Amazing Grace

My oldest son is practicing Amazing Grace on his violin. 

The music floats to me, standing in the kitchen, from the living room.

He’s playing it on a repeating loop this morning at home, before he plays it in a few hours time at his great grandma’s funeral. 

My father brought the music over on Sunday afternoon and they worked on it together. 

I get a lump in my throat every time I hear it. 

Every time. 

Sometimes tears leak out. 

I can’t help it. 

It’s the music. 

It’s the words. 

It’s everything. 

Amazing Grace. 

God’s Grace. 

We’re so undeserving. 

But He gave it anyway. 

And the song begins playing again, as if on cue.

© 2011 Turquoise Tangles

Turquoise Tangles is the name I gave my PowerPoint that I made to convince my guardians to let me dye my hair turquoise :o

Fun to know you titled your presentation, “Turquoise Tangles”. It felt sort of random when I named my My Opera blog that in late March, but the more I thought about it, the more right it felt. So, did you get permission to dye your hair turquoise?! Inquiring minds want to know. *I’ve thought about it myself, but think I’ll make it as art instead.* 😉

Roses are arranged.
Dishes are done.
Laundry is mostly done too.
Now to shorten some slacks I’ll be wearing in a few moments time…and iron my boys dress clothes.
It is A Domestic Goddess Kind Of Day here.
Kind of nice to sink into home and care for my family.
I needed A Day Like Today.
(And A Rose Bouquet, which makes An Ordinary Day Feel Special.)
~ Janean

I love Clearance Roses.
$4.99 for a dozen.
Gotta love Grocery Store Flowers.
I do, anyway.
I order water to drink at restaurants too.
Yes, I am A Cheap Date.
Preferring Matinee Movies too.
Because I’m frugal like that.

I bought these flowers last night at the grocery store.
A dozen yellow roses, clearance priced for $4.99.
The sticker says, “High & Exotic”.
Not sure what THAT means, but they are cheerful and fragrant and make me smile.
Even though I have yet to properly arrange them.
Even though the best I could do last night when I got home from the store at 9:15 p.m. was put ‘em in water.
Literally, stuck ‘em in a vase, just for now.
Will arrange them soon to enjoy them fully.
Until the blooms fade.
And the beauty of the bouquet ends.
For $4.99 I couldn’t leave ‘em at the store.
Yellow roses.
The color for Friendship.
Or simply the color of sunshine on a gray winter’s day.
I love having fresh flowers in the house.
Thankful they go on sale often enough that I can splurge every now and then.
And that my husband stopped alternately asking, “Who are the flowers from?” OR, “What are the flowers for?”
Once he figured out it was just me, being me.
Just because.
I love flowers.

a good friend

A good friend can see through your makeup and pasted on smile and say with love and compassion, “You look tired.” Then she hugs you, because she knows it’ll help soothe your weary spirit, even if only for that fleeting moment. I am thankful for my friends. Now, more than ever.

Reflections from the hallway at school yesterday, as my friend and I rounded up our children, and their stuff, at quarter to three, on the last day of school before Christmas vacation. I came home, happily sent my children off for supper with their grandparents and took a long winter’s nap. Well, an hour or so, but much needed and appreciated, when I awoke, groggy but more rested, than when I first lay down.

Defenestrations: I am a writer

jayarrarr:

I am a writer

Last night I wrote a piece detailing, perhaps somewhat too ironically, how I was a shitty writer. In fact, after the onslaught of messages, I had to edit the piece to put scare-quotes around the word “writer”, so that the irony would be readily apparent. Tonight, I’ve seen numerous pieces of writers declaiming writerhood, and proclaiming instead that they are not writers, and so I must throw in my two cents once again. I’m American, we have pennies, and therefore the ability to do that.

If you type or write words of any creative ilk on screen or page or otherwise — you’re a writer. If you conspire to contort these mere 26 letters we have into words and those words into sentences or phrases or verse — you’re a writer. Own it. Be proud of it. If I saw your words tonight, that means I follow your blog. If I follow your blog, even if I’ve never spoken to you, it means I love and respect your work, and I want to read it on a regular basis. Fucking own it. This “I’m not a writer”, “I’m not a poet”, whatever bullshit is tiresome. Yes, if you’ve ever once put pen to page, you’re a writer. If you’ve ever lost focus on the beauty of an errant leaf floating through the air, you’re a poet. Own it.

Let your first step towards some measure of pride be to recognize that you’re proud of what you do. I am. It doesn’t mean you have to scream it on street corners. I have a self-published book (yeah, I just plugged that shit, wouldn’t you?). None of my family knows about it. Most of my friends don’t know about it. Not because I’m not proud of it — because I don’t want their criticism. I know what it’ll be. I don’t want them to knock me down, because they don’t truly know me and probably wouldn’t accept and love my writing.

Sound familiar? None of that means you’re not a writer. Every single person I follow is a writer (with the exception of those few who aren’t, and they know who they are). So please, your words are beautiful, but with all due respect, spend your creative energy on something other than descriptions of how you’re not a writer. It’s clear you are. Accept it. Use your pretty words for something else.

I am a writer. I write words on paper and screen — over 3,000 of them a day. This is what I do. This is what I live, speak, eat, and breathe. I don’t think I’d exist without this. I’m proud to call myself a writer. And you should be too.

jayarrarr, YOU ROCK!!!! Thank you for this Pep Talk. I’ve been practicing saying aloud, “I am a Writer” for a year now. The poetry surprised me, but once I started writing it, it felt so right, that I knew it had been there, waiting, for a long time. Waiting for me to give in to the lure of words on a page, flowing freely from my heart, more so than my head. Yes, I am a Writer. I am learning to say it out loud with a growing confidence, as I can say on paper the things I cannot say as freely with the spoken word. I love writing. ‘Tis true. ~ Janean, a.k.a. Turquoise Tangles
Defenestrations: I am a writer