Thankful Thursday: Unfurl no more

On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for fresh words, and weary of the worn-out ones. 

I spend a great deal of time pondering word choices:

- At Seashore Family Literacy, the Word Wall is home to our favorite words.

- With clients, colleagues and friends, I mull pressing issues, such as:  What's another word for quell? or Is there a one syllable word for overwhelmed?

- At home, I often roll out words in random but rhythmic succession, producing an eye-rolling husband who says, We're doing this again?

As much as I love words, I loathe a few, too. The other day I got a two-line email from my mother that reminded me of the love/hate state (of words, not mothers):

Words I am sick of, she wrote, crisis, emergency, disaster, bipartisan.

She's right. From politics to pop culture, we get stuck in word ruts: game-changer, end of the day, sustainable, green, transparent.

Words innocuous in small amounts grow unbearable with repetition: amazing, dude, awesome.

And a flip turn-of-phrase — Seriously, really? — grates in the constant replay. 

In fiction and poetry, once lovely phrases have, with repetition, set me on edge: whorl, unfurl, lavender.

And while I can sling the snark, I take my own arrows, too: I must stop replying to surprising news with Wow!  And I must stop peppering poems with gloomy and gray, and ending with again and again. Perhaps this public airing will remind (read: shame) me into finding fresh words (and stop complaining about the weather).

The world is full of words, let's use more of them!

How about you? What words are you sick of seeing? And what words do you over-use? 

Who do you write for?

I like my poems to be understood by anyone walking down the street, waiting at a bustop, driving a cab, waiting tables or even a mother sitting in a hospital room with a kid who’s O.D’d. Unfortunately, those people read very little poetry. Even so, I write for them.

— Dorianne Laux
from an interview on How a Poem Happens

Thankful Thursday

In the wake of of tsunamis, earthquakes, radiation, war  — and, closer to home, rain, wind and gloom — I'm having trouble with joy. Finding it. Holding it.

Yes, I am grateful. Grateful to be spared natural disaster. Grateful that in my world, on the central Oregon coast, the tsunami siren and reverse-911 call was, ultimately, unfounded. I am thankful to be safe, but feeling so comes with realization that too many have perished. My gratitude feels a bit like gloating.

And grateful is not thankful.

Gratitude is counting blessings and a wash of relief. Thankfulness — cousin to gratitude — is light and bright, as in thank you ma'am, and a good day to you, too.  

I am wondering: Where is the light step of joy — thankfulness — in these days colorless and fraught?

Yesterday, engulfed in a list of chores and worrying over an early morning misunderstanding, I ventured out of the house and into the rain. Soaked with frustration, every face I saw — at the post office, in the market, crossing the street — was wearing my same scowl. All of us furrowed, worn, and ready to snap.

I live in a small town. You can't glare or galumph to people you will see again, and likely soon. There's only 600 of us, and if we're all sneering, life gets real miserable real quick.

Still, I couldn't help myself.

As I pulled from the post office parking lot, a woman darted in front of my car. The rain had worsened and the wind was whipping. From her dripping hood, she raised her head, leveled her eyes, and glared.  

Gripping the wheel, I began to glare back — and caught myself. Inexplicably, I offered a smile. Not calculated or smarmy, but instant and without thought. To my great surprise, she smiled back.

Since then, I've been thinking about that moment — and it was less than a moment, really. How, in just a flash, my shoulders eased, my jaw loosened and my mood lightened, and in turn, hers did, too. For an instant we were nothing but grins.

I am thinking how little it takes, this tranquil shift.

Love this passage

I wondered how often the future waits on the other side of the wall, knocking very quietly, too politely for us to hear, and I was filled with longing to reach back into my life and inform that unhappy girl: all around her was physical evidence proving her sorrows would end. I wanted to tell her that she would be saved, but not by an act of will: clever Gretel pretending she couldn't tell if the oven was hot and tricking the witch into showing her and shoving the witch in the oven. What would rescue her was time itself and, above all, its inexorability, the utter impossibility of anything ever staying the same.

— from Hansel and Gretel, a story appearing in The Peaceable Kingdom by Francine Prose

Read, run, read

I'm running a 5k — from home!
Will you join me?

Sara Roswell, of Life's a Wheeze, is hosting the Wheezy Virtual 5k. Everyone is invited— from couch slugs to marathon hounds. All breathers and wheezers welcome.

It's simple: On Saturday, March 19, run 3.1 miles, on the treadmill, around your neighborhood, in a park, at the mall, whatever works for you. Before and after the race, check in at Life's a Wheeze.

To get in the groove, I'm taking literary inspiration from running-related reads:

Heartbeat, by Sharon Creech, is the engaging story — told in verse — of 12-year-old Annie, who finds solace in running as the world around her shifts and swirls.  Creech, with a masterful light hand, explores how we become who we are, how we are unique and yet how we are all alike, and to what degree we should conform.

Running for the Soul, from Road Runner Sports, is chocked with short, real-life triumphs from runners of all ages and abilities. This slim but powerful book will have you lacing your shoes and raring to run long before you've hit the last page.

I've got a week of reading and training ahead, and I'd love your help. Tell me, What gets your mind and body in the movement mindset?