writer – librarian – word wrangler

Alien Delivery

You delivered your alien today. Nestled on your squishy, drool-stained yellow pillow Carried gingerly in a produce box.   I offered to lift it over the streaming heads of students from bus 27. You smiled your steely refusal, waited patiently for the sea of backpacks to ring around you. You had learned about surviving on Jupiter. I had to learn about being Pluto.   Adorned with adaptations to Jupiter’s hot gaseous atmosphere, Jake emerged from your electric brain. Created from “items recycled from your household,” he had to be able to stand up to gravity, the stares of your classmates and the teacher’s grading rubric.   You worried so deeply before it was due, churning the sheets in your sleep. What would happen if something went wrong? If it dropped to the floor and was trampled by fourth grade feet? Or worse. What if nothing went wrong and Jake was crushed beneath the weight of your expectations? What if you couldn’t answer their questions? What if no one had any questions? What if your brain could stop being so mean to you?   Because your adaptations to this planet, my sweet girl, are weighing you down. Spinning faster to hide the huge hole in your heart has altered your orbit, leaving you with scorching Mercury days and inky Neptune nights. I want to fill that hole with a glue gun and cover it with duct tape. But I am Pluto now, seemingly outside the reach of your center of gravity. Yet, I will always feel its pull.  ...

Blink

Would you believe your feathery flips were already familiar when I realized you could not have my blue eyes? That moment I realized you and all future boarders in my womb, would not match the golden, Gerber babies of my people was electric.   We wondered what our crazy love would look like on a face that grew up between our hearts? Would his long inky lashes or my filaments of gold frame the windows to your soul?  You were ours before we ever saw you.   Why did that woman who asked where I “got you from” only see the color of your skin? She missed our crooked pinky fingers,  our caterpillar brows and the set of our chins. A ladle of our DNA stew grew your toasted almond eyes, but her question changed your view.   Do I belong more to Daddy than to you? -Molly Wong, 2015  ...

Finding an orange on the path

 Secretly, I have always been aware of signs, moments that signal I am on “the right path.” When our older daughter was baptized (before my humanist revolution) the minister used a shell she had brought back from a beach in the Holy Land.  We moved into our new home that same weekend and found a tiny version of that shell left behind on a window sill in her room.  To me it wasn’t so much a religious sign, but a confirmation that we had landed in the right place.  Moving to that house and becoming part of that neighborhood was a true gift to our young family. This decision to follow a life of writing is terrifying for so many ego-tinged reasons I continue to battle; none of them are unique, confirmed by the number of blogs and books promising to to help me win the war.  Since I’m not anywhere near sharing work with anyone, currently, the hardest part facing me is the time challenge.  Reading Brigid Schulte’s Overwhelmed: How to Work, Love, and Play When No One Has the Time, (greedily from the front seat of my car during kids’ tennis lessons) I wrote down phrases that made me laugh out loud in recognition.  Time confetti, contaminated time and time poverty: my malady had a name!  But the cure was the same old advice: prioritize and follow through. I feel proud that I have kept my promise to write every day for a couple of months. I write during a scheduled time each day and sneak in more when possible.  To learn about writing and publishing, I swapped my time filling and abandoning online shopping carts with an online course of Writing for Children and blog hunting.  But some days, it isn’t enough and I want more time.  Patience is not one of my virtues. The other day, I wrote a bleak little poem for the 2015 PAD challenge about How to Share an Orange (the prompt was “How”).  It described dividing an orange for myself, having “little people” eat all the pieces, and finished with a reminder/warning to save myself a piece.  After posting it, I worried what my kids would think if they read it. Would they hear the frustration?  Wasn’t one reason I was pursuing this path to spend more time with them? Was I even on the right path? Later that day, I was summoned to a nurse’s office for a heartsick child of mine.  She was tear-stained and coiled on the vinyl half-bed, vibrating with anxiety and loneliness. I...

Writer’s Digest – 2015 April PAD

I am getting some help with writing everyday. Some days it is easy to pick up a project and add or edit, but others just feel stale. I have found the Writer’s Digest poem a day contest (2015 April PAD) and it is a great way to get something down on paper.  I have been reading all of the posts this month and finally contributed today.  It feels like progress. I find it hard to remember to write down the details of everyday life in a journal, despite knowing how much I know I will want to remember these years. Somehow, picking small moments and trying to make them poems is easier for me. I hope that someday the words will evoke the memories, both exquisite and mundane, of these days....

Backseat Philosophy

Backseat philosophy: Your soul is like a ghost that lives in your body. It doesn’t make your blood go around, that is your heart. But, it makes you happy that your blood goes around. Tweet

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