Here in America

"This Is What It Looks Like To Protect Each Other"

Here in America, we’re pretty sure the sky is falling.

A lot of us have quit watching the news, but the fall-out leaks onto us anyway, through well-meaning Facebook buddies and Twitter posts that are more “shout” than “tweet.”

So here it is: a couple of rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth lunatics running for the highest office in the land. An unconscious college student raped behind a dumpster; forty-nine beautiful, dancing, happy people killed in Orlando; another lovely man shot by another terrified cop; five men in blue slaughtered in retaliation.

The evil foisted upon us by each other is chilling, and every single day there is a new story. 

Does anyone understand that we are doing this to each other? That we are the enemy? The dancing people aren’t gay, the murdered man isn’t black, the cop isn’t white. While we’re at it, Donald probably isn’t the antichrist and maybe Hillary hasn’t earned her striped pajamas just yet. No – we are all just people, we are all just us.

We are all afraid together, and it’s killing us. 

Fear is the impetus, the new driving force that has become such a part of our day we don’t notice it anymore. We ingest it by the spoonful with our morning coffee.

So take a minute and think about it.  Think about what is being handed to you by the media, your neighbor and the girl at the check-out counter day after day after day.

Fear. 

The first part of conquering it is recognition. We have to know we’re afraid. We’re not angry, or hate-filled, or religious or patriotic – or any of the other hackneyed excuses we slap like Band-Aids over a gaping wound that Quick-Clot couldn’t fix. No, we’re afraid. 

We’re afraid when we listen to the news and tally the latest loss of life. 

We’re afraid when the Isis soldier encroaches on our social media with another bloody trophy head clutched in his fist.

We’re afraid when the people in the next booth speak a different language. 

When we hear a siren, when we see a thundercloud, when we feel a lump beneath our skin that wasn’t there the day before.  

And the fear makes us smaller day by day. 

The antidote, of course, is love. And it’s hard to even say that, because it sounds like such a platitude. 

Try not to see it in pastel colors, soft and fuzzy as a teddy bear. Make it bright in your mind - a noisy, deafening cymbal crash, a massive, rolling wave. Love as a verb. Love as an affirmative action. Love that floats a battle cry, clear and sharp as the rebel yell. Love that storms the beaches, takes no prisoners, conquers and stands firm.

Love that shelters the refugee and shakes the illegal’s hand. Love that doesn’t care if you wear a rainbow, a sombrero or a turban.

Think of it as a grass-roots movement, a refusal to be controlled by the fear-mongers. You can start small, and be absolutely assured that nothing you do in the name of love is ever small. Dragging a tree limb from the road might save a life. Holding a hand can thwart a suicide. See yourself as a vital part of the whole, and then . . . well, act accordingly.

What if we all refused to be cowed ever again? What if we weren’t afraid of Isis or illegals or racists or cops or thugs or internet bullies? Imagine believing that the God in you – the one filling your lungs and making your heart beat - is just as alive, just as whole, in every other person you see today. 

Because He is. Believe it.

Hello, Beautiful June

It’s June!

Who remembers the opening to “Dandelion Wine”, Douglas lying in bed on the first day of summer? Wake up , world! He exhaled and the streetlights went out, blinked, and the old people across the way stepped onto their porch for the morning paper. Opened his fists and dawn spiraled across the sky, spilling gold and pink and lavender over the mist-shrouded town. Mourning doves rustled their feathers and sighed like complacent church women, a new breeze tickled the willow branches, and the windows slapped open on the house next door. And . . .

Summer. Began.

And Douglas knew, even though he was only twelve, that he was completely and utterly alive that day. And he recognized the responsibilities of being alive – the main one being, of course, to be aware of said life. In a way that, quite possibly, only a child could master, he goes through the summer with a sort of hyper- awareness, noticing . . . well, the snap of a silken web across his cheeks, the heady stink of a dandelion beneath his nose, the power of feet and legs, sinew and bones that enables him to run forever.

Dear God, I want to be twelve again.

But summer is upon us, and here is what I know about that: if, in the evening, when the light is a lemony slant through the green tangle of the lilac bushes, I take a tall glass of rum-and-coke to the porch swing and wait there, the Winter Girl steps back. She who huddled in the cold shadow of her losses begins to stretch in the sun’s dying rays. Tears already drying, she sniffs the wind like a small forest creature and registers the sweetness of grass and new tomato plants. Her skin goosebumps beneath the tread of a tiny ladybug and her eyes follow the circle of bats at the streetlight. And summer explodes in her mind with the fizz and pop of a thousand Thunder Snaps. 

Summer. Is here.

Douglas took the summer of 1928 and bottled it. Dandelion Wine lined up in gleaming bottles on the basement shelf, each with its own label and its own memory. This bottle: the smell of peonies, this one: the cold rush of creek water over toes. So when the inevitable winter returned, he had only to traverse stairs - spiders and damp mold stink – to find, again, his joy.

Were people smarter back then, or is a child, simply by the nature of the best, always more intelligent than the rest of us?

The girl on the porch swing sips through a straw, closes contented eyes and toes her shoes off onto the porch boards.

Hello, beautiful June.

Seventy-Seven Steps: Happy Memorial Day!

Seventy-seven weathered, moss streaked steps to the cemetery. Ivy wraps the wrought iron railing and the hum of bees is a far-off, languid sound - mosquito whine is closer, intimate as the tiny mole beneath your lover’s left earlobe.

The kids run ahead, shouting, peony blossoms clutched in sweaty fists; the petals leave a trail not unlike a bride’s path. fragrant and pink and utterly vulnerable to the whims of the breeze. The women follow slowly, iris bouquets cradled to their chests.

“Do you remember Daddy and that old riding lawn mower?” Their voices are a continuous rill, energetic as bird song.

Shriek of laughter; a soft hand slaps a lady bug from a crimsoned cheek. “Didn’t he just love it?”

 

“Aunt Millie put sugar in the gas tank, I swear she did.”

“She was a mean old thing.”

“But” – and here is the satisfying conclusion – “She had a good heart.”

The voices overlap, memories caught in the reaching arms of the elms where they remain, nestled like robin eggs in the silvery wind-tossed leaves.

The kids have reached the summit, have abandoned their flowers and are playing tag amongst the tombstones, their laughter pin-wheeling against a heavy sky, a sky that is just beginning to forgive. The women don’t offer correction because the cemetery above the village has been a playing place for generations; here, in fact, the dead are more alive than anywhere else.

And comfortably so.

Here beneath the live oaks with the dandelions rioting and the prairie breeze pushing in the homey stink of cows. Here where grass is a thousand jeweled shades of emerald and nobody notices if you slip out of your shoes. Here, where everybody from down-the-hill comes home at last.

“Do you remember Junie?” One of the women kneels, lays her bouquet beside a listing gravestone. “The first time she came up here – and she was just a little thing, couldn’t read – she ran right up to Grandma’s stone and said how pretty it was.”

They’re off again, magpies chattering while the sky at last splits to reveal a hands-span of azure so bright it hurts the eyes.

“ . . . and he had the bluest eyes, didn’t he? Well the whole family did.”

“ . . . didn’t think Eddy could go on after . . . “

“ . . . used to bring the cows down from our hill, remember?”

Remember, remember. And the dead - while they are in a place where time matters not at all - are here as well. In words, in thoughts, in little girl’s smiles. As real as your child’s shadow darting quick as Peter Pan on the cobblestone path or the squirrel tossing acorns from the tree limb. Here, Memorial Day is not so much an honoring as a simple acknowledgement, Scout greeting Miss Maudie on the screen porch step.

That’s how close your loved ones are.

The women at last finish their task and gather at the spigot by the gate, where they cup cold water to their faces like the children they were the-day-before-yesterday, drinking and scrubbing the sweat at the back of their necks. They gather up discarded shoes and the sourball wrappers that seem to follow children everywhere and shoo their offspring towards the steps.

Early evening already, the limpid light sweet as lilacs.

 

Seventy-seven steps down, home on either end.

"Incandescent, Shining, Vivid"

The word of the day is luminous.

Oooh, this is a peach, yes?

Writers collect words the way your grandma hoarded knick-knacks, squeezing every inch of them for meaning, beauty and usability. Here’s what the Oxford says about “luminous”:

1. radiating or reflecting light; shining; bright.
2. lighted up or illuminated; well-lighted: 
the luminous ballroom.
3. brilliant intellectually; enlightened or enlightening, as a writer or a writer's works

Ha! Well, of course.

The thesaurus gives us “incandescent, shining, vivid” and a thousand more ways to use just this one, gorgeous word.

“Rush loved the way the light came up in Nicola’s eyes, the luminous, birthday candle expression.” Or “The storm stripped the trees of their new blossoms and the petals danced, luminous as pink fairies in the premature darkness.”

So much fun!

But there’s more. In 2002, Pope John Paul 2 updated the Rosary to add the Luminous Mysteries, which are by and large concerned with miracles – the transfiguration, the changing of water into wine, the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan. Incredible events, they could have just as easily been the “fireball” mysteries or the “wheee! Awesome!” mysteries, but that wise man chose “Luminous” instead, thereby casting a beautiful shine over those days, inspiring a sort of quiet awe.

In photometry, luminous energy is the perceived energy of light, and should you choose to research this, you’ll soon be agog in technical terms. “This type of energy can be collected from luminous wisps, located south of Sophanem at level 90 of Divination.” What? Not a clue, but isn’t it lovely? I wish I could paint the luminous wisps; this feels Dr Seuss-ish to me.

Virginia Woolf said that, “Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.”

Or wait – look at this song.
Admittedly, I’m not a big fan, but these lyrics:

Luminous more so then most anyone
Unapologetically alive knot in my stomach
And lump in my throat
I love you when you dance.

Fairly awesome, yes? The power of the word is amazing to me; as a writer, I never get enough of it. 
So today, I’m going to take “luminous” and put it in my pocket, rub it smooth with my
thumb the way you would a Saint Michael medallion or a worry stone, and make it my
own.

Tomorrow’s word??



*Art by KaritaArt

~*~*~ 

Love Lucy Crowe's Nest?  Sign up for the new blog subscription and get posts sent to your inbox twice a month.  Submit the form in the right sidebar or enroll HERE.

~*~*~

Nicola and "The Writer Lady"

As of this month, I have entered my upcoming novel “Maypops in September” in several competitions, the results of which should be so exciting! Of course – and perhaps inevitably – the submissions have caused a bit of anxiety, which has spilled over into the lives of my characters . . . Well, here is a glimpse of what this looks like:

John Rush sits in the slatted sunlight leaking through the window blinds, guitar in his lap, cigarette forgotten in the ashtray. He’s working out the bumps to Heart Shaped Box and watching his wife, who lies supine on the floor in front of him. She’s in sweats and a dago tee, blonde curls haloing her head. Biceps flex and knot – she lifts the kettle bell over her head, lowers it again, slowly.

                “The Writer Lady’s coming over again today.” Bob O’Neill leans in the kitchen doorway, tall coffee cradled in his broad hand.

                “Ah God.” Nicola lets the weight drop over her head, rattling the floor, huffing her indignation. “She wants to work on me.”

                “Easy, babe.” Rush’s fingers pause over the strings and then find the melody again. “She’s just trying to help.”

                “I’m not sure I even want people to like me.” Nicola sits up, pushes her hair back with the flat of her palm. Sweat glistens on her shoulders and arms, darkening her firefighter tattoo. “Why do they have to like me?”

                “It’s all about her Amazon and Goodreads rank.” Bobby flops on the other end of the couch and bats at Rush’s cigarette smoke. “You’re holding the rest of us back.”

                “Bob.” Rush cautions his friend with one word, brows raised minimally. Picks his cigarette up and inhales deliberately.

                “Not true!” Nicola pulls an ugly mug, bottom lip thrust out. “And why the hell am I the main character anyway? I don’t even like talking to her.”

                “Work on it, sugar.” Rush exhales a nicotine cloud, ragged plume settling just in front of Bobby’s face. “Might be important, right?”

                “Not.” Nicola scoffs. “Look, the writer lady has a real job when she’s not hanging with us. Why doesn’t she just stay in her stupid fire station and leave us alone?”

                “I dunno.” Bobby has settled behind the smoke screen, cobalt eyes half closed behind his glasses. “She found Sophie for me. That was good.”

                “Yup.” Rush is strumming his guitar again, not looking at his wife. “And she lets us have all the booze and sex  and cigarettes we want. That’s worth a lot.”

                “Fine!” Nicola tugs her hair in frustration. “What do I have to do?”

                “Tell her who you are.”  Rush’s words flow over the music; in the next room The Writer Lady catches her breath in anticipation, and fumbles her Tablet out of her purse. “Just tell her who you are.”
 

~*~*~

New to Lucy Crowe? Get to know Nicola and Rush in her first novel "Sugar Man's Daughter," and join the mailing list for blog posts and updates on "Maypops in September"

 Sugar Man's Daughter

~*~*~ 

Love Lucy Crowe's Nest?  Sign up for the new blog subscription and get posts sent to your inbox twice a month.  Submit the form in the right sidebar or enroll HERE.

~*~*~

Easter 2016: Joy, Laughter, Life!

Easter makes me itch, always has. When I was little, it was the damned dress, all lace and unforgiving elastic around my chubby middle. Hair ribbons! Pulling the skin taut across the skull, hiking the eyebrows. Perfect little Mary Janes and tight-tight tights. An endless church session – drone drone drone – incense tickling the nose and sweat crawling the ribs.  It was monstrous, I’m telling you.

In adulthood, the itch has become more a thing of the mind.

Well, here it is . . . why so quiet? Really, why is nobody shouting about this back-from-the-dead thing? Shouldn’t we be?

I think we should build a huge bonfire on Holy Saturday night and just push the darkness all the way back to the horizon. We should have all our friends over and sit talking beneath the moon with a wine glass in our hands until dawn cracks the sky open.

And then . . .  bells should be ringing everywhere, joy on the very air we’re breathing; we should be delirious with it. Because – in case anybody missed the big memo – we are God’s children and, ipso facto, we are happy. Poof! There is no anger, there is no hate, and here is the big one . . . there is no fear.  Because Jesus took that package for us. He wrapped it up in blood and tears and humanity and he tossed it in our laps and said, “open it.”  Inside?

Life. There is life

.

We’re meant to be joyful.

So throw away the pastels. Color the day in vivid emerald and sapphire and fill it with laughter. Toss every little transitory death that has victimized you into the clean blue fire and call it good. They were never yours anyway. Don’t ask yourself what you believe, or why or how. Just believe. Wrap your mind around the incomprehensibility of Eternal Life, and let yourself be awed. Not only are you good enough - you are, by your birthright, incredible. You just have to own it.

 

In a nutshell: Easter is probably the biggest thing that can happen to us here on Earth. I think we should all stop yawning and take notice.

Roll the stone away, people. Celebrate!

~*~*~ 

Love Lucy Crowe's Nest?  Sign up for the new blog subscription and get posts sent to your inbox every week.  Submit the form in the right sidebar or enroll HERE.

~*~*~

Lovely and Forever: Rest in Peace, Harper Lee

Art by SSC-Art

Harper Lee died today, and that has me a lot more bummed than I would like to be.

So I pour a cup of coffee and I take it with me to sit on the stoop at Fire Station B, where a fierce Spring wind is scouring the prairie, warm enough to plant images of dandelions over the last vestiges of gray February snow.

I shouldn’t be so unhappy over the loss of someone I’ve never met, but I feel bruised inside, and I want . . . My fingers comb my pockets for the memory of cigarettes and come up with a small scrap of creased paper

.

Ah. I know what it is without opening it, so I leave it folded and return it to my pocket without looking at it.

The paper has last week’s accident victim’s name on it. She had a funny name, foreign, and I had scrawled it out painstakingly at the ER in order to have it with me when we did the report. I’ve actually washed these pants twice since that encounter, and each time I return the paper to the pocket without asking myself why.

Evidence of burn out maybe.

Maybe coping mechanisms slipping just a little.

No matter. The patient died, and now she is here with me while I think about Harper Lee.

That dead woman colored my childhood. Her words strung through my soul like the gentle drift of fireflies and illuminated within me the biggest desire of my life. The desire to write, to create . . . to take a piece of my own humanity and keep it, lovely and forever preserved for anyone who wanted to come in and look.

Lovely and forever.

So there it is. These deaths – the accident victim, the death of my beloved hero author – highlight nothing so much as the fleeting nature of life and the way we try so hard to hang onto it. We set the book on the shelf and we keep the paper scraps in our pockets and we pretend we know nothing at all of who God is and where the dead people go.

They do go. They do.

And that is okay; it is in fact exactly as it should be.

My fingers find the paper scrap, wad it carefully into a tiny ball and toss it into the wind.

RIP

~*~*~ 

Love Lucy Crowe's Nest?  Sign up for the new blog subscription and get posts sent to your inbox every week.  Submit the form in the right sidebar or enroll HERE.

~*~*~