Archive for March 2010

A deep corner/ a safe place

March 16, 2010

I lost a very dear friend today! Her son called me and even though I heard him clearly, and knew in my heart the truth of his words, I had to ask…what did you say? As if this would stall the words, or possibly better the news. He went on talking, but my mind went to Judy. I could see her face in his voice, hear her chuckle in the way she often did in gleeful moments of fun. I had talked with her a mere twelve hours before and told her that  one of her ‘chickies’…me… had received a prize, and she had chuckled, and said, “I always love it when one of my chicks make good.” We made plans for me to come for a visit when she got home from the hospital; I already knew what I would be bringing…a rotisserie chicken. Over the last few years, this was something I carried her many times as she dealt with health issues. Yes, we had spoken of her struggles and that there would be an end somewhere along the way…but, at the time, it seemed just words, and with no sense of reality within them. In my writing, she was my strongest supporter, there when I needed a voice of reason, and there when my victory bloomed. She now owns a safe place in my Memory House, in a deep corner of my brain. I can see her now, so I’ll add a couple of her favorite words…a BUMMER. Rest easy, Judy!

If you have a ponytail…show it.

March 7, 2010

Welcome to my world of being a woman! I cut it out after reading, my mind jumping with words, with pride, and with affirmation on finishing  the read in the paper of a new war goal in Afghanistan. An ad hoc team of…WOMEN. If you have a pony tail, let it show from under the helmet so people can see you’re a woman. This new team, it is noted, will go out to talk to Afghan women because trust of the Afghan population cannot be gained if you talk to only half the population. They will go into villages, seek permission from an elder male and talk to the women. These women– a source of pride and excitement within their group! It is said that rural Afghan women, rarely seen by outsiders, have more influence in their villages than male commanders might think, and that the Afghan women’s good will could make Afghans, both men and women, less suspicious of outside help. I love the premise of the strategy, the collective gathering of my gender’s instinctive goal of a proper right and wrong in a society steep into wars. In my mind, I am one of the crew, ready to do whatever it takes to make life livable again, to walk in the sunshine without fear of being shot, to pray with an easy mind, to laugh with the innocence of the moment.  The article also stated that in one village, an elderly man opened his home to these women saying, “Your men might have come to fight, but we know the women are here to help.” He went on to say that the women were “good for my old eyes.” And yes, my PRIDE is showing!  Elizabeth

What Intoxicates My Mind

March 4, 2010

Elizabeth Towles
posted at 12/09/09 – 04:38 PM
What Intoxicates my mind?
The language of prose. It’s like acting–but on paper. I can be whomever I choose, a silly sally, a demure maiden, or quite the comedian at times. I can also be a person of questionable repute. Ahh, that opens up a whole new world, so many adventures, so many tarty ladies to mimic–who’s to stop my pen from letting me go where the faint-hearted dares to wander? And then there’s always the mysterious lady who shows up whenever excitement throbs; and the toughy girl who takes on the proud, peacock males, bringing them to the wimpy stage. I can be any, or all of these women–on paper, in my heart, in my mind. It’s delightful! And the places I can take myself via the written word, how delicious, at no cost, no waiting in line for admittance–I’m there with just a stroke of the pen. Who do I think I am? I’m a writer, of course. ET

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March 3, 2010


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A Writer’s Prayer

March 2, 2010

As writers, we put ourselves out there for all to see, and the only dressing we finally get is in the comments that come our way. Comments that layer our nakedness piece by piece until we are dressed. And when fully dressed, we do the process all over again. For what worth is a work if no one touches it with their eyes, if no mind falls into the story, and in the leaving no weight of connection propels a response? Elizabeth