Friday Fictioneers: Moving On

Posted on September 19, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Oops! I posted this on my page, but forgot to link up to Rochelle’s site. The excitement of being Freshly Pressed this weekend, here, completely caught me off guard, and the best laid plans… So, here it is.

This post is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers. This is my third week participating and it  has quickly become addictive! Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts a weekly photo prompt on her site, and writers add their contributions. Check out other stories on Rochelle’s site, here.  This week’s photo was a challenge for me. It took some effort, but I got it down to 100, exactly.

the_second_hand_shop-1

Harry peeked inside the shop. Bev wasn’t behind the counter; so he waited. These used things made him edgy. He couldn’t avoid thinking about the past lives they’d inhabited, and how they were all cast off. It challenged his own mortality.

Bev was another story; she made him feel alive again. A year and a month since he’d lost Dorothy, it felt good to be interested in life again. He waited, poised at the door, for Bev to come from the back room. He looked forward to their lunch date, and willed himself to ignore the bride with a past.

Posted in Honest observations on many things | 27 Comments

“She said what?” Weekly Writing Challenge: Dialogue

Posted on September 18, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
This post was Freshly Pressed.

This post was Freshly Pressed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image: writeyourscreenplay...

Image: writeyourscreenplay…

“The problem with figuring out realistic, tight dialogue,” Piper continued, “is knowing your character. If you really know who your character is—what they think and how they act, it’s a lot easier to understand what they would say; and, then it won’t sound as forced.”

She adjusted her Mac and looked up at Kim. The sounds of the café came in as Piper thought it through.

“Well, if it’s your character, if you create them, wouldn’t you naturally know what they would say? I mean, shouldn’t the dialogue part be easy?” Kim still looked confused.

“Actually, not really. Dialogue is hard; it takes practice.” Piper looked around the café. “First, you really need to study dialogue, study people. How do people talk—how do you and your friends talk?”

Piper motioned toward the others around them, drinking coffee or eating, and both women glanced around the room.

“Once you’ve studied general dialogue—people around you, etcetera, you need to really figure out the characters you write. You have to know who they are, what they like, what motivates them, and what they would say or do in different circumstances. The more you know your characters and their motivations, the easier it is to figure out what they would say, and how they would say it.”

“Can I get you anything else here?” The young waitress interrupted, friendly and efficient.

“Actually, I think I’ll have another green tea, thanks. You?” Kim looked to Piper, as she pushed her empty mug toward the edge of the table.

“Uh, yes; I’ll have a latte this time. Thanks a lot.” Piper smiled at the young woman, as she cleared the cups from earlier. Both women moved their computers aside, to make room for the drinks.

“I’m still a little lost.” Kim continued, as they waited for their order. “Do have to know every character in your story. Can’t you just figure out the dialogue of ‘minor characters,’ you know: wing it?'”

“If you wing it, I think it doesn’t sound authentic, and your story suffers.” Piper continued, focused and excited. “I think a lot of dialogue is just pulled together, but good dialogue is worked out. You might not get to know your minor characters quite as thoroughly as your central characters, but you have to understand why they would say what they say, or do what they do, just the same. If it isn’t authentic, real, then the story won’t be as believable; it wont hold together. Dialogue is key, and the key to good dialogue—I believe, is knowing your characters as well as your story.”

Kim nodded in agreement, but still wasn’t sure she understood it, and Piper’s strong feelings about this element of writing. They’d been writing together on Tuesdays, for months, but their styles were different, and Kim sometimes struggled to grasp Piper’s passionate beliefs about style and form. Kim wrote from an instinctual place. Her writing was easy, for the most part, while Piper was very serious about the construct of writing, the rules, the arcs and details that were spelled out in so many books on writing. They both had strengths, Kim thought, and Piper was definitely better with dialogue.

As Piper turned to look toward the counter, Kim listened to the couple at the table beside them, noting how the woman stirred her coffee, absently, and the man pushed his hair back from his forehead. These mundane actions were exactly what Piper was referring to, the kind of things that made a scene more believable to readers. These were the the exact details Kim was working so hard to master in her own writing.

“Anything else?” The girl broke the spell, as she placed the hot drinks on the table

“No, thank you. Not for me,” Piper responded first, and looked to Kim.

“No; nothing for me either.” The girl smiled at Kim, and left a check on the table.

“I can take that whenever you’re both ready.” She nodded toward the slip of paper. “There’s no hurry, and just let me know if  you’d like something else.”

Both women smiled at her as the waitress left the bill and walked away.

Kim stirred a little honey into her tea and glanced around at the other tables, noting the diners and what they were doing. Piper seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, playing with the froth of her latte, erasing the neat brown leaf that had been drawn in the foamy milk. Kim noticed that the woman beside them was now holding the man’s hand, the conversation appearing more intimate as they drew closer to each other, across their table.

“It’s so easy to look around and see the dialogue happening, note the ticks and movements that go along with the words,” Kim began again, “but putting that into a story seems so much more daunting when I’m trying to make it come to life on the page. I think I get it, until I try and do it.”

“That’s the trick, I guess, figuring out how to make what we see, work on the page. How to make the words we imagine our characters would say, and the things they would do, seem real and believable, without all of the characters sounding exactly the same. Dialogue’s a bitch, but when you get it, it makes all the difference.” Piper laughed, and pushed her latte aside, the drink still steaming.

Kim smiled wistfully, and took a sip of her tea. She needed to get back to work, and figure out how her character would say what she needed them to say. She reached for her Mac as Piper did the same. They arranged their cups to the side, and they both began to type again.

The clank of silverware against the simple white ceramic plates and mugs, and the smell of food filled the space. The bright sun shone through the unusually tall windows and the tops of trees outside cast their green magic on the view outside.  Kim rested her fingers on the keyboard, thought about her character, and began to type.

The man said…

Note:  As always, I welcome feedback. Leave a comment and tell me what worked, and what didn’t, for you.  It’s been an exciting few weeks; I’m on a roll right now, with posts. More writing than usual… This is part of the Word Press Weekly Writing Challenge; you can check it out here. This week’s theme: dialogue. The challenge is to write a post: fiction or non-ficition, that uses dialogue to move the story along. I wanted to play with this theme; this is fiction: dialogue about dialogue.

Posted in Blog, Blogging, blogs, Honest observations on many things, Tales From the Motherland, Weekly Writing Challenge, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 72 Comments

Gold Medal Whistler

Posted on September 17, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This week is my second post on Bucket List Publications. I am now writing a weekly feature on BLP, Tuesdays. I hope you’ll check out my post there, and show it some support. This is a big deal for me, and I’m really honored and excited to be writing  for Bucket List and Lesley Carter. Please head over to Bucket List and leave a comment or a Like; I’d love the support in this new endeavor. Thanks!

Gold Medal, Whistler

Posted in Adventure, Beautiful places, Beauty, Honest observations on many things, Life, Tales From the Motherland, travel, Writing | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Weekly Photo Challenge: Inside

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This is a contribution to the Weekly Photo Challenge, on Word Press. I love the contributions each week, and given the time I spend on photography, hope to join in from time to time. I knew immediately which photo I’d use for this prompt: Inside.

“Outside sure looks good, from Inside.” From inside a bathroom in Barbados. Maybe the best bathroom view in the world… if you’re a man.

IMG_2538

Posted in Beauty, Blog, Blogging, My world, Natural beauty, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 19 Comments

Picture This…

Posted on September 13, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

rtt-newThis post is part of the ongoing blog hop, over at The Waiting. All posts are reflections on earlier times, with an added weekly prompt. I’ve enjoyed participating, as often as I can. Check out the other wonderful stories, here.  This week’s prompt: Remember The Time… We Had Picture Day?

When I first saw this prompt, I wanted to write something funny and clever. No doubt, all those old school portraits virtually demand it. However, it struck me just as instantly that my school pictures inherently cause me to wince. They make my insides turn, and generally make me feel sad. Mostly, I feel sad because there are so few school pictures, of me. They just don’t exist, because my life was not picture perfect.

I’m sure I’ve belabored this point, or been evasive, or maudlin at times, but things just weren’t what they may have seemed from the outside. Frankly, I often wonder what it really looked like from the outside… to other adults, who knew what it should look like. Picture this: My mother, was a broken, abused little girl, who grew up to be a fractured, lost woman, who struggled through most of her 67 years. The duality of who she was haunts me, literally, and has for most of my life.  Just as easily as I can recall the fun-loving prankster; the classy, charmer; the cuddler, I can just as easily see the depressed; unstable; screamer, who made decisions throughout my life that left me reeling. The only portraits, or school pictures that are left, are the ones I stole away and tucked in my hidden places. There are not many of them.

Cringe. Image: movingservices.com

Cringe. Image: movingservices.com

Picture this: When we moved from California to Massachusetts, when I was nine years old, Mom couldn’t pay the Mayflower Van Lines bill, and they kept all of our (measly) possessions. No school pictures, for Kindergarten up to fourth grade—Poof! Gone, just like that. My toys, my clothes, anything we took with us when we dashed away from a life Mom was running from, was gone. I remember so vividly the weight of that settling on my young shoulders— it was all gone. I hated Mayflower for years, and years— to this day, I still react when I see one of their trucks. I hated them until I got old enough to realize who was really responsible. Then, for a long time, I was at a loss for who to hate.

sc05825e04(<– My Dad had been dead about 6 months when this was taken. I see my forced smile and wary eyes— Probably the plastic barrette and giant collars. See, humor)

Picture this: When my father was killed, a year later, it seemed very clear to ten-year-old-me, that if I was going to leave a trail, in the hope that someone would someday find me, I’d better start covering my own ass. When tangible evidence of your past is simply gone one day, you have some choices to make. I chose to keep whatever I could, and make damned sure there was proof of my existence. So, I began taking and hiding things— the birth of a hoarder. I tucked away whatever important papers, school pictures, memories, that I could, in my own hiding places, unbeknownst to Mom or anyone else. Lots of things fell through the cracks. School portraits were given out to friends and family, and the rest were lost in one of Mom’s many moves. What’s left, is what I took and kept.

Picture this: When I moved out, my junior year of high school, I carted it all with me. When I went to college, graduate school, and eventually moved in with my future husband, I carried whatever I could. Sadly, along the way more things got lost. I was a kid; my diligence could only take me so far; but, anything I have today, is because I thought it was important to record and preserve my past. Over time, no doubt, some lines have blurred as to what I should keep and what I should let go of. My office is a testament to that fact… along with the boxes of stuff in the basement, the boxes of mores stuff in the storage room, and the files and drawers full of other stuff. But, there are letters, photos, things that seemed important, because I held on for dear life to them.

sc0092cb8a(<– I was a very happy baby, and young child. I was surrounded by love, and felt it. This, my first portrait, was taken the day JFK was assassinated. Mom always remembered where she was, that day.)

Picture this: Over the years, I found baby pictures and other old photos in my grandmother’s home. I took them and tucked them away, too. I didn’t ask; I just took them; and, no one ever missed them or asked. As a young child, I remember my grandmother showing us home movies with my Dad in them— I was transfixed, to see him moving, talking, picking me up. To this day, I can hardly bear the idea that they probably ended up in a garbage bin.  A priceless treasure, gone because no one else appreciated its worth. When my grandmother died of Huntington’s years later, and no one wanted to really deal with all of her “stuff,” I was glad to have kept the things that mean the most to me now. As I got older, I sought photos of my father—there were none in my life, from ten (when he died) until I graduated from high school and sough them out. For years, it was as if he had not only died, but had never existed. Once I started finding those portraits of him, I treasured them, and kept them safe… proof that the father I loved was real.

sc05823f7d(<– 4th grade: I missed my Dad; our new life scared me, and my stuff was gone)

Let me paint the picture: So, I can’t help it. I want to move on; I want to be stronger about these things. God knows it’s been forty years! But the portraits I have remind me of the duality of my own life. The sad, broken little girl, who wanted so desperately to turn back time and fix it all, and the strong young woman who chose to treasure what remained, cling to it, and forge an independent, entirely different life from her mother’s. I have over-compensated with my own children, by taking thousands of photos, and saving every one. Blurry, keep it. Not the best image of my kid (crying, fussing, looking away, blinking), keep it. Doubles, keep them, both… one might get lost, and I’ll have the other. I put them in albums; I bought corny “school days” frames. I wanted my own kids to see that the images of them, over time, mattered. They are stored on the computer, they are tucked in boxes and albums. If that hypothetical fire were to ever happen (she wrote, as she touched wood), I would be dashing down three floors to grab the hard copies, and praying that this so called iCloud has me covered for the rest. If photos and files of things they’ve written/drawn/said, count for love, my kids will know that they are deeply cherished.

sc0092dd1f<– (“I’m graduating High School, I’m setting a new course, but man is it over-whelming!”)

As for me, I look at my old school photos, and the few baby photos I have, and I see the before and after. This is where I was happy, and felt so loved; this is where my Dad was gone, and I couldn’t figure any of it out. This is where I was on my own, going to see colleges by myself, and trying to figure out my life, solo. This is months after he died; I look so confused. I was.  Add to his already mixed emotional bag, there was how I saw myself. Having been born with bright red hair, and having to endure the endless “carrot top,” “red,” and other hair references, that started day one, I never felt particularly pretty. Getting my picture taken was not something I looked forward to. I rarely thought my pictures were good, and always saw ways that someone else looked better. To this day, I still prefer to be behind the camera (something I’m very good at), than in front of it.

946781_10151369174911300_69013970_n<– I don’t actually wear glasses, but I think they make me look wiser. I love this picture, taken on my 50th birthday, because it’s playful and there are only good memories attached to it. That makes it a keeper.

Today, I am really beginning to make peace with old hurt, and impossible dreams. I’m even tackling the collections and clutter, choosing to weed out the truly important from the desperate-to-keep-it-all.  I readily admit, it’s not easy; but, each time I put something in the garbage, or give it away, I feel a little lighter, a little freer, and that helps. Despite how some of my words can be taken, I understand my mother’s journey and feel enormous empathy for the hard life she lived. It doesn’t change that she, in turn, made my childhood a lot harder as well— but I don’t feel the anger I once I felt. It’s good to let that go. When my kids look at their school portraits, I hope they see something simpler: first, second, third, etc grade and the inevitably funny fashions and styles that those photos reflect. And only that. That, and the fact that their mother kept it all safe for them.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Honest observations on many things, Life, Musings, My world, Parenting, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 43 Comments

Sparkle on the Water, Dust in the Wind

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I am making another effort for the Friday Fictioneers… which, thanks to the patient assistance of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, the creator of FF, and Amy over at The Bumble Files, I think I finally understand. The photo prompt comes out on Wednesday, and then contributors “write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)”

When I saw this photo, I immediately thought of the events of 9/11, as the prompt came out on the anniversary. It is also the High Holidays, in the Jewish religion, and I thought of all the immigrants that came to America, greeted by Lady Liberty.  From those two thoughts, came this story… at 105 words. The story started at 138 words, and try as I did, I could not cut it down any more. Please feel free to leave feedback.

the-boat-and-miss-liberty

Never one to stand on circumstance, Sam held the smooth ceramic jar in his hand. The cool weight struck him— so many memories, and history, a lifetime of complexity and grace, contained within a single jar.

The sun on the water danced and shimmered— a million sparkles against a hazy sky. His sisters watched as Sam carefully removed the lid, stepped to the side of the boat, and tipped the jar.

“She survived the Holocaust, and arrived with only her dreams. Today we say goodbye where those dreams began. We love you Mom.”

Her ashes caught the breeze and then settled on the brilliant water.

Posted in 9/11, Blog, Blogging, Death of parent, Jewish, Judaism, Life, My world, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 36 Comments

Chasing the Dream, On Bucket List Publications

Posted on September 10, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I am so excited to announced that I will be writing a weekly featured post on Bucket List Publications. Lesley Carter, the founder and Bucket List dream maker, has created a really amazing site, where others can come along on her out of this world adventures. Bucket List has 150,000 readers each month, and I’m honored and thrilled to be contributing to such a wonderful site! Check out my first post, here.

Posted in Adventure, Blog, Blogging, blogs, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, how blogs work, Life, Musings, My world, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Friday Fictioneer…. Boxed In

Posted on September 8, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This is my first attempt at Friday’s Fictioneer… and I’m late. Love reading these, and thought I’d throw my hat in the ring. Thanks to Rochelle Wiseoff for organizing this cool challenge, and providing the photo prompts. Check out her page here. Here’s my attempt… Exactly 100 words.

Image: Rochelle Wiseoff

Image: Rochelle Wiseoff

Each Sunday Jude took the feather duster and carefully dusted around the tiny items in her collector’s box. She meticulously lifted each item, then placed it back in the same spot, preferring to see them in the chronological order in which she’d collected them. Occasionally she moved items around, placing the acting pin, from tenth grade drama club in the lower left-hand corner, and the shells she’d collected during college spring break, sophomore year, in the opposite corner. However, it was hard to make changes.  Jude felt as boxed in as each sacred item, stuck in choices she’d made years before.

Posted in Blog, Blogging, Honest observations on many things, Life, Writing | Tagged , , , | 35 Comments

The New Year: A Time for Reflection, Change, and a Gas Mask

Posted on September 5, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
image: schusterman.org

image: schusterman.org

Last night we welcomed the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, with a full house, at worship services.  There was much singing; everyone arrived in their High Holy Day finest; and our Rabbi shared thoughts and words that were deeply meaningful and stirring. Every year, this holiday is one that I love to celebrate. The timing of the Jewish New Year speaks more closely to the rhythms of my life. Fall is when my kids go back to school, and when I went back to school before them… and so on, and so on.  The shifting from warm, unstructured days, into cooler, highly regulated schedules, and the return to a rhythm that we all fall into together, feels so much more like a true beginning— a New Year, than the traditional calendar date of January 1st ever has.  Since I joined the world of Jewish tradition, and celebration, nearly 30 years ago, I’ve really appreciated what all of the ancient cultures saw: this is a natural time for renewal and new starts.

In the cultures and religions around the world, which historically relied on the seasons of crops, and lunar cycles, Fall is an enormous time of change. The crops are in; the earth is turned; the animals prepare, and humans settle in for a quieter, colder time. In our culture, it is when kids return to school and the unscripted magic of summer wanes, and then shifts abruptly to the increasingly demanding school calendar: with it’s early hours, influx of work, and after school activities. Everyone (still in that world) amps up, and our entire lives shift into new venues. For those who are off to college, or starting school for the first time, it marks a dramatic break in family structure— difficult goodbyes and adjustments for parents and kids alike, as well as the exciting prospect of new adventures and amazing new lives for kids who have relied on hearth and home, for most of their needs.  It’s interesting to me, that the start of Kindergarten and the start of college, bring very similar adjustments! For so many others, it marks a shift in traffic patterns around town, and the jolt to daily routines— so different from the generally more laid back and fun that summer brings, all around.  Regardless of which groove you’re in, it feels like a universal start, a new beginning— a New Year.

And so, again, there we were singing with our Congregation; worshiping this great shift in time (the year 5774 on the Jewish calendar); feeling the richness of community, the excitement of new beginnings, and just as I have each year, I found myself moved to tears. If you’ve never experienced Jewish worship services, the music is truly exceptional. The words—generally sung in Hebrew, are ancient; the tunes come from an Old World, and regardless of the modern, folk-spin that our congregation puts on them, there is an-other-place, deeply moving feel to these tunes, that moves me every time. And then, there is the obvious: the ancient tunes, and the Hebrew words, tie me more than ever to my girl; and, standing in a room full of people, reciting the prayers, singing the songs, speaking of faith, makes me miss her more.

Ram's horns for Shofars, hanging outside a shop in Jerusalem

Ram’s horns for Shofars, hanging outside a shop in Jerusalem

Last year, as I stood in services, my girl had just left for Israel, to begin a year of post-grad studies in religion. She had just converted to Orthodox Judaism. She was moving to Israel to begin a journey toward immigration there: referred to as Aliyah, in Judaism.  Situations there were strained and would erupt in bombings and military actions, a few weeks later. At the time, I could barely handle my sense of loss and sadness in knowing she was gone, my fear of the situation that was developing there, as the songs were sung around me.  This year, I am in a more settled place with all of that, but once again, my girl just left us, after a two-week visit, and emotions are raw. I know she is grappling with big changes, big things, and I miss her. As a mother, I struggle with not being there to support her in person. Our time together, while she was here, was so precious and sweet, and singing the songs, and looking at families united for a New Year, and united in a faith that she is so deeply tied to, only makes me miss her so much more.

The night before she left this time, she asked me to sleep with her. She would be getting up at 3am to drive with her father to the airport. The idea was that she would (finally!) pack; I would help her; and we would snuggle, for her last night here. I admit it; I’m not a great snuggler. I go to bed to sleep. Snuggling distracts from that, and I’m stuck in my ways.  I knew that I would get no sleep if I committed to this snuggle thing, and so I said no. Her face shifted to disappointment, and I reassured her that I’d hang out as long as I could, but then I needed to sleep in my own bed. Instead, we packed her things and then settled down, side by side on her bed, to talk about her first day home, and so many big things coming her way.

We lay there, inches apart, face-to-face— and I wanted to freeze that moment and not move forward. Oh that sweet, beautiful face, so close; and, the two of us in a good and connected place again! Freeze it!  My girl has always been a deep thinker, a worrier, a passionate soul whose heart is open to hurt and joy, not always in equal parts. As she talked about things to come, her thoughts on leaving home again and being so far from us, and a place she loves so much, the future— hers, Israel’s, life— I tried to bring her back to the here and now.  My girl can spin; and, I held her face and hushed her spinning, and watched her eyes begin to close… just as they had when she was an infant and I would sing her to sleep.  I lay for countless moments, watching her peaceful face as she drifted off. Freeze this!  I drifted off briefly, the two of us tangled around each other, and tied closely in a knot of love.  I woke, made sure she was still dreaming, and drifted off again several times… until the mother in me woke and realized there were things to do.

All roads lead here, for now.

All roads lead here, for now.

It was nearly 2am and her iPod wasn’t fully charged; she’d want that for her trip. She’d forgotten to pack food for her unbearably long journey back— Seattle-NYC-Dusseldorf-Tel Aviv, a painful reminder in air miles and hours, of just how far away we are. I got up and put together some gluten-free, kosher snacks. I double-checked her bags, to be sure that tabs were tied down, zippers secured, that she had a name and address tag. I watched her sleep, from a chair in her room. Freeze this!  I wished the clock to freeze as well. I’d put off any emotions, at seeing her go again— of accepting that she is out in a big world, far, far from home and that is her path. I’d put off my fears, in hearing from her friends back in Israel, that we should buy her a gas mask, as the threat of Syria using chemicals against Israel, is being taken seriously— taken seriously by Israelis, who are notoriously blasé about these things. I’d put off all of this, and there she lay resting in the bed  she grew up in, and I just wanted to freeze it all, and keep her with me.

The alarm clock broke the spell, and she awoke, to her mother still there, snuggling her. We hugged. We both were tired, me up all but 1.5 hours of the night, her having had a few dreams, before her long trip. We were quiet, as we gathered her things. She apologized for the mess she was leaving, and I told her that putting her room back in order was part of my letting go, my grieving her absence. Frankly, I could live without this symbolic act that both she and my older son seem determined to leave me with… the messes of their last-minute packing, and rushed departures. However, I know I will spend time in that room in the next few weeks, smelling her things, and miss her. I’ll feel her presence, tuck her sweaters and things she’s left behind… because they don’t fit in her bag, or it’s too hot there, or her small apartment leaves no room for the “extras.”

As I welcomed in the New Year last night, I left the hall, as I did last year, to reflect on this person I love, who is not here. I left to assist an elderly member who was always so very generous and kind to us, and especially to my daughter. When we moved here, she baked gluten-free treats for my girl, so that she wouldn’t feel left out at Onegs (after service gatherings). She always asks how my girl is, and follows her comings and goings with love and interest. She was struggling with some other things, and needed to leave the hot, crowded sanctuary, and I went to keep her company and make sure she was ok. She asked me all about my girl, and we shared our thoughts on her journey, and how we both see it playing out. She became emotional, for her own reasons, and I held her as she cried… feeling grateful for a shared moment of motherly connectedness.  I felt some of the emotions that I’ve been keeping at bay, rise to the surface, and I was glad it was in this moment, shared with a wise, and caring women, who understands. We held hands and sat quietly, each feeling our own things, but connected in a precious moment.

This year, as the US moves toward military strikes on Syria, my mind goes to dark places that are so much more personal, now that my beloved is in harm’s way. My heart hopes for healing and good for my girl, as well as those in the region. More than 100,000 people have been killed in Syria since January, a sobering and disturbing thought, which is often lost in the rush of our own busy lives. My girl works for an arm of the UN, which is working to find refuge for many of the Palestinians trapped in that violence, in refugee camps that are increasingly volatile and desperate.  She talks directly with leaders and important people on all sides of the issue, and is very tied to the situation, happening in a country that shares borders with hers. These things in the news hit close to home now for me, and as we enter a New Year, and another period in which I’m adjusting to her absence, to my son leaving again, and to the instability where my girl lives. I work on quieting my fears, and praying for peace, for so many, including this girl I love so much. Ironically, it was at this holiest of services, that we got our gas mask. We’d totally forgotten that a temple member we know, and neighbor, has access to military items. I will be mailing a gas mask to Israel this week.

Image: thehandswork.com

Image: thehandswork.com

It is a New Year, for Jews around the world.  It is a New Year for me, and for those I love most. It is a chance to look at new challenges and directions in which to travel.  It is time for new rhythms and changes, new schedules, new traffic patterns, a new exchange student and member of our family (more to come later), new challenges for my writing (more to come later), two sons who will graduate at the end of this school year (one from high school, my last; and, one from college), a change of season—change, change, change!  While I explore and make my own peace with change, with upheaval, I welcome this New Year and acknowledge the challenges ahead.  L’Shana Tovah, a sweet, healthy, New Year, filled with worthwhile challenges, peace of mind, peace in its truest sense, good health and joy.

It’s a New Year; if you haven’t already, follow me on Facebook here. Catch my witty and dorky Tweets on Twitter, here.   If you’re interested in Rosh Hashanah, here’s a fun article worth checking out, here.

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Daily Challenge: Fiction

Posted on September 3, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note: This is from last week’s Weekly challenge. The prompt provided this photo, and asked for a story of 1,000 words or more, to explain the subject. Life with kids home, and guests got in the way, but I wanted to post it anyway. This is a work of fiction.

Daily Challenge photo

Daily Challenge photo

Jaycee sat on the sofa, afraid to move. She could hear the man talking to her mama, his voice hissing angrily through the wall. She tried to ignore Mama’s whimpers, but it scared Jaycee, even though she’d heard her make these sounds before—usually late at night, or after her daddy came by, or her older brother came home, smelling sour. Mama cried through the wall, but never in front of Jaycee.

She ran her fingers along the Hello Kitty on her jeans, tracing the perfect, white face of her happy friend. Kitty smiled, her pink ribbon held perfectly in place as she rode her bicycle along Jaycee’s leg. The deep rumble of the man’s voice came through the wall and made Jaycee’s stomach turn and wiggle. Her fingers moved along the lines of the applique and she wished she had a bike too, so she could ride away and not hear the voices through the wall. Quentin, two floors down, had a bright blue bike, but Mama always told Jaycee that bikes cost too much money; the bus was quicker and safer. So, they rode the city bus nearly everywhere they couldn’t walk. But if she had a bike, Jaycee thought, she’d ride down the block and away from the wall, and the voices.

The sun came through the window and made green and yellow stripes on Jaycee’s arm. The picture that Mama taped to the window— the one Jaycee made with Miss Nina in art class the week before, filtered the sunlight through the carefully glued pieces of crinkled tissue paper. Jaycee had come home proud, and excited, the day she made it.

“This is a mighty fine picture!” Mama crooned, “Picture like this needs to be seen.”

Mama pulled two thin pieces of Scotch tape from the roll in the kitchen drawer, and put the picture in the window, so everyone could see. Jaycee smiled, remembering how nice it was to see her mother tape that paper in their window. She loved the way the light came through the paper, and changed the chair, or the wall, or Hello Kitty.

“Listen you fucking bitch—”

Jaycee put her fingers in her ears, and wiggled them. The man’s deep voice came in and out as she stared at Hello Kitty and the yellow and green stripes. If she leaned back, and moved her leg, the yellow light moved across Kitty’s face; and, if she moved a little further, Kitty’s face turned green. Jaycee did this a few times, watching the Hello Kitty change colors— ignoring the argument in the other room. It was hard to move her leg and wiggled her fingers at the same time, so she stopped moving and tried instead to focus on plugging her ears as tightly as possible.

The muffled voices grew louder and louder despite her efforts to plug out the sound. When something suddenly crashed into the wall, Jaycee jumped off the sofa and ran to the front door and waited, her heart racing, and hoping her Mama would come out and make their lunch, and tell her things were okay. Instead, it was suddenly very quiet. Jaycee stood silent, too, her hand on the doorknob— afraid to move, or even breathe. Her Mama had warned her to never leave their apartment without a grown-up, and she hesitated, afraid to break the rules, but terrified of the silence. She waited a moment longer, and then turned the knob, slowly, trying not to make a sound. The warm metal in her hand, creaked and Jaycee froze, waiting for Mama to come out and scold her.  But the room stayed quiet and she slipped out the door.

There were no other neighbors around and Jaycee waited, not sure where to go.  Missus Lewis worked in the store down the street; her windows were dark. Mama always went to Missus Lewis when she needed someone to watch Jaycee, so she could run to the Jewel grocery store, or stop at the bottle store. Kids weren’t allowed in the bottle store; that’s what her brother told her. Jaycee snuck down the first few steps, and no one came out to stop her. She went down another flight, and another, hugging the wall, one step at a time, until she was at the street level. The big metal fence that surrounded their buildings, stood in front of her. Jaycee had never been this far from her own apartment, without her Mama, or some other adult, and she hesitated. But her stomach was still churning and she was afraid to go back home. The quiet was worse than the yelling; she left the stairs and went through the gate, headed toward the store to find Missus Lewis. Missus Lewis always knew what to do.

Jaycee had walked this way to the bus, nearly every day, but never alone; and, now she tried to look brave and as she made her way to the store. She could smell french fries and greasy food from the restaurant a block down; she heard the loud music coming from the bottle store. She saw three of her brother’s friends, as she walked briskly down the street, but no one else seemed to recognize her or say hello.

The store was busy, several people in line and a man she didn’t know working the register. She waited near the chips, hoping to see Missus Lewis. The Man watched her.

“Hey, you— where’s your mama? You plannin’ to buy somethin’?”

Jaycee didn’t answer, afraid to say that Mama was at home, quiet in that room; that she just wanted Missus Lewis to help. The man scared her. She darted out the door and back to the street, this time heading toward the bus stop. Maybe she would see someone she knew there.

At the corner, Jaycee froze. The bus stop was across the street. Mama told her to never, ever cross the street without a hand. She’d already broken one big rule, and was sure to get the wood spoon; crossing the road would mean no cartoons for a week. She considered going back, and then she saw it. In the lot just down the block, with a chain fence around it, was Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, on a bright yellow carousel.  She looked once more up the block and back again, and then walked over to the empty lot. Her small hands wrapped around the metal gate; the colorful animals invited her in.

No one was there; just the animals— still and quiet.

Jaycee slipped through the gap in the fence, and walked over to the carousel. The sounds of the street faded and she sat down, beside the beautiful, white horse. There she waited, for someone to find her.

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