Writing Wings For You

Marie Lukasik Wallace ~ # I LIVE Poetry – I'm passionate about life and writing and all things creative and poetic!


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When you get STUCK!!! – a Writer’s Tools

Ever had those days when you get stuck?  I don’t mean a little stuck.  I mean SHUT DOWN everything kind of stuck.  Well it happened to me.  No matter what I tried, a paragraph, an article,  rewriting already written pieces!  Nothing would help.  I decided to take out one of my Poetry tools, and just play.  My work, teaching, sometimes keeps me in left brain so much, I forget to jump to the right brain and just play,                               And who doesn’t love to play?

Since I’ve been writing my dad’s story, I decided to at least try a tool that might assist me toward this goal.  So, I made Alzheimer’s a character.  Weird, right?  It was glorious!   I used a poetry technique called Personification.   What would Alzheimer’s house look like?  What kind of car would it drive?  What would it’s clothes and shoes be like?   That’s only the start and pretty easy to fill out a list type of thing.  Lists become handy when you’re stuck, but this made me a more targeted list.

But where things get really juicy is going deeper.   How do I get to the heart and soul of Alzheimer’s and showcase the role it plays in people’s lives, both bad and good?   I begin to write down Alzheimer’s “friends” and “enemies.”    Once I know who Alzheimer’s friends are, I am naming out loud what parts hurt and what role they play in my life-word thief,  relationship thief, sadness, depression, scatterbrained and scarcity, locked vault.  Then, as I name Alzheimer’s enemies, I get to name what parts I am missing in my life, so I can name my loss and again renew the process of healing-  happiness, peace of mind, abundance, HOPE.

And even deeper – EVERY CHARACTER HAS A REDEEMING QUALITY –

Just like anything in life, there are two sides to every story, even Alzheimer’s.  Though it’s a terribly rotten disease that robs loved ones of many precious events, it still offers gifts.  So what is Alzheimer’s redeeming quality?  CHERISH –  It reminds me that every day is precious and to hold on and linger with every moment I have with my dad.  I MAKE MY CONVERSATIONS WITH MY DAD COUNT!  I record each conversation, even the little ones.  I want to remember my dad saying I love you.  I want to remember the silly sayings and funny voices he uses to greet me each day.  I want to remember that this vaulted man took a chance on ME.  He is trusting me with his precious life books.  He is trusting me to hold on to those stories that in sometimes day to day life are elusive to him.  He, like all of us, wants to be understood before it’s too late.  If I didn’t cherish the time I had with my dad, I might have lost out on learning who he really is.  Without this time, I might not have really honored and treasured that precious laugh and sense of humor.   I am blessed in this moment.


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Good Morning Daddy

It was a beautiful day yesterday.  I found my daddy.  I got to play on the phone with him for a whole hour, and it was breathtakingly beautiful.  I revel in these moments because sometimes they are few and far between.   He played in his childhood and I got to watch in my mind’s eye a glimpse of his happiness after eight days of darkness. He told me of his journey in finding and loving words (another wonderful story for a future post.)   I marvel at how dad’s love of words and learning was passed down to each of us kids.  He wrote poetry and did crosswords and memorized most every word in the dictionary. As he talked of his journey, I heard his voice dance.  His love of words as he spoke so remarkably evident.  Now, I know where my love for words sprouted because the seed was planted.

We did not linger here.  Our journey took us many places.  That’s the beauty and the tragedy of Alzheimer’s.  You never know where it will take you.  Sometimes you wait with baited breath for stories to go deeper and sometimes you wait for fearful stories to end.  But each path is honored and each journey a memory to be treasured.  Because remember, once this was a vaulted man who talked only of the weather.  And now…now in this moment he was telling me what mattered to him in life and he didn’t rush to get off the phone.  Good morning daddy and thanks for beginning the day with me.  It was a most wonder-mous day to begin with you.

 

Many people criticize for showing this journey publicly….but if for one minute I can give hope to others who are on this same difficult journey, then I will take all the criticism given.  Because when things get really really tough, and it seems like there’s no light in the darkness, then sometimes…sometimes…there’s a flood of light that allows you to see more than you ever saw before.  I hope to not only shed some light, but maybe some pathways to find the light.  For there is beauty in Alzheimer’s as there is in every tragic event that shapes our lives.  For all it’s ugliness, it teaches us to appreciate that loved one and hold on fastly to those moments we have with them.

We are human, and in this humanness there is two sides.  Sometimes we only see and feel one side.  It’s nice sometimes to see and feel what it’s like on the other side.  Good morning daddy and thanks for allowing me to share you with the world.


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There are Gems in Them There Hills!

bluebonnetsWe have finished day 8 of the vaulted man being sealed up tight.  The words are locked up fiercely between the Spring clogging up dad’s mind and seizing his senses and the Alzheimer’s playing tricks on him. It’s been a tough week for both of us.  For my dad, the fears are getting more real.  People went from stealing from him to attacking him and trying to kill him.  Once a strong virile man, mentally and physically, now reduced to constant fear of his life.

Last week had been so promising.  We wrote a poem!  We began another. I thought I had found a way to communicate with my dad, a tool to unlock those precious memories and stories we kids so strongly crave to hear.  But today, as I used the anaphora of “I know this…,” a tool that has worked so well in writing with others, did  not work well with him. He was shut pretty tight.  He started with a trite saying, “You get what you pay for,” and as I encouraged him, he continued with strings of sayings.

From past experience, I have learned that it’s okay to start like this; because as the conversation continues, the locks come off, and we can access a distance memory or two. These experiences are delightful to watch as he climbs into his little boy character and he is wild and free, even if only for a little while..  But today, as I said, the locks were on tight.  He didn’t go on an adventure, and he was done before we barely got started.

When dad’s head get’s what he calls “fuzzy,” (full of snot and a lot of fear of releasing emotion), he has to go with a promise to call back….and the call never comes.

But this time, when our call was done, and I read back my notes, I realized some gems. These sayings of my dad can be used throughout my book where I want to make sure the character is coming through. And I also realized something else.  WE were talking about HIM, not the weather, not fishing…HIM…and for my dad, less than a year ago, these things would not have been said. The process has been slow, and it’s hard for me to imagine how I will get the much needed information to write his story, but it’s been a story getting the story.  AND, I am on a journey WITH my dad.  And that is enough.

Things don’t always look or sound the way we would like.  There definitely deserves to be an attitude of gratitude.  And the silver lining is that there is hope for day 8…today could be the day…

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Not Just a Barren Waterhole

A WORD WARRIOR TALE –
Thought to be just a dusty, barren waterhole to some as it lies in the furthest corner of a rancher’s neglected property, but its loveliness is endeared by me. It’s sprinkled with bluebonnets, and there is a strong old mesquite tree whose branches are heavily laden with my tears and my dreams, for it would embrace me when no one would. This place was my sanctuary, my dreamkeeper…

As dusk settled around my dungeon at home, and all were sleeping, it was time for my vigil to start and let the healing begin. With paper in hand, I would escape through a window, climb the prickly barbed fence past the “no trespassing” sign to the freedom and harmony of my secret place of refuge. As I sat in reverence of the solitude, I could hear the calming stillness of the night, scattered with cricket chirps and cicada songs. Lightning bugs visited often. I watched the brilliance of the moon as it graced the water so elegantly, weaving me into a trance.

The trance allowed my feelings to flow freely and words came alive as the events of my life ran through my mind. Through writing, I discovered the innermost parts of me, both the warrior and the princess. I engaged in battle when the ugly heads of fear, loneliness, and teenage turmoil pierced the surface of my serene world. The mighty sword of my word warrior would come crashing down on them, leaving the misery, but taking the life’s lesson with me. On other occasions when I was blessed with the beauty and power of nature surrounding me, the princess in me would gracefully dance in celebration of friendship, love, and life. I became strong, almost invincible, through my characters and imagination in this enchanted kingdom.

Even now, I can close my eyes, breathe in the mesquite, taste the rain, see the moon over the water, and feel its magi envelop me and remind me of all that took place there. And, the peace washes over me again.

Just a barren waterhole to some, but it was a site of hope and renewed life to me. No greater place have I known.


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A Dog Wouldn’t Eat It

I loved this story! Very vivid descriptions of not only your experience, but your relationship with your parents. Funny too! I think you’re brave to make yourself so vulnerable in this experience in the first place as far as bringing your cake over. However, I do know this for sure…if you keep cooking, eventually your creativity and tweaks will make something masterful. Great writing!

Stuart M. Perkins's avatarStoryshucker

My family and I talked a lot over Christmas about Daddy’s fruit cakes. His yearly project meant we would hear many times just how he was going to make it, we would have to admire the ingredients as he laid them out on the counter, and when his edible work of art was complete we would have to sample it. And we did.

Reluctantly.

But Daddy was not the only cake baker in that house. Mama’s pound cakes are well-known to family and friends. Because of recent health issues she hasn’t made one in a while but she will and we’re waiting. Mama never needed a holiday to prompt her to make a pound cake, although production ramped up during special occasions. There always seemed to be a half eaten cake on the counter and another in the freezer, usually heavily wrapped and labeled “okra” to keep us from getting…

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Writing Can tame the Alzheimer’s Beast

Alzheimer’s is a nasty beast. It seizes your loved one’s brain and steals not only their memories, but it steals their reasoning, their dignity, their strength…it makes your loved one tired and hopeless.  You watch as they struggle between reality and their alter world.  The world that they never feel safe.  They worry about someone taking things from them, and they worry about someone trying to kill them.  This sense of safety is so vital to our well being.  It’s painful to watch.  But it’s also painful because it robs us of treasured moments with our loved ones.

But, If you’re patient enough, there are good days too and the jewels come.  Fortunately for us humans that we are emotional beings.  If  events in our lives are laced with an emotional tie, we usually get lucky enough to hold onto that memory.   That is the sweet spot where I can collect my dad’s memories.  That is the sweet spot that I’ve been able to go back to his love of writing and poetry and tap into the man himself.  And my friends, it is beautiful.  Sometimes it’s just a handful of words…but to hear a man who has been emotionally vaulted most of his life, the sound of emotion, any emotion, but especially joy, is like music lilting in the air and carried on the wind.

It’s cliché to say without the rain, you don’t appreciate the sunshine, but it is the analogy that fits this scenario best.   If I hadn’t of gotten frustrated trying to collect dad’s memories, I wouldn’t have found alternate ways to reach him.  And without these alternate ways, I imagine my stories of him would be devoid of any emotion or feeling and might be a little bland.  I’ve been able to feel closer to my dad in this last year than in my entire life.  I’ve been able to get past certain memories  that are recycled and repeated to get to new stories no one has even heard.  And, as I am entrusted with these stories and I manage them with care and respect, my dad, this often closed man, begins to look forward to talking to me.  And for the little girl in me who always yearned to be close to her dad, it is pure joy.

The last time I visited my dad, sadly almost a year ago, he  let me take silly pictures with him.  Just before we went to the airport, I got this notion to take pictures because I wanted to savor the moments I was having with him, and I wanted to be “part” of the experience, not just a witness.  I pretended we were in one of those photo booths and preplanned some pictures to take.  Okay dad, “It’s time for me to go to the airport.  Let’s take a few pictures together!   We will take a serious one of course, but wouldn’t it be fun for the grandkids to see us let go and do some silly faces and fun faces and scary faces and just enjoy?”   My dad replied, “sure!”  (There was even a little enthusiasm there.)  And, we did.   And then this year when my sister, the photographer, visited him, she got dad to do the same thing with her.  And the smile on her face was absolutely beautiful.  

I am healing, and my family is healing…and it’s all through the power of words which were brave enough to hold a story, a living, breathing man’s story…I love you words.  


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Sometimes Writing is Just Hard

I’ve always loved to write.  It’s like reading a delicious book.  It takes your imagination galloping on adventures.  You feel wild and free.

But there are days, like today, that writing is elusive.  The words are chained to an anchor at the bottom of an ocean, and I don’t have the strength to pull that anchor up. 

You see, I am authoring a book about my dad, a simple, courageous man who overcame alcohol and is leading a happy, simple life.  The writing started from interviews and then it became an essay and now I’m writing his story.  I’m hoping this story will heal my family because there has been much pain.  But the story is not an easy one to write.  First, it’s not my story.  I don’t even know all the characters yet.  Second, it’s my dad!  Who wants to screw that up?   Next, I am interviewing a “vaulted” man, a man who never really let us in as kids and didn’t express emotion.  Lastly, there’s that added tricky bonus, he has later stages of Alzheimer’s.   Now that’s a very tricky beast!  Not only does it play with time periods and events, it sometimes keeps me from interviewing him.  I will probably talk about that part in another post because it’s a painful process that deserves it’s own category. 

On good days, my dad lets out a little emotion and snippets of stories.  Sometimes I get to ask more questions, and sometimes, when it’s more real and raw, the locks on the vault reappear and I don’t get to know more.  Then I write stories from bones….It’s hard to write stories from bones.  You need muscles to get it moving…and sometimes I have to build the muscles from snippets.  And that’s like putting together a puzzle that’s all the same color!

For now, what I get to enjoy is this time with my dad.  Because these little morsels of time where he opens up, even if for only a small time, it’s glorious and my soul dances.  I am truly living in gratitude, but oh, how I wish we could have started sooner.


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We Wrote a Poem!

My dad has been a closed man all his life.  I call him a “vaulted” man because he’s fiercely closed off.  Most of it is the time period he was born in.  Men didn’t share feelings.  They worked, provided for their families and moved along.  My dad didn’t say, “I love you.”  He didn’t hug or do anything touchy feely.  He showed his love by working and feeding us..   We wanted to be closer to him because he was fun and funny, and he could make us laugh with his play on words. Alcohol robbed him and us of some beautiful memories, but I’m not complaining.  I’m just stating the facts.  However, the real truth is that  If it weren’t for alcohol, I don’t know that I would know the man I know today.  It shaped his character.

Fast forward, a lot of years, my dad is now over 25 years sober.  He says, “I love you” on a pretty regular basis, but he still doesn’t say much.  Most of my adult life our biggest topic was the weather.  I remember times when I would just get mad that all we talked about was the weather.  I just wanted to get to know him!  I could see other people who had closer relationships to their fathers.  Why couldn’t we have that?  Why doesn’t he try?

As of late, my dad has allowed me to interview him so I can write his story.  (more about that adventure soon because it’s cool story too!)

Because I love poetry so very much, and because I remember a time, many many years ago when dad loved poetry too, I I thought I would find a way we could write poems together.  I thought this  would add a nice personal touch to his book. He’s a word sleuth.  He loves all things words like I do.  So, I found a few formulaic poems and went from there.  It would be like a puzzle to figure out just the perfect words to describe things.  Dad has Alzheimer’s so the words don’t come as easily as they used to.  So, I had a handy adjective list while I worked with him just in case he was searching and deserved some assistance.

We started with a Diamonte type poem because  I thought it would be cool to compare the boy to the man.  This process was confusing to him as first because our interviews are all by telephone, and he couldn’t see what I was asking him.  But he trusted me, and because I presented it like a puzzle, his curious mind allowed him to play along.

It was a slow process because I would ask him for an adjective that would describe him as a boy.  He’d give it to me, and then he’d be off running on telling me a story.  Then, we’d come back to center, and I would ask for another adjective, and he’d give it to me and be off on another boyhood adventure.  The words of his boyhood were pouring forth, and I began to realize what was important to my dad as a boy.  I had NEVER heard any of these stories before.

It was beautiful.  I was talking to my dad, and it wasn’t about the weather.  It was about him.  I was learning about him!  It NEVER looks the way you want it to.  It just is the way it is.  The best thing to do is embrace what you have and enjoy the journey.  We wrote a poem!  I will turn it in later because it deserves a little polishing, and because I know dad would like it that way.  He looks forward to my calls now.  He is creating, and he is loving it.  Where there was silence and void before, is full of life, purpose and meaning.  We wrote a poem, and it was beautiful and lovely to me.

I love you daddy!  I’m so glad you trusted me and that we are on this journey together.


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Writing as Healing part 2

Writing and poetry have continued to heal my family.  Since I was a teen, writing has been a powerful healing force in my life.

As my family went through some tragic, tough times, writing was my outlet.  I would get up really early in the mornings to feel that calm quiet of the morning before the crazy chaos and noise of a family of 8 arrived.   At 4:00 a.m. in the morning, I would diligently write by our fish tank, just enough light to see what I was writing, but not too much so as to wake me from my dream state.   I know that this hour when my most clear, heartfelt thoughts come. In this clarity, I have found my truth. My only wish is that I would have remembered it during the toughest times of my life!

Now, as I am writing my dad’s story, the vaulted man, with Alzheimer’s, is opening up through poetry. Dad has always always loved words and was a crossword wizard and the master of the dictionary. I remember when I was a little girl how we could pick a word, any word, from the dictionary and my dad would know it. We tried hard as we may to find the most difficult word we could to stump him. We never could. Impressive. I can’t wait to share how this great love of words got started! But alas, it will have to wait for another place and time.

Recently, I have decided to take formulaic poems and ask my dad to describe himself or his memories through these poetic forms. Because my dad loves words, it’s fun for him to look for the perfect adjective or verb to use in the poem. What’s even more fun is that each adjective comes with a thought or memory. And before I know it, this man who used to only talk of the weather is opening up and sharing beautiful stories of himself. Sometimes they are the same story, but really, it’s okay. And sometimes it’s only one or two adjectives a day, which is hard to be patient when you want to complete a poem. But again, we are communicating, and I’m enjoying the journey. My dad has purpose, and for a moment or several moments, my dad is holding on to something treasured and positive and he’s leaving his legacy in his own words.

Happy creativity to you! May you and your loved ones heal from writing too.

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