Thoughts float by, lazily like clouds
and with practiced fingers I
snap my chopsticks and catch them
just to release them again on paper,
to see what they will do.
—Dominique M. Snedeker
Recent Posts
Praying for Ukraine: The Journey of a Song
These orphan girls sing a melody that goes deep into my fourteen-year old soul, ushering me into some deep national memory. It calls to something mystical, something spiritual, yearning, longing, dripping in sentiment. This is The Song that has yet to leave me.
Ukraine, My Love, Part I
Seattle 1987
I sat on the gym floor, legs criss-cross-apple-sauced and fingers interlaced, as quiet as can be. I was five and spellbound. The guest speaker at our chapel was telling us stories of a place called Chernobyl, and about these orphans which are kids with no families, with knees the size of basketballs. Sick. And in need of help. These American nurses were allowed into a place called the Ukraine (they seemed surprised yet pleased) because they were doing (humanitarian) work to help the victims of the explosion. This will stay with me for the rest of my life and start a life-long love-affair with Ukraine.
Ukraine, My Love, Part II
Kyiv 2005
The first thing I noticed as I exited the airport in Kyiv was the relative size of everyone. No longer were the bodies narrow, hunched over. People moved around upright, with purpose and noise. It had been four years since my last visit in 2001 and I was anxious to find some of those places that haunted my memory. First is the orphanage, the smell of the building and food and soup, and the smell of children, but in the few years I was unable to visit, the orphanage had transformed partially into a day-school, as the government had shifted from large institutions to a smaller-scale foster-type system.
Dreams Really Do Come True
One of my earliest memories is of playing in the tub, throwing letters out at my grandma for her to reorder in her mind and tell me if I had spelled a word. I loved that game as a three-year-old and was thrilled when one of my combinations turned out to be something. I vaguely remember trying to play it with her again, but she told me, “No, now you have to know how the letters can go together. I’ll show you.” And then flashes in one last memory. I’m coloring pictures to pages of a book I’ve dictated to my grandma. I think it might have been about a bunny because I also remember that I learned how to draw a bunny in preschool. All very vague.
The Catharsis of Writing—The Journey Begins
I love that word cathartic. Catharsis—the emotional release after having gone through some crisis or tension (my definition). Aristotle coined the word catharsis (see I still love that word! Catharsis, cathartic, catharsis…has it broken down into its sounds and lost its meaning yet?) during the rise of the ancient tragic Greek plays. During those plays, a somewhat perfect hero with only one flaw—the tragic flaw—leads himself and everyone else into—you guessed it, tragedy!
Words, Those Lovely, Dangerous Things
Words. Weird shapes of lines and squiggles that represent and idea. Words. Words. Words. They disintegrate into letters—weird shapes of bumps and points—that represent sounds. If you say the same words over and over, they lose all meaning and distort themselves into air and breath.
Words.
I like words.
