Are You My Drawing Table?

I spy ... a drawing table underneath it all.

I have never drawn at my drawing table. It’s a treasured possession that has moved with me several times, and yet it’s never seen a drawing completed. As an artist, this must be sin.

I bought the table five or six years ago, part of a New Year’s resolution to do more art. I quickly pieced it together, but when I sat down to draw, I instead curled up on the end of the couch with a board, happily drawing away. Soon, the table became a storage space, buried in books, drawing notes, a cat collar, and a few plant pots and other random things. The table soon traveled to a new house, this time to a dedicated art room. It again accumulated odd and ends. It was cluttered. My life was also cluttered with things that were not nurturing me. I wasn’t doing much art at all.

Nests

“I want to write a poem,” says my mom, “about the empty nests in the bare trees.”

“You know they used to be little homes,” she continues. She pauses. 

I think. I picture a little nest nestled in a haggard oak tree. I image a few pieces of silver garland from last year's Christmas tree weaved into the stems of dead quackgrass … oval blue eggs (it a robin’s nest) tucked in a trio … featherless baby birds with big closed, bluish eyes covering most of their little heads … small chirps as food of crushed worms arrives from above … an empty nest a few weeks into June … there’s a lot here for me to write her poem, but this is not my idea. It is hers. She should write it.

Don't Believe Everything You Think

* Dear readers, if you follow my second blog (dana-onethousandmilesthisyear.blogspot.com) you may feel you are reading the same entry. This is actually a different writing spun off the other, if you read through to the end.

“Pick a subject,” Ricardo said. “Let’s not focus on our suffering.” Six miles into a seven-mile run, we were both tired.

Earlier in the run, we tackled some crazy hills, and the last one took a lot out of me. We were only half way through our distance. If Ricardo wasn’t ahead of me by fifty steps, I might’ve bailed and started walking or sat in the snow and started crying.

When I finally caught up to him around mile four, I was winded and tired. I scanned my body. From my neck down, I felt just fine. I realized I just THOUGHT I was winded and tired. My mind was tired.

Spiders as Roommates

Spiders are nice roommates. They don’t take up much space, they are quiet, and they keep to themselves. They don’t ask for much, except an occasional rescue from the bathroom sink or bathtub. They are those non-threatening spiders, all legs and tiny bodies. They appear so fragile that I feel a need to protect them.

I share my small apartment with quite a few spiders. They come and go, often popping up overnight. I now know where to expect them, but one did surprise me in the kitchen sink, weaving a small web in a clean measuring cup in the sink. I kindly scooped her out, and I put her on the counter. I’m not sure where she moved.

Reviving “A Thing A Week”

It’s time to pick up the writing reins again. Welcome to new newly revived A Thing A Week for 2011.

This past November, I joined National Novel Writing Month, committing to 50,000 words in 30 days. My goal veered a bit from NaNo’s intent, as I wrote personal essays, not fiction, for my stint, but some rules are meant to be broken. As long as I consider it a novel, say the rules, a novel I wrote. I knocked out my words, learning a lot about writing, the process, and my role in it. I felt pride in my accomplishment on many levels, levels that will likely be explained right here over the coming year.