Ode to Icon Sting, My Daughter, and NO Shame in the Game

 

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Sting in the Midst!

   Okay, so because of the wonderful high school that my daughter, Rachel, attends –the Duke Ellington School of the Arts—she gets this once-in-a-lifetime experience (which evidently is the norm at Duke Ellington) to grace the same stage, feet away from Sting!!!! Well, it’s not the norm for me, so I’ve been ecstatic for a minute.

     But, I was not too ecstatic to fail to let a certain notion drop into my head. Immediately, I began badgering my daughter about slipping one of my bookmarks into Sting’s hand, in his shoe, on his person. Stuff it in his shirt pocket—why don’t you–pleazzzzze!

     I mean, look, Mick Jagger’s doing a movie on James Brown, whose music I loved so much, my kids once said, “Hey Mom, why don’t you put a James Brown tattoo on your butt or somethin’.” Disgusted, I deleted that notion. Right now, I’m kinda sorry for sharing. 

     But why can’t Sting, and Paul Simon, who was a part of last Wednesday night’s concert at the Strathmore, take a liking to one of my literary offerings? I reasoned and propositioned with the last of my litter-loins, who failed to even feign interest in what I proposed. “It’s about me, Mom, remember?”  If she says that to me—one more time…*#@()&^#!!!!!! 

     I mean, doesn’t she know how old I am, that my stomach’s literary clock is wound tight with tension? Doesn’t she realize that I let her, and her siblings, satisfy my baby clock, years ago. And even though, I’m now rethinking the sacrifice of motherhood (because shouldn’t I have picked a best-seller-hood clock, instead?), can’t she repay me by risking expulsion, and sticking a measly bookmark (or book discussion invite) in Sting’s pocket? Can’t she do that little thing for me???? 

     How Selfish!!!!

     I mean if Sting became aware, my writing would do the rest. It’s not like Fifty Shades of Grey, blessed by the marketing and promotions, and horny gods, with an author who admits that she can’t write [cited in a Los Angeles Times story, dated April, 2012]. (Okay, I sauced the sentiment, but she said it, first. I didn’t.) 

     I just know that if Sting knew it, he’d wanna read and produce on stage/film God in Wingtip Shoes, or Jubi Stone: Saved by the Vine (dedicated to domestic violence awareness), or better yet, The Prison Plumb Line—because—It is Easier to go to Jail than You Think! He could play the Prison Chaplain!!! Shoot, he just needs to know that that’s what he really wants to do. I can back up my writing!!!!

     The Seventh Annual Performance Series of Legends, a benefit concert for the Duke Ellington School of the Arts; well, it was magical! The packed crowd partied—up on its feet long before he sang Every Breathe You Take! Sting gyrated on two occasions, and the gleeful crowd lost it both times. When he left the stage for the last time, a woman leaned over to my husband and asked, “Is this intermission?” Nobody wanted it to end. 

     My daughter: I lost it when I spotted Rachel on stage. I forgot all about Sting (momentarily) and crouched over stranger-knees and toes to a restricted area, desperate to snag a picture.

     The trouble with me is; I never know when I’m going to do something embarrassing. In the midst of motherhood glee, I suddenly realized that I was in view of EVERYBODY in the concert, except Sting and Paul Simon because they were busy performing. My knees buckled. Thank God, I got outta there before two ushers mysteriously materialized to haul my behind out of the area.    

     Sting shared a heartfelt story about how in his twenties, he and his bandmates came to America, rented a station wagon, crowed it with themselves and their equipment, and drove here-and-there performing at half-filled dives. The relatable story stilled my heart. Then my eyeball welled up when I thought of how I’m well-beyond my twenties. (If only I could catch some more gyrating to make me feel better.)

     Alas, at home, Rachel got so giddy; she could not get to sleep. I became giddy because I’m her mother and she’s my Baby-girl. And I don’t have to hope in the Will Call line or hock my soul for a ticket to hug her, tell her I’m proud, and kiss her cheek. 

     Oh, and for the record, I still felt giddy, even when after she had gone to bed, and I walked by her open purse (in slow motion), and accidentally spied my bookmark bent and twisted, adorning a pile of her pocketbook crap. Motherhood. Passion. — Ain’t NO Shame in Either Game!   

     Check out the story that landed in the newspaper: 

 http://www.somdnews.com/article/20140314/NEWS/140319650&template=southernMaryland 

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Ode to Ash Wednesday, 2014 — Creating Open Doors and Options…

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Ode to Ash Wednesday, 2014 -- Creating Open Doors and Options...

“God, Make room for my gift. Bring it before great men and women privy to push the mentoring further.” [And Help Us Provide!] Scripture reference: Proverbs 18:16.
The Life Journeys Writers Club, Inc. Empowering positive self-expression, passion and healing through the Literary Arts. Promoting Diversity and Access.
Thank you!

Ode to Ice — A Snow Day means A Write Day, Right?

 My Ode to the last time it Snowed

Being proactive, I tried to get ahead of the snow by effecting an early grocery-store run (Mr. snow wasn’t due ‘til that afternoonImage-ish).

Well, I was starving, so I got on my way—on dry land—and having arrived, I perused the aisles a tad too long.

On my way home, I discovered, too late, that I was descending a snowy hill much too fast. (“Ahhh, %&^*&*^#, I said.”) 

When I pumped the brakes, the Cosmos laughed. 

The curve went right. My car went a swirly left—like it wanted to dance (like Beyoncé).

It headed for a ditch—and a hill of rusty trees.

Those who know where I live will understand how in the midst of my scream, my mind went, well, I guess I’m gonna be here for a while.

In fact, perhaps, this is the last place I’m gonna be!

(At least I had groceries, and candy bars, to satisfy a dying sweet tooth.)

But God is good—even to the stupid and famished. 

The car hit the ditch—and then the hill—with such a funny-ish force—

that it boomeranged right back onto the street again!

And then it stopped! 

Upon which, I had time to thank God, check to see if my candy bars were okay,

and entertain the thought of driving REALLY slowly for the rest of my journey home—above ground.

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(Mannnn, this is good! I’m puttin’ this in a Chapter! A Snow Day means A Write Day! Right?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turning Dreams Tangible

Turning Dreams Tangible is an every day occurrence. It should be played out in active voice, 24/7, even when you’re sleeping. And that’s just about where I am, right now. Active! Voicing! And at this stage in the game, this juncture in my life (as time passes, constant), what else do I really have to do? 

So, today, as I was heading to conduct my intense writing workshop (Write on Saturdays–with a Twist!) at the Marriott’s Residence Inn (one of the workshop’s locations), I ran into a woman sitting out front, reading her Bible, enjoying the wonderful day. She was visiting from Michigan. Her son is in the Air Force, and stationed in Maryland. 

Now here comes the news. I shared with her what I do — writing — and the love of. And she received — well. Then the conversation turned to swamping testimonies of empowerment and how writing can be just the right vehicle on which to ride right out a storm, and into a victory! The interchange of life experience and encouragement, validation and ah-ha moments drove between us so fast, we could have gotten a speeding ticket. But what we got were smiles and nods from the passersby, and confirmation from God that a passion is worth the fight, worth the living and worth the giving. Excited, she told me, “Write this down!” I grabbed my reporter’s notebook (always handy) and my pen.

She said, “This is for you: ‘I shall have favor with whom I come in contact.'” She leaned back, satisfied, in her chair and said, “Now, you say that every morning when you wake up. Okay.” I wrote it. I promised. And later, I’ll record the entire experience of meeting Dorothy from Michigan in my journal.

 I left with her The Prison Plumb Line, my novella. She shouted out, as I journeyed on, “I can’t wait to get God in Wingtip Shoes [my novel] and that Jubi book!” She meant Jubi Stone: Saved by the Vine. The novel hits in July. My final thought is this: I think I’m gonna see her again!Image

So what do you think about it?  Lemmeknow.  www.yvonnejmedley.com

Turning Dreams Tangible

  Image   Okay, so I’m operating in my zone, right. It’s my share-the-art-of-writing zone—no questions asked, no required payback implied.  (‘Cause that’s the only way to keep my intentions pure.) When suddenly, I receive an obvious snub/overlook from someone I hold dear. And, it appeared to happen just when the literary grass looked greener elsewhere. (After all, this has happened multiple times down through the years.)

     So I’m hurt, right. Stinging and bleeding from the injury, and laid out in the pity gutter. And, worse of all, I landed in the gutter because I allowed the offense to knock me off my Turning Dreams Tangible horse. Yes, I careened swiftly downward into Writer’s Demonland (that’s right, one word. One stinkin’ freakin’ word — Demonland).

     Writer’s Demonland is the land of suffocating scum, muck and mire filled with filthy spirit-killing words and thoughts sent to sludge about in your creative brain. These words write (in your head and heart), What the Hell do I think I’m doing? How did I think I was ever going to succeed at this? How come I thought I could do this, in the first place, huh? That’s Chapter One. Then comes Chapter Two: Why is my validating success taking so long (you know the kind of validating success where folks honor your worth, talent and work with the respect of their time. Then there’s something about a man is worth his hire. And a man’s treasure is where his heart is. I paraphrase, but you get it. But instead, you highlight in your head the times when folks take from you, freely with no effort, while they invest much effort elsewhere.  I’m digressing, but this is a sidebar: Often writers will hear that the first writer’s rule is to not go into a writing profession just for the money. Passion, and the love of, must overrule in every writer’s heart. True. But, usually the person who’ll remind you of that is a writer getting paid and/or someone in the biz who owes you money. (I’m just sayin’.)

     But hold on, while I’ve appeared quite jaded thus far, there are a few lessons to be learned (and sadly, I keep relearning them). Now to my credit, while I was spread out in the filthy Demonland gutter crying my eyes out, I did have the wherewithal to ask, “How does God want me to feel about this—for it can’t be jealousy, envy or even offense.” For that’s just a waste of time. And He showered down the answers. (He’s good like that.)

Lesson One:  No matter what you think you’ve seen or heard; you surely couldn’t have seen or heard it all. Nope, you really don’t have all the facts. So chill, sit (get a tissue if you must), and think for a moment before saying or doing/reacting to anything—if at all.  Just record the stupid thing in your journal. At least there, maybe, the experience can chalk-up discernment for the future.

Lesson Two: Focusing on an offense and plummeting into Writer’s Demonland (sometimes also called the pity pot or the toilet bowl) stops your creativity and production; and, oh, it’s a stupid allotment of time (sometimes referred to a stupid, energy-sucking waste of time).

Lesson Three: Let offenses strengthen your skill and power to decide on just what or to whom you’re going to devote your precious time, hurt feelings and concern. 

And so, what happened in my particular offense story, you might ask? Well, I was wrong. I didn’t have all the facts. I got all muddy, teary-eyed, and sludgy for nothing. And God wanted to remind me that my intentions must remain constant and pure (as humanly possible—that is). He will see to it that I am rewarded (evident by three wonderful opportunities that crossed my path shortly after), and He wanted to remind me that the world does not revolve around me. Oh Yeah, that’s number four.

Lesson Four: The world does not revolve around me. (Ouch, that’s a tough one.) 

So what do you think about it?  Lemmeknow.  www.yvonnejmedley.com