A To Z April 2014 Challenge Survivor

A to Z…and I made all 26 posts, Sundays excluded.

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Zentangle

ZZentangle developed from conversation between Rick Robert, a monk in India for 17 years, and the famous calligrapher Maria Thomas.

It can be a soothing, meditative process since it is a free-form art. Zentangle reminds me of machine quilting.

Here is a great YouTube video that covers the basics. I’m fairly certain even I can meditate with this process. I hope you’ll give it a try and share your creations with others.

This post concludes the April A to Z Challenge for 2014. You might give A to Z a try for 2015 or as a general writing prompt any time.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson

Young

YA friend of mine is one of the youngest people I know. She’s also hovering around age 70.

Simply contagious. It is as if all the extra protons attach themselves to nearby electrons, even those of strangers.

Gregarious ought to be her middle name. She drives from the north to the south borders of the west coast and east a ways too. She teaches anyone who has an eye for artful craft. This is an annual odyssey. People remember her–hard not to–and return each year to see what new product she has brought along.

With her there is no pretentiousness. She has no patience for thoughtless people yet she will spend all the time it takes to teach a child who expresses interest in crafts. Adults too when she senses sincerity.

There will come a day arthritis claims the dexterity of her fingers; it is already working its way to the bones. I expect she may become road weary. If not, the financial hassles of buying, selling, tracking earnings and reporting taxes may erode her enthusiasm.

Hard to imagine her confined to fewer road trips. Harder still to know she may not visit each year on her pilgrimage.

So I steep in her company when she is here, phone and email between. And wish, fervently wish I had met her so much sooner.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson

X-Ray

XI couldn’t be a reporter. I can pin down facts; however, few reporters are given time and column space to look deeper into an assignment.

To take a photograph is to capture what you see in a specific moment. To take an X-ray is to see deeper, to the structure of a thing.

Or to feel deeper, develop compassion into empathy. That is where I am found most often, in empathy. It isn’t often a pretty place. It has its rewards.

A child enraptured in a first experience. A child in overload from “just one more errand.”

There is recognition within me. Through the momentary connection, a fiction may race ahead or delve into what was, or more likely both. There is no conflict with reality because that moment passing isn’t as a reporter taking notes. I can take time for more than a photo. If I’m not careful, I find myself in the X-ray film.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson

Whiskers

WOn a crowded countertop adorned with a black-and-gold brocade banner, a clear jar rests among cast iron and black lacquer. The jar lid is spiffed up with a colorful image of fruit.

“I know the jar looks empty. Just don’t toss it or wash it out.”

“What’s in it?” Passing curiosity orders he ask.

“Whiskers.”

“What?!” He lifts the jar. His vision is changing so the jar does look empty. He tips it back and forth.

“Remember when we had Simone put down? You wanted a bit of fur to keep.”

“Where did that end up anyway?”

“My jewelry box.” It is a place he is likely to forget and I am likely to remember. “Cats don’t have much fur and the dogs are both short haired. So…I’m keeping whiskers.”

He glances up to give me the strangest look. “How will you know which is which?”

“The longest belong to the Maine Coon. The next and blackest belong to the Siamese. The terribly short belong to one dog or the other.”

He laughs. “How exactly do you find kitty whiskers?”

“All over. The bathroom floor, my side of the bedspread. And the dogs are easy. If I find it in the bathroom, it is his. If I find any others near their bedding, they’re hers or theirs.”

His brows scrunch, “What are you going to do with all these whiskers, woman?”

“I will make a leather bag with a drawstring, one for each of us. Inside will be these and similar treasures.” I am remembering all the mourning lockets through history with carefully preserved hair of a loved one.

He tips the jar several times before coming around the counter to hold me and kiss my cheek.

His own hair I have set aside, a memento from when his hair was long.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson

Verba Volant, Scripta Manent

V“Spoken Words Fly, Written Words Remain” Writers understand this phrase from the first moment they can read instead of being read to.

When I was young, “What did I say?” invoked terror in my little brain. I’m a generalist; I don’t remember things exactly. A specifist would gladly parrot whatever they were told.

I learned to write by learning to read. Oh, and reading took me so long to figure. I can’t say master since I am sure there is plenty left to learn while reading.

Once, I loved to write letters. I still keep a journal. Okay, pages here and there and over there, under that and filed in binary. I’m not an author, a poet or a journalist. I just write. I can’t imagine not writing, though I did try a hiatus once. My brain overflowed, I think.

Podcasting. Well, no. I tried hosting other people who read out loud. Not for me.

Is “Verba Volant, Scripta Manent” true for you? Is your blog the written words that remain?

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson

UN Words

 

wpid-wp-1398444057883.jpegThe prefix un means not, reverse action, deprive of, release from.”

Great. What about UN as a prefix to verbs that don’t exist in the positive?

Undulate: Dulate. Not even a guess.

Unearth: Reearth? To earth does exist, much to my surprise.
* cover the root and lower stem of a plant with heaped-up earth.

English has un nouns as well.

Underwear: Derwear? Overwear, that’s a stretch. Outerwear? If so, why isn’t it Innerwear?

Uncuous: Cuous. Nope.

And then UN words that mean the same as their negative counterpart?

Unravel: Ravel? It means the same thing.
* untangle or unravel something

It’s a good thing English is my first language.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson