by Tristi Pinkston
When I realized it was my turn to blog today, for a moment I drew a blank. What should I write about? It seemed my stash of cleverness had run dry. But as I sat here, having a deep conversation with my keyboard, I realized something ... the world is a stage, and we are but players on it, but the world is also a piece of paper. We can write about anything, and by using our own unique voice, we can create something that will inspire, uplift, entertain - just by taking advantage of the cues around us and applying them to our own situations.
From where I'm sitting, I can see my son's prayer rock that he made in Primary a few weeks ago. He glued what was supposed to be a tail on the back, but it was a little lower than where my older son thought a tail should go. It was very amusing to listen to this discussion - I call it a "discussion" most generously - as these two feuding siblings discussed just exactly where a tail belongs on a prayer rock, each certain they were right, when neither of them stopped to consider that rocks don't have tails at all.
From where I'm sitting, I can also see the small bottle of aloe vera gel we bought at the health food store for my daughter's rat. She has been through four pets this last year (you can read all about it here and here, although I was remiss and didn't blog when Billy and Honeysuckle died) and the latest, Stephanie, had developed some scabbing on her back. After a week of putting aloe vera gel on her back every night, her back is nearly better and it's our hope that we will not be sending a fourth rodent to join her brothers and sister in Grandpa Joel's garden. This whole experience has been a rough one, as my daughter has learned the pain of loving something and then losing it, then the cautious willingness to open her heart up again, only to have it broken again. Most of all, it has shown me the depth of a grandfather's love for his granddaughter as not just once, but three times, he has dug deep holes in his yard and created a meaningful burial place for her pets.
Also from where I sit, I can see three little yarn dolls my daughter made for me. I made dolls just like this when I was a little girl, and I showed her how it was done. She has taken the art form to a whole new level, though, creating dresses and legs and hair and angel wings and all kinds of other things I never would have even dreamed of. When I look at those dolls, I wonder what kind of woman she will grow up to be, and I remember the little girl I once was.
Truly, the world around us is full of writing material. Words lurk behind everything we see. Every experience is laced with emotion, every conversation has potential for story. Send out your feelers, listen with your heart ... and get writing.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
by Tristi Pinkston