Chiaroscuro Canvas

My love for words started when I was in sixth grade. I can still visualize that tan sand and blue ocean aesthetic notebook with white birds flying across the cover. Creative Writing. This was a new subject for the students in Miss Minniear’s sixth grade class. She instilled the idea of pursuing excellence in all the subjects she taught, but within the area of English in particular…I felt like a sponge. Literature, grammar, poetry, creativity, storytelling, prepositions, alliteration, rhyme, book reports, diagramming sentences…I soaked it all in. After being introduced to the world of creative writing, life seemed to have more meaning and aliveness. Miss Minniear had a tremendous impact on me, and I’ll be forever grateful for her investment in her students and our studies.

I remember our whole class memorizing James Whitcomb Riley’s poem, “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” and collectively dragging out “the rooster’s haaaaaaaallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence” each time we recited it together. I remember the vivid imagery I experienced while reading Carl Sandburg’s very short poem, “Fog.” I even had a short poem of my own published through a writing contest that year, which was a pretty big deal for that twelve-year-old. Those initial feelings of discovery in the power of expression lit a fire within me that has never gone out. I Thoreau-ly enjoyed writing poetry in junior high and high school. I’m also forever grateful for the encouragement from my English teachers in high school and college who helped me develop my voice and told me to keep writing. I still find inspiration in those classic works of literature, especially The Great Gatsby. The color symbolism lit up my internal world, and it’s still my favorite story! While most of what I’ve written since school has been in story or blog format, I have recently felt inspired to dive back into poetry…

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Letter to Helen

To my great-grandma Helen ~ Mother of my grandma. Matriarch of the family. Lady of mystique.

Dear Helen ~ You don’t know me, but I’ve heard stories about you all my life. I’m your daughter Sheri’s oldest granddaughter. I wish I could have met you; you’re the missing person I’m often wondering about. The older I get, the more I think about you and your impact on our family, and how at age 36, I’m a year older than you were when you were gone way too soon from this life. I often wonder how different our lives would have been had you been here with us. I think your story in particular is why I feel emotions so deeply. Why I have always thought about life and death so seriously. Why I want to live life to the fullest amount of joy and passion possible. We aren’t guaranteed a long life on this earth: we only have this present moment…

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