Hydrangea, Empty Bowls, A Picture Window, A Brick Factory, A Portrait

EXERCISE 031: FIND A WINDOW

a bird perched there

Choose a window in your home or some place that you return to each day. Could be a window in your office, or your classroom, or maybe it’s the window in your car, or at your gym, or church, or library, etc.

Describe an object that is nearest the window. It could be a tree or just a branch or leaf on that tree. It could be a bird perched there. It could be a rock or concrete slab beneath the window. Try to limit the frame of your description to a thing (or part of a thing) the size of a shoebox or smaller. If a desire comes to mind as you describe your window view, name it (e.g., “Right now, I want to get up and make a little more coffee… ”)

Right now, I look out my front window sitting at the table I use as a desk. To my right there are two hydrangeas, one pink and one white. We bought them to honor our parents and grandparents as part of our Easter celebration at church. I watered them and they found new life. I think of Easter flowers of my past. I think of Living Crosses and spring. I think of the original blessing and abiding faith. Faith in resurrection and miracles. Faith in grace and strength. Faith in compassion and empathy. I think about beautiful dresses, patten leather, and possibility. I think about Easters and everyday resurrections. I think about building the beloved community.

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EXERCISE 032: WIDEN THE LENS

a shoebox or smaller

Go back to the same window you studied on Monday and now describe an object within five feet of the place where the object you described was yesterday. Try to limit the frame of your description to a thing (or part of a thing) the size of a shoebox or smaller. If a desire comes to mind as you describe your window view, name it (e.g., “Right now, I want to…”)

Right now, I want to tell you about the antique bowls that sit empty beneath the hydrangeas on the bookshelf inside our front door. 

One of the bowls is the rose bowl that sat outside the guest room at my grandparents home when I was growing up. It traveled through homes and lives and memories. I always thought it was beautiful and supposed she had kept it through my family’s past. I imagine it having been in there houses. Births of my grandmother and her sisters and brother. Births of my mother and her many cousins. I played in their homes over many years. That open bowl holds all those memories. Roses like eyelashes watching it all unfold. 

We collected our other bowl when Harvey passed. I never noticed the bowl until cleaning up the house while we prepared for the funeral. Small bluish purple lilacs dance around the edges of white china. It sat right next to where Harvey told me he loved me already on the first night we met. I suppose it was, like my grandmother’s bowl, too good to use for meals.

I think about empty bowls. The beauty of space and breath. The invitation of an open bowl, or hand, or mind. The the utility of oneness — the embrace and welcome and hold — for as long as it takes an idea to rest and fly.

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EXERCISE 033: RETURN TO MEMORY

can I be sure?

Recall a window from memory (it can be the same window as earlier this week or it could be one from, say, your childhood). Describe a particular image you saw through that window on a particular day as best you can. If some details are unclear, that’s okay. Ask questions using physical detail (e.g. “Can I be sure the bird’s eyes were brown?”) or make them up (“The bird’s name was Bonifacio.”) If a desire comes to mind as you describe this window memory, name it (e.g., “In those days, I wanted to…”)

The picture window at my great-grandmother’s house looked out over her garden. I remember peonies and irises. I remember old trees and bluegrass. I remember hasenpfeffer and railroads. In those days, I was a princess. Steel and stardust. Not yet scar tissue. I created new worlds through that window. Imagination birthed. Dragons slayed. Beans planted. Rainbows climbed. Heels clicked. I was unstoppable. Carrying my Holly Hobby lunchbox and my fiddle, I sang my song. I tapped danced right up front. I wrote secret poetry in a red folder. I kept it hidden under the basement stairs. 

Shining was my rhythm and the window framed my shine. The window framed my shine by connecting me to generations. The window framed my shine by telling my story. The window framed my shine by letting me see light and dark, kindness and cruelty, faith and fear, grace and terror. 

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EXERCISE 034: FLIP YOUR PERSPECTIVE

sipping from a cup

Go back to the window from Monday and Tuesday’s exercises. Pretend you are stepping outside of yourself and describe yourself at this window. Are you sitting or standing? Describe your arms and posture. How does the window frame your body? What are the other features of the space you’re in? Narrate small gestures, too, like sipping from a cup or looking away or shifting from one foot to the other. You might consider beginning your description with how you come to the window. You might consider describing yourself leaving the space, too.

I am walking out of our loft in our 100-year-old building. I turn to the left and walk toward the historically-registered-former-brick-factory-turned-art-gallery across the street. 

I did a little research and discovered the story of the building. Built in 1909, they made bricks with “convict-free” free labor (which was a huge commitment in Georgia in 1909) within its walls. 

I look at my hands and think of history and labor. Of bricks and loft walls. Of the public art and magnolias. Of dogs and skateboards. I feel my feet walk on the uneven brick. The broken surface stretches my newly mended tendon. The distance from my door to the path that runs behind my house is still too far. I smell magnolia from a distance. 

I remember pain-free walks. I remember race starts and finishes. I remember my marathon finish. I look down at my feet today and take measured breaths as I do the slow work of healing. I visualize pain-free steps. I smell all the spring smells. I see blossoms and new art and baseball and playoff hockey and soccer. All outside my window. 

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EXERCISE 035: CREATE A SELF-PORTRAIT

In one piece of writing, combine the images you wrote down from the present window and the image(s) from the past window (the one you retrieved from your memory). Think of what you’re writing as a self-portrait, that is, use the self-portrait as the occasion/container for your observations and recollections. Don’t forget to include the names of your desire(s). And make those desires as concrete as possible.

Hydrangea in honor of our parents and grandparents sit inside our front door. I look at them and think of Living Crosses and spring. I look at them and think of the original blessing and abiding faith. Faith in resurrection and miracles. Faith in grace and strength. Faith in compassion and empathy. I look at them and think about beautiful dresses, patten leather, and possibility. I look at them and think about all my Easters and everyday resurrections. I look at them and I think about building the beloved community.

Two empty bowls from our grandparents sit in the same bookshelf. I think about the significance of empty bowls. The beauty of space and breath. The invitation of an open bowl, or hand, or mind. The the utility of oneness — the embrace and welcome and hold — for as long as it takes an idea to rest and fly.

The picture window at my great-grandmother’s house looked out over her garden. I remember peonies and irises. I remember old trees and bluegrass. I remember hasenpfeffer and railroads. In those days, I was a princess. Steel and stardust. Not yet scar tissue. I created new worlds through that window. Imagination birthed. Dragons slayed. Beans planted. Rainbows climbed. Heels clicked. I was unstoppable. Carrying my Holly Hobby lunchbox and my fiddle, I sang my song. I tapped danced right up front. I wrote secret poetry in a red folder. I kept it hidden under the basement stairs. 

Shining was my rhythm and the window framed my shine. The window framed my shine by connecting me to generations. The window framed my shine by telling my story. The window framed my shine by letting me see light and dark, kindness and cruelty, faith and fear, grace and terror. 

I am walking out of our loft in our 100-year-old building. I turn to the left and walk toward the historically-registered-former-brick-factory-turned-art-gallery across the street. 

I look at my hands and think of history and labor. Of bricks and loft walls. Of public art and magnolias. Of dogs and skateboards. I feel my feet walk on the uneven brick. The broken surface stretches my newly mended tendon. The distance from my door to the path that runs behind my house is still too far. I smell magnolia from a distance. 

I remember pain-free walks. I remember race starts and finishes. I remember my marathon finish. I look down at my feet today and take measured breaths as I do the slow work of healing. I visualize pain-free steps. I smell all the spring smells. I see blossoms and new art and baseball and playoff hockey and soccer. All outside my window. 

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 001 — 003

MONDAYS ARE FREE 004 — 006

MONDAYS ARE FREE 007— 010

MONDAYS ARE FREE 011 — 015

MONDAYS ARE FREE 016 — 020

MONDAYS ARE FREE 021 — 025

MONDAYS ARE FREE #026 – #030

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