Prairie School of the Arts

Time Flys - Hopefully Air New Zealand - My fav way to cross the Pacifid

2011-12-28T15:51:00.000-08:00

Where ever does time go? It is Thursday in Oz. The date at the top of the previous post is Monday - boxing day in Australia and all the other British colonies.

Of course, it's entirely unimportant where time slips away unless one needs a lost element. Then, it's helpful to know precisely where the past now resides so one can go and find what is needed.

Silly, I know. What is really on my mind is an email I just received from a dear friend who wrote to share with me that her mother, age 94, died on Christmas Eve. A difficult time to say good-bye if one is Christian and my friend is.

To add to the emotional load of the holiday, her husband died on the first day of Kwanzaa, boxing day in Oz and all the other British colonies.

To lose one's mother and one's partner of more than 40 years in three days of what is usually festivities strikes me as an emotional load that would be very difficult to bear or is it bare? I mean, one's emotions are raw leaving one with a minimum of psychological cover behind which to hide. And then there is the whole expectation of community to manage one's self in an appropriate way—to bear up, if you will.

My temptation under these circumstances would be to tell everyone to go away. I'd want to take a long walk in the wilderness, to be left alone with beauty to remember whatever comes to mind about my life with the two loved ones who have departed this plane. I'm not sure my friend has that option, but certainly that is what I wish for her.

The greatest loss I recall in my life was the death of my sister on 4 December 1973. The funeral services took place in the midst of a Michigan winter storm—vicious wind swirling a silent snow through the night air. I walked out of the service, unable to cope with the Christian nonsense, and bundled my core with heavy wool scarves, hat, and coat and walked into that wind, tears streaming down my face - furious with my little sis for abandoning us, for abandoning me. The storm was my helpmate. It gave me something against which to rail, a barrier to penetrate with all the energy I possessed.

I suppose that's the gist of the issue, isn't it. Death leaves us with so little against which to push. It's final. I hate it when a battle is entirely finished and there is nothing in hand to prove that I have tried my utmost to solve the issue or win the day.

Being Home, prairie women and dining delights

2011-06-10T06:56:00.000-07:00

About to embark on a week end with the gurls - prairie women, that is.

Had a conversation with my prairie friend yesterday about 'feeling home again' as she crossed the border from South Dakota to Nordacotah. In the midst of the whole exchange, I realized there is no where about which I feel what she described - the sense of being home, of returning to the tribe.

I had been in the midst of discussing an incident involved with 'prairie food', a very specific style of cooking akin to southern fried, but seriously not limited to chicken. Fish and plenty of it are included in 'prairie fodder'. Some of that fish is local - like Walleye. A second delicacy is breaded cod with a distinctly Norwegian name. The preponderance of Scandinavian settlers in this region of Nordamerika has a definite influence on what is served at Sunday dinners or everyday field dinners carried out to the men operating combines and seeding equipment.

And it does seem that food and the ritual surrounding food creates the ambiance surrounding the sense of 'being home'. My own tastes are far more eclectic but I do recall my first three years in Australia. At least once every couple of weeks I'd sneak out of the house and trudge a good two kilometers to the closest MacDonalds to enjoy a large order of 'fries', in Aussie parlance better known as 'chips'. Just the taste was enough to fend off my sense of being a stranger in a strange land. My digestive tract somehow communicated with my brain to let it know that I could survive at least one more week of being a foreigner.

So, what of this week end with the 'gurls'? I don't have much hope for any sense of comfort, but it will be a learning experience, filled I'm sure with bouts of laughter, to spend three days with 'prairie women'.

I'd write more if my knee didn't hurt

2010-05-19T17:45:00.000-07:00

Ok, so while I was whinging over here in my southern corner of the universe trying to find a comfy spot to sit while typing this post on my desktop computer and at the same time trying to keep my right knee above my heart (go on, you try it..and don't laugh!! :), I found the online info on the surgery used on my knee last Tuesday morning so jazzy that I decided to go ahead and write anyhow. (Distraction - pain relief is all about distraction.)

Really, it's all about ME! Yep! I'm not sick, I'm rehabilitating! And there's a difference, I promise you. The pain at this point is about using ligaments, tendons, and muscles that were manhandled on the surgical table a week ago. I'm certain neither my knee nor my thigh, nor my hips were ever really meant to move in the directions the surgeons managed during that 2 1/2 hour process. (Unicompartmental surgery is more complex than the whole knee replacement; thus the longer time on the table.)

Fortunately, I had a great anaesthetist looking after my welfare and so know absolutely nothing about it - until afterwards when the nerve blocks were removed and my usually strong (if unbalanced) right leg decided to let me know just how abused it felt.

In fact, the pain is breathable and endurable. I have Tramadol at night and analgesic pain relief during the daytime. I could use the Tramadol during daytime too, but it's way too pleasant - better to avoid the addiction.

So, only half of my right knee has been replaced which means the surgeon only cut 25% of the bone that a full Monty would require.

You do realize that means I have about 25% of the pain and recovery issues as well. Hooray for a healthy right side of my right knee.

In 1979 while backpacking in the Sierra (Mt. Olancha) my right knee gave way, the meniscus tore. No laparoscopy back then. I knew I would have to wait. I had no idea just how long that wait would be.

Finally, in 2005 the last of the left half of the meniscus in my right knee gave way - bone on bone for the past 4 1/2 years -no more treks in the mountains and lots of incidents of falling over on busy city streets while walking in conversation with friends and family (Oaxaca, Mexico and Park Road, Brisbane are favourite examples)

However, the most amazing aspect of my situation is that although for the past 22 years, half knee (unicompartimental) replacements have been available in the UK, Australia, Europe, and Asia - they have only been available in the USA for the last two years (and then performed only by a very small number of specialized surgeons in very limited circumstances).

So how lucky do you think I am to be an American living in Australia? Here is my surgeon, Peter Meyers, an old pro at this game, a surgeon who volunteers as team doctor for the Queensland Reds (Rugby Union Footie Team) and smiles delightedly at old women like me who come in and claim, 'New half knee, please. I'm missing my mountains.'

Peter warned that I probably won't be able to trek 15 miles a day anymore - but I never did, so who cares. If I can put in a solid 8 miles a day in my beloved Sierra, trek in Nepal with the upwardly mobile old folks looking for adventure tour groups, who cares.

Prognosis is that I have just extended my healthy life style for an additional two years, that I will be able to exercise pain free to enable me to get my weight back down to a healthy 160 pounds, and that recovery will be relatively short.

I could flash my ex-rays so you can see what my knee now looks like, but the visuals and explanations on line give a more vivid summary. Here's the addy: http://www.biomet.com/patients/oxford.cfm

I'll keep you updated on my new bionic circumstance. Life is Good and I'm not referring to air conditioners or kitchen appliances.

Stunning!

2010-01-31T23:42:00.000-08:00

Absolutely stunning - what a picture...the photo and the words below it..

I love it when a plan comes together and obviously this is precisely what the universe had in store! Prosperity of love.

Congrats, my dear friend...this is perfection in every aspect!!

HOLIDAYS

2010-01-12T22:32:00.000-08:00

I haven't written today - went wild yesterday - 3000 words. Needless to say, I use way too many words, most of which I don't even know - just my typing fingers know them.

What I remember of my childhood, the topic of my next book? Not so much, actually, but there are several stories I have wanted to put to print.

The working title of this book is HOLIDAYS. The theme has something to do with the lingering disappointments, outright shambles, and utter nightmares of mid winter holidays. Wanna read it?

A bit dreary, I know. Makes me feel that way, too, after a writing session. I need my shrink around to process all the dross dredged up.

So, that's what I am doing. Not precisely what you thought, now, is it? Not as productive as I might be if I were to write more laudatory prose..

100 Queries to American Agents

2010-01-05T16:47:00.000-08:00

Yep, 100 queries to American literary agents have been sent out either on line or in snail mail format in the past two months.

The results:

25 No Thank You;

'I'm too busy,
we're inundated with queries and yours just isn't right for us,
You've got to be kidding. Did you do any research before sending this query to us?,
Good luck on finding an agent. Keep trying'

*****************and*****************

75 queries still wandering around the ether waiting for a response

*****************and*******************

1 'please send us your manuscript.'

Keep the Kookaburra Serenade in your positive thoughts file. It needs all the support it can manage in the cold winter of Nordamerica.

Love from the great sandy south: Oz in summer has been very very wet - a pleasant sojourn from Flaxton and environs. We do look forward to our June return to the prairie, however.

Happiest New Years

SPOOKS

2010-01-01T22:32:00.000-08:00

SPOOKS is a BBC production that has been running on British TV for the past seven seasons. For good reason the series is a hit in our household.

Our engagement with the program revolves around the characterization as well as the plot structure of the scripts. At the same time, we find the technical aspects of the film crew responsible for putting the entire show together to be admirable.

Sharp shots, great action sequences, excellent lighting as well as expert editing produce a superb, engaging series.

Our enjoyment of this production reminds me of my penchant for enjoying another BBC production, Poldark, from the early 1990s. Again the story line, the depth of characterization and the technique of director and film crew drew me into a world unlike any available to me in real life.

Perhaps that is the clue to any and all good story telling, no matter if we encounter it on paper or on film. Excellence creates a strong audience reaction. Isn't that the reason we are caught with any story - The Little Prince, Where the Wild Things Are, Cryptonomocon, The Left Hand of Darkness, Oliver Twist, Huckleberry Finn - great stories inhabited by complex real characters.

May my next book be as engaging!

Happy New Year, all!!

The 4 a.m. Breaththrough - exericse 3

2009-12-11T16:55:00.000-08:00

Take four words that seem to recur in your fiction: Study their etymologies. - a piece of prose that is a comment on your previous stories. Kiteley

Pristine Curious Manifest Admonition

Still uncorrupted by the southern hemisphere, the exotic woman responded to her co-travellers' unintended reprimands. Her liquid hem fell limp around her ankles as she crouched onto the linoleum of the arrivals hall in Sydney International airport. She wound her dark tresses quickly into a chignon pinned to the back of her head with ivory. Curious she may have been initially, but quickly that state rearranged itself upon her face as she clung to her cloth bag that had broken open as she lifted it from the rotating carousel. Jars and bottles clamoured to the floor, rolling under the feet of other passengers waiting for their own luggage. Suddenly on her knees, she reached for tubes of make up and perfume bottle stoppers.

When she alighted from the plane, her pristine psyche had been as shiny as the polished floors of the airport. Now,her embarrassment was clear, her attempt to rectify the circumstances manifest.

Uniformed airport police descended upon the scene admonishing. Immediately the now frightened non-Australian speaker attempted to gather her belongings into a small pile away from the feet of her co-passengers.

Finally, a friendly employee offered a green Woollies fabric shopping bag into which she could load all of the escaped items. With relief, the lithe traveller stood apologizing in Thai to those around her, thanking several who had helped by gathering the unbroken glass into one spot. Several youngsters holding various rescued tubes and vials encircled her.

No worries pristine evaporated; the environment smouldered with incense and various spices that escaped as their containers roiled out of the broken suitcase. Oblivious to the change in the fragrance of the arrivals hall, the young woman breathed relief as the last item was returned to her green shopping bag.

Her companion, arriving from a bathroom stop between airline exit and baggage carousel, cautioned her lovingly as the two of them waited together for the remainder of their luggage.

Can't Go Home Again

2009-12-05T22:30:00.000-08:00

'You don't need his money.'

"No, I don't.'

'You don't need to return to the morass.'

'The emotional stuff? No, I don't.'

'You seem more relaxed, more independent, happier since you walked away.'

'Yes, I think you're right.'

'Then, why do you want to return?'

"I don't.'

'Mom, watsup? Why are you doing this? How come you have him convinced that you want to return to Claymore?'

'I'm not sure. Kind of like it was initially. I knew I didn't want to marry, but his tears – I couldn't handle his tears, his disappointment. So, I went through with the wedding. Probably thought that if I didn't get married then, I never would.'

'Mom, that's stupid. You've never told me that story before.'

'Well, I've told it to a lot of others. Just never wanted to share that part with you kids.'

'Don't go back. Don't do this to yourself. I love my dad and I love you, but I know that together the two of you are awful. It's painful to watch both of you do that silly dance, that emotional dependency stuff.'

'Yep. I'm lonely, Synthia. Maybe I'll feel less lonely if I go back to Claymore. That's where everyone whose ever been anyone in my life exists these days.'

'You miss Gerald, I know. But dad can never replace him.'

'I know. I also know that being alone is not particularly good for me.'
Getting out of bed in the morning seems pointless these days.'

'Mom, travel, write, teach, write some more, but don't go back to Telegraph Road. Just not worth it.'

'Why do you care so much Synthia? What difference does it make?'

'Massive difference. I want you to be happy. I've always wanted you to be happy. This is an awful idea. You're not going to be able to stay.
I just know it.

'Ah, you're afraid I'll leave him again and you'll have to pick up the pieces. Well, you may be right. I'm not so sure I could actually live in the same house with him. I know I could never sleep in the same bed.'

'Well, that's no problem. It's been years since he slept in a bed – in any bed.'

'That's what I was thinking.'

'Mom, I'll come to Nebraska – will that help?'

'You would? You'd come here for a while? That would be great. I want to fly to Nova Scotia. Never been there. Wanna come along?'

'Yep, school is out in two weeks. Can you last that long? I'll make reservations.'

'Yeah. It'll take me that long to get the house ready. I'll give you my credit card number to pay for half the ticket. Can we go to Montreal? I love that city, the old town.'

'See, you just want someone to travel with. And dad is the worst person ever for that. Get the house ready. I'll buy a ticket and see you in maybe three weeks. You can make plans for us. I love you, mom. Give up on the idea of returning to Claymore. It's a bad idea. Mike and Tandy agree with me. We all thought you'd lost your mind.'

'Do you think they would come to visit, too? I think I could handle the loneliness if each of you were to spend a little time here. I miss Gerald so much.'

'I know. I really do. But, mom, you can't go home again. You know that. '

'Yes, I suppose I do.'

'Talk with you later tonight. I'll have some info on my arrival. We agree then, that you'll call dad and tell him now that you've changed your mind?'

'Yep. I'll call right away. Poor old man. He's gonna be upset.'

'He'd be more upset three weeks from now when you walked out again. Call him. I'll talk to you in a few hours.'

'Bye'

'Bye. Love you.'

2009-10-15T15:02:00.000-07:00

She had learned to value the wind; her father always swore about it.

At least she learned to value a breeze. Still days bring on the insects and humidity
and air pollution. The dust from the road hangs in the air and the stink of diesel and oil and chemicals hangs around.

The Dakota prairie does not have a smog problem and every tree planted on the upwind side of the farmstead is “worth its weight in gold. Prairie people predict the weather. Three days of wind out of the east will blow up a rain for sure.

It was windy that day, very windy even by North Dakota standards. “Blow your cap off if you don’t have it cinched down” they say. It is too windy to spray – too cold to go for a walk, at least this time of year.

Over coffee uptown they were remembering days like this. One guy remembered the night it blew so bad out of the northwest that it blew a single freight car all the way from Portal to Minot.

A lot of damage gets done on days like this.. The wind doesn’t give up when it finds a loose shingle or a roof board or an unlatched door. "Relentless," she mused.

“It’ll blow the hair right off your head” he said.

She sat quietly listening to the wind whistle and howl. She was remembering the day they buried her mother on the hill north of town.

Jim stopped her as she headed toward the car, leaning into the wind. “Hellofa wind, straight out of the west. “We’ll remember the day we said goodbye to the classy gal from Montana.”

Marcia Nygaard Olney

Front Street and Dinner

2009-10-15T07:11:00.000-07:00

I remember sitting in this place on Flaxton’s Front Street - this very place - so many times. A dear friend, recently transplanted to our village, wondered that no one called the street by its street-sign name: “Davis”.

Truly, I have no recollection of who this Davis person may be. In fact, though a native of Burke County, I have never heard who Davis may have been. I knew only that at some point within the last few decades it became essential for purposes of emergency calls that the streets and county roads have both names and numbers.

As Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?” The essence of the street was about everything from Saturday night dances and movies to a reason to bathe and become at least a weekly part of the community that thrived on connections at the Farmer’s Union and Schultz’s and Swennes’s stores.

Particular events make vivid pictures from my memory: A birthday party Leora Rawn gave for Mother and me, and some years later, Mother’s memorial service dinner. Yes, dinner. A noon-time meal with friends and family gathered as we would for celebration, but more likely a working day’s meal. The family shared “dinner” in this North Prairie homestead country usually before resuming a hard day’s work.

The whole idea of a mid-day dinner, not lunch, is foreign or at least different from most Americans’ idea of an evening meal. Maybe not even a meal just a coming together of the busy modern family finally stopping their day with food: The hungry kids after sports, the parents exhausted completion of a work day, probably culminated by television and the teens or younger children doing homework, talking to friends on the phone or sitting at the computer with school assignments or games.

And so, I remember my school days and social connections starting here: This building on a street I probably drove through in my parents’ 46 Chrysler on the way home from being birthed in Crosby and cared for in St. Luke’s Hospital. The same street I crossed still in my mother’s womb en route to that hospital only days before.

Returning to the farm by way of Front Street where one hundred and seven years of Flaxton had gathered, traversed and noted the enjoyment and the diminishing of dreams, the lunches and dinners of survival in a harsh climate where every person and every meal was on the front line of life.

Connie Transue

Sheila’s Last Painting

2009-10-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

It was October 9, 1999.

It was Saturday.

It was to be a portentous day, I knew. . .

I was driving from Tioga that morning, my thoughts miles ahead of the car as the wind seemed to blow us to my childhood home where my sister, Sheila, was lying in my old room, bedridden with cancer.

The sky seemed so different that morning -high clouds – cumulus; though odd, they were high up - voluminous.

Sheila was now comatose, her body position unchanged from the night. Her moans of pain were now silenced since the morphine patch placed on her shoulder the night before.

We were taking turns sitting by her bed, my mother, my father, my six-year-old daughter, and I. It was a death watch.

In between watching her breathing, we would go outside for deep breaths of air and watch the sky turn unusual colors which seemed odd for so early in the afternoon. We all noticed it.

It wasn't quite 3:00. As some of us were sitting in the kitchen, trying to quiet our dread by drinking weak tasting coffee. I remember thinking, "Just let go, Sheila."

As if Sheila read my thoughts as she often did, my mom came out and summoned us to the bedroom. "I think she's breathing her last."

Dad took a chair by Sheila’s head and I sat at her feet with Mom at her side. It seemed the right time to ask Sheila to go to the light.

She left us; she took her last quiet, brave breath, eyes wide open to the end. I asked Dad to close her eyes and he gently did as he released a long-held sob.

We reverently left the room, honored at being a part in the last chapter of her long, long struggle.

Outside bright purples, hot pinks and iridescent magenta colors filled the sky in grand fashion unlike anything I had ever seen before. And then the double rainbow appeared.

Sheila had passed, I knew, all the way over the rainbow bridge.

Sharon Kreiger

Workshop Writing Samples:

2009-10-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

Sierra Smile - Relief

Through five feet of pristine Sierra snow the Aussie shovels the path to the outhouse. In his red plaid pyjama bottoms and furry ear flapped winter hat, red parka flying open with each toss of snow over his shoulder, he stands half way up the path and turns to smile back at me with grey eyes that actually twinkle.

Blue skies outline the ridge above the cabin. Snow tipped fir trees mingle with granite boulders on the steep slope leading up to the double-doored outhouse.

I sit on the couch beside the cabin window, warm with a mug of hot chai watching his effortless movements. He turns and tosses the wet snow over his right shoulder.

Suddenly, feeling urgent pressure in my bladder, I know he had better hurry or there will be yellow snow outside the back door.

Silently I contract my abdominals and chant silently, “hurry, hurry!’

As I rise and reach for my own parka and navy blue beanie, half bent over concentrating on the kegle exercise, I hear the swish of the metal shovel as it slides down the fourteen steps.

Hooray! I rush out the back door and gingerly climb the slippery steps stopping to kiss the tall Aussie with the big smile. Then, I rush toward the icy cubicle.

On the Day!

2009-10-03T19:08:00.000-07:00

We did it! Seven of us met, talked, ate, and wrote at the Flaxton Mall in north western North Dakota.

Amazing, evocative, poetic ten minute essays on our fears, our loves, our miseries and our celebrations. Soon, very soon, we will post a feature article from each of the participants for your edification and enjoyment.

Thank you all for your generosity and contributions to the day!

Only the Nose Knows

2009-09-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

The Nose-Brain Connection

Many people view toxins in their environment as always being out around them, but never being able to enter their body. They may acknowledge that when they breathe, eat or touch toxins that some toxins may enter their body. Often the belief is held that although the toxins may enter the bloodstream, they won't be able to enter the brain, due to the blood-brain barrier.

The blood-brain barrier (BBB) is a membrane composed of endothelial cells packed very tightly in the brain capillaries. This restricts passage of some substances and
protects the brain from harmful substances in the blood stream. It is structured to allow the nutrients required by the brain to pass through, but keeps toxic substances out of the brain. However, stress, some drugs, infections, and toxins can weaken or break down that blood-brain barrier so that toxins are able to cross the blood-brain barrier and enter the brain and the nervous system.

Most people are unaware that there is another avenue through which toxic chemicals can have direct access to the brain and nervous system. This other avenue is the nose-brain connection. There is no blood-brain barrier between the nose and the brain. This layer of protection is not available when we inhale toxic chemicals that are part of our everyday experience.

The olfactory and trigeminal nerves provide a connection between the brain and the outside environment. These nerves, which are involved in sensing odors and chemicals, descend down into the nose. Toxic chemicals can enter the brain by traveling along their neural pathways.

This neural connection between the nasal mucosa and the brain means that what we inhale has direct access to our brain and the rest of our nervous system.

Smell, the nose, and the brain
The Taste Science Laboratory "About Taste:from tongue to nose to brain

http://www.tastescience.com/abouttaste2.html

Molecules of the food you are eating move through the back of the throat and reach olfactory nerve endings in the roof of the nose. The molecules bind to these nerve endings, which then signal the olfactory bulb to send smell messages to two critical parts of the brain.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And just what does all this bioscience have to do with 'writing'?

Just think how much impact a writer can have on the mind and imagination if the words engulf one in the ancient stench of a place or offer a whiff of frosty fragrance. What if a room reeks of delicious aromas or fills the mind with a bouquet of summer flowers?

Aye, it is impact that the author seeks!

And, there is no better way to create that impact than by applying the senses to the scene. Come along on Saturday with a nosegay of impressive odors to share with the group.

Rainy Day Dialogue

2009-09-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

Tension, antipathy, love, or humor can be created in a memoir without ever mentioning any of those words:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** ** ** * * *

'So, what's on your agenda today?'

'Gonna see about that crittur smell in the stove. Can't work outside in the rain. You gonna go to the fitness center to workout?'

'Yeah, might as well. I paid my $30. Quads need the work.'

'Good. I'll start while you're gone.'

'You don't want me around while you work?'

'You get in the way. You'll freak out when you see what's back there.'

'Where?'

'In the insulation behind the stove. Smells like mice nested in there when it was in storage.'

'Yuck!'

Ninety minutes later carrying five bags of groceries, she returned from a minor workout and a major shop. 'I'll put these on the floor over here in the corner so they'll be out of the way. Where did all those screws come from?'

'On this floor you can't drop anything. No matter what it is, it blends in; I brought a few from the workshop with me.'

'Will this whipped cream spread do for your sandwiches?'

'Yep, anything will do.'

She walked over to scan the back of the stove dismantled in the middle of the kitchen.
'Hummm...what's that stuff by the back door?'

'Insulation. Don't step on it. Tore it out of the back of the stove. It stinks; I installed new. Should correct the smell.'

'Thanks.'

'No worries. Now, go find something to do. You'll get in the way.'

'Ole fart! It's cold in here.'

'Not as cold as it is outside.'

'Hope the furnace arrives soon or we'll be using that oven to heat this place even if it smells like mouse.'

When I share the story you told me -

2009-09-19T07:22:00.001-07:00

Yesterday six of us headed for White Earth Valley near Lake Sacajawea. Writing, of course, was on my mind. In this deeply moving landscape, it was easy to imagine how hard life had been in the 1950s as North Dakota's first oil well was being drilled a few miles away.

There was a level of complexity to the memories being shared; I knew they would be retold. We listened to Sharon relate the adventures of a young girl on horseback looking for cattle in the coolies surrounding the high plateaus of this place.

As I plucked sage in the constant wind, Sharon's tale of her eight year old self jumping off the back of a pony moving far too fast on a precipitious incline churned in my tummy.

We were both there in that moment - two generations living out the old story, an adventure worth saving, worth including in a story of autumn along the Missouri.

Where ever does the time go?

2009-09-18T07:08:00.000-07:00

Time is NOT linear! Who would doubt that fact?

How many times have you noticed that deja vu creates a hairpin turn in your life? How often have moments become hours while waiting with a sick child in the doctor's office? How often has the day disappeared without your second cup of coffee?

Seems that way for most of us at least some of the time. I suspect the real reason we don't write as often as we promise ourselves that we will ties into the unexpected, real life, moments that curve time into a tight ball and toss it into left field amongst the cat tails. By the time we manage to dig it out of the muck, there is precious little of it left to even find the pen and paper or turn on the computer.

I know that my best writing time is early in the morning while I sip my first cup of coffee. Quiet time works best. I also know that during harvest, farm women do NOT have that luxury. Neither do their men.

I know that women with children also have no time at that hour of the day.

So, what to do? Find fifteen minutes somewhere, maybe just while waiting for the kiddies (that sometimes includes the blokes) to arrive home to jot a few notes to yourself about the most intriguing, confusing, delicious thoughts or experiences the day has allowed.

Later, you can expand. But, if you are like me, if you don't make the notes, you'll forget the salient details when you sit to write later.

Try it. And jot me a note here to let us know if this tip worked for you.

all the best...Annielaural

Prairie School of the Arts: First Workshop

2009-09-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

Come one, come all! We're about to re-enter Flaxton's first school. Back in the day, Norman Nygaard attended this little red school house that currently sits on the Burke County Fairgrounds just north of Flaxton.

Well, we aren't really going to spend time in the school house. Although, we could visit.

Using some of Flaxton's more modern accommodations, The Prairie School of the Arts hopes to offer workshops weekly or monthly on some of the following topics:

Native reed basket weaving
Dried prairie flower arranging
Two minute water colour discs
Six ingredients - create a dish
Quilling designs
Harvesting memories - the collage
Harvesting memories - writiting a memoir
Reflexology
Playing the recorder
Yoga for strength and flexibility
Aroma therapy
Myth making - indigenous style
Prairie photography
Reading nature's signs
Old wive's tales

We hope you will join us for some of these workshops. If you have ideas for workshops you would like to present or that you would be interested in attending, please click on comments below this post and leave a message. Marcia or Annielaural will answer as soon as possible.

Autumn is an auspicious time to begin a new project. We look forward to all of you joining us in this pursuit.

Regards,
Annielaural and Marcia