It’s true, I’m officially published. Not by clicking my own button here at WordPress, but through an anthology put out by the Pacific Writer’s Connection, called Ho’olaule’a (roughly translated as “celebration”).
Not only am I honored to have shared numerous weekend workshops with many of the writer’s highlighted in this compilation, I feel fortunate to be included in this work. But I’ll be honest, it’s not exactly what I expected.
Ok, I’ll admit, when it came time to submit work for consideration for this publication, I was in the chaotic throes of motherhood and work life. I was in a burgeoning romance with the Bohemian. My attention was scattered in a smatter. So I squeaked in by the deadline with a few written pieces I was proud of, though they were perhaps, not my best work. For good measure, I uploaded a few photos to go with my submission, as PWC was also soliciting images for review.
Well, none of my writing made the cut, but I have four photographs included in this beautiful book.
Someone commented recently that these things can often shift our focus and change our course of direction. Am I a photographer, not a writer?
I’m smiling, because I know I’ll never stop writing. And I think that any of the writers in Ho’olaule’a could appreciate my candid questioning, here. Perhaps every artist will occasionally pause to ponder something like this.
For now, I am simply grateful for the Pacific Writer’s Connection for making yearly writing retreats possible here on my little island. I’ve been under the tutelage of Kim Stafford, Kathleen Dean Moore and Hope Edelman, who have honed my writing skills with incredible insight. I have shared rough drafts and polished pieces with the many writers who come to this annual event, year after year. Their work is now highlighted in this enriching book.
The anthology is soon to be available for purchase, and I have a sense editions may be limited. Check out the experiences, conveyed with exquisite detail and open heart, from writers here in the Pacific.
Not touching the iTouch, Jeb dives into Legos. While I work, he sits beside me creating countless structures in the third dimension. Interactions and melodramas can be heard as he mumbles dialogue between Lego guys.
Not immune to the ways of war, these little dudes usually come with some sort of miniature weaponry.
Knowing my pacifist tendencies, Jeb points out, “Hey, Mom, look at this.”
A Lego version of a trash can has been filled with a slew of black rifle replicas, each one smaller than a toothpick.
“Mmmm…that’s a good place for them,” I respond.
For now, I won’t begin an essay asking why standard toys include gun-toting characters for our children’s play. For now, I am focusing on the positive. And that is the fact that there was no mention of the iTunes store or any kind of upgrade requests for an entire day.
For 24 hours my son was plugged into his own imagination, no purchase necessary.
No yaps about an App from my eight year old (and gasp!) no yips from the dog next door all night!
For the first time in many nights, the neighborhood was softly quiet.
A dear friend used to say to me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.
If the record player is my metaphor, then I’ll say I simply pulled the plug on both my son’s handheld gadget and the neighboring dog scenario. Things feel a little more sane, and certainly more quiet.
Even dreamtime shifted. I swam in milky mineral pools of hot spring water in the caves and crevices of some remote beach. Collected multitudes of ornate blue and white pottery shards, which lead like bread crumbs, to entire plates and vases, fully enact and washed up on the shore.
I’ll collect these lessons like treasure. Soak in the silence. Smile and drift a bit on this new current.
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