An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Mother hates tattoos she thinks they are tacky  unattractive  a sign of a criminal  She talked about them behind their back but never directly to their faces Husband thinks  those who have them  are rebels against  polite society  He says he believes in live and let live but he always has a definite opinion I believe that  they are beautiful art  an expression of  individuality The colors and patterns fascinate my creative eye perhaps one day I get pictures of my own

What do you do when you realize you're not enjoying  what  you do? I love to write. I've been writing since I was eight years old. Words gave me a way to express how I felt as a girl who was leaving friends behind. Forty-four years later, I still put my thoughts on paper or the screen. It's more than just a way of life. It  is  my life. I post my writing on my social media accounts. I have poetry blogs on Blogger and Wordpress. Over the years, I've met so many good friends and fellow writers through sharing my words. I appreciate every one who I've met. The support we give each other has carried me through some dark times of my life. For those who don't know, two of my three children are high-support autistic. Terminology and descriptors have changed in two decades, but my kids are unique in their own special ways. Although I love them, their care can be complicated and stressful, especially without outside help. That stress as a caregiver can bleed into other a...

An egg for breakfast  with shell so fragile  yet that is a blank canvas  for all hues of color a pinhole in the top the yolk for a tasty omelette from wax relief  stark white lines scratched in the surface for those Easter hunts where the bunny hides surprises for the children. to the priceless pieces  favored by emperors tiny jewels attached with the greatest of care a masterpiece of delicacy unmatched by modern means.

incensed  but I need  to channel it  into my creativity  these complicated emotions and annoying feelings and not let them fester into anger and sadness and resentment that will poison the rest of my days I need to let it out  without hurting  the ones who mean  the most to me.

Jumbled up letters  I sort them  to spell out  all kinds  of words to reflect  how I feel  inside  sometimes I see an idea and dash off my response no frills just raw intuition other times I think on form and structure like some  sort of scaffold for building an airtight alibi some of these are only  approximations and are not  as precise  as they could be  but that's okay.

Cauliflower trees  white blooms  floret  of flowers  that look like bunches of white  snow on branches Cotton candy trees pink blooms almost like cherry but not quite soft petals rain like a crimson carpet My daughter points and laughs at the memory of a young girl with an imaginative mind naming the trees. 

Let these ideas flow  write them down  as they come to you do not depend on providence to remember them. a rainbow of  unrelated thoughts that seem so scattered and random  but when you  really look at them  they have some  connections  the mind works  in mysterious ways.

A writer like me  scribbling words  words and words  for others to read  digest and analyze  An artist like me  paint on canvas  pen on the screen  for others to see  judge and criticize  A musician like me strum softly on strings or warble a beloved tune for others to hear and enjoy sing and dance That is who I see  deep within the depths  of the electronic sea  I smile when I view  their creative works

kooky ideas  not accepted by  the mainstream unconventional outrageous uncontrollable   tradition scorns what is different merits are debated results are compared some fall by the  wayside   others prove  their merit  and shake the  foundations  of what is known knowledge is advanced The novelty   of a brand new  and shiny toy  what happens  when the glimmer fades and the  color not as  vibrant as it was  before? it becomes  common sense. 

This is the lounge a private room  where magic happens  and stories are written  where fates are decided I created you nurtured and shaped you but somehow, some way you took the reins and dictated your own destiny You found your voice told me all your secrets what I need to know what I need to do my pen continues its path. tonight you and me  sit opposite each other across the table  with glasses of champagne  in our hands

fertile ideas are planted  but they need to be nurtured  in good soil and watered  if the temperature dips gentle hands cover them or bring them inside to protect against frost even as they sprout the work is not yet finished the tender shoots of thought are fragile and easily crushed disease attack the roots pests feed upon the leaves and those must be dealt with before the damage is done those who withhold the rain  and cloud up the sky  do not want the new ways  to bloom...  ...but nature will do it regardless.

Paint slathered thick on the canvas Ink brushed soft on the silk Needle and colorful thread on the fabric Strings vibrate loud with the bow Soul sings joyous with great wings

Ride the wave until it reaches the shore and it crashes in a mess of foam all its energy spent It needs to retreat  to gather its energy yet again to make another attempt to inch farther inland. The moon's pull helps it to encroach inch by inch and rise towards the sky Then it recedes back to where it came reveals the secrets that lie within their unfathomable deeps. The cycle of energy ride the surplus of ideas until it crashes against the rocks then retreat and refill your reserve to try again.

Needle and thread holes in the fabric anchors the strands double or triple fill in the colors like a painting from the old masters. Follow the pattern and the picture takes shape perhaps a night sky perhaps a street scene perhaps a calico cat mind schooled to stillness a meditation of sorts concentrate to a goal one mistake is costly the story in one snapshot framed for all to see.

Colored pencils watercolors brushes and inks oil pastels chalk double-sided markers collages scrapbooks little cartoons plein air urban sketches portraits landscapes a treasure of a lifetime pictures are windows to a past that is rapidly fading into monochrome

So many colors so little time like little pockets of broken rainbows that I can tuck away into cakes of bright and cool shades. All it takes is one brief burst  of inspiration.  Nothing has to be perfect or worthy of the most exacting art critic. Paint with your heart not with their expectations.

The stones at the bottom of the well feel brittle and dry the water long gone the soil is so parched. Wind carries haunting voices of those who come before murmur of their fate dark and long forgotten Light does not exist here the weight of stale air frozen by unyielding time smothers any change. Cracks in the mortar between handholds crumble at the touch a long climb back to the light and the view of all in the day. But the sun still rises and sets the world goes from spring to winter Eyes have wandered to greener pastures and voices ask, "Do I know you?"

when life throws an unexpected loop what do you do? rail against the injustice so loud that everyone hears and maybe it will be fixed? That's fine, but... what if it takes a long time or it never gets solved at all? have a plan B get stuck in traffic know more than one way to get there. change gears make the most of what you have maybe it's a blessing in disguise do those changes that you've been thinking about no time but the present it does not mean put up and shut up make your feelings heard but it does mean be resourceful you might surprise yourself

sip tea treasure the flavor the texture, the aroma as the rain patters on the roof the sound of thunder far in the horizon count the heartbeats between one and the next the flash of lightning splits the sky into jagged pieces illuminates like the sun for a second in time contemplate the past and the future set them aside for the moment what are you thinking in the present moment? 

A fall can really hurt and you lie stunned for what seems a few moments that can last for eternity. It's amazing how long it seems. The seconds tick away that turns into minutes then into hours and into days It's amazing how much you lose. By the time you finally come back to yourself the sounds of the crowd has long faded into silence. It's amazing how loud the silence gets. It's too late to call it back. You are too far behind can never catch up even if you try. It's amazing how you can be forgotten. The only thing to do is to dust yourself off and start again with your words. It's amazing how different times change.