Snapshots of a Life

I stare down into an empty mug. A full cup of tea is happiness to me, and my cup has run dry. I still have another photo shoot to do. Grabbing my trusty camera bag, I leave the lobby of the hospital and head off to the maternity ward. I arrive at the client’s door and knock.

“Shhhh…. James is sleeping, and so is his Father.”

The young Mother ushers me in. Little baby James nursing at her breast sleeping. Daddy snoring on the fold out couch.

“Do you mind if I capture this moment, before I set up for the portraits you requested?”

“No… No. Not at all.”

Reaching into my bag and grabbing my Nikon camera and my 2x converter lens, I mount the lens onto the camera and turn it on. Bringing the picture into focus, then adjusting the aperture to let the right amount of light hit the image sensor, I see a perfect snapshot.

James sucking life-sustaining milk from his Mother’s breasts. One nipple held in his mouth, and the other in his hand. His Mother holding him in her arms, kissing his full head of black hair, dark circles under her eyes. A calm expression on her face. Daddy is stretched out on the couch in the background, mouth open and snoring.

“Perfect.” An audible snap comes from the mirror in the camera. “Are you ready for some portraits?”

“Yes, but I don’t know about my husband! Just get set up and I will wake him.”

I begin to set up my working area, as she wakes her husband. Grabbing some blankets, I line the bassinet with them.

“I’m awake. As awake as I’m going to be,” he says as he rubs his eyes.

I know that they want a perfect portrait of their newborn. Audible snaps come from my camera. I feel in all these pictures something is lacking. After taking the portraits requested, I put them to a slide show with some music. The slide show begins on my computer. I begin to shut the door and give them a private moment. They watch the slide-show, as Baby James is nursing looking up at his Mother and Father with big blue eyes. They see the pictures and begin to cry. I see the perfect picture and take one last photograph, finding what was lacking. Happiness. Another Moment. The beginning of a family. Snapshots of a Life.

I go to fill my mug with my life-sustaining liquid, tea. I think how funny it is that our lives are like photographs. Snapshots of moments, memories. Opening my journal, I pick up me pen. Then I take a large sip of tea, and begin to write my own story.

“Here are my stories. My memories. Snapshots of a life.”

 

Notes

This is my story I submitted to Mash Stories that was rejected. The three words that we were to use in our story were mug, happiness, and converter.

This is based on some truth, but I still consider it fiction. The day our son was born we did cried when we saw the photographs. I think that we became a family in that moment. It was then I thought about how you really do not see the beauty of a moment un til it is gone. When we capture photographs, we try to freeze those moments in time. When we tell stories we also try to capture those moments in time. The feelings and emotions that come with those moments. I think that photographers, are similar to writers. It is with their craft, they try to tell a story.

I am really happy with  because it speaks about being human. Trying to capture the beautiful fleeting moments in our life, if only to hold onto them a little bit longer.

 

Mash Stories- Rejection Letter.

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   So I’m just gonna leave this here…. Second rejection letter, from Mash Stories. I had submitted this story to the writing competition they hosted on the 8th of this month. I just got an email and got this on my submittable account. Unfortunately as with other stories that I have submitted previously, I have gotten no feedback. I find that frustrating.

   The story I wrote for this Mash stories was a stepping stone for changing the name on my blog page to Snapshots of a Life, and it is a story I hold dear because it is based on a simple truth. So moving on from here… I look forward to sharing this story on my page, with all of you later tonight. I think that is where it belongs.

  I am continuing to move forward with my novel I am writing, as well as reading The Story Sisters, by Alice Hoffman. I have not been able to put it down! After I finish it I will also be writing a review for all of you. I feel reading is a big part of writing. You cannot write unless you read. It gives you such an appreciation of the craft, and also ways on which we can improve our writing.

Book Review- Oliver Phipps

I recently read a book written by Oliver Phipps, The House on Cooper Lane: Based on a True Story. I think this is more of a short story. This is a gem of a story, and here is why.

1. The plot moves along fairly quickly and keeps your interest because you want to read more, and find out what is so odd about this mysterious house.

2. I find good short stories are hard to come by because lack of character development. This one does lack some I feel, but it works for this story because the character is more or less the house. It gives life to this dreary old house.

3. It kept my attention the whole time.

4. I will be reading more of Oliver Phillips stories. I really enjoyed The House on Cooper Lane!

Without giving too much away, I will give you a brief synopsis, so you can decide if this is a good story to add to your reading list.

Bud is in need of an apartment, and he needs to find one quickly. He happens to see a sign covered in brush that says there are apartments, and him and his dog Badger, investigate.  It is a beautiful old house broken up into apartments.
What secrets do these apartments hold? Why is no one renting them?
Read more to find out!

Next book on my reading list is Alice Hoffman’s The Story Sisters. She is one of my favorite Authors. I read her book Practical Magic when I was in high school and have been hooked ever since. Another one of my favorites by Alice is The Dovekeepers. I believe it was also made into a mini series I have yet to see!

Sunburn

   The Summer sun begins to rise in the sky, heating the buildings and houses. In the warmest nooks and crannies, the wasps and bumble bees like to make their nests.
  
   The smell of freshly cut grass lingers across all neighborhoods and towns. The flowers and trees begin to bloom, and the weeds and grapevines begin to grow wild.

   Many hours are spent outside. Children, pick flowers to set in jars on windowsills. They observe the lawn teeming with life. A very pregnant groundhog digging holes in the yard under the shed, preparing a safe home for her little one.

   Then come the afternoons, spent grilling on the patio, days spent working in the garden, and night sitting under a moon around a fire roasting marshmallows.

   At night comes the pain from the sunburn, and sitting on the plant hanger in the window an aloe plant. The aloe leaf is broken open, and the slave is applied to the sunburn before bed. In the morning, another day of yard work is begun, but not before vinegar is applied to the reddened sting of the sunburn.

   At night, after the days work has ended, and the sun begins to set in the sky, take a moment to rest and remember today is never a day wasted as long as you take care of garden, and weeds. Just don’t forget to take care of the sunburn. If you don’t it stings.

Choose Adventure

To walk, Or Not to walk after we ate our supper? That was the question of the evening. My toddler wanted to walk. Our home is just down the street from the local pub and restaurant. I obliged and we headed home as my Husband paid the for our food, and left a tip. Our Son excitedly bolted out of the door and out onto the sidewalk ready for an adventure.

Across from the restaurant on the corner of the block sits a building supply company. They have a red Adirondack chair, fit for a king sitting in the corner of their lot. Of course, our Son had to try it. He requested I take his picture on it, and subsequently on every bench we came across on the way home. We laughed and giggled all the way home because, we realized life is ment to be enjoyed. So when you can, walk instead of drive. Laugh and always have fun. Choose adventure. You will not be disappointed!

The Alchemy of Music

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Picture of My Violin

The Alchemy of Music

My Son picks up My bow and begins to draw the bow across this beautiful instrument. The strings vibrate as he runs the rosined bow across them. “I play the violin, I love violin.” He says. Already at two, He sees and the beauty of this instrument. The same beauty I saw many years ago.

I remember the first time I heard the violin. I was Noah’s age. I remember thinking how beautiful it was. How it sounded like a human voice. I said I wanted to play it too. My parents said I had to wait tell I could reach my hand over the scroll. That I was to little. At three, almost four years of age, my hand could finally reach around the tiny child’s violin. I was excited to play it! I see the same enthusiasm My Son had.

When I got older, I needed a full size violin. As luck would have it, the lady that babysat us (Aunt Gi-Gi) had a old violin. It was her Uncles and in need of some work. It was beautiful and old. (Aunt Gi-Gi would be well into her 90s by now.) She told us it had been sitting in her daughters basement. That no one in her family played the violin, so it hadn’t been used for many years. It looked like it had been played everyday. There was a crack that needed repaired and the pegs were worn. The varnish rubbed off in areas. Once fixed, it had a refined tone that violins only get from playing them for a century or more. This violin speaks and it has a story to tell just like its owners.

I didn’t want to take it with me when we moved into the apartment because it would annoy the neighbors and because working did not allow me to play. I was diagnosed with a vestibular disorder in October. I am not able to work because my disorder gets worse with stress, and heavy lifting. I have many bad days, and very rare is a day when I do not have neck pain or a throbbing migraine, coupled with dizziness, weakness, and the inability to see properly. Until I begin therapy, the doctor said my condition will get worse. Even then my condition will get worse. Therapy just teaches you to compensate. So one day, I dusted off my trusty violin when Noah asked me about it. He wanted to take it with us, so I got a mute and it came home with me.

I started to to play every day again, because Noah insists I play every morning. Something miraculous began to happen. My neck felt better, the migraines were not as frequent, making the dizziness more tolerable. The violin was working out the nerves that were giving me problems. I found out that music is the best therapy.

Then I thought, why did I ever stop doing what I loved? When I wanted to go into music I was told it simply wouldn’t pay the bills. So I did something that would. Now I can’t do that because of my disorder. So was it really worth it? Sacrificing what I love to make more money? I wish I would have listened to my heart. Just like my Son listens to his. I see him with so much enthusiasm and I see the same enthusiasm I had. Nothing seemed to be impossible for him. This is how we achieve success. We decide not to give up.

My Son has taught me two things. Never give up, and if you fail, get back up again an try… Keep trying and try again. So just like when he is learning to play the violin, I must not give up hope and get back up again. Then something clicks and I finally get what music means to me. It is the reason I am here. It is the whole reason Noah was here. If it wasn’t for music, if it wasn’t for the violin, he would have never existed.

Music is what binds our family together. As fate would have it, it is also the reason I am here.

My parents met at church. My Dad was playing the organ, and my Mom was filling in for the choir director. She had just had her appendix out and had trouble getting up to direct the choir. My Dad helped her stand up so she could conduct. They went to Friendly’s afterwords and talked until they closed. A few weeks later they were engaged to married. Then a few years later I was born, and my Brother followed two years later.

Mike and I met at work. We exchanged books as well as stories for several week before we finally decided to go out with each other. We talked until closing time at the Winking Lizard. Our mutual love of music strengthened our bond. We listened to Mozart and other classical composers into the wee hours of the morning. We also went to a friends house, and they had a guitar. Mike began playing and I began to harmonize. Shortly there after, I showed him my trusty old violin. I played it for him. Some classical tunes and fiddle tunes alike. We were music nerds. A perfect fit for each other!

Noah hears the same music his Grandparents heard. The same music his Parents heard. He hears the story it has to tell. The magic and alchemy of music itself.

Musicians are like alchemists. Putting the elements together to create a beautiful healing piece of music. When these elements are put together and played to express emotion of great depth, they can be enough to move an audience to tears because of the beauty or, they can heal a person’s pain and sorrow.

I have a theory on why this happens. The universe according to string theory, subatomic particles do not exist. The universe is made up of strings that vibrate. As Noah draws the bow across the string I begin to wonder if this is why music has healing properties. Can it possibly allow the strings that our body is made out of vibrate, and therefore make us feel with every fiber of our being, the music we are playing or hearing? Quite possibly could it allow those strings to vibrate differently and heal us in ways that science has to discover? I believe so. This is the Magic of music we have yet to discover. We have already discovered so much.

As I teach my Son to play and he draws the bow across the string, I now realize the alchemy of music. That it truly has healing properties. That Noah feels the same properties I felt years ago. That he feels the love, sorrow, pain and joy, that has flowed through the violin as he draws the bow across the strings. Music is what holds us together by many strings. We never really choose music or to play and instrument. It chooses us. At the lowest point of our lives, it reminds us of how it strings us together, and it gives us hope. The hope I had so many years ago. The complete and utter joy of the alchemy of music.

You can find the original post, and other musings on Facebook here,

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=1624373947815202&substory_index=0&id=1597360117183252

Broken Glass- Part One

Part One

The Glass House She Built

 

She built a house around herself,

A house of clear glass.

It began to rain,

The sound so deafening she thought it would break her house.

Then a beautiful rainbow formed.

Shimmering,

Forming clear glass into multi-colored glass.

It was just an illusion.

The illusion fooled her,

Until a boy,

Not much older than herself wondered,

“What would happen if I threw stones at the pretty glass?”

He threw the stones

And the glass began to crack.

The girl began to cry,

But he never noticed.

Until, the house she built for herself shattered.

She stood there crying.

Tears of blood dripping down her face.

She cried, “How could you! How could you!”

He stood there emotionless with a blank face.

And she stood there battered.

Bleeding.

Heartbroken.

She was

Crystal,

Multi-colored glass.

Shattered.

Beautifully Broken.

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Broken Glass- Prologue

 

Broken Glass

 

Prologue

 

My footsteps echo in the nearly empty foyer. I think this must be a dream. It just doesn’t seem real. From the phone call a half hour ago, to the fire trucks and sirens I hear coming down the road. I tell myself, “No, no. This can’t be my life.” They tell you the first step to accepting loss or grief is denial. “God I am in denial.” I smell smoke… but the first thing that catches my eye is all the paper scattered on the ground, illuminated by the sunlight pouring in the open windows.  The cool breeze from the windows, feeding the smoke and fire wherever it is. I am oblivious to all of that.

All I see are the papers. All I see are pictures. No furniture. Just memories. Shattered memories. Like fragmented glass. The open window blowing these pieces around. Now I see a trash can. Several large folders have been set ablaze, feeding the flames, the smoke. I grab a pot from the stove. It has water in it. The slob must have set it out to soak after last night’s dinner. I pour it over the folders. The ink from the paper begins to bleed through the folders. Just like my heart. Then I saw it. The black book, I turn the first page, and I begin to cry. This was my fucking life. Where did I go wrong? How did we get here? It was not always this way….

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