S(k)inful thoughts

Start with this post over at Pocket Myriad. It's what jump-started this particular musing. The first paragraph set my mind to wandering.

Okay, now that you've read it, let's begin. And if you didn't, go back..you need to or this may not make much sense.


PocketMyriad's reminder of the fact that the skin is the largest organ of the human body set me to thinking about the way I (physically) feel some emotions on my skin. I wrote in my previous post about how I feel my writing in my skin, like electricity. That's not the only thing I feel on my skin.

When I'm upset or angry, my skin feels physically raw. I remember taking a friend with me to pick up things from the house of an ex-boyfriend who had ended the relationship very harshly. When this friend leaned over to touch my shoulder to comfort me, I jerked away, the way you might if someone touches a burn...I literally hurt to the touch.

Happiness feels like soft cool grass in my parents' backyard. I love to lay (lie?) in the grass and doze on a not-too-warm day. Usually, I start out reading out there, but I always wind up with the book on my chest, or my face on the book.

I'm discovering what love really feels like, on my skin. It's an interesting process because the feeling changes on me and it's honestly very new to me. Sometimes, it feels like...well...you know those boxes with the pins in them and you can press something into the pins and leave the shaped impression? You know..everyone does their face or their hand...it's "desk junk." If I could find a picture, I'd show you. (Take that as an open invitation to help me, if you can, please!) Anyway, sometimes it feels like I'm in a human-body size one of those boxes. Other times, it feels like the velvety leaves of my violets--soft and safe, and comforting (I inherited the violets from my grandmother). Lately, I've noticed a new feeling--it feels like the tingle I get on my tongue when I smoke a menthol clove cigarette (which is a favorite new--occasional--vice, thanks to The Man.). It feels cool and a little exciting. Hm..and it's touched with a bit of that skin-prickly feeling that I'm doing something naughty. Like I still sometimes feel when I have a cigarette, even though I used to smoke a pack and a half a day. Normally, not being able to "name" one sensation to go with an emotion would drive me crazy...but I'm enjoying this evolution for a multitude of reasons.

Switch gears...I promise the rest of this is connected.

I had a date with a guy a couple years ago who seemed great. Then the date happened. Oh my. His choice of dinner conversation was...awful.

Sex. And not just sex in a general way, though he did manage to talk about it academically for a bit. No, he proceeded to give me a run-down of how great his former girlfriends thought he was, how no one ever left unsatisfied, and "trust me..never had to fake it." I got details---"and then I'd..."---and was asked personal questions---"so if I touched you..."---that I didn't answer. Not because I refused to answer, but because he wouldn't give me a chance. I'm shy and don't particularly like confrontation, and often do just bear a situation rather than speak up. So, I sat there very interested in my food and silently willing the waiter to come back by so I could order another margarita and maybe drown my disgust.

Finally, he took a deep breath and said "So..tell me what you like." I let him have it. I assumed a husky, throaty voice, looked him in the eyes and said, "Well, what I really, really like is....a man who really understands how a woman's body works." He was nodding enthusiastically already. Puh-lease. "I'm gonna do you a favor, honey, and let you in on a little secret...and please think of this as a Public Service Announcement. I really love a man who understands that the largest sexual organ in a woman's body is between her ears, not her legs. And if you ever hope to really satisfy a woman's needs, you've got to get inside her head first." I then excused myself to the restroom before I could get too tacky. When I returned, he was gone. Oh darn.

Anyway, that PSA I gave him is SO true, and not just for me. Women tend to be less visceral about sex and men tend to have a hard time understanding that. It's why lots of women are more likely to read erotica than watch porn. Don't get me wrong, the physical aspects are wonderful, but women often find themselves needing more than just the physical, they need the intellectual side of it, the brainy sex, the feeling that we're here because you want the total package, not just the sex. It's not just about the skin.

So, with all that said...and thinking about synaesthesia, and skin, and...hmm...I better stop. Some things I just can't share, even with the relative anonymity of this blog. Sorry. *grin*


For other thoughts and feelings about skin, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings.

Synaesthesia

The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week was about bringing synaesthesia into poetry. In short, synaesthesia is a neurological condition in which the senses are coupled--so that one a person's perception of something with one sense is always connected with another sense. Hm..I'm not sure I got that down clearly. Check out this 'article.'

Anyway, I really thought I could run with this one. I read a book this summer called Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens which was about synaesthesia, particularly one woman's experience. It's fascinating.

I played with stuff all week..all week. I honestly think I've got a touch of synaesthesia, so I thought this would be so much easier for me than it has been. I think I'm just too focused on some other things that are distinctly not poetic this week.

So, I'm thinking about my writing. It's gotten better, more prolific the last few months. I thank the creative writing blogs and prompts that I've run across for inspiring me. I also attribute it to the people who have positively commented on what I have dared to post--wow, it's amazing what a little ego-stroking will inspire. Of course, at least some of the blame for my recent surge of writing can be placed on The Man--happiness will do that to a girl, you know?

But this post is supposed to be about synaesthesia. Allegedly. In thinking of my writing...one thing comes to mind.

When I write, really write, I feel the words on my skin. But I feel the words long before I "get" them. It's like static electricity. You know, when you get that little bit of a tingle on your skin and the hairs on your arm stand up a little bit--that feeling the kids giggle about when you do the balloon trick. It's how I know something's cooking, something's stirring.

When the words come, it's more intense. You know the feeling of the electricity in the air during a lightning storm? When the air is charged and you get the feeling that lightning could literally strike at any second, right near you? You can hear and feel the buzz and almost taste something a little coppery in the air. (Well, I can). I get that feeling when the words come at me. Sometimes, it's easy, like a slow-building rain storm. Other times, it's like it hits me...like those huge crashes of thunder your aren't expecting and shake the house, setting you off-balance for just a few seconds. Sometimes those nearly violent ones are God-sends, other times I want to run and hide.


For other thoughts about synaesthesia, visit this week's Poetry Thursday: a feast of the senses

Windows & Doorways

This is my favorite picture of The WonderDog. My mother took it and he's actually staring out the door I just left through and crying.

I guess at this point, I'd had him about a year, maybe a little more and we were in hopeless "puppy-mommy" love. I've always been a dog person and can't imagine any home of mine without a dog (it was so hard those years before WonderDog!).

All of this to set up a poem that has nothing to do with WonderDog or dogs in general. *Grin*

Eyes out the window
running through dreams far more grand
than the day inside.

The last couple of days have been pretty, and I've been stuck inside. I have windows...that look out over a beautiful...hallway crowded with students.

Check out other poetry at One Deep Breath.

Instructions....

The prompt at Sunday Scribblings (which I'm doing on a Tuesday) is about writing instructions. The first thing that's come to mind everytime I read the prompt since it was posted (on Friday) is the song by The Fray "How to Save a Life." The lyrics are here It's haunting, for reasons I can't explain or understand.

I have a hard time with instructions. I don't always follow them. I don't know why. If I'm putting something together, or dealing with a difficult recipe, then sure I follow them. But when it comes to other things, I have a hard time with it.

Maybe I don't like the constraints.

Ok, I know I don't like constraints. A friend used to tell me "you can tell me to do something or how to do something, but not both." Hehe...I can't manage that either. If I ask you to do something for me, I'm likely to do the back seat driver bit as well. I try to hold my tongue, but yeah...that don't always work.

There's a fine line between instructions and parameters, I think. Tell me something I'm supposed to do and what the box the finished product should be in looks like but don't tell me how to get it in the box. (ooo, wordy). I'll get ya there, my way, in my time. Just wait.


For other thoughts on instructions, check out Sunday Scribblings.

'Delicious Autumn?' What're you thinkin'?

I live on the Gulf Coast of Texas. We joke that we only have 2 seasons around here--summer and something that's not summer OR one of the other 3 recognized seasons. It doesn't really cool off around here until December, and sometimes not even then. I've got pictures of me riding my bike on Christmas Day in two different years. One year, I'm bundled head to toe. The other, I'm in shorts.

That leads me to...

Wish it would cool off,
leaves would change, be nice out, but
no such luck 'round here.


and


In Texas, leaves do change.
From bright green to dirty brown
No reds, or oranges here.

Check out other posts about Autumn at One Deep Breath.

In my own head...

Okay, so this week, I'm cheating a bit..again. (I call it cheating if I never manage a poem for the prompt.) I wrote the post here last week, in a response to a conversation I had with someone important to me.




For other offerings about a poet's voice, check out Poetry Thursday.

Easy Bake Oven

This week over at Sunday Scribblings, the prompt is to write about something we've researched. I've spent all week coming up blank. This morning, I was still at a loss.

So, I've been rereading some things on my blogs, looking at some other things, thinking about the evening I had with The Man last night (mmm), and cuddling with the WonderDog, thinking about my upcoming birthday. And it's come to me.

Easy Bake Ovens.

(I'm sure The Man is thrilled that thoughts of last night have led me to thinking about Easy Bake Ovens. I don't think there's really a connection, I'm just a little more A.D.D. this morning than usual.)

The one I played with when I was little looked like this, except I think it was more yellow. I got it as a hand me down from a neighbor girl. I can remember making peanut butter cookies in it ALL THE TIME. I loved it.

I've been thinking about it again. They're so cool now! Like the Oven and Snack Center and the Real Meal Oven. Way neater than what I had when I was little.

And there's even gourment cookbooks to use with your Easy Bake. Like this one with a recipe from Bobby Flay (they're right..I didn't know my Easy Bake could make food like this!), or the official one from Hasbro.

Websites are posting Easy Bake recipes, too. Take a look at cake mix replacement recipes at The FUN Place.

There's also The Cooking Inn recipes

Gluten-free recipes on this site.


I still think this would be an awesome gift to get. I can only imagine how much fun I'd have. teehee.


For more writings, that are probably more intellectual, check out Sunday Scribblings.

Why I must write

I read something tonight that just defined my writing life.

I didn't write it. But I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to voice the need the way this writer did.

Read it here....3am Scribblings.

And here's my comment.

Wow. Beautiful poem, or mantra, or whatever. For the record, poetry is defined only by the writer--if you think it is, then it is. Worry about form some other time. *grin*

LOVE this line..."...if sanity is to be achieved..."

I started writing, seriously in high school. Then stopped at 20 (during that 'blank' spot in my memory). I came back to it about 4 years ago. And even more so, seriously so, since May. I'd realized that I was avoiding myself, and doing so, for me, incited insanity.

This is how I release the pent up anger, pain, love (since I can't yet say that to The Man). Your mantra captured why I must write. Thank you.

Tanka

Over at One Deep Breath this week, the prompt is to write tanka, which is...

A Japanese verse form in five lines, the first and third composed of five syllables and the rest of seven.[Japanese.] (That means a 5-7-5-7-7 structure.) American Heritage Dictionary

I lurve playing with form. Like other writers I imagine, my writing notebooks/spirals/journals/grocery store receipts are full of bits that have the same words in various arrangements. I rearrange and rearrange until the breaking mimic my thoughts. And sometimes, until the shape on the page feels right.

Several of you, dear readers, may have noticed I don't follow directions very well...but when it comes to physical poetic structure (like syllables on a line), I'm excited by the challenge. I may still run amok with the rules of content, but I can't follow all the rules, now can I? (I love that word--"amok.")

Anyway, here's my offering. This one came way easier than anything I've written for any of these prompts lately.

Smiling local girl
big dreams in a small, small world,
faith in the future.
Waiting on the spin to stop.
Waiting on the spin to stop, for her.

Check out more tanka, and other poetry, at One Deep Breath.

Solitude

From the American Heritage Dictionary:

sol·i·tude n.
1. The state or quality of being alone or remote from others.
2. A lonely or secluded place.

Solitude is something that I often welcome, and often struggle with. Tonight, I think I'm struggling, but it's a night I find myself needing it.

No one may visit
the navy moments. Quiet--
hear, feel, the silence.

(I suggest reading a couple of posts down to catch the 'navy' reference.)

And...

Solitude.....pull me
out of solitary dark,
back to light, to life.

For more thoughts on solitude, visit One Deep Breath.

Well I never!

I never thought I'd write non-fiction. Well, not anything more than the training/semi-technical lessons I write for work or these blog posts. Non-fiction isn't my preferred reading material, unless it's a good biography or from some part of history I'm particularly taken with (right now, that would be royal Tudor England and the Salem Witch Trials). Non-fiction to me seems to take so much work. Checking facts, researching, organizing...ugh. Yes, I'm a librarian and researching really is my shtick, but that's work. Yes, I realize fiction writers put in a lot of research hours, depending on their story line.

Writing for me is has always been about release, escape. I don't want it to feel like work. I've never been drawn to writing something so involved that I have to do a lot of research to get the settings, situations, or details right.

But then, I started reading pieces of creative non-fiction. Oh this is so me. So...here's the first bit of what I've been working on. I've posted it before..a few weeks back. But since I've gained all kinds of new connections (readers), let's see what you think of it now...


Anywhere else wouldn't make sense.

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.

My mother would kill me if she knew I'd told you that.

Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no "wrong" side of the tracks. There's the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn't. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.

When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn't notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the wrong side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren't over "here." No, they're over "there" - with stuff to do and knowing glances.

Life lesson number one--you need to figure out on which side the world says you're supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.

For more things people never thought they'd write, visit this week's offerings at Sunday Scribblings.

Blue?

The Poetry Thursday prompt this week was "blue." I danced around it all week. I thought about the implied meanings in the color blue---sadness, calm (well, some shades), water, sky.

I looked at the sky Wednesday night and thought about how it perfectly matched the color my brother's eyes--this amazing midnight blue crayon color. He has this stained glass look to his eyes, but all in midnight blue.

I thought about my own emotions, and how I can't remember ever thinking of any one of them as anything but a shade of blue. From periwinkle to midnight to electric to cadet (yes, I know my crayon box very well).

I looked around my house, at all the blue in my furniture and decorations, and how, though I love other colors more than blue, blue is the one I seek for comfort.

So, I got around to this. I've never titled a poem before, but this one I thought needed something.

All My World

Needing the world to stop~~navy
Looking for escape~~wild blue yonder
Creature comforts...connection with my family~~midnight
What I feel with him~~blue violet
Day in, day out drudgery~~cadet
At peace~~robin's egg

Check out the colors I mentioned, and others at the Crayola site.

For more blue poetry, visit Poetry Thursday.

Anti-wisdom

Over the summer, I went to lunch with my mother a few times. Almost always Chinese food. That boggles my mind--when I was growing up, she flat refused to ever eat Chinese food. I don't know what happened.

Once, as we argued over the check, we cracked open our fortune cookies. Hers was something appropriately fortune-like.

Mine said "You will be successful."

I thought I was. Well, am. Anyway, I didn't think it was a "future" event. I mean, yes, I'd like to be successful in my future (in those things that are important to me), but I'd like for it to be a continuation of my current success. Not something new that I haven't experienced before.

Success is a personal thing, for me. A very large part of me doesn't care one bit if anyone else ever notices it. I don't need someone praising me for all I've done/accomplished.

That doesn't mean I don't want it now and again. There's a part of me (like in every human) that wants everyone to see it and acknowledge it. I want someone tell me they're proud of me, that whatever wonderful thing I've been granted is "great." There's nothing wrong with that.

I put my whole self into the things I do, and I like that be noticed sometimes. I guess, for as self-sufficient as I like to think I am (success-wise, at least), I'm not. That's okay, though. Humans weren't meant to do it all on their own, were they?

For more fortune cookie thoughts, visit Sunday Scribblings.

A steady beat

Music is essential in my life. A song brings back everything--memories, perspective, smiles, pain. When asked if I'd rather give up my sight or my hearing (if I had to choose), I pick sight every time. I know I could get by, and though it would hurt to not physically see the people I love, I think I'd be driven insane if I couldn't hear music. Oh, and the voices of the people I love, of course.

That's why I love music ring tones. I like having a fun thought of the person attached to the ringer when he or she calls. For my mother, I hear Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried." It used to be Ozzy's "Mama, I'm ComingHome." Teehee...my mother finds Ozzy deplorable.

For The Man, I have Christina Aguilera's new one "Ain't No Other Man." Early last Saturday, he sent me a text. I woke to his song, crying before I registered I was awake. It was the first time in just over a week he'd contacted me. I'd thought he was gone and I'd been sick with hurting. When the music started, my heart caught and I couldn't pick up the phone.

Phone rings--rockin' beat
wakes me, brings on tears. Release.
Sobbing, but hope springs.

You couldn't know. 'Ain't
no other man' hurt like you.
Better loving, now.

We're better now..still testing waters, tasting at love. But it's so much better this week.


The prompt this week for One Deep Breath was about the sound of music. Read more offerings here.

The Monster...

Hi. My name is Jayne, and I'm afraid of the dark.

Really. This isn't just a matter of not being all that comfortable in dark spaces. It's a fear.

I have night lights in my bedroom. And a small lamp that's on all night.

I can't sleep if the closet or bathroom door is open.

I never, ever, get into or out of my bed when the lights are off. Even then, I tend to avoid the space under the bed.

When I do crawl in bed, there are rules: 1) Sleep only happens in the middle of the bed. 2)My ears must be covered. 3) At no point should any of my body not be on the bed.

There are flashlights and candles within easy reach in every room of my apartment.

I guess, thinking about it now, it's really a fear of being alone in the dark. If someone else is around, I'm better. Not nearly as bothered by it. If curled up with The Man, I'll even sleep in the pitch black of his bedroom. If I were alone in his room, I wouldn't sleep at all.

I don't remember it being this bad after I was about 8. I've never particularly liked the dark, but I was no more uneasy than any other normal person. But I dealt.

Then, when I was 20, the only time in my life I can't recall anything about happened. I won't go into the details, because frankly I don't know them. I know what happened because of what I was told and dealt with later, but the specifics of the actual event are encapsulated in my memory. Completely walled off from the rest of my conscious mind. When I try to recall that time, there's a hole. I liken it to blacking out. Time passes, you might even be involved in the activities, but you register nothing.

So, for me, being afraid of the dark is a manifestation of my fears of that time. I know what happened that night, but only from what others told me. I have no working knowledge or memory of my own. It's a dark space in my mind. It's my monster in the corner.


Visit Sunday Scribblings for more offerings about monsters.

Listening for the tock

I wrote this earlier in the summer, when I looked at my summer schedule and realized I had exactly 11 days I hadn't scheduled anything on. For those of you that don't know, I'm a public school librarian. I'm not required to work all summer long, or even into the summer. Until this year, I did make it a point to go in every couple of weeks and sort the mail (which piles high in a week's time). This summer, I taught 2 sessions of summer school speech, went on a trip for church, visited the various and sundry doctors, and was at school quite a few days going over the renovation work in my library. I'd actually scheduled away my whole summer break.

Tick....tick....tick.....
goes the clock.
Ain't there supposed to be a 'tock' somewhere?
Seems like I learned that once
before.
But who has time to listen for it?

My other blog is "The Clock is Ticking." I tell people that I don't mean that clock--the one my mother claims should be getting louder for me by now. And really, I don't. I mean time is passing. And I've been letting it race by while I've packed my days. "Downtime is wasted time."

It's only been in the six weeks or so that I've been selfish with my time. I blame it on The Man (who, if you're following our story--which I'll admit I don't keep updated well--is back in the picture. Thank God.). Never before have I found myself sitting still, when I knew I had other things that needed doing.

I catch myself listening for the tock.

For other thoughts and ideas on the idea of time, visit Poetry Thursday.

Words in the rough

Hmm...I don't know how much I like that particular title. It just feels to me like my writing is always in the rough. My words come at me in a wild attack. Sometimes they hurt---like the utterly angry things I wrote this weekend about The Man (note to self--screw men. No, really, screw 'em all. Who the hell needs 'em?). Sometimes, they bowl me over in a rush of love and laughter, like when The WonderDog barrels down the stairs into my arms. On the rarest of occasions, they whisper-step up to me and calm me. I love words.

Over at Poetry Thursday, the prompt this week is whatever you want. I've never liked open-ended assignments. Even when it comes to writing. Give me some guidelines--a page, theme, single word or idea I'm supposed to state or allude to...HELP! Don't just throw me to the wolves---um...out into the wild. Hm.

But here is what I want to share. My new friend Jason is quickly becoming one of my favorite people. He's even stepped up the last few days and given me an ear, a shoulder...whatever. A few weeks ago he shared some of his writing with me. One of them sent images to attack me. The opening lines are:

Clutching the broken fragments of glass
I bleed through my scattered faces

I could see it. The whole poem, stretched out in a black and white photograph before me. I loved it. The image I had in my head took my breath away, captured so many things. I wrote and told him he needed to illustrate some of his poetry with his original photographs (which are beautiful). I do wish he would.

I've requested permission to share the whole poem, should he give it, I'll update this post. It's...ugh...amazing.

UPDATE: Mere minutes after the initial posting of this, permission came through. Bless you, Jason.

(no title)

Clutching the broken fragments of glass
I bleed through my scattered faces
a handful of eyes looking back at me -
more imposing than the pair I so recently destroyed.
It was a weakness, a panic,
a fear of my own self-worth.
I could have turned out the light
or simply walked away, but
I stayed to fight.
I chose to kill,
and now my reflection
sits back and laughs
as I soak in defeat.

aaahhh

Hm...playing today with a haiku prompt at One Deep Breath. This week, it's "Coffee & Tea."


Warmth and peace, steeping
in a quiet cup at home.
Recharge, refresh...aaaah.

Soundtrack

Music has been a huge part of my life. It's a refuge for me, an escape, and to some extent a magic elixir. It's brought on much needed tears, and chased them away.

This week's Poetry Thursday prompt was about songs. As silly as it sounds in my head--songs really do sing to us. Rather than write about any one particular song, I thought I'd share with you the soundtrack for my life right now. (Each of these links points to the video. Sorry they're a bit convoluted. The javascript links didn't want to work.)

Rascal Flatts - Bless The Broken Road
Okay, so I've been down some rough roads the last several years. Life's very sweet these days and I'm feeling so happy and blessed. Obviously, this has a lot to do with The Man right now. We've both been down some less than stellar roads in our lives. But it's smoothing out.

Pussycat Dolls - Buttons F/ Snoop Dogg
I'm really lovin' this song right now. It's H-O-T. (geez..I just said that, huh? Ugh. I've been around high school boys too long). Honestly, though, I wish I was this brave sometimes (read "not shy"). And I wouldn't be hurt one bit if I had the body of any one of those girls.

Rob Thomas - Ever The Same
This one is about R--my closest friend the last few years. Out of necessity, our relationship has changed. I don't think either of us is very happy about it. But, we'll always be important to the other. This song reminds me of that.

Christina Aguilera - Ain't No Other Man
This the ringtone on my cell for The Man. Teehee. (Please let me know if this young love crap gets sickening)

Hoobastank - If I Were You
I'm not really sure what it is about Hoobastank's song that gets me. I really like it though. Makes me think about all the things I should be doing--like appreciating some things more.

Panic! At The Disco - I Write Sins Not Tragedies
I'm not a huge Panic fan, but I like this one. The video's fabulous, visually, but I love the line "I'd chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing the g** damn door?!" There's a life lesson if I ever heard one.

Dixie Chicks - Not Ready To Make Nice
I think the jist here for me is that I'm tired of backing down and playing along. I've not been selfish with myself often enough. I've probably pissed a few people off, but oh well.

LeAnn Rimes - Something's Gotta Give
This is my life for the last couple of years. Except for the cat named Jake. *wink*

Pink - Stupid Girls
I work in a high school. It's not the girls who have good heads on their shoulders that worry me. It's the "stupid" ones.

Nickelback - Far Away
Warm fuzzies

Switchfoot - Stars
In this whole 'discovering' myself phase I'm in, this song reminds me of my place in the mystery of the world.

Gretchen Wilson - California Girls
Remember, it's okay to be yourself. Especially if that self is a little bit redneck. *wink*

For more Poetry Thursday offerings this week, click here.

Playing Ball

Okay, I got reminded to do something this week. I've been in Tulsa most of the week for a church conference. At one point, I ended up with free time in the (fabulous) youth area. They had one of those semi-portable basketball hoops set up in one corner and two teenagers were shooting baskets. Both boys appeared to have Downs Syndrome. Both were having the best time, coaching and cheering each other with every shot.

I was watching them, getting a lot of joy from just watching them have fun. Soon, they were casting shy glances at me. After several minutes, they invited me to join them. Now, I suck at shooting baskets. I told them I wasn't very good at all, that I'd probably be in the way. They told me it was okay, they'd help me.

I was instantly humbled. And as we played there in the youth room, so many different things happened. My tension that had hit me rather suddenly at the start of the week melted away. As I said, I was humbled being coached on the best way to shoot the ball. And we laughed and had such a good time. It was awesome.

And then, when we sat down for a break, before going back to our respective posts for the conference, I wrote for them.

Unabashed smiles, eyes
watching the ball -- swissssshhhh--REBOUND!
Reminds me to play.

I didn't manage to get their names. It wasn't important, you know? But they did so much for me.