April 26, 2016 § Leave a comment
Robin Black: Crash Course: Essays on Where Writing and Life Collide. This is a must read for writers. Beautifully written. Powerful in her ability to take the personal from her own experience and make it feel like our own.
December 12, 2015 § 1 Comment
Arms Stretched Wide
I have a small clay figure on my study window sill, a gift from a dear friend. The figure stands tall, head held high,arms stretched wide, open to the world. Three blue birds perch on her shoulders. My friend said it reminded her of me. I laughed on the outside, but wept on the inside. No, that’s not me. This girl, this woman, most often crosses her arms across her body, and while my head might not be down, it is rarely tilted up toward the sky. More likely, my gaze is focused straight ahead, on the very next two steps that are necessary. Necessary and safe.
I was reminded of this when I read a post this morning by a former student. Some years ago, he lost a younger brother. My student wrote he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on those memories. He pushed them deep, deep inside. He didn’t talk about his brother. He didn’t say his brother’s name. The best plan, he decided, was to “act” as if everything was okay. And so he walked carefully, wrapped up in his sorrow, afraid that one misstep on his part might bring about more pain. “I remember feeling so scared I would lose even more, that I lived life like I was walking on eggshells,” he wrote.
Yeah, I know that way of living. But with time and work and lots of prayer, most often our arms can unfold, our heads rise, and the pain eases. The thing is, though, that until we stretch our arms wide and open ourselves fully, we are not really living. We, like my student, are acting as if everything is okay.
And so often, we approach our writing in exactly the same way. We feel the need to write. We want to write. But it’s hard. It hurts. So we keep some part of us protected, wrapped within our core, locked up, pushed back. And that is not really writing. To be real, to really write, we must be able to lift our heads and spread wide our arms. We must be willing to dredge up those memories, call them by name, admit everything was and is not always okay. We must be brave enough to crush those eggshells.
And if we do this, one day, perhaps, those blue birds will light on our shoulders.
(I am proud of you, Caleb.)
Coming Spring 2016: His Mother! Women Write About Their Mothers-in-Law with Humor, Frustration, and Love
September 22, 2015 § Leave a comment
To be released Spring 2016: Anthology of essays, poems, and letters by women from across all boundaries of age, race, and culture. Compiled and edited by Sandy Richardson. Stay tuned for more info!
Check out the September issue of Wake Magazine at www.wakezine.com. Great new poetry by Noa Daniels, Joanna Crowell, Sandy Richardson, and many others, plus awesome articles on spirituality and the arts. If you’d like to contribute your writing to wake,please email firstname.lastname@example.org. Thanks.
September 2, 2015 § Leave a comment
October 31, 2014 § 1 Comment
Check out The Handyman trailer below. This is a great read, set in our beloved Charleston, SC. And the main character is more “hunk” than “redneck” (at least I think….the kind of man women love and men like!) Get it today~!~~~~~ I can’t wait to read the sequel.
“The Handyman” Book Trailer
“The Handyman” — a new murder mystery by Christopher Watson — Meet the redneck who speaks for the dead. — HolladayHousePublishing.com A year…
July 23, 2014 § 1 Comment
I grew up in the days before everyone in the South had air conditioning, but until this summer, I don’t remember ever being so weighted down by the South Carolina heat. “Maybe it’s age,” my husband said, but I will not grace that comment with a reply—not today or six months from now. (:\
I have decided that South Carolinians must be at least 40% aquatic because we almost literally swim through days like today when the temperature is 95 degrees and relative humidity hovers around 97% with no breeze to stir even a blade of grass. How else could we breathe? Maybe we have developed some invisible gills to assist us. Or maybe our lungs have evolved to tolerate the high levels of moisture. Who knows?
At any rate, today I had to be outside for a while, and I was miserable. Charlie, my cat, is almost totally blind, but he still loves to go outside and make his daily rounds. We usually start the day at sunrise with a walk when the air is cool and the sun’s rays slant through the oaks and pines. Both of us enjoy the time. He meditates on the shifting light and shadows as the sun rises and feels absolutely independent and in charge of himself (important for a cat!), and I make my daily fifteen laps=one mile from the mailbox to the end of the street. Charlie supervises and counts from his chosen spot on the cul-de-sac.
But in the afternoons, our time outside is not quite so enjoyable. He loves to roll in a patch of sand and soak up the heat, while I wait impatiently in the shade of a tree, or sometimes if he doesn’t wander too far, I can sit on the porch. Today was a porch day. I paced and sighed and prayed he would get his “fill for the day,” and we could hurry back to the a/c inside. But Charlie lingered, climbing the lattice in search of lizards, mounting the bird bath for a quick lap of water. And while he attended to his curiosity, I suddenly thought back to my childhood summer afternoons. Surely it was as hot and humid then, as now. But we often passed them hours on end on my grandmother’s open porch. When the air grew thick and heavy distant thunder rumbled raising our hopes for an early evening shower, my grandmother guided me to the front porch where we took seats in a rocker or the porch swing. Then she’d hand me a large metal bowl and a brown grocery sack of field peas or butter beans. A small table held a pitcher of lemonade or sweet tea and usually cookies or brownies or slices of pound cake. We endured many sultry afternoons, rocking, swinging, and shelling while sharing local gossip or old family stories. Yet I don’t remember every breaking a sweat or wanting to strip down to my undies in attempt to get cool. I just remember the stories and the time we spent together. And of course, later, there was always a delicious supper to eat (fresh from the garden) while we listened to the rain making music on the roof.