Writing workshop

 I enjoyed a writing workshop at my friend Maurie's home with a creative writing professor from Weber State.  She had us write memories that filled us with joy.  We only had 15 minutes, and this is what I came up with:

I see my king of sourdough, my Wayne, in the kitchen with a razor blade, carving his bread with such care as he readies it to bake.  He stands in a cloud of flour that filters his features.  He appears softer, sweeter, gentler, even with a razor blade in hand.

My grandkids show up family by family through my front door on most Sundays.  Shoes are kicked off and squeals of "We're here" echo through my hallway.  Then a lot of hugs, smiles and touching their heads as their cherubic faces smile up at me.  Hair is askew, combed at one point but now in wild disarray, showing hours of play, pretending and snuggling under blankets. 

My friends are the kindest!  Their eyes light up when they see me, hug me, and talk to me.  I hope I'm mirroring the same shared light back at them.  To be connected and in relationship is everything.

I hide peanut butter M&M's around my house.  Three places really-- the kitchen pantry, my nightstand in the bedroom, and behind the monitor in my office.  Their bright colors call to me.  I pop them in my mouth, and the crack of the shell, followed by creamy peanut butter goodness, is so comforting.  When life gives me lemons, I reach for peanut butter.  I know it's not a great coping skill, but hey, it's not drugs or alcohol and it's delicious. 

Things I love about Easter Sunday...a new, bright colored dress, tulips and daffodils poking through fresh gardens, singing the few Alelujah Easter hymns, and greeting people wiht "He is risen." And hoping for a "He is risen indeed" in return.  

I remember standing in my Grandma Butters' pool, shaking, wanting to be back in the water, but Grandma just brought out warm oatmeal raisin cookies from her oven.  I love the taste of those oatmeal cookies mixed with chlorine running from my forehead into my mouth.  I want to be in the warm water, but I want the cookies more. 

Sitting in Grandpa Butters' gazebo, just hoping for a breeze.  Languishing in the heat with the background sound of kids splashing in the swimming pool.  We breathe in and breathe out.  No language, just enjoying each other.

My grandma's whistle was piercing.  She would pull it out to get our attention before a prayer. So, whistling and praying are tied together for me.  Like Pavlov's dog, I hear a whistle, bow my head, and fold my arms. 

I remember my dad singing every morning as he lovingly prepared breakfast before school started.  Always a morning person in a family of night owls.  Bright, chipper, and smiley as he clanked the pots and pans, prepping really thin crepe-like pancakes or Malt-o-meal.  Knowing we would be greeted warmly as we entered the kitchen, wiping the dust from our eyes was a beautiful way to start our day. 

Where are my glasses?  The ones usually on my head?  I take my eyes and sight for granted until everything, including this paper I try to write on, is a blur.