Taking Stock

Posted on April 10, 2025 by Margaret Graw

I thought this would be a short-lived activity, like drafting a piece of flash fiction or a blog post.  I expected taking stock would be an intellectual exercise requiring only a bit of thinking with pen and paper at hand. But this activity has gone on all winter, so many decisions, pulled me in so many directions. Now the seasons have changed and it requires a different approach, one that is lively and rooted. 

What to keep, what to discard, how to establish a balance between what is necessary and what is desired. This is not a complaint, rather it’s an ode to good fortune that allows choices, mainly good ones. The renewed prospect of authoring my life is both exhilarating and weighty.

The most nourishing, and memorable moments in my life have been spent with a few exceptionally gifted  teachers who changed my worldview, close friends with whom I have shared a journey, my remarkable husband who encourages me to be more brave, his children and now our grandchildren who keep me engaged in the changing world. All have contributed to me in important and unexpected ways that linger and ripple deep in my heart. 

Taking stock revealed the true joy in my life. It happens in ordinary moments. It’s a lesson I read about years ago in Buddhist philosophy: chop wood, carry water. Touting it as the path to enlightenment, so simple and ordinary I couldn’t believe it at the time. It’s taken years to embrace it, but I have learned that no matter how much I change, or the world around me changes, I must return to the everyday activities that inspire me. So, to be prepared, I stock yoga props and writing instruments as treasures. Fortified by these practices, I aim to approach each moment for what it is, unique and amazing. 

Posted in Seasons, Yoga | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Writing as Soul Food

Posted on February 16, 2019 by Margaret Graw

It has been twelve months since I posted, but it feels as if only a month, maybe two, have passed. I remember my first blog post in 2016 titled “Free Writing” and the last, exactly one year ago, titled “Over the Garden Wall,” as if I’d just written them. The thoughts and feelings that came together in each piece felt like a taming, a focusing, an act of heightened awareness that has held constant. How is it possible to reconnect so easily after all that’s transpired in the last year?

Writing moments like those have a unique quality. They are touchstones that can be revisited, like old friends we haven’t seen for months who, when we hear their voices, carry us emotionally into our deep history in seconds. These are the stars in our galaxy that shine forth in a manner that can’t be measured in time or space but nonetheless land solidly in our hearts.

These moments, these connections, these experiences of heightened awareness change our perception of time. Because we remember every detail, they extend time, they seem longer than they could’ve possibly taken. They also stay with us in an inexplicable way.

Some are highpoints, others are times of calamity or sorrow. But all show us more about who we are, what inspires us, where our passions lie. I now understand that writing my blog posts for almost two years gave me an avenue to express what’s important to me, as often as I chose to take the time to write. Subjects I don’t address in ordinary conversations even with my closest friends. As much as any meditation or yoga practice, that writing fed my soul. What a gift.

Posted in Reflection, Writing | 1 Comment

Over the Garden Wall​

Posted on February 15, 2018 by Margaret Graw

shutterstock_691592899

Her voice rolls over the garden wall, a sun shower of laughter follows, and that is the moment I realize she’s in love. For weeks now, her voice has drifted into my sheltered garden like a windblown seed. Only the liveliest notes drift over, and the smooth clarinet sounds soothe me so that my heart blossoms in reply. I’ve come to know her by that enchanting voice. But now this livelier sound of tinkling bells stirs me in a way that I thought I’d never feel again. The exhilaration of being in love.

I don’t know how long she’s lived in the neighboring narrow brownstone, ours two of many that line the street where each garden plot touches a shared high fence. The accident, a year ago now, put me in this wheelchair. They sent me home, ruined, to find what pleasure I could in the rare moments when the wretched pain retreats. The pills dull my former pleasures: a hearty leg of lamb, a tidy glass of scotch, the ocean current tugging at my legs, the delicate skin of another’s lips on me. Those sensory pleasures live only as memories now.

No! I must stop this daydream. It’s steering me back to a world I’ve lost completely. I detest that I cannot even stand to peer over the high fence for a glimpse of the entity that emits such beatific sounds – music and laughter – a thrilling hymn of joy. Who is with her that causes her voice to sprinkle stardust on my heart, too? The mere timbre of her voice would surely set my heart on fire if only those coos and tinkling bells were intended for me.

Posted in Love, Writing | Leave a comment

Good Old Days

Posted on September 16, 2017 by Margaret Graw

 

shutterstock_439204057 copy

Ah yes, the good old days.  What good are they exactly?  Yes, they were good at the time — like the first time a boy kissed me, really kissed me, and there’ve been many kisses since then but none quite like that.  Very good at the time and yet maybe not so good now to have a fourteen-year-old boy kiss me, overdosed with English Leather and not sure where to put his hands.

Those good old days are still with me and could shape everything I do — if I let them.

That first kiss, made for a good day, because I felt special, special enough to kiss, to be that close to a boy I liked. That was just the first step in a long series of kisses, which I grew ever more fond of. The reason to kiss changed, though, from being an end in itself into a beginning, a start, foreplay for even more exciting activities. These became very good old days, too. They also ride along with me today as I continue to look more forward than backward, to see what is happening on the next stretch of road.

After all, we live moment-to-moment. It helps to keep the eyes forward, on the road ahead, so you don’t miss anything. I keep my eyes forward even though I have all those good old days riding along in the back seat calling out instructions. But I don’t pay much attention to their ruckus when they call out a crazy, sideways turn. I decide whether to take that crazy side road or keep going forward — and I never let them have the wheel.

 

Posted in beginnings | Leave a comment

Write Time

Posted on June 12, 2017 by Margaret Graw

I have this idea I need hours to write, with no interruptions, whether it is a novel or a short story: time to revisit the story, get into the main character’s head, go deep emotionally. But it’s not possible to find that much time every day. I decided to try a “short writing” approach, just as I have tried a “short yoga” approach, that is, to write each day for thirty minutes and contain each session to that amount of time. Keep it straightforward, uncomplicated, easier to approach.

For months, I’ve kept a post-it note on my desk that says: “write in clusters.” I’ve been hoping that notion would sink in, but I’ve hung on to the idea of a longer time requirement to write anything “good,” even though I’ve produced a lot of good material by writing to prompts, numerous times, for just thirty minutes. Why couldn’t I begin my novel this way: Write for thirty minutes, in clusters of paragraphs, and see if that inspires me to write more? I tried it and found a short period of writing every day exercises the muscle and gets the story out of my head, onto the page. Then, more writing follows, writing that is fun and good, and simply enjoyable again, which is the reason I write.

This daily approach to thirty minute spots of writing isn’t a long-term plan. It’s a way to ease off and listen to my deeper self, find the story that is worthy. Try it for a week or two. You might be surprised at what emerges.

Posted in beginnings, Writing | Leave a comment