Saturday Short: The Old Print Shop

photograph of an old print shop in a dilapidated building that has been boarded upClaire stood in front of the shop with her fists on her hips, glaring up at the broken window on the second story of the shop. This was not what she had been expecting when she purchased–sight unseen–the “quaint, village print shop in need of a new owner, a true diamond in the rough” from the advertisement posted on the printing forum. The seller had said it was a venerable old shop with plenty of business, but that the owner could no longer maintain the presses and wanted to retire somewhere warm year-round. It seemed like good fortune was finally smiling on her.

Now it looked like it was laughing.

Claire pulled out the photo that she’d been sent and held it in front of her at arm’s length. It had to be taken more than a decade ago. She shoved the key into the lock and held her breath as she winced at the squeal of the door’s hinges. When she finally stopped coughing from the dust, Claire gasped. She closed her eyes and opened them again to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. The scene in front of her didn’t change and she began to grin, then laugh as she ran around the shop like a child given a chocolate factory.

An hour later, the soft whir of a flywheel and clank of a turning press could be heard from the sidewalk along with snippets of humming from a woman who’d finally found a printing home and whose fortune seemed to like a good laugh, but ultimately had a heart, too.

The Shuttering of Summer

We’re over a week into September and it feels as though everyone has officially called the end to summer. We’ve effectively shuttered summer; we’ve put away the picnic gear, rolled up the beach towels, and traded flip-flops for boots. (Even though, I’d like to point out that fall doesn’t start until the 22nd with the equinox, mainly because I love summer and hate to see it end.) So today, it seems more than appropriate, it seems necessary to have this quote from Emily Dickinson:

How softly summer shuts without the creaking of a door. Emily Dickinson

Summer is going away, as it has to each year so we can move on with the other seasons. But I hope, if you like summer, you keep a bit of it in your heart even as the weather begins to cool and the leaves begin to change. That you hold onto the whimsy, the fun, the calm, and the energy of summer. Because it is far too easy to get swept along like the falling leaves in all the busyness of the start of school and of the upcoming holiday season. (I just saw Thanksgiving decorations and cards in the store today; I’m not ready.)

I hope you keep the spirit of summer in your work and your art, even as the door to that season is closing. That we all are able to continuing creating even as the days shorten and it seems like a very nice time to hibernate. At least we have NaNoWriMo to keep our writing going, right?

I hope you have a lovely day with time to do what you love with whomever you love. As Neil Gaiman said, “Make good art.” 🙂

Saturday Short: The Stone Archways

photograph of two ancient stone archwwaysI never believed the stone archways were haunted. That was talk to scare the children.

They had stood on the outskirts of my village since the time before records. No one knew who built the arches or why they were there. They weren’t like any of the other structures in our village. The rocks were all wrong. The rocks that jutted out of the hillsides that clustered around our village were sandstone yellow that glowed when the spring sun hit them just right.

The arches were made from dark and heavy stones. Stones that looked like they were frowning as they defied gravity remaining aloft in the archways even after a winter storm toppled many buildings. The stone arches remained.

No one knew where the stories of hauntings came from either, just that they always were. Everyone’s parents told them that they would leave them in the arches for the ghosts if they weren’t good or they hit their sibling or forgot to bring water to the sheep.

But I was no child and I didn’t believe in hauntings. I didn’t believe in many things. So I accepted the challenge to wait through the night in the archways to prove there were no ghosts. They were nothing more than old, mossy stones visited by the occasional bird that landed and squawked to tell me I was wasting my time.

I ignored the whispers that seemed to seep out of the cracks between the stones. Just nerves. Nothing to worry about, even when the sun goes down. I fingered the pendant around my neck. Nothing to worry about at all.

Smiles and Welcome

As I get older, there seem to be fewer and fewer ideas, beliefs, and truths that are universal. There seem to be more areas in life that are in the grey, that change depending on how one looks at them. For the most part, I suppose, this is seen to be a good thing. That it is a natural and decent progression from black and white ideas to understanding context and nuance. For the most part, I agree. But I am happy that there are somethings that are universal:

A smile is the universal welcome. Max Eastman

Smiling is one of those expressions that appears to be universal. It meant welcome when I was five and will mean welcome when I’m scores older than five. I think about smiling a lot, probably because I’m a librarian (in addition to many other things), and we think about how we can be welcoming a lot. A smile is one of the easiest ways to be welcoming.

Also, I find it fascinating that your body doesn’t discern the difference between what we think of as a true smile and a fake smile. If you move your muscles to smile, your body will produce the same chemicals either way to make you feel better. And I think that is a universally wonderful thing. That we can make ourselves feel just a bit better, just by smiling.

So I hope that this week you find welcome where you go. That you find someone who smiles so it reaches their eyes and their hearts when they see you. And that you find reasons to smile not because anyone tells you, too, but because your cheeks will just burst if you don’t from happiness. That’s my smiling wish for you. 🙂

Loud Actions

Do you favor words or actions? It seems like a trick question, doesn’t it? Like it is really a binary or a clean split between the two. And, as with most things in life, there really is a grey area, but if you had to pick, would you pick words or actions? Or, perhaps the better, more appropriate question is: what do you trust more, someone’s words or actions? I’m with Emerson on this one:

What you do speaks so loud that I cannot hear what you say. Ralph Waldo Emerson

Anyone’s actions speak much louder than their words, no matter how pretty or eloquent or “on message” or hip their words are. Actions always win out. I’m reminded of this especially when people’s actions don’t match their words. What a person does tells me more than what they say. Because, although it is cliche, it is true: actions really do speak louder than words.

So what does this have to do with anything about writing or creating or reading or calligraphy that this blog usually talks about? Pretty much everything. I work everyday to ensure that my actions match my words. It is important to me that I don’t just say something, but I back it up with action. If I say that I’m a writer, then I better actually put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. If I say that I care about making the world a better place, then I better put my time and my talents and my money to causes that match what I say.

So my hope for all of us is that we don’t just think about what our actions say and we don’t just say the “right” things, but we actually do the work that is in alignment with our values and our words–even when it is a lot of work, even if we’re tired, and even if others don’t get it and might even say nasty things about us. Our actions are loud, so let’s make what they say worth something.

I hope you are having a lovely week full of creating and sharing and doing things that make you and the world a better place. 🙂

Saturday Short: Across the Ridgeline

Photography looking across the ridgeline to the horizon with lots of trees“I hate walking the ridgeline, Dad,” Martin said kicking a pebble on the trail off into the brush with the toe of his dusty boot. “Can’t we send someone else?”

His father looked down at him, shading his eyes with one hand against the strengthening late morning sun. “And who would you have go in your stead?” He didn’t wait for an answer and resumed walking his long-legged gait that wasn’t hurried, but wasn’t slow either.

Martin glared across the ridgeline for  a moment longer before following. He couldn’t send anyone else in his place. It was his duty to walk the ridgeline, just like it was his father’s. Inheritance was cruel that way. It was boring, dirty, and hard–three things that didn’t do much to recommend it. He had wished for any other job, but such was his lot. Walking the ridgeline where every day was the same.

His father halted in front of him, causing Martin to stumble before he was pulled down to his knees on the trail. An overhanging branch scratched at his face.

“What the–” Martin began, but was cut short by his father’s weathered palm against his mouth.

His father pointed two fingers of his other hand at his eyes, then gestured across the ridgeline. Martin followed and gasped.

At the edge of his vision he saw a glinting light, a reflection off something that shouldn’t be. Martin’s heart flipped and his mouth went dry.

“Go,” his father said. “Get back to town and stay below the treeline.”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna’ get closer.”

His father began moving and disappeared into the brush before Martin could even open his mouth to protest or say goodbye. Suddenly all he wanted was boring. Amazing how wishes changed.

Order and Creativity

Do you ever feel that your life is boring? That you don’t have anything to add to the conversation when people are talking about the latest uber-cool thing they did this weekend or how they are taking up yet another extreme hobby? No? That’s just me. Well, that’s okay. I’ll be the first to admit that to outside eyes my life looks quite boring and regular and orderly. I do the same routine everyday. I cook mostly the same meals every month and get my work done. But you know what? I’m on the same page as Gustave Flaubert:

Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work. Gustave Flaubert

Being orderly and a bit boring shouldn’t be seen as the antithesis of being creative and creating great art. You can be both and having stability in one area of your life can help give you space to be incredibly bold and daring in other areas. For me, my orderly existence helps make a place for my writing and art. If others think I’m dull, I’m okay with that because they aren’t the ones creating my art–I am.

It really doesn’t matter what others think of your life. It’s about what you think about it and what you do with it. It is between you and yourself, not them. So here’s to being regular and flying under the radar and the secret smile you have inside when someone says your life seems dull because they just became a part of a character in your book or fodder for your next art piece. There’s something wonderful about being a butterfly on the inside while everyone else sees a dull moth on the outside. It gives you the secret space to create what you want away from prying eyes.

So I hope you revel in your week and your work. Go create something wonderful and, when you’re ready, I hope you share it with the world. 🙂

Saturday Short: Cougar Rock

photograph of a rock formation shaped like a cougar

“You can get him out, right?” Edith asked, tugging at Maryann’s skirt as they walked up the hill. “He looks so sad. You’ve got to, please, please, please!”

“Let go, sweetie.” Maryann removed Edith’s hand and held it as they turned up at the fork in the road. “Let’s get there and see what we can do.”

“But you have to fix him!” Edith squinted up against the brilliant noontime sun to look her in the eye. “You just have to.”

Against such pleading, Maryann had always been helpless to do anything but what Edith wanted, whether that was picking berries by starlight because she said they tasted better or trying to free a cougar that she insisted had been tricked into stone. It had been this way since Edith came into the world and Maryann knew it would be this way until she left the world.

Edith stopped walking, yanking on Maryann’s hand. “There he is! Doesn’t he look sad?”

Maryann shaded her eyes with her free hand. The rock formation hadn’t been there yesterday when she’d gone to the pass to trade goods with the caravan. She frowned. It wasn’t good. Not good at all. Someone mettling with her woods.

“You see him, right?”

“Clear as your nose,” Maryann said with a smile she didn’t feel. “Give me back my hand so I can help him.”

Edith let go as fast as she could and stepped back.

Maryann stepped off the path and walked around the rock formation, the shadows forming the poor beast’s face and haunches and even its tail. She came back to her starting point and laid her hand on the beast. “Please let this work,” she whispered too quiet for Edith to hear.

Edith paced back and forth on the path, her feet kicking up bits of rock, worrying her hands as Maryann worked. Just when both had almost given up hope as the sun sank behind the tallest trees on the mountain, Maryann felt a tremble beneath her hand and watched a pebble fall away from the cat’s head.

Listening and Respect

When was the last time you truly listened to someone? I mean, really listened–you put down whatever you were doing, stopped your internal dialogue in your head, and gave a person your full attention. Hopefully you’ve done that today. If not, I hope you do. We hear a lot of people each day, but I’m not sure if we do enough listening. So that’s why we have today’s quote:

When you listen to someone, it's the most profound act of human respect. William Ury

It might sound a bit cheesy, but I do believe that listening to someone is an act of respect. Listening can be a profound experience for both the person talking–because they are truly being heard–and for the listener–because you have the opportunity to truly connect with another person. And that’s what we’re here for, right? Connection. That’s what life and art and creating and listening are about.

This was brought home to me last week when I was in a meeting that was long (I’m not a fan of meetings in the first place), didn’t have a set agenda (always a bad sign), and had people talking over each other and not truly listening (disheartening, but unfortunately not surprising in this context). At one point in the meeting, I tried unsuccessfully for five minutes to try to interject into the conversation but people kept talking over each other and when finally the group took a collective breath and I was going to say something I was caught off by the facilitator to let someone else who had been talking previously.

This story isn’t being told to elicit sympathy, and while it also shows the need to facilitate meetings better and to be courteous, it is being told because it is  about listening and respect. Because listening is a whole body activity. You have to pay full attention to whomever is talking and if you are in a group, you have to pay attention to who is waiting to talk, to share, and to add to the conversation. You need to help create space for others to share. It is hard work, but it is so important in the cultivation of respect. And respect will lead to good things, good connections, and good outcomes–no matter what you’re talking about or working on.

So today, as you converse with others, listen to them and show them respect. You never know what you may learn when you listen deeply and how it may impact your life and your art. I hope you are listened to and listen today and take the opportunity to connect. Who knows, it may even give you inspiration to make some good art. 🙂

 

Saturday Short: The Face in the Stone

photograph of a rock that looks like it has a face from the weathering and shadows“Be careful,” the woman said as she passed me on the trail. “There’s something that speaks through the rock up there. I’m not sure if it can be trusted.”

I raised an eyebrow. She didn’t read like someone who heard voices in the woods, but then, I never was a great judge of character.

She looked back up to where the path jogged behind a grove of pine trees and was lost to the shadows then back at me. She sighed and it mixed with the wind. “Don’t pay me any mind, then, but you’ll see.”

She resumed walking and I lost sight of her around the next bend. Shaking my head, I continued walking up the hill and deeper into the forest.

“Never can tell who is mad and who isn’t by sight,” I said to myself as I raised my hand to shade my eyes from the sun that cut across the path in the wake of a fallen tree.

“Isn’t that the truth?” a voice asked behind me. It made me think of rumbles deep in the earth.

I spun around, but no one else was on the path. “Hello?” I asked, feeling at once silly and anxious for hearing voices.

“Hello, indeed. I’m down here, not up there.”

I looked down, sweeping my eyes over the sides of the path and when they came to rest on the face staring back at me from the rock, I screamed.