the last day

Don't you feel the desire to say something profound and memorable on the last day of the writing challenge? I do. For several days now I have prepared myself for this, reading through what I have written, checking my gratitude journal, browsing my writer's journal, revisiting my March writing manifesto. I wrote daily. I turned fifty. The war continues in Ukraine. I thought about the final slice before falling asleep last night and on my drive to school today, during the morning walk, between the lessons, and sometimes in the middle of the lessons, and then driving home. I haven't been able to conjure up anything special. I have no metaphors, advice, lessons or wise words to offer.  

Part of me feels completely empty after thirty days of writing, and at the same time I have a whole list of things I could still write about, and all the different structures I collected from others to try out. Part of me feels incredible appreciation for all the comments that lifted me up and I felt understood, part of me feels sorry that I missed out on some wonderful writing and connecting with interesting people. Part of me is ready for a grand celebration with the amazing people who have gathered here, and part of me wants to sneak out secretly because I feel sad for all of this ending. Part of me looks at my writing and sees how it has been a way of making sense, changing and accepting myself, part of me looks at my writing and shakes the head at the no rhyme and reason collection of slices about owls, tulips, cakes, birthdays, giraffes and poetry. 

All I can wish you is some love and kindness.

And a word art based on my slices. 

Hugs to you, my readers. 

I used Word Art website

short

Hi, friends!

Sorry I can't stay.

I am in a hurry. 

My fingers don't type fast enough to tell you about all the things that happened today, that were said today, were heard today. Too many things, too many words, too many emotions. Some good, some bad. I wish people used common sense and talked to each other. Or sometimes talked less. Or didn't say anything at all. 

I would like to you know that after I finish this piece and pack my bag I will go to a literary event. My writing course teacher published her third poetry collection. I bought it yesterday,  before going to a dinner with friends, and read it during a train ride home, while my daughter snoozed next to me. 

I am in a hurry.

Sorry I can't stay.

Bye, friends!

a found poem from comments

Comments, the kind and considerate words offered, fuel my writing. Not only do they help me to become a better writer and encourage me to keep writing, they also have a meaningful role in giving me new perspectives and adding to my identity. Sometimes the reader sees something in me and my writing that I might miss myself. This year especially the comments helped me to cross the mid-century line in my life.

I thank you with my whole heart. I hope you know that your words matter.  

During the past three year SOLSCs I have used phrases from the comments to create a found poem and return it as a gift to everyone. 

2021 found poem

2020 found poem

2019 found poem

This year's found poem from comments:

Like winged creatures, 

ideas flit back and forth,

writing about the ordinary 

sounds extraordinary.

 

Capture the swirling thoughts and emotions,

stop and consider those feelings, 

whatever they may be,

trip down the memory lane,

a reminder of 

our short existence on this earth.

 

Grateful that we are here,

still a lot of living to do, 

we will feel more fully ourselves than ever

surrounded by possibilities, 

carry ourselves through dreams,

get to experience joy.

 

Words motivate to continue

even better than we did before.

the day after the birthday

Taking on the advice of many slicers, I'll continue with my 50th birthday celebrations. First of all thank you, thank you for the kind wishes. I felt the warmth. The day after has turned out to be super sweet. 

Entering my classroom this morning I had a surprise waiting for me, a vase with tulips, a handmade card, a bowl with strawberries, and a strawberry cake one friend had made.  Even before I had time to turn on the lights and take off my coat, the two friends responsible for the surprise entered my room and sang to me. Hugs followed. 

Other teachers followed with more hugs, more cards, more flowers, more good wishes, chocolate, tea and candy. The school gave me a cheese basket as a gift. 

The kids arrived one by one and they too had orgnised a surprise for me. They brought several giraffe themed gifts - a cup, a beaded giraffe head, a stuffed giraffe (to add to our class animals), a pocket mirror with a giraffe on the cover,  a card with a dancing giraffe and a small self-written picture book about how our class adopted a dancing baby giraffe as a class pet. I have mentioned giraffes, and dancing giraffes, a few times (it could be that more than a few times over the several months of school), and somebody obviously remembered.

As my gift to my colleagues and students I shared lots of candy, a tradition from the time I used to be a student. 

There is also no doubt about my identity. I am Terje, the dancing giraffe, and as you can see form the card a beautiful and graceful one. 

Now I am fifty. Rambling autobiography.

I woke up this morning and I was still the same person as yesterday, the same ten fingers and toes, the same body and face, the same heart beating strong, and no sudden appearance of extra wrinkles nor arrival of massive grey hair, nor disappearance of teeth or mind. Yesterday's fierce wind and unexpected snow storm attempt replaced with sunshine and birdsong this morning. My mind and heart are equally calm and accepting the crossing of the mid century. 

I was born fifty years ago in the midst of deep soviet time in a small wooden apartment house with a common toilet and a water tap in hallway to fill the bucket with cold water and carry it to the kitchen. Our small two room apartment had wooden floors, a gas stove, a wood stove and oven and black and white TV. The low windows opened to the yard and under the windows my mom kept two flowerbeds and I remember the spring tulips and summer tiger lilies and the large chestnut tree that grew next to the wood shed.  My mom and sister now keep lots of flower beds in our summer house. In front of the house we had six linden trees and a grass patch that I liked to cartwheel on. I can still do a cartwheel. When I was thirteen years old we moved to a large apartment building with a bathtub and a toilet and kitchen with electric stove and oven. My parents still live there. My childhood house is long gone and instead it towers a huge concrete building. I sometimes have dreams of going home to a warm kitchen.

The sound of the coffee grinder and smell of the freshly brewed coffee usually signalled the start of the day. My dad and mom were both avid coffee drinkers. I am a tea drinker. The kitchen was also a place where my dad developed his films and it was a magical when I was allowed to join him in the darkness to see how images appeared on a paper. My dad recorded our history and later took many photos of my children. Now my daughter is the one snapping photos with her phone. My photography skills developed late and landed on collecting nature photos mostly. 

I have a husband with whom I have been married for twenty-seven years and taken dance lessons for almost two decades. Since we go only once a week, we learn new things and forget older steps and start all over again. We have no ambition to compete nor interest in demonstrating our steps in public parties. We consider dancing as memory fading prevention, the brain has to stay incredibly active to coordinate steps, turns, rhythm, direction and collaboration. The moments when we remember everything and dance without stopping make us ageless. (And out of breath tired.) 

I adore my three daughters, each amazing in their own way. The oldest (26) has been a dancer almost all her life, winning medals and owning one Estonian championship in ten dances. The middle one (25) speaks the languages of programming and has built her career in this area. The youngest (17) seems to have the most energy and things to say and is still searching who she might become, experimenting with theatre right now. We all like board games and puzzles, have conversations about books and bake pancakes, cookies, cinnamon rolls, pies and layered cakes. 

When I was ten, I wouldn't even in my wildest dreams could have imagined myself to the current times, living in a free country, having a five room apartment with all the comforts, work in an international school, have had opportunities to learn in different countries, present at conferences, stand on the Great wall of China or visit bookstores in London, live through a pandemic, watch a war start not far from home, connect with people all over the world through blog, twitter and instagram, start a coaching course, use a phone as a computer. My dad was born before the WW2. The borders didn't open until I finished school. My family didn't get a table phone until I moved out. Now everyone has a mobile phone. I talk with my sister and mom on a phone almost daily. 

I am sitting on my living room sofa, my most favourite place in the whole wide world, wearing a super large soft red fleece with white kittens, a gift from my children. My two daughters are putting together a puzzle, one is sorting through her old photo albums, on a coffee table are two empty tea cups, on the floor are Dixit and Gourme Alias from yesterday's evening, a large flower vase with gerberas is on a windowsill, my hubby is checking whether chicken roast is ready for lunch, a carrot cake is waiting in the fridge. Yesterday we had a family dinner in a lovely small restaurant, my five year old nephew as the youngest guest and my eighty-eight year old dad as the oldest guest, eleven people all together. They sang to me. I love them. 

I am thankful that my birthday is on Sunday, a day off, so I have time to read the birthday wish messages and phone calls, to be with my family and ease into the new decade. 

I want to say to anyone else who is struggling with getting older that it's ok to feel sadness, and not to believe what others say, because you'll find your own way to come through this and when the day arrives accept it in your own terms. Having a cake and a cup of tea might help. 

All post about turning 50

the day before turning fifty

Today is the last day when I am 49. I have done ten minutes of stretching and five minutes of mindfulness, washed my hair and scrubbed the bathroom, read the news and tidied the coffee table, watched the clouds race in the sky and trees fight with the wind, now I am on the always welcoming sofa, typing on my faithful laptop.

At the start of this year, when I struggled with the change of turning fifty, I played with an idea to do something special every month and write some thought through posts about the change of age, celebrating things I have done, and share lessons learned. I did some of it - bought myself a beautiful book about women over fifty, went for a photo shoot without make-up, joined a writing course and the March SOLSC challenge. I have written posts and poetry, I wrote "50 things I am proud of" and "50 good things in life" lists, I have made plans for the future and have imagined myself as an old woman, I have been to theatre and art exhibitions, spent time in the company of magnificent people, listened to the ones wiser than me and played with the ones younger than me. 

I had also planned that closer to my birthday I would buy a new blouse, get a full make-up and a new photoshoot, and take a staycation in a hotel, and then throw a party with fancy food and a band to my friends and family like my mom did when she turned fifty. These plans deflated and I am relieved. I read from "These Precious Days" an essay how Anne Patchett went a whole year without shopping and since I dislike shopping anyway, it was easy to discard the new blouse plan. The photo shoot idea went on a shelf because it takes too much organising and I didn't have the time nor energy for it. I wasn't too keen on the big fancy party idea either, it felt wrong considering the world situation and not my style at all. I opted for a lunch in a small restaurant only with my family, parents and sis with her family. My hair is washed already, I'll put on eyeshadow and mascara, and nobody is required to wear a tie. And better than fancy food and band is the fact that both my parents are still alive and healthy and can join my celebration. My grandparents were long gone when my parents reached fifty. 

The closer the birthday gets, the more relaxed I have become. I have sat with the sadness of the passing time and things that would never be again, and I have turned this into appreciation of the past. I have reminded myself of the uselessness spending my energy on things I can't change, turning this into acceptance of what is. I am looking into the future. Next week already I will attend a poetry reading, a dinner with friends after school and a dinner with my writing course group on Friday evening. I have two coaching course modules this spring. Two friends have sent me invitations to events this summer. My proposal has been accepted for the European Literacy conference in Dublin, so I need to book things for July. 

Another thing that has helped me is the way others see me. During a leadership course the workshop leader asked to choose cards that would best represent our current state. I shared how I struggle with the approaching birthday, and that with age I have become calmer when storms are around and find my calm quicker when the storms are inside me, and that even though I am starting to look like an old wise woman, inside I also have a young fairy who is playful, and I continue nurturing that side of me. We later did an exercise and had to share what thoughts crossed our mind when we watched our partner in silence. The man who did the exercise with me said that based on what I had said about the cards, he suddenly remembered a song from an Estonian Comedy show, an entrance tune for a humorous middle-aged woman with wild hats and clothes and wild stories about her experiences in life. Even thought I am far from the character in the show, I found his randomly arrived association to be somehow liberating, and I laughed out loud. 

So here I go, celebrating my birthday with my family today. 

Tomorrow I will be fifty. Tomorrow I'll write another post. 

All posts on turning fifty.

one sentence post (multi-lit)

 (Kevin introduced a slice in one sentence to me last year. I wrote a food related sentence.)

In English:

Thank you, my dear friend, for peeking in from the classroom door, smiling and handing me a pink bag with a box of cupcakes, an unexpected delicious surprise, to finish the school week and start my birthday weekend with sweetness. 

In Estonian:

Aitäh, mu kallis sõber, et piilusid naeratades mu klassiuksest sisse ja andsid mulle roosa koti tassikkookide karbiga, maitsva üllatusega, mis lõpetab koolinädala ja alustab sünnipäeva nädalavahetust magus-armsalt. 

Book spine poem

Yesterday I used "Right Now" (one of my annual go to format) to create my slice.

Today I turn to Book Spine Poem, another regular slice of expressing myself. 

I enjoy choosing the books to see what they have to say together. This year "The Art of Living" was the starter book and I chose others that would go with it. I created one stack, took a photo and returned the books to the shelf. When I was cleaning the kitchen counters and scrubbing the sink, I had an idea to try another order of the books. Only after I had played with my books I looked at the last years' poems only to find out that some books have become regular performers in this creation. 

Art Matters

The Artist's Way

The Book of Beautiful Questions

Atlas of the Heart

The Art of Living

The Book of Beautiful Questions

Atlas of the Heart

The Artist's Way

Art Matters

The Art of Living

Right Now

Right Now posts from previous years: 

Right Now I am

:: sitting behind a round table in my classroom after school when all the students and most of the teachers have left the building

:: savouring the sweetness of Canadian Maple Tea (flavoured with natural Canadian Maple syrup)

:: hearing the clock ticking and heater humming and somebody walking in the upstairs hallway

:: puzzling why I wrote about owls yesterday when I had intended to write how to manage the last five days leading up to my fiftieth birthday

:: avoiding checking any further emails

:: thinking about possible places to go to eat before I go to my writing course

:: hoping I would have time to walk around a bit

:: wishing it wasn't the last lesson of the writing course today

:: planning how to plant a seed in my writing teacher's head to hold a writing retreat for non-professional writers this summer

:: appreciating the familiar structure of Right Now, one I have used every March and a few times outside the challenge

Update on "when a cartwheel as a motivator fails"

At the start of a February I tried to use a cartwheel as a motivator with a child who didn't want to learn cursive handwriting. We have made progress and here are some scenes to update you on this situation. Plus an introduction to the owls in our classroom.

Scene 1

“Ouch my,” I say, getting up from an extended morning circle on the first day back from holidays, discussing current news and how we can take care of ourselves and others.

“See, this is why I don’t want you to do the cartwheel. Your bones and muscles, I don’t want you to get hurt,” S looks at me with a concerned face. 

 

Scene 2

“There’s no way we can have an ice-cream party in March. I was absent for so long, and then we were on distance learning and we had a spring break, I have so much more to practice,” S. says looking at his cursive sentences on a small individual whiteboard.

“April?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says and changes the date on the large classroom whiteboard - Ice-cream party to celebrate S's cursive handwriting on April 20th.

 

Scene 3:

“Here are the word study words for this week,” I point at the words on the round table. All other studetns are already sorting their words by categories.

“I can’t do these. I have to practice my cursive. You want the ice-cream party, right?” responds S. and brings a small individual white board and a marker to write another sentence and add this to his growing cursive writing whiteboard pile. He has decided to not write anything on the paper, and not to erase anything he has written so far on the boards, and he does not allow to take photos of his work. 

 

Scene 4:

"I can’t remember all the names of the owls. Would you please write them down for me,” I ask S, thinking of owls as the subject for my possible slice.

“You wish me to write in cursive, right?” S asks.

“Yes, sure,” I reply even though cursive was not my initial intention of the request.

 

Scene 5:

“I don’t know all my capital letters in cursive, yet. Can I write the names with small letters?” S asks, looking at a piece of paper and at the ten owls lined up in front of him. 

“Sure. Artist and poets sometimes write their names with small letters,” I answer.  

 

Scene 6:

Readers of this slice are wondering why we have owls in our classroom, what their names are and whether we’ll have an ice-crema party. 

I’ll gladly answer. We have ten owls because S brought eight owls to school one day for no particular reasons. The next day another student and I brought additional two. 

The names of the owls are (look at the first picture from right to left): Grandpa Jeff, Carl, Owl, Howl, Lowl, Prowl, Penguinowl, Legs, Carl Jim junior, Frowl. Yes, we value diversity, and accept the identity anyone has chosen, including penguins and flamingos who say they are owls. 

In addition to the owls we have a teddy bear called Leah, who loves honey, and a snow leopard called Leo, who loves oranges, in our class. The last two have been with us from the start of the school year and have their personal name rocks for morning circle greetings and questions. 

 

Yes, one day, when S is ready, and he says when he is ready, we will have an ice-cream party. 

What do you need to find time for?

What do you need to find time for?

I need to find time to write a project reflection, prepare the lessons for a week, sort the boxes moved from one room into another for a renovation time, meal plan and make a shopping list, take a photo of a desk and offer it for a donation, do laundry, watch another episode of Mastercalss, read articles for the coaching course, to make lines and tables. 

Where does one find time? Time shop or time forest, time catalogue or neighbouring time village? And how to you search time? Systematically or hoping to stumble upon it? 

Wouldn't it be better if time found me? It would call my name, greet me joyfully, sit next to me and we could forget all the to-do lists with duties and evaluations, the annoying tasks that take effort and energy and soon need to be started all over. 

What can you do if you can't find time? Some things don't need much time. You wash a tea cup in a blink, hug for twenty-five seconds, put a t-shirt in a hamper as soon as you take it off, stretch and bend between tasks that glue you to a sofa and screen. Haven't you timed how long it takes to sneeze or yawn?

Why find time? Take time? Make time? Calling mom and listening to a teenager. Sleeping.

What kind of time do you hope to find? Winter time or summer time? Me-time? Togetherness-time? Valuable time? Creative time? Didn't a poet find time, time to live and love? 

How long has time been lost? Why hasn't anyone found it? Have you tried "Lost" poster or an audition invitation? What's the award for finding time? Maybe someone took time to lost and found, have you looked? What if someone forgot it in a timeout corner?

Who lost time? Or did time get lost by accident? Or on purpose?  What if time to time it hides from our demands, unmet needs and obnoxious wants? What must the time feel when we constantly complain that we don't have enough? "Not-enough" is hard to live with. 

Maybe we should value time more? Give it as a gift rather than require it?

What if time doesn't want to be found? What if it has turned into soapsuds, moonbeams, or the silver lining on a cloud? 

What if we let time to be in peace, wiggle its toes and whistle? 

dad's birthday

We celebrated my dad's 88th birthday yesterday. We gathered around a nicely set table in the living room. Our birthdays are with lots of food and lots of talking. 

Mom cooked cabbage rolls, a forgotten culinary treat, a childhood taste. She boiled cabbage leaves, fried the minced-meat filling, rolled the filling into the leaves, and then fried the rolls in butter. My daughter made ham rolls with grated cheese, garlic and mayonnaise filling in thin sandwich ham slices, a traditional snack at all family gatherings, something that is always made extra to make sure we can take home when we leave. She also made a no-bake cake, a ridiculously rich and delicious dessert with halva, cookies, butter, sour cream and red currant. My sister ordered a variety of finger food and brought a meringue roll with lemon cream filling. I brought a super sweet and colourful Swiss meringue cake. Having three cakes allows the sweetness last longer and the next day we can still taste the birthday. 

Settled around the table, mouths moving and stomachs filling up, we talked abut this and that, people present and people not present, the now and here and the far and away, the every day stuff and the memories. My dad is a quiet man. He can't get much word in when my mom talks. My mom is a storyteller and an entertainer.  She likes to tell stories of what happened yesterday and what happened decades ago. 

Yesterday I deliberately asked a question that had been on my mind for quite a while. Both my parents come from very poor families and they are both the first and only ones from their families who came to the city and went to the university. I asked what motivated them. They both said that learning came easy to them and they enjoyed it. My dad said that he went to a vocational school because at that time it provided a free bed and food and a stipend when you learned well. And after that it seemed like the only option to continue in the university. My mom was a smart kid but a bit naughty and gave a headache to her teachers. She went to the city because partly she wanted to learn more, partly because she wanted to prove to everyone she could make it, and partly again because of a stipend. They were both fifteen when they left home. 

During the various conversations and emptying the plates, my nephew and my teenage daughter played hide-and-seek, my sis and the kids played a card game, mom and I washed the first round of dishes, my hubby mad coffee and tea, we sang Happy Birthday to my dad, we went to see the fog moving in from the sea, and the five year old nephew made his own board game that I had the honour to play first. At the end of the day we packed the left over food in various containers, said our goodbyes crowding the small hallway, and drove home. 

The teenager and my sister took many photos. I am glad the moments were captured. 

We'll meet again next Saturday when we celebrate my birthday. My middle daughter, her boyfriend, my brother-in-law and my second nephew will also come. My fifty seems so little compared to my dad's eighty-eight. 

my dad, photo by my daughter

my dad, photo by my daughter

my mom, photo by my daughter

my two daughters and I, one missing, selfie by my daughter

my hubby photobombing our picture, selfie by my daughter

the fog view from my parents' bedroom window, my photo

my oldest daughter, my mom, nephew and sis waving to us when we leave, photo by my daughter

light and hope

In the world where right wing extremists gain official power and demolish democracy and diminish collective compassion, where a leader of a large and powerful country launches a war against an independent neighbouring country, approving total destruction of cities and death of people from babies to elderly, where the number of people who don't believe in anything and fight against everything is abnormally large - in a world like this a dark cloud of evil presses everything low down on the ground. It becomes hard to see the light. 

I spent time this week with some wonderful people. During a school day I went for a walk with two of my colleagues and we talked about good things in life and the ways of finding joy and about self-discovery and about the power of choice.  During a leadership course about spiritual intelligence I sat with people who don't just get things done and aim for achievement and success, but who lift people up and help them change and through this amplify the spread of kindness and make the world a better place. The next day, during a writing course I sat with other people who dug deeply into their core, shared their stories with vulnerability and listened to each other with compassion. At one point during the writing course I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to cry, not from sadness but from something positive. It reminded me the feeling of the unexpected awe when seeing breath-taking beauty in nature, or the tight squeeze of love when you hold a baby. I looked inward to understand why the feeling arrived and what it was. I realised it was hope. With the people like the ones I just met there is hope for a better future. There is light. 

poetry in Estonian and English

Two months ago I watched as my daughter performed poetry with other young people at a theatre group presentation. They had learned about poetry, voice and movement, and practiced for weeks with guidance from a well-known Estonian actor.  I would make poor literary critic because to my eyes the performance was magnificent. Besides admiring the young people, their energy and expression, I admitted honestly that even after many decades of existence I do not fully understand poetry nor would I ever be able to perform it with the kind of expectations the acting teacher had set for the young people.

A month ago I visited a theatre performance where a group of actors had weaved poetry reading into the play as naturally as they sat and walked and delivered dialogues. I had moments of recognition with some poems, and it tickled my pride. I was tempted to raise my hand and announce, "William Carlos Williams wrote this apology poem." I sat politely quietly. Most of the time though listening to the actors confirmed my previous assessment of my deficient poetic understanding and expression ability. 

Writing poetry is mysterious for me too. It seems to be in spheres beyond me. Only during the past few years I have allowed myself try writing pieces of texts that I call poemish. Some of these texts I have actually felt pretty good about. It boggles my mind that I wish to share my poemish writing two days in a row this week.  

During my writing course my teacher gives us poems to read and then we create our own version of the poem. Last time she gave us a poem by an Estonian poet Aleksander Suuman. I couldn't make much sense of the poem at all. The word choice and images were puzzling. I could feel my stomach wrench knowing that the writing invitation would soon follow. I decided to breathe in and out and let the words come. 

I wrote in Estonian and I'll share this version with you and then the rough English translation. As always, some of the sounds and word play get lost in direct translation. To compensate it I changed some words in the English version. 

Ehitan ennast

tammetõrudest ja sinililledest,

rannakividest 

ja männiokastest.

 

Ehin ennast

merekohina ja seebimullidega,

piparmündilõhnaga

ja maasikamaitsega.

 

Eha ajal 

tantsin päikesejänkude

ja pilvedraakonitega,

kiigun silmapiiril

ja uisutan unistustega.

 

Et liiga magusaks

ei läheks, viskan

kildudeks

lillelise kruusi.

 

I build myself from

acorns and anemones,

pebbles and pinecones.

 

I dress myself with 

sea breeze and soap bubbles,

peppermint scent 

and strawberry sweetness.

 

During the dawn

I dance with dust bunnies

and cloud dragons,

swing on the horizon

and ice-skate on dreams.

 

To avoid becoming too syrupy

I smash to smithereens 

a flowery mug.

When I am an old woman...

10 days until my 50th birthday. I have already written 10 posts about turning 50 and how I manage the challenge of getting older. One thing that helps is to dream and picture myself much older than fifty. Last year about the same time I wrote thoughts about being old inspired by a photo exhibition. In my writing course I wrote what kind of stories my descendants would tell after five generations. This allowed to play with ideas of what else might be possible in the years to come, what else I might learn and accomplish. Then my teacher posted a writing invitation on her FB page and this was especially playful. 

Here's the original poem: "Warning" by Jenny Joseph. 

Here's my version inspired by it:

When I am an old woman, I shall eat a cake for breakfast 

Whether I wake at four in the morning or at noon,

And feed the crumbs to the sparrows.

I shall paint my toenails glitter blue and fingernails pink,

And fetch a newspaper in a frilly nightgown

And wear a tiara when buying striped socks.

I shall volunteer to be an usherette in an opera theatre,

And buy a ticket on the first train leaving the station,

And send me postcards signed “Yours truly”. 

I shall sit on a park bench for hours on Wednesdays

And people watch with binoculars 

And wave to grumpy strangers.

I shall build a nest of books in my living room

And fly paper airplanes from the balcony

And win a cherry pit spitting contest.

I shall press my nose print on cafe windows

And leave poetry in the candy shops

And stick owl pictures on mailboxes.

 

But now I wake regularly at dawn to the sound of my alarm

And twist my hair into a bun, iron shirts and polish shoes

And go to work on time to complete my to-do lists.

I follow the expectations and rules and try to fit in

To avoid judgement and get along with people. 

 

But sometimes I practice what to do when I am free

From duties and plans and pressure of time.

I sleep long in the mornings 

And eat breakfast in PJs

And then stroll on the city streets, go to art galleries

And smile to the waitress who serves me puff pastry pies in a café. 

don't give up on your dreams

I am sitting at school after lessons, the students and teachers are gone, only a cleaning crew is vacuuming on the second floor. 

I sat down already more than an hour ago with the plan to write the slice. I found a surprise cupcake gift on my table. I decided to quickly write a thank you email. Surprise treats are on my possible slices list. When I saw in the unanswered email list a reflection for a workshop I took yesterday, I decided to fill it in. I put writing about the workshop on my idea list. 

Then I saw that some fluffy owls on the windowsill needed straightening. I walked across the floor and did it. The owls are on the list too. 

I remembered to call my dad. He has his 88th birthday today. I plan to write about him on Saturday's when the family gathers to celebrate his birthday. 

When I opened the blog, I got a messenger notification from my sister. It would have gone unnoticed if the phone had been in the handbag, but since I had just finished the call with my dad, the phone was next to me. I opened the message from my sister. The winner for today's slice is in front of you: 

I had a good laugh. I wrote my slice. 

Now I will go to a writing course. :)

writing process in five words

Today's post is inspired by Elisabeth Ellington who herself is writing all her slices based on inspiration from other slicers. If you are stuck, you can go over to her blog and find many mentor texts there. 

At a first glance the task looked simple to me. All I needed was five words. Looking closer, I realised  that explaining one's creative process in five word is not so easy. Lifting my eyes above my laptop, I saw a picture on a shelf and I was tempted to cheat.  Changing only one word from the picture I could turn it into "Magic is something I make." I decided to try again. I closed my eyes, quieted my mind, and asked myself, "What is my creative process during this SOLSC?" Three words popped into my head: trust, ideas, words. I tried different versions and this is the final one that I like the best today. On a different day and month and year I might write something else. 

My slice writing process:

Trusting ideas, dancing with words.  

50 good things in life

Sitting on my living room sofa, writing comments to other people's slices, I lifted my eyes and watched the sun stream in and land on the petals of a yellow tulip. 

"I should write about it," a thought popped into my head like it happens with all sorts of things I observe and notice during the March writing challenge. 

This thought was followed with, "I should take a photo." 

Sometimes the softness and comfort of the sofa makes me dismiss my writerly thoughts. 

Yesterday I put aside the laptop and took my phone. First I simply walked over to the vase and snapped a photo. One photo felt not enough, and soon I found myself moving the vase to a windowsill, moving the tulips, leaning in and out and taking photos from different angles.

"These tulips make me happy," I thought, "and I should add them to my 50 good things in life list." (It's a list I made as part of managing my negative feelings about turning 50.)  

When I started writing it, I obviously thought of the big things first, like family, friends, health and job. Then I focused on the other things and wrote them just as they came into my mind. Then I typed up the list and put it into an alphabetical order.

1. Art galleries
2. Blue anemone
3. Blueberries
4. Board games
5. Books
6. Bubble bath
7. Cafes
8. Cha-Cha
9. Cheesecake
10. Cherry blossoms
11. Cinnamon rolls
12. Cookbooks
13. Cookie cutters
14. Croissant
15. Cup of tea
16. Dance shoes
17. Gingerbread cookies
18. Gratitude 
19. Holding hands
20. Horse chestnut conkers
21. Hugs
22. Ice-skates
23. Independent bookstores
24. Journals
25. Libraries
26. Lilac blossoms
27. Mindfulness
28. Mittens
29. City streets
30. Pancakes
31. Photos
32. Piece of chocolate
33. Postcards
34. Raspberries
35. Seaside
36. Siblings talking
37. Silence
38. Sleeping children
39. Slow mornings
40. Smiles
41. Snowflakes
42. Sofa
43. Strawberries
44. Sunshine
45. Swings
46. Ta-da lists
47. Tango
48. To-do-list-free days
49. Walking
50. Warm socks

 

…add bubbles and butterflies, blue sky and spring green of birch tree leaves, picnics and mom's cooking, colourful maple leaves and apples in the fall, bookmarks and post-it notes, daffodils and tulips. 

I am filled with gratitude.