You're stuck at home. Why not write a poem?

My illustration Toilet Buddies. (Just a typical day at my house)

I answered the call. Then...crickets. 

The Minneapolis Star Tribune decided to throw an anticlimactic poetry party for National Poetry Month. Earlier in April, the Star posted a call for humorous limericks related to the Coronavirus. Rhyming fun ensued. (at least for me) On April 30th, they were supposed to publish the winners. Nobody won. There were no poems. No rhymes. Nothing. I looked.

At least, I learned something:

A limerick is a short and fun five-line poem with a distinctive rhythm. The first, second and fifth lines are longer than the third and fourth lines. The rhyming pattern is AABBA. The longer A lines rhyme with each other and the shorter B lines rhyme with each other.

Maybe they'll publish the limericks on a later date. Or, maybe it was an April Fool's joke. Until then, here are my submissions:

Some folks fear a sidewalk contagion

While others tread with distracted domination

The meek always pass on the grass

The rude hold firm to their path

I hope sidewalk sharing is the new situation

>^..^<

I'm shuttered up tight with the spouse

Not a threshold's shy of the house

We quarrel from noon until six

All is fine when we tune to Netflix

Happier still lifting spirits to mouth

>^..^<

There was a cat with a notion for commotion

The racket left me wondering what it inhaled as a potion

The evidence lay outside the loo

 A roll of T.P.chewed up, but no poo

Now there's a naughty cat in need of demotion

Do you have a favorite? I bet you can guess mine. 

P.S. The Star published the poems on May 2nd. They were hilarious. The paper received 4,000 submissions. Holy cow! I didn't make the cut. 

Space for Improvement

"We are placed here with certain talents and capabilities. It is up to each of us to use those talents and capabilities as best we can. If you do that, I think there is a power greater than any of us that will place the opportunities in our way, and if we use our talents properly, we will be living the kind of life we should live." 

John Glenn 

"Grow and Give." "Grow whole, not old!" "We're wired for purpose."

Words of wisdom from Richard Leider, author and senior fellow at the University of Minnesota's Center for Spirituality and Healing. 

Purpose is a word worth pondering. I've thought a lot about the "P" word since putting down my paintbrush, tackling empty pages on a computer screen instead. Richard says -  in his Q&A in this week's Star Tribune - that finding purpose is all about securing guidance. So true.

When I contemplate guidance - a subtle, or downright overt, directional shove - I think about my late, High School English teacher, Mrs. Laverty. Long ago, she singled me out, complimenting me on a book report about Charles Dickens. I was touched, but even so, didn't think much about that moment for thirty-odd years. Back then, I was strictly a nerdy artist. I wasn't adept with grammar or punctuation, (it's still my kryptonite) so her words settled inside my brain, collecting dust. As a teen, I loved filling my notebook with goofy stories, but if I ripped them from their spiral casing, (remember the paper dandruff that would follow?) they'd only be good enough to line Oprah Winfrey's cupboards. 

 We're told to make a living, so we seek out work instead of purpose. I could draw, so I went to school for Graphic Design. I could paint, so I illustrated children's books. It wasn't until I was nearing fifty, that I regurgitated my teacher's comment, wishing I would have listened - as if she'd been advocating four-day weekends - earlier. Now I know my purpose is to write fiction. My creative brain was designed to spin supernatural stories. Who knew? (right now, only me) I always told myself that in my next life I'd be a writer. Unfortunately, I'm still on life number one. Or 101. Who can say?

  I wonder, am I too long-in-the-tooth to learn the tightly-twisted ropes of novel writing? I want to give people good books. I don't want the same people to give me bad reviews on Goodreads. Ugh. Hopefully my purpose isn't to be a literary punching bag.  Regardless, I've already morphed into Rumpelstiltskin, becoming a weird, middle-aged woman, churning tales about levitating cars and spooky R.V.'s. But will my haystack weave golden threads or lie on the floor of the barn, destined for animal feed? Only time will tell. At least I found my purpose!

So remember: "Grow whole, not old!"

Have you found your purpose? Maybe you need The Power of Purpose by Richard Leider to guide you. 

P.S. John Glenn certainly had a purpose!

Who You Gonna Call?

My old business card. Don't try to email this old address, you'll discover an empty litter box. 

I have another uplifting discovery to share: a direct line of numbers that delivers kindness and calm in an increasingly unkind world. It sounds like winning the lottery! But these numbers help thousands, instead of one lucky soul.

Last time, I wrote about making international pen pals. In fact, yesterday, I received my sixth postcard from Japan. Postcrossing is fun. Now, when I reach into my mailbox, my fingers do more than flap against cold steel. Sometimes, they find ink and paper addressed to me, by a real human. Even when it's not Christmas!

Today, I'm writing about another old-fashioned technology: listening. (and calling) For twenty-five years, the Ideas for Positive Living phone-line has inspired callers with simple, heartfelt messages. I don't know about you, but I love reading inspiring quotes, and watching uplifting segments on T.V. If you need a little support, any-old-time, just call: (651) 602-2176. My first call cajoled me to go out and make a snow angel. The next call was about healing and the power of random acts of kindness. You never know what message the tireless volunteers will record for you. All you have to do is listen and hold the advice close to your chest. The message might instigate a snowball of kindness that spreads clear across the world! We are bloggers after all. 

It could happen.  

Today, I'll leave you with my favorite quote from Maya Angelou: "You can't use up creativity, the more you use, the more you have"

Postcrossing

The first postcard I received was from Kentucky. 

When we write, we create, and when we offer our creation to one another, we close the wound of loneliness and may participate in healing the broken world. Our words, our truth, our imagining, our dreaming may be the best gifts we have to give.

—Pat Schneider, Writing Alone and With Others

I'm a chicken. At least, I have the penmanship of a chicken. My right hand scrawls along the page like I'm blurry-eyed, drunk, or simply learning how to write for the first time: half cursive, half print, kind of wonky and weird. Akin to what the skinny Maester from the Citadel told Samwell Tarley in Game of Thrones: "That's irregular." Quite so. 

This wasn't always the case. It's just a forgotten art. My brain needs refreshing. That's why I joined Postcrossing. Postcrossing connects people from all over the world through old-fashioned postcards. First, you sign-up. Then you get linked-up with a person in need of a card. As soon as you send one and it's registered by your new pen-pal, your name lands in a Que to receive a card of your own. And so it goes. I've already sent cards to strangers in Russia, Germany, China, the Netherlands and Japan. The first card I sent arrived in Colorado, at the door of a mother of twenty-three: twelve biological children and eleven adopted children. Holy cow! Uff da Lutefisk! I wonder if I'll receive a card from distant relatives in Norway? I'd rather get Lefse. Or Aquavit.

The first card I received was from a lady in Kentucky. Needless to say, Postcrossing is fun. You never know who you''ll receive a card from. Or where in the world it will originate. 

Suddenly, the world doesn't seem so lonely. Suddenly, my mailbox - my real mailbox - might actually get mail. 

Word Warrior

Mrs. Jones's Tea Party: Perfectly Imperfect

All merits and all mistakes produce all the colors on your palette, and the interesting thing about acting or any art is that the mistakes are as valuable as the merits. So I've gotten great lessons from errors in my life. You have to make mistakes.

Jeffrey Tambor


The bad news: 

I was showing my illustrated children's book (see above) to a relative recently, and she told me: "I like it because it's so imperfect." 

What? She must not realize that I'm no longer a mild-mannered illustrator, but a novelista packing heat. I'm a word warrior that might deposit a blasphemer into my next novel - and not as the hero or heroine. Maybe, she or he will end up picking their nose, or crop-dusting farts into every scene. They may be turned into a cockroach in The Savannah Book of Spells. (my 3rd book) Or murdered in Murder on the Grand Norse. It doesn't get much worse than that.

In real life, I stared back in dismay, wondering how to address this confounding statement. It did seem like she liked it, but then again, we haven't always seen eye to eye. 

The word imperfect simmered on my neural-stove all weekend. Eventually, I googled the definition on the internet. Words like: second-rate, sub-standard and unsellable stared back at me. There was only one thing I could do, take out my frustrations on my keyboard, send my faulty feelings across the internet. 

Art is never perfect. I've struggled with perfection my entire life. When I was a kid, I would erase holes in my paper tablets trying to achieve perfection. It was impossible. I love Jeffrey Tambor's quote. It fits this post perfectly! 

The good news: 

Always in life, there are connections and coincidences. Inspiration might be written on the rock that just hit you on the chin. The same day that I was stewing about my imperfect art, I read an inspiring article in the Star Tribune, about Kari Wagner  We even have the same last name! (be sure to click/hop over to admire her art) She doesn't let Cerebral Palsy dampen her desire to create color, movement and a language all her own on canvas. The fear of imperfection doesn't prevent her from creating art with a special brush braced at the center of her forehead. So, I figure, I shouldn't let it stop me either. Of course, these days, I'm painting with words instead of watercolor. Isn't it funny how things turn up when you need them to?  

The Virtue Club

It takes Patience to hand feed a chipmunk.

Last September, I was inspired by an article in the Star Tribune, about virtue. I saved the article, intending to create a post here. But, spending time blogging at TCOTC is not a good use of my time - rest areas in Death Valley get more visits than this particular blog. Still, I never forgot the people from Faribault, who created a community wide project focused on living your best life. I wanted to spread the timely and important message, so I finally picked seven virtues to highlight here.

Sometimes, I'll attract a new follower on instagram that posts inspirational quotes and uplifting messages. Isn't that nice? Turns out, they 're just like everyone else, only in it to grow their account. They unfollow in two days just like all the other flawed individuals. The irony breaks my heart. Integrity is a virtue. I wish there was more of it on instagram. 

Hopefully, if you've read this far, you're wondering what other virtues you've misplaced. Well, worry no more. The kind people of Faribault have made it easy for you: they created reflection cards Visit their website to view all the wise ways to make a difference. Here are the rest of my picks...

Creativity 

"You can't use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have." Maya Angeleou

Tact

I received a rejection from a literary agent last week. Not exactly good news, but, at the end of the email, the agent said: "Keep your chin up and keep swinging!" 

I thought, O.K. I will!

 Thank you kind and tactful agent lady for the great advice. Although, I prefer the mantra of the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel: "Tit's up!" 

Purposefulness

I've written 50,000 new words on the virtual pages of my next novel: The Levitation Game. Hooray!

Friendliness

Yesterday, I was reading You before Me at lake Harriet. I was completely absorbed in the book, until a row of loud and rascally children lined up on the sidewalk in front of me. Some of them even piled on to the bench I was sitting on. All of a sudden, reading was impossible. It was cute, but I wondered: Hmmm, how long will this chain of little legs hover around me like a fast moving stream? Not long. The classroom ran off like a twisty kite string. But, as the kids ran by, one said: "Hello!" as he breezed past me. 

Ha! So cute. There's always an out-going, friendly kid in the bunch. (I was the shy one)

What's your favorite virtue? Be sure to spread the message by sharing this blog post or visiting The Virtue Project 

I think it's important.

"We'd never know how high we are, till we are called to rise; and then, if we are true to plan, our statures touch the sky"

- Emily Dickinson

Have a meaningful Memorial Day.

Hope

Hope is a word full of promise.

 For awhile now, I've been hoping for a literary agent. Sometimes, I whisper my hopes into the indifferent, twitching ears of my cats. (because they are the only beings around during the day) Other times, I shout hope into the air like a helium balloon, and then let go. If I'm feeling introspective, I simply say a prayer. I've learned that my dream will happen through persistence, hard work and failure. Failure? Yes. Because failure is necessary - to learn. I'm polishing my manuscript and learning more about the craft of writing everyday. I'm like an inch worm on a giant Redwood.

However, there's another kind of hope and I have a blood connection to it. The Hope Diamond. Donna, the beautiful lady in blue, (above) wearing a priceless gem in the shadow of her neck, is related to me. My cousin Jane kept this sepia-colored selection from the Star Tribune for 54 years! Now, the copy and the story that surrounds it, are mine. 

The real diamond is Hopeless. 

In the article, I discovered the path of destruction refracted from the Hope Diamond like a deadly mirage. The bad luck that plagued almost everyone that came into contact with the gem is mind boggling. Here are three examples:

*Jean-Baptiste Tavernier sold the original 100 carat stone to Louis XIV.  After a time, Jean was killed by wild dogs.

* Prince Ivan Kanitovski was a Hope Diamond recipient. Later, he hung the rock on the slender neck of Lorens Laduc, a Parisian dancer. Unfortunately, her dancing career hit a mis-step. It got tripped up when the Prince murdered her. 

* Lady May Yohue-Hope (the diamond's namesake) had a dream that the diamond possessed frightening, malevolent forces - she never wore it again. Sadly, she left Lord Francis Pelham Hope for an army captain who went bankrupt. In the end, she was brought to her knees. Literally. She became a washer women.

 Bad luck - check

Suicide - check

Murder - unfortunately

illness - yup.

So, what happened to my relative? The one that modeled the necklace at the Smithsonian?

She had a life impacted by illness and tragedy. What else did you expect? 

These days, the Hope Diamond can be found at the Museum of National History. 

Here's the original article from 54 years ago...

 What are you hoping for?