Hidden Journal Gems

I am a hoarder of journals. I love them. I collect them. I stack them. And yes...I write in them.

I love to give them as gifts. I love to buy them as gifts and then keep them (hangs head in shame). Blogs are great. Video journals are great (although hell no!).  I get it. The digital age is here. But I'll continue to cling to my journals as long as they'll continue to make them.

And now for my journaler's confession:

I don't write in them logically. I don't start on page one and write in that same journal until I reach the last page. Instead I write in whichever one happens to speak to me when I'm ready to write or the one that I grab when I'm packing a bag or that I find in a really weird place (sometimes at a really weird moment). Sometimes I just write in whichever one is within reach. They are stashed all over my house. And in my purse. And in my truck.

The result? Really random collections of writing.

The journal that I took to the writing response group I attended a few weeks ago ended with a page dated 2004. So that is the jump. One page is dated July 9, 2004, and the next is July 4, 2019.

But wait. There's more.

I don't go page to page either (my apologies to the organized brains of the world). I mean, sometimes I write on the very next blank page, but I'm just as likely to open to a random page and start writing. So that same "Metaphors Be With You" journal that jumps from 2004 to 2019 has several months of entries from 2011 buried in there as well.

I don't remember reading back through my journals before. I keep them. I'm sure I've lost many over the years, but for the most part, I keep them. As I am working on my writing about Mema, I've been going through them to transcribe some of those stories. It has been a wonderful experience, and I have come across some really helpful writing, but my favorite entries from today's excavation are from my first summer with the Greater Houston Area Writing Project.

There are lots of lists, writing ideas, and brainstorming shenanigans. We did a lot of that. And many of the pages are titled the name of the reading selection to which I was responding. I love both of these practices, both as a writer and as a teacher. Brainstorming and reader response. They're good for the brain and good for the heart.

Here are two of my favorites of those I read today:


July 7, 2006

Where Writing Hides

In Shipley's chocolate icing
In Ryan's baseball glove
In Aggie's wagging tail
In my daddy's smile
In a guilt trip from my mother

In a dancing flower
In an overturned chair
In a roll of dollar bills
In a missing groundhog
In The Very Merry Cricket
In six tooth treasure boxes

July 19, 2006
*written on a Post-It note in response to a reading of The Giving Tree

I love a little boy too, and he can turn leaves to crowns and frowns to smiles and moments to memories.


Final Thoughts: 

A missing groundhog? Huh?

I still love The Very Merry Cricket.

I texted a picture of that Post-It to my 23 year-old son. He sent the perfect reply. I love you.

And more on that dancing flower later.

Where'd my mojo go?

It's January 26th, and I am writing a blog titled "Where'd my mojo go?"  I have no desire to write, to lift, to run, to go, to do anything productive much less inspiring. Hell, I don't even want to write this post, but I'm a week behind in my blog challenge. I am being bombarded via social media of all sorts with #newyearnewme and before-and-after photos and motivational memes out the wazoo, and I. Just. Sit.

I didn't even make it out of January. I would hang my head in shame, but since I am up to my eyeballs in "I don't give a fuck," I don't think shame is the right word. I think shame implies a certain level of give a fuck.

So...here's what I've got. Here is my attempt at a mojo kickstart.

1. I told a friend my intended Crossfit schedule for next week. She plans to go to the same classes. And while she won't call me out if I don't go (she's too sweet for that), she'll know. And I'll know she'll know. I'm not positive I'll care, but it's worth a shot.

2. I meal prepped. Sadly, I know that prepping is never my problem. I enjoy meal prepping. It's the eating it that is the problem. Chick-fil-a just seems to sound better in the moment.

3. I wrote this blog post. Shitty as it may be, it's done. Check. Finito.

That's it. I've done three things. Eh.

Oh wait...

4. I put on workout clothes this morning. I'm going to count that.

Writing Revival

"A good critique session is like a tent revival. Everyone leaves on fire. And stays that way for a little while."

During my recent tent revival I sat with master writer Ron Rozelle.
I wrote.
I read.
I learned.
I revised.
And most importantly, I received feedback from ten amazing writers who were going through the same struggles. And writing is indeed a struggle.

Mr. Rozelle was right. I walked away on fire as a writer.

So how do I keep that flame burning?

For now, it is through what I am writing, my continued writing about Mema. Oh how I do love writing about her. It means I get to interview family members (which means lots of laughter), many of whom I seldom see. It means I am flipping through and reading and enjoying old journals. The entry below is one such journal. It is not related to my current project, but I did enjoy reading it. I can only assume it was written in response to "Where the Sidewalk Ends," but that is a total assumption on my part. What I do know is that it was written during a Greater Houston Area Writing Project institute. I was a facilitator that summer, and I share it here exactly as it was written.
_______________________________________________________

July 12, 2005

Where will my sidewalk end?

Will I find a life with sidewalks at all?

No need for them in Danbury, naturally, a place so safe we just walk on the road. A place that has no rush hour. A place. A place that resonates a true sense of place.

Pastures, backstops, a one hall school. A town with one blinking light. Ask anyone from Danbury and that is the description you will get: A town with one blinking light.

That light hasn't actually blinked since I was in high school, but no matter. We all know to stop.

You didn't date without checking to see if you were related. That was definitely a rule.

Upon graduation, I moved away intending never to return other than for holidays and family visits.

Enter Ryan.

I knew he had to have that experience. That place. That small town with a huge family place.

His Little League team includes four cousins and is coached by his uncle and his Papaw. In his four years of school he has been taught by three cousins. We live in a strange cross section between The Twilight Zone and Pleasantville.

We live in a one-of-a-kind place.

Muslim Obama

If the title of this post made your stomach turn, or at least caused you a double take, you've come to the right place.

If that title seems totally normal to you, feel free to read on, but you may have come across my blog by mistake, or at least with the wrong idea. You are, of course, still welcome here; just consider yourself warned.

I was recently part of a conversation on Facebook where the other party (someone I know well) referred to former president Barack Obama as "the Muslim Obama." The exact phrasing was "...back when the Muslim Obama was in charge."

I am somewhat ashamed of my initial reaction. I thought what a strange way to refer to a person. I even asked in my response, "Do you call me Catholic Kristi?" It just seemed so weird to me (which I pointed out). The problem with this reaction, though, is that it downplays the seriousness of the usage of the word Muslim in that way. It makes it feel sort of light, like "Hey Baptist Tom, will you let Lutheran Smith know that our two o'clock meeting was rescheduled for Tuesday?" Weird. But light.

And what he said should NOT be taken lightly.

The word Muslim in that comment was undoubtedly being used as an insult, and using a religion (any religion) as an insult is disgusting. Now, the argument could be made that I can't possibly know for sure how the other person intended the phrase. Reading is subjective. True. But there is no doubt in my mind. None. This was spewed with the negativity that accompanies any other derogatory term. And that is gross.

Now think back to my first reaction. "Do you call me Catholic Kristi?" What if he did? And what if it too were meant as an insult? I would be devastated. How gut-wrenchingly horrible.

Reading it made me sad. Thinking back on it makes me sick.

You don't have to agree with someone politically or religiously (or at all) to use decency in referring to a fellow human being. And when you feel so comfortable saying it that you post it in a public forum, it takes on a whole new level of gross.


***

Edited Note:

As far as I know, President Obama is not Muslim. His father was, but Barack only lived with him as an infant. His stepfather was, but Barack only lived with him as a child. He was raised by his Christian mother and is a practicing Christian to this day (not sure what denomination).

And you know what?

None of that matters.
None of it.
It would be a disgusting statement if he is Muslim. And it's a disgusting statement if he's not.