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Karma Free Writing will be offering 27 Days of Karma Free Writing Prompts starting on the 1st day of Spring. These writing prompts are designed to stimulate the creative process for writing your personal story - and beyond.
27 Day Karma Free Writing Prompts - Honorarium
The 1st 14 days are free. To go the whole 27 days there is a $27 honorarium.
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March
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- DAY #12. THEME: "REVISIT"
- Day #11 - Theme: "For me? You shouldn't have!"
- Day #10. Theme: "Turning Points"
- Day #9 - Theme: "Body Parts Know"
- Day #8. Theme: "I am HEALED!!"
- Day #7 - Theme: "Fun or Fear"
- Day #6. "Buying a pair of shoes."
- Day #5. "That Part Of My Live Is Over Now."
- Day #4. "That which is no longer."
- Day #3. "My Whole Life Was About To Change - I jus...
- Day #2. "Should of, would of, could of ... IF ONLY"
- "Prompt #1 - Things my parents taught me"
- KFWB - 27 Day Writing prompts - Intro
- Tomorrow We Start !!
- Almost there !! Two More Days !!!
- 5 More Days until the 27 Day Karma Free Writing Pr...
- One Week - Saturday March 20th 2010 - The 1st Day ...
- 27 Day "Karma Free" Writing Program set to start M...
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March
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About Me
My parents taught me to fear money.
ReplyDeleteNo, that's not right. My parents taught me to fear poverty.
My father had been poor. Poor in a way I've never known, and I hope never to know.
His parents were immigrants. They were sharecroppers. They didn't speak English. They had no electricity, no running water. He picked cotton when it was still tall....before A&M engineered it to be short.
He saw people shot on the spot who put rocks in their cotton sacks so their haul would weigh more.
He told us of times when all they had to eat were canned pickles and bread. He told us of crawling under the house where a chicken had her nest and sucking the eggs.
He saved every penny he could. He still pays for everything in cash. My mom now has a credit card and a checking account.
I was divorced. I had two small boys. I didn't hate my ex-husband. He was not a bad man. We'd decided we'd split expenses for the boys 50/50 instead of going through the mess of child support.
Then, he fell in love with a mean woman. She told him to stop helping with their expenses. He listened to her.
I worked hard. I was good at what I did, but I was not paid much. There wasn't much hope of me being paid more.
After mortgage and child care, I had $80 a month to live on. I was skinny. New tires, a broken fridge, medicines...they all started to turn into debt.
Images of pickles and bread flashed through my mind. I wondered if I could make money doing phone sex calls. Then I worried that someone would find out.
I started dating.
He was odd. He was smart. He was a good dancer. He was well read. His son was a friend of my son's.
He was an addict that had been sober 7 years.
But there was an edge.
I knew there was.
But I didn't want to see it.
I was scared.
He asked me to marry him.
I went to a lot of counseling about this question. I was scared.
I was scared if I did some how that edge would grow. I was scared if I didn't that I'd never get out of my pit of poverty.
I didn't know where to turn.
I made my decision based on fear.
I married him.
The edge unsheathed itself when I was 7 months pregnant.
My oldest suffered the most under him.
I'll never forgive myself.
I'll never make another decision based on fear. I might make a wrong decision, but its foundation will be different.
What if my parents had taught me my body is a sacred gift – a structure that needs to be honored, love and cared for – instead of a series of orifices meant only for a man’s guilty pleasure.
ReplyDeleteIt’s hard to imagine living without the deep shame that even today creeps along the nooks and cranny’s of my belly or jumps out of hiding to lock my jaw from saying something loving, kind and truly authentic.
So what would my life look like?
It would be vibrant, Technicolor, effervescent even. I’d wake each morning thrilled to be alive, grateful to have another day to feel all the magic that goes on with this skin & bones & nerves & all of it container. Of course, I’d only ingest foods and beverages I see as positive, life enhancing, and those that exchange their life for mine would be honored and blessed.
I’d have known this sacred circle of life since I was a child, it wouldn’t be something I’m teaching myself today, and it would be so natural, so ingrained that I wouldn’t hear the voice in my head now, the one who doubts, who criticizes, who says, oh really now… isn’t that pushing it a bit?
Thanks Mom.
Yea, Mom would have loved me in a physical way, hugs & kisses & modeling boundaries & nurturing & self-care & self-love and father, well, hum… there I hit a blank wall. Tears sting.
Father, I don’t even know what an empowered, spiritual, honoring and yet sexually alive man looks like. How sad. I suspect they are out there, but the warning lights in my chest say beware and when the fuck will that buzzer ring so I can stop looking at this?
Father – Buzzzz
If I’d had a nurturing, honoring, yet sexually powerful father I’d only invite men – and yes, I would invite them, not run away or play coy seduction games or poor me rescue me games or black widow let me run you over castration games – I’d honor me, I’d honor the sacred connection with another, I’d cherish & be cherished. My body would be revered as the temple it is, a container for energies to blend & build, transform & transmute, an alchemical mystery, one to be trusted & protected.
Oh inkydinkyparlezvous, what a poignant piece of writing. And what an important lesson learned. Thank you so much for sharing. I would love to hear more.
ReplyDeleteHere are 2 things my parents told me:
1. It's just as easy to fall in love with someone who is rich as someone who is poor. (Dad)
2. Family comes first & always will be there for you. (Mom)
And here is a segment of writing from today's prompt.
It turned out that Peter was wildly creative. He'd been living vicariously through my creative spirit because the financial world provided little time for his own artistic expression, but he had creative energy flowing through his being as well. He bought a piano and learned to play. He took a poetry writing class and wrote an amazing poem about his mother called Fragile Heart.
Peter flourished. And I became skilled in the world of finances. I got myself out of debt, cut up my credit cards and saved enough to buy my own home. I returned to the stage as well as my work in film & television, and I flourished as well. On our own, we fulfilled our dreams and desires, creating pieces of art reflecting our Selves. On our own, we became individuals with a clear idea of who we were and what we wanted in our lives. On our own, we saw that we were more of who we wanted to be.
When my mother asked me what went wrong & why I left my marriage, I replied, “I don’t like who I see when I look in his eyes.” I didn’t like the Self I was seeing reflected back in the mirror named Peter. That needed to change. We tried to change it together, but it wasn’t possible.
My family was indeed there for me, and always has been. Through all of the stages of my life. With little judgment and with much love.
Oh, and it is just as easy to fall in love with someone who is rich as someone who is poor. Rich in spirit is how I like to think of it now. He also said, "Do what you love and the money will follow," and that has definitely proven itself to be true.
ReplyDeleteI am struck how what our parents taught us turned into how we relate to our mates. I wonder what the posts of our male "postmates" will sound like.
ReplyDeleteThank you both so much
So many complications
ReplyDeleteand crossed wires
Would it have made a difference??
Which areas of confusion
would one attempt to straighten out
Such a tangled mess
of outbursts, raging hormones
hurtful words
and swallowed reflexes
All part of a seemingly
slow and endless process
Pictures of abstract art
run amuck in
repetitious turmoil
Beckoning
The learning process
of maturity
...I usually shower, make a melba toast and turnip sandwich and then hit the gym. Sometimes on the weekends I will forgo the gym and hit Black Top trail. It ascends 4000 feet and kicks my ass. For these hikes, I usually bring Ketchup, my 22 year old iguana. Work is work. I sell big property, and I am very good. It is however, an all day affair and generally takes me into the night with dinners and drinks, entertaining clients. Last week I entered 2nd place in sales for the quarter. Looks like someone is going to Miami for the region honors in August. Barry Logan, our CFO loves the work I’m doing because he knows my numbers are legit.
ReplyDeleteUsually I get home after 10pm and I do yoga for a solid 20 minutes. These writings follow that on most occasions. At 11pm I watch the news, I love Hank Tremble and Diane Kirtz, they are an excellent, well informed, news anchor team and have been doing journalism a great service for over 23 years. Chip Hurley with sports is awesome as is Ned Hale with weather. They are the top news team in the Summer State, without them I fear my foundation would weaken.
I work endlessly on my doctorate in post traumatic nightmares also, squeezing in research when I can, often times on my iPhone between showings during my workday. Before I lay my head down, I like to play Mandolin, which I am teaching myself with the help of Mel Bays, the instruction booklet for beginners. I do an hour of prayer and a night meditation and then remember that I did all I could do for the day, it was what it was. For now I will soldier on, as I can feel the good it is doing for me. As Winston Churchill said, "It is better to have an ambitious plan than none at all."
Be safe. Work for the telephone company. Don't be an actress. Watch out for boys because if you get pregnant your life is over. Don't get a big head. Be careful what you wish for. It's nice to be nice. Such parental advice and encouragement.
ReplyDeleteSo I became a Cowardly Lion -- so articulate, so persuasive, rising up the corporate ladder. "Impressive young woman." "She's going places." What a schtick.
Imagine if I had had self-confidence to just be me. Not dazzle people with what they wanted to hear. Not do create a persona to get more money and more business and more attention.
But just to be me.
For years my husband has told me to quiet down and be me. I thought he was envious and wanted to be more like me. I mean I'm a player jetting around the world and he owns a little corner wine shop.
Now I see he is my Glinda, the same kind eyes and slow speech cadence, although handsome and dark and most definitely male. He gently and softly reminds me that I am enough.
Seeing the threads of maturity and wisdom in today's posts is so inspiring. I never really got the word "wisdom." It's so grand and overused. Not sure where they guys are today but the wise woman warriors are rock'n.
ReplyDeleteCaro your poem is beautiful. I like how spare it is. Effortless.
ReplyDeleteThis is the opening part of what I wrote for #1.
ReplyDeleteTen things I learned from my parents about myself.
1. Lazy, Careless, Selfish.
2. Careless, Selfish Lazy
3. Selfish, Careless, Lazy
4. Lazy, Selfish, Careless
5. Careless, Lazy. Selfish
6. Selfish, Lazy, Careless
7. Selfish and Lazy
8. Selfish and Careless
9. Careless and Lazy
10. Fucking Stupid because I can only think of nine things I learned from my parents about myself!
Lois- Having heard you speak as a panelist you are the real deal. I too am in the business of razzle-dazzle. I may not have as many years, but I've been places, like Madison Avenue. I wouldn't be doing this workshop if your organic self hadn't resonated with the sometimes jaded me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for that and for sharing today's "confessional."
ReplyDeleteActress/Artist/Activist: I've also found that "rich in spirit" is the kind of man I love too, even if their pockets aren't as deep.
ReplyDeleteinkydinkyparlezvous: so profound.. i hope you do forgive yourself, because the beauty of your wisdom shows in your stories. you have the truth and that's facing your fears! Courage ma chere :-)
ReplyDeleteI was a tomboy growing up in the jungle. I could take her. Why was I being so diplomatic, or was it fear? My parents taught me that I could win anything, face my fears. I could win a fight with a boy. I did it in the first grade. It felt dirty.
ReplyDeleteHere I was- an adult in a real life high school drama. Pathetic, said my inner fighting spirit.
I could do it. All those judo lessons and kickboxing could come into play.
But.. somehow… it wasn’t my destiny. Not today. Ok, so the antagonist was a woman who happened to be very tall and male like in figure. Not the school yard bully boy. Heck, I should have jumped my date as he protectively tried to intervene. I wanted to smack him. Instead I slowed down. I finally agreed to get into his car. This wasn’t my home turf. I couldn’t just hail a yellow cab.
Maybe it was the loss. The loss of innocence? Something about fighting in the school yard felt youthful. We were young, and free to be crazy. When adults lost control-well, it wasn’t an adventure anymore.
Though the kid who pinned me down was probably not much bigger than I, I fought for my life back then.
Because the enemy was allegedly an adult, I held back….
Sometimes, I think revenge would have tasted sweet. If only I hadn’t strolled outside and run into the scuffle.
I learned that I had the stamina to protect myself when in danger. My mother reminds me of a few judo tricks I learned young. She says it’s for when I’m in a big city in a dark alley or such places.
What I truly learned was this: some people, situations are not worth the fight. Not because of the rules of the yard or township or country. Because, as adults, we pick our battles, right?
Sure, I wanted to kick and scream like I was 6 years old again. But years later. This person is long gone from my life, and out of my bad date’s too. He and I are still friends. I guess I “won “after all... It would have been a bloody good fight though. I remind him sometimes.
Thank you all of you. I want to comment on each post, but I'm supposed to be working right now. Chris Spurrell...I am laughing laughing laughing!!!
ReplyDelete21st street Sacramento. No money. It doesn't grow on trees. Damn right. The studio on 21st by the railroad tracks. I'm hungry. I'm ten. My mom is always broke. At least she's not using food stamps anymore. She gives me a buck twenty or so that I have to pry from her grimy hands. All I want is a burger from Mickey D's, you know the golden arches. But a buck twenty will barely get me a small French fries. You know the one that comes in a paper bag not the slick cardboard cup. Love those salty fries. My mom would rather I ate tofu or any other dull healthy dry tasteless thing from the food co-op she belongs to. Hippie life. Anyway, I head out for my fries -- relax, this story's about money, about money not growing on trees -- down the street past the gypsies on the corner of 21st and Freeport. I run into this kid, forget his name, hanging on the front porch. My sis and I liked him despite his funny accent and the fact that he was a gypsy and his shady looking gypsy family was always selling crap like fake white porcelain statues of gods and shit on their lawn. I always wondered if they owned a covered wagon and drove around stealing and conning people out of their stuff like those gypsies on the Wild Wild West with Robert Conrad. I think that's where I'd seen the conning gypsies. Anyway, this kid asks me where I'm going and I tell him to Ronald's house. He knows what I mean. He wants to come -- seriously, I'm not so sure I might not be making this story up -- but I don't want him to because I get the feeling somewhere by the railroads tracks he's going to try and steal my money. But then I remember that I"m as big as him and will likely punch him right in the mouth if he tries. I figure he knows that and I shrug my shoulders like, "Alright." He says goodbye to his mom like he's shipping off to war. I think she even hugs him and kisses him, gross, weird, but I'm hoping she might toss him some spare change because I know if she doesn't he's going to try and mooch off of me. No luck. She doesn't even flip him a dirty dime but I figure, so what, he's just a gypsy kid, probably wondering how the hell he ended up on the corner selling crap to strangers. At a bench out near the kiddie McDonald play area I share my small fries with him. Apparently, money doesn't grow on his gypsy tree any better than mine.
ReplyDelete