Category: writing

Even If…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay11 Comments

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On Fridays I often join a tribe of internet writers as we journey through a prompt given to us by the lovely Kate over at Five Minute Friday… I enjoy the challenge, the writing exercise and, ultimately, the talent and depth within this little writing community. If you have time, you should hop over to the linkup and read some other contributors.

The format is simple… Considering the word, we free-write for five minutes. So, here we go…

~

If that someday should become a one day, or even better, an our day, I hope to stay present and aware of the magical moments and the beautiful, undeserved scope our lives would have moved into…

If my kitchen table once again holds the smiling faces of my now-adult-once-children, I hope to breathe them in, freeze frame their expressions, memorize the common things they speak, to remember to inhale/exhale through the painful searing of the moment to my heart, to bring me companionship and comfort as they’ve left to live their own grown up lives…

If my home holds a porch paired with rocking chairs, I hope we will sit in them (together) so often that those wooden slats hold the form of our shapes long after we are gone, and that the porch railings cling tight to the love and the laughter we exchanged while sitting and swaying back and forth…

If my feet get to sink, sand deep, at shoreline points, whenever my heart desires- I hope I never take the miracle of that life affirming moment for granted…

If I someday make it to an agent, from an agent to a publisher, from a publisher to a book store, book tour, and all of the imaginings which follow- I hope I remember the why’s and the who for’s, I hope I never forget that fragile seven-year old girl who wanted nothing more than to write the things meant to help the people, to love the people…

If these things which I dream of and pray for, are never granted passage, I hope I’ll embrace the answers even so… If I wake up, still here, twenty years from now, may gratitude be the one constant to clothe my spirit, and a disciplined habit be the one which led me to store treasure moments within my soul.

Even so/even if- that I never forget to cling to the grateful, embrace the miracle, savor the exceptional and find breathable life within the small things…

~

Quilts and Ice Cream Spoons…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay3 Comments

www.rainydayinmay.comI stir the ice cream, there in that bowl.

Over and over, spoon to side, and back again. The grinding sound is creating the milky masterpiece that I love so much.

Often the act begins with scoops of Cookies & Cream, the one which will remain a lifelong favorite. Most often though, they consist of French Vanilla, what I remember to be your favorite and a flavor I simply cannot stand.

The grinding, noise of metal spoon against glass, annoys you. This isn’t why I love to do it, but it doesn’t seem to deter me from my mission either.

As long as I can make that ice cream last, fading from firm scoop to sweet cream, the more of a victory I seem to feel I have won… I never questioned why, or why I stopped playing with the treat once I no longer lived under that roof. Have I ever done that as an adult? I’ll have to ask my husband. If I have, it was more from habit than intent.

As a girl, it was deliberate- thought out. It took serious concentration and I was committed to the act as if humanity’s survival depended on it…

Whenever something prompts me to reflect on my childhood, and the sorts of things I loved, liked and found interesting, that silly little ice cream habit is always towards the top of my list. I would shrug it off internally, chalking up to one of those dumb things I did to be weird. Today, suddenly, in this adult moment I am simply not sure…

We only had ice cream when you were there. We only did a lot of things when you were there. Movie nights, game nights, real dinners, actual dialogue and verbal interaction that didn’t involve yelling or verbal abuse. Which, I guess, isn’t entirely true. There were manic moments which included late night dance parties between her and I, or crazy drives in the dark where she’d sing and dance in the car and I would try to force myself to absorb how incredibly fun my mom could be. It would be well into my own adulthood when I would realize my mom’s manic habits really weren’t fun, but to a child those were the best versions of her that I saw.

On the nights when you were there, after the evening meal, after the kitchen was clean and the ice cream was eaten- this is when I was encouraged to sit on the couch beside you. This is when the bad things which I had always known, would happen. She would turn slightly, towards the light and away from us, and there- with a movie on the television, my little soul would fragment again and again.

Of course we were quite a group, the three of us. There was me, the girl who really hadn’t a clue what was happening as I disappeared catatonic, to a dark place deep within. There she sat knitting, in the role of my mother, choosing not to see it because then she could convince herself of innocence. And lastly, you. I don’t know why you did it, I don’t know how you could hear the word Daddy, be the keeper of my more stable childhood moments, be the teacher or my board game and bicycle skills and still be the monster with his body parts between my little girl legs…

I will never know the full extent of what happened.

I will certainly never understand.

I do know that I don’t hate you. It’s a complicated place to arrive, but I have. It was. It happened. It’s over.

I’ve found myself in the repeating situation, as of late, of hearing another share their own abuse story. I have found myself in awe of the quilted fabric we survivors lay across this earth, together connected by stitches not visible to the human eye, yet very real and binding. We are each so different, yet it is often in the connection of together which makes it the most beautiful…

It is beautiful.

This scrap of fabric, the fragment which remains after the use and abuse of the rest of a once shiny and new linen- it becomes something heavy with warmth and stitched with love. Something which will cradle a newborn, nurture the sick, protect our children from the elements and splay so much hope and beauty on this fragmented world.

Four sat around a table today, talking about life and motherhood, about marriage and technology, about childhoods and dark things like this. Of the four, only one had not known such darkness. Only one… I saw it then- this quilt protects the babies so that the one can one day become three– and some glorious day- four. I long for a day when four women can come together and not one of them will know the unwanted sexual touch of another.

I am a part of an often faceless sisterhood, and while I cannot be glad for what took me there, I am grateful for the banding together of something bold and beautiful, sprouted from the ugly it was born.

I am not what you did to me, but I am forever changed because of it. It may have felt otherwise, and it might still I guess, but the reality is that the only victim in our exchange is you…

I think of you, of that favorite bowl and that flatware spoon every time I eat ice cream. Woven into my soul, you’re there. You are there in the small green Monopoly houses, in the 1980’s horror movies, in tall sweaty glasses of iced tea, even in the smell of grilled steak… You are everywhere, somehow in almost everything. It is both complicated and simple. Hating you, I finally see, would mean hating me. So, instead, I’ll roll the dice and keep my fingers crossed that I get to own the Orange and the Greens. I’ll savor bites of ice cream and I’ll occasionally enjoy a steak and iced tea- I can not let the memory of a man, both father figure and monster, ruin things I love- just like you didn’t ruin me.

The Ocean Rolls Us Away… (away, away)

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay7 Comments

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On Fridays, most of the time, I join some really inspirational and talented writers. Kate over at Five Minute Friday issues a one word prompt and we have five minutes to write whatever free flow, unedited thoughts come to us. Every week I am amazed at some of the really extraordinary pieces I read from the link-up and since this week’s prompt is about my very favorite thing in the entire world, I can’t wait…

~

Oh, the ocean rolls us away

away

away

the ocean rolls us away…

Buds tucked inside of my ears deliver the last touch of a balm my crumbling spirit needed to climb towards the waiting restore…

All of these moments are lost in time

But you caught in my head like a thorn on a vine

To forever torment me and I wonder why

Do I wish I’d never known you at all

Crashing into the atmosphere, competing with the notes the Bravery laments on either side of my mind, the sea foams earthy and present, spraying my sand sprinkled feet while my senses are slammed with salty, sea air.

Everything.

This is everything.

Like nothing else, in the world, this soft beach bottom embraces me naturally as land and sea violently come together, kiss- only to part again, a mere body’s length from me- (assuming that body was really, really tall, of course.) It is the one place where I feel whole, connected, reborn, in unison with God, salvation and the very core of all that my inspiration comes from.

It is where I am me. Where I see me. Him in me…

The lyrics, the sand, the salty-air, slight wet breeze- a raging metaphor for the moments which I have already walked through, and to the ones still just ahead…

The sun and the moon, an ocean of air
So many voices and nothing is there
But the ghost of you asking me why, why did I leave?
Oh, The ocean rolls us away, away, away
The ocean rolls us away
Oh, The ocean rolls us away, away, away
And I loose your hand through the waves

~

(Full disclosure, it is 2:14 a.m. on Friday morning and, headphones in and music playing, I was catching up on a deadline and, blurry eyed, decided to knock out my FMF post as well. As I began my timer, the song The Ocean by the Bravery randomly began to play… Except we all know there are no coincidences. It was a beloved little nod, and I embraced it.)

Obstacle vs. Victory…

Published on by Mae @ RainydayinmayLeave a comment

Statistically speaking, it was seven miscarried pregnancies, a tiny sneak peek of uterine cancer and a medical procedure to eliminate any chances for the same sort of bad, (or much, much worse) to occur…

Humanly speaking, I was a shattered twenty-four year old woman having an emergency hysterectomy after my heart had been ripped from my soul and trampled on seven different hellish times. My body was worn, my womb twisted, scarred and reaching it’s expiration date…

The two perspectives belong to the very same story, but they each tell an entirely different tale.

In the midst of the story is infidelity, adultery, deceit, abuse and so much more. The bad moments, the broken and bloody miscarriage moments last a lifetime- there, shattered and bleeding on that lime green tile floor. By my now ripe age of forty-two I have lived at least a dozen lifetimes, it feels…

And yet.

This humanly statistical story of life and luck-gone-nightmarishly-wrong did not end with the loss of life, loss of womanhood. It continued and holds, within it’s oxygen bound chapters, reconciliation, redemption, reconnection, three lovely little childhood souls without a mother and this aching mother’s heart without children to love. Mine is not a statistical story about loss, but gain. It is not about hopeless longing, though it did contain that then. Instead it is a story of a miraculous weaving, of a family that grows despite the odds. Imperfect and yet perfectly real.

This is my story. We all have them.

We have all had hardships which stood between us and something bigger, something looming impossible. We’ve all known our greatest obstacle- and our stories did not end there.

Rocky is a timeless tale still loved and embraced decades after its creation. This is because Rocky’s story resonates with us. After all, isn’t that why art exists, to connect us with our inner-self, our God, the world around us and each other? Art opens and exposes us…

And just like our own stories, art never ends.

I am really excited to share with you about Creed 2… (like, REALLY excited!)

www.rainydayinmay.com

PRIDE. LEGACY. FAMILY.

This fall, there is more to lose than a title.

In Theaters Wednesday, November 21st

Official Synopsis:  Life has become a balancing act for Adonis Creed. Between personal obligations and training for his next big fight, he is up against the challenge of his life. Facing an opponent with ties to his family’s past only intensifies his impending battle in the ring. Rocky Balboa is there by his side through it all and, together, Rocky and Adonis will confront their shared legacy, question what’s worth fighting for, and discover that nothing’s more important than family. Creed II is about going back to basics to rediscover what made you a champion in the first place, and remembering that, no matter where you go, you can’t escape your history.

Release Date: November 21, 2018

Director: Steven Caple Jr.

Cast: Michael B. Jordan, Sylvester Stallone, Tessa Thompson, Wood Harris, Russell Hornsby, Florian “Big Nasty” Munteanu, Andre Ward, Phylicia Rashad, Dolph Lundgren

Writer: Sylvester Stallone

Distributor:  MGM, Warner Bros. Pictures

#CreedII

Official Site | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

The one with the Do’s and Do Not’s…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay2 Comments

I used to wake up, before the sun, every morning. I would make breakfast for my husband and get him out the door. I would write until it was time to wake my youngest. Before any of those things happened, I had made my bed, gone through my diligent face care routine and dressed in real (non-pajama) clothes. She had a home cooked breakfast, every morning, and then we homeschooled.

I was not a coffee drinker.

I managed to write an entire novel this way, make a decent income as a blogger and worked as both a freelance film critic and consultant for Random House. At some point, in 2010, I decided I needed more on my plate, so I turned my passionate hobby of photography into a small business.

Allow me to pause here, for just a minute, to advise you against taking something you creatively love and making it a business. This does seem to work out for some, but for so many of us it only leads to disaster… My DSLR is hardly ever on these days, and after two years of taking orders from people who did not care what my focus or vision was, I closed the doors on that endeavor. There was also the fact that I was tired, my writing was suffering and I was joining the masses as an exhausted/uninspired blogger…

It will probably always come back to this blog.

It’s not surprising that when one pulls away from consistent blogging, allowing months to pass between half-hearted attempts at posts, their audience gravitates elsewhere. Social media and the miracle of micro-blogging was not a thing yet. Somehow I kept this little space of the internet there, at bay, for the someday to come. The someday when I would feel inspired and suddenly once again share everything through the lens of an observer.

The thing is, that day will never come.

Just like sitting on three completed novels, a hundred personal essays and poetry pieces does not a published author make. While I know that several of those projects are nowhere near publishable, it annoys me to wake up at 42 and wonder what I was thinking? I kept my life at bay, waiting for that day when I’d be an agent represented, published author. How I would ever get from point A to G without accomplishing B, C, D, E, & F, I never seemed to consider. It would just happen, wouldn’t it? No. “If you write it, they will read it…” “If it’s meant to be, it will be…” *Insert other stupid nonsense, we put our faith in because we need something to believe in and that might be less vulnerable than actually going after it, here…*

When my youngest left the nest, I knew the season of pursuit was upon me. I knew that the running list of things I used to do, would be mine again-

  • I would blog.
  • I would find an agent.
  • I would publish my book.
  • I would begin a podcast.
  • I would have this amazing army of a support system around me.
  • I would master time management, beginning with a sacred morning quiet time, which would fill my soul with infinite peace…
  • I would read so many books.

The good news is that I did manage to start a podcast, and I really love the experience. It has been like nothing I ever could have imagined, in my wildest dreams. The truth is though, the podcast wasn’t ever meant to be the focus or the most important part. (Someone asked me the other day how I felt podcasting and writing went hand in hand. I couldn’t answer. The truth is, they don’t. Both support my heart, my vision/what I believe is my purpose, but that is the only real connection.)

The rest though, minus point five, is on me. My time management is far from mastered. No longer having kids at home, it is beyond me how I can not manage to find time to do these things. How many times did I say:

When school is out for summer I will…

When Gen graduates I will…

After we move, I will…

Just let me get through the holidays and then I will… 

Because, in some dysfunctional way I believed time would magically appear, but it doesn’t. Time to write, time to sit quietly to connect/pray/reflect, time to work out, time to… IT DOES NOT *POOF* into existence. We adapt and fill those spaces once filled by other things, with new things. Because the habits didn’t already exist, they don’t fall in line.

I have felt so much insurmountable disappointment in all of this. I half heartedly throw a post up and only a couple dozen people may read it. Defeat. I take part in a few linkups in an effort to connect with readers and grow an audience (again), but see little to no traffic increase. Defeat. I start the year off with a simple, lovely little devotional and open it yesterday morning to see five weeks have passed since my last check in with that sweet little book. Defeat. I catch a glimpse of my TBR pile. DEFEAT…

And, to be honest, I find myself incredibly hurt and disappointed by the lack of support in the people I love more than life itself. Which, is ok. It is ok to be hurt when it seems like others should care. HOWEVER, out of an entire list of things bearing my frustration and disappointment, that is the one point I cannot do anything about. Instead of allowing that to debilitate me further, I need to just get up, dust myself off and DO ALL OF THE THINGS. Period.

Instead, I stay stuck, and we all know that defeat and disappointment feel terrible.

I have lived silently within the dimension of my growing frustration at these things. With each passing day, I have felt worse, but did little to change a thing. Then I became a part of a conversation with others. Other women, women I respect and admire, who are living an almost identical chapter. What?!?!?! Something magical happened though, when this conversation began…

I was able to start addressing these things, one little bit at a time. I am still chipping away and maybe that will sum up the next ten years of my life. That’s ok too. I’ll get there and it WILL be worth it.

This early Wednesday morning I do not have time management mastered, but I am managing to use my time better. I am realizing my mistakes within the dream world of overwhelm.

I am doing something, and so at least there is that.