Anne and Ray told me to sit down and write.

November 29, 2016

Kansas City, Missouri

Anne and Ray told me to sit down and write.  Kate DiCamillo did too.  They all keep telling me that writing in not a magical thing.  Writing is long enduring work. Show up. Show up. Show up. 

Nothing happens if you don't show up.

I'm trying. 

The children are playing in the sunshine that still carries warmth in the coolness of December.   I still see the fading colors of fall and blue sky. Yet, I always feel confusion when December is not grey, black, and white. I think people who dislike winter are missing out on something special.  I think people who like Kansas City summers are crazy. My mother's family hailed from Norway, they were no doubt Vikings.  My father's family hailed from Germany. The great North is in my blood. I have learned that I don't hate winter.

 One child wears his crocs, because shoes are his mortal protest.  One is in a summer dress, winter boots, and heavy sweatshirt.  The other wears rain boots, a tutu, and a hoodie with dinosaur spikes. She calls hoods, "neighborhoods." Never correct her if you value your life.  They are fighting a battle and plastic hangers are their weapons of choice.  We've lost a good number of them as of late.  Send hangers, stat.

I'm hanging on to the words of Anne Lamott, to write the one inch frame before my eyes. If nothing else, I can do that. I can. We just conquered math without frustration or tears and so the children play because the sun shines. They fight with plastic hangers from their closets.  I didn't want to hang up their clothing anyway. Should we re-think the idea of closets?