observer, I envision surprise scenes. What catches my eye? Character minutiae, temperaments, food, wry, self-deprecating humor. What captures my zeal? Antics, conflict, grotesque mixed with suspense … and then what happens? A torrent of backlash—research folly, weak arguments, fear of the unknown torments, mistakes compound.
What helps me discard the negative? Concentration warm up. Discipline and practice using a writer’s prompt: a paper bag.
About me
Excogitate: to think deeply and thoroughly : devisePronunciation: \ek-ˈskä-jə-ˌtāt\
Function: transitive verb
Etymology: Latin excogitatus, past participle of excogitare, from ex- + cogitare to cogitate
* Date: circa 1530
Kelly Weathers is a writer, speaker, storyteller, and life enthusiast. Excogitate grew from divine inspiration and pays tribute to those who guide us to embrace our fate. Visit Kelly's Web site at KellyWeathers.com.
Kelly is a patriot and poet whom ponders her existence as thus:
My earliest thirst was for adventure and travel. My earliest memories are of the sea. Water and Air are elements that define and influence me. Southeast Asia, Carribbean, Europe, North America are places I have roamed. Stateside, Alaska, Maryland, Tennessee, Texas and Virginia captured my heart and are places I call home. England, Italy, Ireland and Spain are the birthplaces of my ancestors and each place stimulates my heart.
On the go from embryo, my odyssey has spun me around the globe from my earliest memories. My first Atlantic crossing was on a Dutch steamship tucked inside the womb. My father, a naval mariner, romanced and married my mother, a Londoner. He rationed Remy Martin into the fuel tank of his automobile when petrol was scarce. My mother fell in love with my father because of his sense of adventure, humor and ingenuity.
A native of Colorado, son of an immigrant from Asturias, Spain, my father heralded storytellers, scholars, medical professionals, military historians, educators, engineers and aviators. He believed in positive thinking. He believed in strong foundations to protect and respect life. He adored children and abhorred environmental squander of Earth's natural resources. He cherished my mother, us daughters, his blood family, and chosen friends who filled our circle. He imbued riches to us through his constant care, meticulous attention to detail, his passion to protect and preserve the glory of life from the Alpha to Omega. Origins are precious reserves to honor. He also drove me crazy with his expectations and fierce temper. He could laugh and fight. He was a warrior who pushed me to rebel, to yell, to challenge, to question, to take risk, to love, to forgive, to strive for excellence. My father taught me resilience and patience, how to receive constructive criticism. It was not easy. Sentiments ebb and flow. I'm still learning.
My writing stems from my family adoration and deep-rooted faith. It's my favorite God-given gift. My writing guides me through adversity. It is my ballast, my anchor, my float; it gives me refuge when I'm adrift. It enables me to think. It enables me to mentor. It enables me to breathe. It enables me to rest and relax. It enables me to share joy. It enables me to ruminate. It enables me to continue story.
