BlogHer - Words in a Row: Shattered - Comments

Here is a story I wrote...

Heresyman — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 15:48:00 -0500

It could never happen to me… that was what I thought. Twelve hours ago I was told I was to lose my arms. I knew the storm was bad, and at times it DID seem futile to keep rowing. Regardless, the slave masters cracked their whips and tell us our life DEPENDS on it. Is it ours collectively, or just theirs? I wonder.

My right arm was first to go. It was a good, strong, useful arm… which I was forced to place into the machine. It was quickly and painfully ripped out of the socket. Pain shocked me through the heart, cutting deeply into my very soul. The lifeless arm was unceremoniously cast overboard… “We’ve got to lighten the load”, I was told. As the gravity of my situation was still sinking in, I wasn’t even allowed time to stay the blood flow with my left arm. It had to go too. It hurt no less than the first… God… isn’t shock supposed to lessen the pain?

I was allowed to bid my limbs goodbye as they were cast overboard. “Try not to let the others notice until it is their turn”, they tell me, “let’s keep it quiet and dignified.” God, how can my heart keep beating when it hurts so badly? As I watch my lifeless limbs float into the distance, I can’t help think that they didn’t really weigh THAT much.

The other slaves in the galley try not to notice my two bloody stumps… in fact; some are already nursing their own wounds. While taking in the carnage, I notice a few of the slaves who seem unscathed and overweight… but whom am I to judge? I took my seat to continue rowing… as the drums started thrumming the new cadence; salt is rubbed in my wounds. I am told to get up and help move the heavy gold ornaments into the captain’s quarters, and hang them on the wall. I am chided for getting blood on them. That is where they belong, I am told, since his decision saved us all.

As I returned to my rightful place, pain once again shot to my very soul. I looked overboard at the shark frenzied waters and wondered if it would be better to swim for it. I fell rather than sat, my head swooned and I numbly looked at the oar. How the hell was I supposed to grip it with no arms? I thought I could try using my teeth, but the wood is too big and hard. I assumed a strap would be added so I would have something to grab on to when the new seating arrangement was announced. I looked down at the water lapping at my bare feet… it felt strangely thick and warm. It was awful red and deep… a pretty good incentive.
Question EVERYTHING!

Angela, so wonderful to meet you!

Birdie Jaworski — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 22:52:53 -0500

Thank you so kindly for reading my column and leaving a beautiful footprint. I look forward to getting to know you. I'll be sure to check out your sites, too. :)

Birdie
Birdie's BlogHer Blog
La Pajaro

Patia, you have greatness in you

Birdie Jaworski — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 22:51:32 -0500

Patia, even when you write small things I am always surprised. You are destined for something Big Time with your writing. I just know it. And after hanging out with you in Chicago, I know it FOR SURE!!! Hey, I miss you!

Birdie
Birdie's BlogHer Blog
La Pajaro

Also, I should note for the rest of you...

Birdie Jaworski — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 22:49:42 -0500

Stever is my dear friend going back some years. Pre-blogging friend! Yay!

Birdie
Birdie's BlogHer Blog
La Pajaro

Stever, what a great analogy

Birdie Jaworski — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 22:48:37 -0500

That's exactly how it feels, too, even though the writing is not Life and Death (well, perhaps it is), there is an urgency that is there when the words are good. When they are not so good, it is fighting a bad current, a riptide.

I'm so glad you're here. I know I have told you this, but I need to tell you again. I like having the male energy around to balance the rest of us, plus you always make me question everything (trademark).

Birdie
Birdie's BlogHer Blog
La Pajaro

Lia, I got your homework, and you are GOOD

Birdie Jaworski — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 22:42:32 -0500

Lia, I'm going to feature you in my next Words in a Row article, to be posted right away. (I'm having trouble with the BlogHer posting interface still, it's improving for me, but I'm waiting for a call in to Denise.) I'm so glad you are a big part of this, I couldn't imagine it without you.

Birdie
Birdie's BlogHer Blog
La Pajaro

Thank you, Birdie. I

Angela Chen Shui — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 10:29:01 -0500

Thank you, Birdie. I enjoyed my first visit to your space here on BlogHer and will be back. Thanks especially for this:

"I hope I never forget to breathe. "

Just this morning a girlfriend and I were reminding each other of how important the breathing with Self and with Life is....

Blessings...

"Angela's Voice"
Spirituality Information Self Help
Internet Home Based Business Training

Lovely

cowgrrrl — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 19:01:26 -0500

As always.

I don't believe in writer's block, or at least, I don't believe that's what I have. The words are there, like seeds, just waiting for the right combination of sun and silence. The soil is fertile, anyway. That much I know.

A Drivel Runs Through It

Sound advice...

Heresyman — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 14:31:34 -0500

... as expected.

It reminds me of stories I hear from pilots who were in a tailspin... or of swimming in riptides. If you fight it... you will likely die. If you just let go for a bit... you will get to a place easier to manage.

Thanks for always sharing, Birdie.

Lightness of Being

Lia — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 12:51:53 -0500

What a wonderful story and writing lesson. I've sent you my stories and homework and hope they arrived as bottle post in the virtual seas. Is there any chance we could make this a yearly tradition?

Just wanted to thank you for your kind spirit and generous efforts.

lia from luebeck, germany

Author of the yum yum cafe and coauthor of the Red Tent Blog.

Cary, you are always so kind

Birdie Jaworski — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 12:00:46 -0500

You're right, too, that just as we need to rest and let our words find the right moment, we need to let our minds, hearts, arms and legs do the same. I have lived here for two years and never visited the cemetery. When I did, it was a marvel. If I didn't stop to talk to my neighbors, to sell cupcakes at the flea market, to notice my dad's ashes, my dog, I can't imagine how constricted I would be. I hope I never forget to breathe. BirdieBirdie's BlogHer Blog La Pajaro

Virginia, I LOVE your 50 Word ideas!

Birdie Jaworski — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 11:58:01 -0500

... and I have to admit in kind that I haven't done as many of them as I would like, but I read them and they make me think. : ) Now, I must make a trip down to your place for the next writer's gathering. I'll have to check out the schedule.

BirdieBirdie's BlogHer Blog La Pajaro

thanks, milife :)

Birdie Jaworski — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 11:56:00 -0500

I'm glad you enjoyed it. The cemetery itself deserves a much longer story. In fact, that was the story I intended to tell, but realized I needed to give my dad's ashes a silent voice, as well as the broken leg. They needed it more than the cemetery did.

Birdie

Birdie's BlogHer Blog

La Pajaro

This Is...

Cary — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 11:36:37 -0500

...every bit as much a "life lesson" as a writing lesson, Birdie. We all need to take time to rest and regard the world through un-harried eyes. The inspiration and the beauty is out there, but we're sure to miss it in our rush to the subway, or the kids' next soccer game, or the "urgent" client session. Thank you for this very valuable reminder!

Thanks!

Virginia DeBolt — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 07:36:26 -0500

Your posts always make my day. I'm not making time to put down more than the first 50 words of creativity amid all the technical stuff I'm busy doing each day, but I do love to read your efforts.

http://www.webteacher.ws/
http://first50.wordpress.com/

Words in a Row: Shattered

Birdie Jaworski — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 00:14:39 -0500

A young man I know fell off an outcropping of granite this summer, fell eight vertical feet, fell into a six-week land of cast and crutch and exotic metal pins. Shattered tibia. Surgery. June plans as broken, as painful as his swollen skin. I wanted to sign his cast, the blue sheath that hid the parallel scars, but he refused my pen.

"I don't want any signatures. I just want everyone to leave me alone."

I watched him hustle down my street, good leg out first, gimpy foot behind, dragging, dragging, rubber crutch-tip pressed into uneven brick, blue cast wrap coated with New Mexican clay, his armpits red with fury.

I told my dad about the man, the dirty cast, the way the sun refused to melt his disappointment. I couldn't read my dad's expression. He sat on my desk, in a five-pound box of unsifted crematorium dust.

"Dad."

I sighed, loud and low. My dog shifted her weight from one side to the next with a hollow thump. Her fur vibrated against the wood floor, echoed the song she expelled with one breath, another.

"Dad. C'mon. Gimme a sign. I just need one sign. One stupid sign. C'mon."

My dad didn't budge. His remains ignored me, ignored my exhaustion, my fingers stiff with forgotten words. He didn't need me, my pleas, my little-girl-lost frown. He sat on the edge of a galactic ocean, his body mingled with beach, with stardust, his mind so astral, so shattered, that any response he gave flew between the atoms of my heart, the quark and string that signaled it to continue, continue, beat, beat, continue.

The young man sat on his front porch, his bad leg extended, as my youngest son and I walked to the cemetery. The cast looked wary, heavy with dirt and anger. He didn't wave as Marty rose his hand in friendship, didn't move. I thought I heard a grunt, the shattered rail of ache against lung.

"It's too hot, Mom."

Marty lifted his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. We'd walked two miles, almost three. The cemetery stood just out of reach.

"We're almost there, honey. I've never seen it. C'mon. Have something to drink."

I held out a full bottle of water. My dad's ashes coughed. I felt it, three miles from my desk, felt him assemble and decay. Marty lurched forward, a robot on Mars, tiny robot with bio-skin near meltdown. He sipped.

The cemetery stole my heat, my fatigue. It rolled an acre, two, fifty, fifty acres of homegrown tobacco pain, of buried man, woman, and child. Marty chased a prairie dog, his robot battery satiated, aware. He didn't notice my surprise, didn't know the cemetery didn't look like a cemetery. I lost him to the pinon, to the prairie dog, the sky of stillness and fire. I didn't worry.

The plots didn't lay in elegant rows. They jockeyed for position, each facing the East, facing the rising morning Christ. Tiny iron windmills. Hand-carved river rock. Burned and etched slabs of pine. Dolls. Rosaries. Plastic Marys with deliberately tilted heads. A handmade garden of death, only a few granite headstones in sea of a thousand, only a few memorials of Rich Person Passing.

I knelt to consider a baby's grave.

Our little angel
Maria Romero
9 Days Old
Died June 11, 1987
Rest in Peace

The baby rustled beneath an uneven circle of hand-placed rocks. She danced with my dad, with my heart, with my boy chasing rodent, with the hardened heart of the blue cast owner. I felt my neurons move to catch the wave, the sign, the ink of fury rejected from surface, my surface, my surface of fatigue and sweat. My surface of sweat, overworked sweat. Marty lept into my view, twisted in joy, in prairie dog joy. I couldn't stop the tears.

At yesterday morning's flea market I added a smiley face in Sharpie black to the exposed skin of a scarred leg. The young man's frown shattered. He smiled, the first time in six weeks I saw teeth, saw his open future. My dog smiled too, her haunches spread against dry clay, in her vibrating fur blanket. My dad didn't smile, but the dead don't grin.

You can see photos of the cemetery here.

********

There are times the writing doesn't come easy. Maybe it's one day for you, or a week, a month. Maybe it's a year. I don't believe those times constitute Writer's Block, don't believe we sit, pen in hand, unable to place words because they don't exist. They do exist, the way my dad exists, in a box, shattered, broken, or perhaps the way the young man's leg exists - in stasis, waiting for growth, for time to work her magic. It takes a crisis, a baby's grave to pull the tears together, the words from our gut.

I have come to understand that our minds follow the rule of the fields. We plant ideas through our experiences, water them with our observation, our thoughts. We harvest them when they burst with promise, each word a fully-grown kernel on our story cob. But some seasons our fields need to rest, to lie fallow. If we force ourselves to write, we may produce a harvest, but it won't be strong, be vibrant, be able to feed others with vitamins and joy.

The next time your nutrients are depleted and you can't form a story, a chain of coherent thought, just rest. Simply rest. Under the surface, your roots still pull memory, pull tiny bits of nitrogen from the soil. When your field can sustain life once more, the words will sprout with the slightest drops of water and care.

This next Tuesday, I will highlight work from several women who have been trying the exercises in this series. Have you written something based on the Words in a Row columns? Please email me and direct me to your work. Thank you.

Birdie writes at La Pajaro.