Tag: travel

A Tip for the Writers who are…

MediumDistractedWriter2
Photo Credit: Raw Pixel/Unsplash

 

… D I S T R A C T E D.

Today I’m distracted.

Yes, I admit it: I am a writer, and my mind is wandering away from the page.

Writers find distractions necessary for they are the subtle, and necessary space of disconnecting our linear mind so we can slip into the creative space.

I’m distracted even though my life has been on a full-rush-gotta-get-things-done mode.

Today I’m working on my novel. I’ve got a goal for the word count. Everyday I set a goal, as an act of faith and a reminder that I am a writer.

Goals are essential much like distractions.

So what about my wandering mind?

Food. Yep, it’s certainly an easy way to put my writing on hold. So I did.

I searched in the fridge for some lunch, and saw one of my jars of olives had an off color. These are not store bought olives, nope, I’m making them from scratch, and it’s a slow, slow process.

Olive making is much like a writing a novel. It takes time. A lot of it.

I’m at the point where I should’ve added the salt/vinegar solution to the jars, but then, well, all the little things in life happened, which meant that the olive jars had been shoved into the back of the fridge.

At first, I moaned, oh no, there’s mold growing on them, so I picked up the jar, and laughed. I froze the damn olives. A sheet of ice covered the inside of the jar. Frozen olives.

So…are they ruined? I don’t know. Do I need to turn down the temp on my fridge? Hell, yeah.

Am I giving up on this olive making process? No way.

I’m not a quitter.

I’m going to let the olives thaw out while I get back to writing my novel, and see what happens. I’ll add the brine mixture, and let them ferment.

Maybe they’ll end up being the best olives that I’ve ever eaten or the crappiest, but they certainly taught me a lesson:

Don’t push the things that you love, or enjoy doing, into the dark cold corners of the ‘fridge’ of your life.

 

Copyright 2017 © Jessie Zanita

 

Photo Credit: Jessie Zanita

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The Commute. {Poetry}

swimrainroad

Smudged ink

as wisdom curves into words

as sounds of a violin
play through the radio waves

dissolving
with the drizzling drops of rain
on the roof,

you glance through the fine layers of glass
to see a thousand black dots flying eastward,

crows moving like the commuters
on the Interstate —
all as one, but each
one
as one
within

a microcosm of silence

as each flap of a wing,
every rotation of a tire,
every quick thought that rolls through your mind
like lightning — a streak of genius — sudden,

and then gone,

as darkness
settles once more
over the wet farmlands
and the deep taproots of oak seedlings
are finally soaked
with rain,

much like my fingers stained
by this smudge
of

black ink.

Copyright 2017  ©   Jessie Zanita Wright

Photo Credit: Comfreak/Pixabay

Summertime in the City. {Poetry}

image

She ran to the edge of the city,
stopped, &

turned back,

wandering along the sidewalks,
under the tapestries of loving
and living

where people,
flesh and blood
moved
with feet,
not in shiny boxes turned by wheels,

where smiles
shared were returned
easily
along with the change
from buying a local bunch of beets,

where laughter
echoed along
the creek,
flowing through the city’s center,

where children played in the fountain,
splashing purple polka dots
of water
on their mother’s blue dress,

where old men sat
reading a paper,
sipping a coffee,
talking politics,
and maybe even about the way
their old lovers
kissed them good-bye,

where she leaned back
on the cobblestones,
barefeet,
at the edge of the creek,
head back,
eyes closed,
sunlight darting through,
shape shifting the dots into bright images
of the light of stars,
of the universe,
of the beauty of loving
and living
in this city.

Copyright 2016 © Jesi Zanita

The Sensual Strong Woman.

 

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A woman in a tight fitting rose-colored dress and black heels walked gracefully down the sidewalk in front of me.

Her long dark thick hair hung down her back, as she sashayed from side-to-side.

A sensual strong woman.

“She embodies the word Gorgeous,” I playfully punched my guy friend’s shoulder. We were walking to get a slice of pizza. He laughed, agreeing, but said my bottom was a little more shapely (because that’s what our friends do, right)?

We headed toward a pizza shop in this mellow college town in northern California. A place where people are more likely to wear flip-flops or running shoes than black high heels. She represented an anomaly of style and grace.

Right before the pizza shop, she stopped to put her bags in the trunk of her black Mini Cooper.

I told my friend that I’d love to be like that, especially after all these years of being a mom, and feeling less than glamorous (particularly on the days/weeks/months that I’ve had to “debate” special education services for my sons—see aren’t you tired from reading that sentence—so you can see why this Sensual Strong Woman caught my inner wild woman’s attention).

It wasn’t envy so much as it was admiration: she seemed so strong with her perfectly curved calf muscles and so sexy in the ownership of her own self. She gracefully held her space in the world.

As she opened the front door of her black Mini, I finally saw her face, and then I knew why she embodied a sensual strong confident woman because she grew into that space.

She created—over time—who she wanted to become, and even though time barely showed as wrinkles on her face, I could see that she was at least ten, or maybe, fifteen years older than me, and she embraced beauty.

The kind of beauty that comes with the wisdom of living.

In that brief moment, I knew nothing about her life, her struggles, her triumphs, her loses, or her, but I did know that she reminded me to keep being a Sensual Strong Woman as I grow wiser in my years.

She wasn’t some image photoshopped and posted on Instagram or in some magazine, but a real life breathing Sensual Strong Woman who embraced being herself.

And that is beautiful!

 

Copyright 2016 © Jes Wright

Photo Credit:  Takazart/Pixabay

 

The Space between Us. {Poetry}

Space

Maybe the whole truth is in the stardust glow

of those of who make us feel alive
all the way down to our toes,
to our roots,
to our connections
of something greater than ourselves,

and yet
why not love
as love is
a connection,
a constellation pieced together in the darkness of space
so we can see the light,
the sweetness of loving
in the slightest way,
in the brush of a finger along an arm,
the unspoken, yet
heard words
almost a lullaby;

and what is it that you hear
of me, so many thousands of miles away
are you listening
in your dreams
by the light of the new moon
or are you lost
in the almost darkness
of night before dawn,
wondering how tight is a connection of love
in the living,
in the breathing
without
the touching?

Photo: WikiImages/Pixabay

Copyright 2015 by Jes Wright