Conversing With Self

Hurry! Go.  My soul whispered.

I rushed to where the fire danced and popped. It seemed unreal. Mesmerized, I squatted. In my mind, I stepped into the cozy hot coals. The bitter winter cold vanished even though the ruby-red flames contrasted against the grand gray snowy mountains around me.

Sounds from people, family and friend diminished. Mesmerized by the fluorescent red coals, I existed alone. While the fire burned, I listened within myself.


Self: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Me: Yes, like a ruby melting and reforming. If only I could stay here and write.

Self: “What would you write about?”

Me: “I’m not sure, for I haven’t been able to continue writing my stories. Silent, they hang on the tips of the roof of my mind like ice-cycles. I’m afraid they will melt and vanish one day. I will be left with the knowledge that I once had unfinished stories.”

Self: “Why do you suppose, they are no longer speaking to you?”

Me: “Not sure. Many times, I’ve quiet myself and sat in front of my lap top and nothing, not one peep. The only sound I hear is of an unseen ocean with my beating heart out there drifting on a boat.”

Self: “Why have you distance your heart from your stories? What are you afraid of?”

Me: “I’ve not distant my heart, wait, do you think I did this? No, I didn’t place my heart out in the ocean.”

Self: “Lidia, be real. Be truthful. See, your heart. You are the only one who can place your heart out in the ocean. Look out there for the boat. Don’t look away. Your fear could be telling you truth. You are afraid of truth. That’s why you allowed your heart to drift from your stories.”

Me: “Fear lies.”

Self: “Not all fear lies. This fear of yours is true. You’re not a good writer. Yet you are a good story-teller. Focus on the story, Lidia, just like your friends tell you.”

Me: “I’m tired of not writing well. I want to have a well written story, but my enthusiasm dies too soon after I get started.”

Self: “You have to learn to keep writing when the energy of the idea runs out. Don’t allow your story to become foreign to your own heart. Keep it close to you, pluck scenarios, story lines, details, thoughts and feelings of the character even if they may never make into the story. You have to keep the story alive. That’s your job. It’s your baby. If you don’t feed it, it will vanish. Now, start the fire and allow your story ice-cycles to melt and flow again. You have been given a gift to tell stories like no one else. Write and let someone else correct your errors. You will not create a perfect story. No one can, not alone. But you can crank on your generator.”

Me: “But, my fingers won’t move.”

Self: “Yes, your finger and thoughts will be stiff because of the cold of not being perfect. But, in no time the heat will get going and your thoughts will flow the story will breath and pump red blood again. Once it thaws out, details will drop into your mind as the ice-cycle melts. Get the page ready to catch the ideas. Remember, as you keep telling stories, your writing will become stronger.”

Me: “Thank you, for the talk.”

Self: “Don’t worry, I will remind you again, when I see that you’ve removed your heart for your stories. You are not just writing for others, but for me, self.”

Footsteps crunched the snow behind me. I came back to my surroundings. I heard my husband distant voice, “Are you coming and sledding or are you staying.”

With a smile, I answered, “I’m coming.”


I started this blog back in December, and it wasn’t until today that I was able to finish it. It’s a major accomplishment for me. I’ve struggled with my writing for over a year. There are at least twelve unfinished stories on my files and I can’t seem to finish any one of them. From this self-reflection, I’ve learned that it wasn’t fear that kept me from my stories, instead it was truth.

Writing my blog posts, have been a great exercise to build my confidence and improve my writing skills. With short entries, I have less misspell words, less grammar errors and less wrong word usage. I still get wordy, but my skills are improving alongside my belief in my abilities to give what’s in my heart a voice.

To write a book, it’s much more challenging and difficult than a blog. But, if I can treat each couple of pages as a blog post, I might get myself going again and finish my next book. Now which of the twelve stories should I start constructing again?

Maybe, I will blog about my journey as I write my next book.

To be continued . . .






At The Edge Of Height

20171015_150407.jpgI stand at the edge of height, not for the thrill or to jump, but to see how far I’ve come. Besides, the view is much different looking down, than up.

When one is at the bottom of a canyon, a mountain, or life, the focus may fall on the difficulties, challenges and at time impossibilities as one works their way up. Finding a passage to higher ground, doesn’t always seem achievable. Many times giving up, is an option, which I refuse to take.

The Grand Canyon beckons me to the tip of where I can stand. My husband is always close by.  At times, he holds me by the back of my pants to make sure I don’t take another step.

It’s not that I want the risk, but a part of me wants to become what I see. I long to be a hawk, an eagle or any bird and soar through the canyons. A desire builds in me to hear the wind resonate the tonal sounds of the canyons as they sing. Imagining to be one with nature in this form, frees me and helps me see life from a different point of view, from accomplishments.20171015_150601.jpg

When realism returns to me, I sit and admire the canyon’s design and envy the crows flying by. To watch the colors of these rocks change from sunrise to sunset, a breath of life enters my soul and spirit. I can then relax and recall, God is present.

To study their cavities and realize their differences, they point to my own uniqueness. For many times I’m like many ladies, a wife, a mom, a daughter, a teacher. I’m a person who lines up with other women under many different categories. Like others, my oneness becomes hard to find.

At the edge, I’m reminded by the Creator of my design, why I exist and the reason of  why I stand alone. I shouldn’t be sad or mad or lonely. For the spot of where I stand is for a specific purpose, for a short time and for limited space.

Unlike the canyon’s crevasses, which remain in their spot, I’m privileged, for I choose my place to stand. My Creator showed me, how I am like a bird. I can fly any where and land on any spot, yet I will stand with only me.

As I think, I’m never alone, a small voice tells me, “you feel alone.”

It’s not about being alone, or the sense of loneliness, but being who I was created to be. Visiting the Grand Canyon, made me well aware of the fact, I’m the only one who occupies this specific spot at this exact time for a particular task. The reason has been, and will be, revealed when it’s time for me to take a stand.

Standing at the edge of height refuels the truth of my uniqueness, my oneness, my me.

Once I turned and faced my husband, immediately I knew, I didn’t get to where I am, alone.


A Dazzling Snow Flower

I stopped.

Snow captured by a flower’s remnant

She sparkled from the sunlight.

I turned.

Her glow penetrated my soul.

I thought.

A snow flower?

I gasped.

Her dried-up form stood strong.

I admired.

She held a beacon of snow.

I desired.

Her beauty after she was gone.



A River Of Creativity


Music creates new worlds within me.

Gradually, the piano’s soft melody pulls open the curtains of my soul and thoughts emerge from the river of ideas. Scrolls of scenarios unfold exposing the places my eyes have seen and my heart relives pleasurable or unpleasant moments.

Then, one by one, two or three concepts perform to prearranged experiences giving life to color and breath to shadows.

Impression, concepts, conviction, scheme, solution, plan, opinion, perception, interpretation, suggestion, hypothesis, and belief rush, leap or swing as the essence of a theme develops. Rhythmic heartbeat drum from my understanding giving my feelings an identity from days before.

A story, a chapter, a poem or an article wrap all of me, until the peak of conclusion has made its trademark.

Time returns, the song within me ends, and the brainstorming is complete.

Now the refining begins.