Love that line!

We are always looking for rays of light. For lightening bolts or burning bushes. But God is a worker, like us. He made the world. God has worker's hands. Just remember — angels carry no harps. Angels carry hammers.

— from The Hummingbird's Daughter
by Luis Alberto Urrea



On Sunday

The Sunday self contemplates and considers, falls gratefully and with recognition into words like these:

It is only in the silence that our voice emerges. It is only in the movement of the hand across page, one word following the next, in the crafting of sentences that we know ourselves. We can talk ourselves blue in the face, and we may be telling a certain kind of truth, but it is not the deepest truth, not the truth of our private heart. When people ask me when I knew I wanted to be a writer, or when I "decided" to become a writer, it is this I think about. This bittersweet pleasure, this pressure and longing to find myself on the page.

Dani Shapiro

Read more here.



Thankful Thursday: A to Z

Yesterday I shared, encouraged and invited. Today, I entertain. It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to count our joys and list our thanks. I'll share my Alphabet Gratitude Poem if you'll share yours.

A to Z, an abbreviated guide of gratitudes

alcoves, afterthoughts, basil, beaches, cashmere, caramel corn, candy corn, daffodils, eagerness, fortitude, forgiveness, gladioluses, grandma's turquoise ring, hellos & how-dos, Hood River, humility, ice cream, intention, jellybeans, kindness, lavender, Lake Hattie, Mallorca, Mexico, merlot, notes, nods, nuts, ocean, olive oil, popcorn, pacifists, quiet, reading, running, sunshine, structure, surprises, tapioca, Taos, tides, underwear, understanding, understatement, violets, vineyards, value, Wyoming, wonder, words, xoxo, yes, zigzagging — across pages, miles, memory, your heart.

Your turn! Share your Alphabet Gratitude in the comment section below. Don't be shy — let's share our starts and scratches, our works-in-progress and works-at-rest. Let's exercise the writing muscle, aches and all.



Try this: Alphabet Poem

A friend recently created a poem by combining two of my favorite things — lists and thankfulness. In Love's Alphabet, poet Ann Staley uses the abcs as a frame to express gratitude. I like this idea. Let's try our own!

Send me your alphabet poems and I'll post them here on Thankful Thursday, the weekly pause of appreciation. Simply post your poems in the comment section below, or send your work via email to dcm@drewmyron.com.

Don't be shy — let's share our starts and scratches, our works-in-progress and works-at-rest. Let's exercise the writing muscle, aches and all.

Love's Alphabet
— Name one thing you love, says Steve

(Liberty) apples and Ace,
bed time,
the cats & Courtney.
Dusting, several Davids
errands (crossing off the list)
fabric stores
(Specialty ones like Pendleton,
or general, run-of-the-mill stores, like Joanne’s),
and friends — life-long like Kathy
or brand-new, like Bob, whom I met yesterday.
Granola, giraffes, and gingerbread,
hot dogs (with mustard, and a baseball game)
and jam.
Knitting needles all set up with angora yarn,
lemons and lemonade.
Marigolds along the walk-way border & between the rows.
NPR all the time
and river otters.
The P-E-A-C-E sign and the Post Office,
the quick and the quixotic.
The Romantics, a romantic, and any river.
Nighttime stars and sky and SR.
(Late August) tomatoes, Thanksgiving,
the unflappable,
Valentines on any day.
Writing, fooling around with words.
(There must be something besides xylaphon
which creates an unwelcome noise. Maybe
a flower or a bird, a scientific name!)
Xanthippe (I’ll let you look that up!),
and yellow.
Zurich, indeed,
all of Switzerland — in any season

- Ann Staley



On Sunday: "Hello from perfect!"

Today, The Lake

Today, the lake
is a mirror. You can bend over and see yourself. You like yourself like this, this angle. You are balanced.
     Tomorrow, the lake will be a swimming hole. You will watch your children, Buddy and Jane, in their bathing suits, streaks of sunscreen on their noses. You will watch your husband watching as they play.
    The lake will also be a postcard. "Hello from perfect!" it might say. You will wish it could all freeze like this.
     Next week, the lake will be a memory. "Nice summer" you will say. "We had fun."
     You will look into the bathroom mirror. That will be your lake. You will look dead on and uneven. As if something could knock you down.
     It's something that has been coming. By spring, your husband will leave you. You have been noticing his absences, his muffled late-night phone calls.
     Your children, too, will start to leave. Each day school will teach them something else about the world. Explorers and geography. One day, they will bolt in, plop their books on the counter. They will tell you that even though they like the lake, it's boring—there's nothing to do. They will ask to go to the ocean instead.

Francine Witte
from Water-Stone Review, Volume 14