Archive for Poems & Ponderings, my previous blog:

Mother - May - I ?
Thursday, May 2, 2013

Twizzler Moments
Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Notes from a Sparrow
Tuesday, February 19, 2013

My Message in a Bottle
Monday, January 28, 2013

September Already?!?!?!?
Saturday, September 15, 2012

May 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012

June 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011

May 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011

April 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011

March 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011

January 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011

December 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010

November, 2010



Notes from a Sparrow

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

In one of my writing classes in college, I was asked to write a self-portrait. I remember writing about a tree ~ a massive tree with large upsweeping branches and thick, far-reaching roots. I remember going into great detail - details lost now - about the jagged breadth of bark - the twisted curls and gnarls. This was a gargantuan tree, like the majestic tree of paradise, overspread with glossy leaves and succulent fruit. After carrying on for descriptive paragraph after descriptive paragraph, I suggested that the reader place her or himself beneath the tree and look up. If you squint your eyes ever so slightly, my roughly remembered last sentence said, you may see a small, ordinary-looking brown sparrow tucked inside an overgrown cluster of leaves; that sparrow, I remember writing, is me.

I was reminded of my self-portrait this past weekend after attending a book signing for an author who has swept into bookstores and libraries in a gargantuan way. I admit to being dazzled by the author’s glossy book covers and amazed by the author herself - vibrant and full of blockbuster ideas. I wondered if I could write a blockbuster...the kind of book that’s big, bold and demands to be read. These are dangerous thoughts for an author - at least they are dangerous thoughts for me. Setting expectations on what I write or comparing myself to another writer, cripples my characters and chokes the voice within me.

I admire authors who weave fantastical worlds from nothing but the glistening strands of their own imagination.  But I’ve come to understand that each of us - whatever our field or calling - has our own voice. 

Even the most ordinary-looking brown sparrow has a song worth singing.