Fitting In

I’m not a social butterfly. Nope. Never have been. Probably never will be. If there’s an event happening, chances are I’m off in a corner somewhere away from the excitement. I don’t need attention, I don’t want attention, and I certainly don’t go looking for attention. This should not be taken to mean that I don’t like people or I’m anti-social. I’m really quite friendly. I’m also comfortable in my own skin.

When I was in fourth grade, a substitute teacher was giving us a lesson about fitting in. “How many of you would like to be constantly teased?” she asked.

I raised my hand. I had been teased for as long as I could remember. To me, it was part of life. When I grew up, Jamie was not a common name for boys.

The substitute called on me and asked again, “You wouldn’t mind if everyone teased you?”

I shook my head. “It wouldn’t bother me,” I answered.

Trying to prove a point, the teacher told everyone in the class that they could tease me during the next recess. She might have thought I playing the role of the class clown and would back down, or she might have thought I would come sulking back from recess, sorry for my answer. (Of course, in today’s world, she’d be fired for what she did before the school day was done.) Regardless of her reason, she did it. She told the class to tease me during the next recess. They teased as best they could. I was called every name imaginable. I was chased and laughed at and had fingers pointed at me. Guess what? Recess ended, the teasing ended, and life went on. I didn’t cry, or sulk, or write everyone’s name down to seek revenge later in life. I took my lumps and moved on. (One girl tried teasing me after recess and I did get angry then because that wasn’t in the rules the teacher had given.) After that day, I don’t remember being teased again. Ever.

My point to this is that all of us are different for a reason. I think of the human race as a giant puzzle. We’re all pieces of that puzzle: some might have a straight edge or two; others none; while all have unique shapes that vary in subtle ways. We each have varying needs and wants and likes and appearances. And there’s a place for all of us in the puzzle—that’s what fitting in means. Alone, each piece is only part of the big picture, and without every piece, the puzzle isn’t complete.

Being a non-social type of person, I am inspired by stories of those who stand up to bullying and teasing. It’s hard to deal with such abuse and even harder to face it with strength. There’s no place for cruelty toward others in this world, and I believe that those who overcome such things are the champions of humanity.

Sometimes I’m good with words; I don’t think I was today. I just want people to know that humankind is better than those who choose to not let people fit in.

Really?

I’m been fighting this blog post for a couple days now. Usually I try to stay away from controversy and don’t want to make waves, but I’ve had enough. There’s only so much I can take and, frankly, I’m sick of everything that’s going around on the subject. Everywhere I look these days, it seems like there’s an opinion. I can’t even walk down my own driveway without being instantly bombarded with propaganda. Then today at work, I was confronted again—right outside my office. It’s not that I’m afraid of conflict; I just don’t want to take a side. I mean, really? Is it necessary to choose? With all that’s going on in the world today, you would think (well, most people would think) that we could get some peace and rest from it all. Aren’t there more important things? Nooooo! I guess not. So, here’s my take:

Yes, I think those little rollie pollies are cute and fun to play with. J Have a great week everyone.

~ Jamie

(p.s. No rollie pollies were injured during the inspiration of this post. One was rolled down the hall at work, though.)

Whisper in the Wind

Every so often, a tiny voice—like the sound of a leaf falling—finds its way to my comprehension. Sometimes it’s a laugh, other times a song; always so subtle that I barely notice, even if I’m listening. It’s a whisper, and you cannot prepare for it or anticipate its coming. Like the breeze that carries the delicate message, the moment isn’t planned, it happens. And as quickly as it comes, it fades. Seize it and enjoy the peace it brings.

~ Jamie



I Don't Trust My Dreams

I stood near the campfire, surrounded by darkness, while rain fell that never touched me.

Then the voice spoke—that American Idol contestant from Hollywood week two years ago—saying, “I’m going to tell you a ghost story.”

 Am I dreaming?

The man told his story and then another. He asked my son to make a howling noise for everyone gathered. Then he asked a stranger how to say “Happy Halloween” in Japanese. She knew how.

I had told my wife I didn’t want hot cocoa, but my mom arrived and handed me a Gatorade. Next to her, it was all so strange, I recognized a woman with a small child.

What is happening?

That woman babysat me when I was a toddler. I remembered my 3^rd birthday party in her kitchen.

“I haven’t seen you since you were that small,” she told me.

I didn’t blink. There was no need to blink since I was dreaming. “It’s been a long time,” I answered.

My children walked up to me, drinking hot cocoa. When I told my wife about the woman, she admitted she knew her, and they started talking. Then my nieces were there. They grabbed my arm and said I should take them through the haunted castle. I followed them, but it was a maze inside the castle. As they pulled me through it, one of them started speaking Chinese.  

Where am I?

I wanted to find my wife, but my daughter and my son played tether-ball with a pumpkin head. Then an announcement came.

“Pig races in ten minutes.”

I found my wife and told her I wanted to see that. I had never seen a pig race before, especially in a dream. When I arrived there, my children left me.

“We have special seats up close,” they said.

Then my neighbor arrived. I told him it was a strange night. He understood. I stood in the dirt, confused and hungry, and watched three little pigs race.

I don’t trust my dreams, because sometimes they aren’t. This story happened tonight. None of what I wrote was fabricated or imagined. I think. If I wake up, I’ll let you know otherwise.

Bizarre…

Somnium Perfecta Imago

I see the mirror glass, but it’s not my room on the other side; there’s rampant, swirling fog. And her. This must be the dream. I’ve been here before. The same eyes, the flaming hair, her voice calls the same angelic words as before. But I don’t know them. Are they a warning, or a blessing?

“Cursum Perficio,” she says.

My heart pounds its response and I catch myself not breathing. It’s impossible not to oscitate—I’m transfixed.

“Cursom Perficio.”

I mouth the words with her. Who is she? What is the meaning of this synchronicity? As I ponder, she beckons to me. The fog changes from gray to crimson in a brilliant miasma of warning while her words envelop the space.

“Cursum Perficio.”

I lean close and draw a breath. Then I reach to touch the glass, to break the lacuna between my wanting and her.

“Please,” I whisper. “This is perfect.”

“Cursum—”

I interrupt. “Please.”

Brilliant light blinds my vision, forcing me back. I collapse on the bed and close my eyes. I sleep. When I awake, the dream is gone. I am alone again.

If you enjoyed my 200 word blog entry, please like it here.

All Things Change

There are moments in life that stand out in memory more than others. One of those moments is upon me. It isn't not a bad thing, but it's been a combination of physical exhaustion and a full range of emotions. I think that's what makes these moments special, rewarding. I can imagine that, in a few years, I'll look back at August 2011 and note that it was something special. It feels that way, at least.

As I've developed my writing patterns over the last few years, I've relied on a few constants to keep the prose flowing. One of those constants was the place where my dreams came to me. In one house, in one room, I wrote three books. I was comfortable there. The walls, the floor, the furniture, even the smell was familiar and continuous. I never imagined that I would create in anyplace other that this room. I found inspiration in the odd design and even the little fairy ring I discovered on the front lawn. We moved from that house this week. I'm not sad, in fact, just the opposite; however, the change has affected my muse.

Another place where I found joy in writer is also changing. Work. Yeah, I was fortunate to work at a place where I could spend most of the year plotting away at my desk. In fact, If I hadn't taken this job three years ago, I wouldn't be writing today. It was the perfect environment to discover the hidden words inside of me, buried deep by the poundings of a former life's enterprise. While the economy suffered, my creativity had a chance to blossom. I'm grateful for that. In two weeks, I will change positions. Again, this is a good thing, but it still feels different. I won't be writing at work anymore.

Today, my oldest son starts middle school. Am I really that old? I look it, I know, but I certainly don't feel old. I remember my first day of middle school as if it happened last year. I remember my classes and my friends. I remember going to gym class for the first time, only to discover they registered me for girl's gym-apparently, Jamie was always a girls name, so the administrators took the initiative and scarred me for life. As if the first day of middle school isn't tragic enough. Maybe they were giving me thick skin early, preparing me for a writer's life. :)

So, here I am. In a new house. Starting a new job. Watching my kids grow. And writing. Change is good, it's healthy. It also allows a moment of reflection now and then. I never intended to do the same thing over and over, and this is a moment that changes the path. All things change. I welcome that. I hope you do to.

Is there a favorite place where you write? Do you have peculiar little habits that help enlighten your muse? I almost aways write at night and need a background light to offset the laptop brightness. When I haven't written in a while, I'll spend an hour or two getting into my main character's head before putting words down. Usually, that involves placing her in a precarious situation and analyzing how she'll react.