Flourishing Thoughts

"class is in session"

“class is in session”

Free write this is the goal, to write without the need to edit, without the urgency to correct relieving all thoughts of being perfect, whatever perfect or perfection means. This is a difficult process for me because I have the overwhelming need to be perfect even though I’m far from it, maybe this is one of the many qualities I inherited from my mother, I wish I could inherit money, but being that nobody in THIS family is rich there is no chance of that happening, I could use the extra money.

I think we all have the need the urgency to be perfect when we know in our hearts there is no real sense of being perfect or perfection. I’m gearing away towards that now, the need to be perfect and  constant need to please people, I  guess age has shown me I don’t need to be perfect or need to please people. So now I work on doing things that make me happy, those hobbies that make me feel good when I’m in a sad mood, photography as a hobby seem to cure a sadden mood at least for me there was a time when taking photos meant nothing to me, it as just taking photos, nothing spectacular.

I remember my mother buying me a camera, this was a long time ago so it was one of those Kodak flat cameras with flash cubes, yes I’m dating myself,  my mother had the “knack” of trying to get me to be interested in stuff, I praise her for that, when I was a kid I just could not get into taking photos, I’m sure it had to do with the way I felt about myself. Now you can’t tear me away from my camera, I want to carry it everywhere I go, it’s not a fancy camera, I think it’s considered a mid-range digital camera, but I’m happy, very happy with the pictures I take and the way they “come out.”

So now I would like to pursue this interest much further, take a couple of classes, that are inexpensive classes of course because I have no hope of an inheritance of coming through. Writing is different from photography, photography always seem to turn out “right” but writing does not, maybe it’s just me, maybe writing is so much easier to be judged than photography, I don’t know, but having a hobby or two does keep me in a good mood when I’m taking a picture it seems so much easier to be “perfect” without even trying, I have to try really hard when I’m writing, to be perfect.

I sound like I’m being contradictory because I previously wrote that I’m beginning to stray away from the need to be perfect, it’s a work in progress, that’s what I believe we all are, a work in progress, a constant work in progress, we never stop the need for improving, growing, learning, when we stop that, we stop living, existing. Well that’s my ramble for today.

Day Nineteen Writing 101 Assignment involves free writing. On this free writing day, remember the words of author Anne Lamott: “I don’t think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid you won’t be good at it.”

Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.


True Friends

"class is in session"

“class is in session”

I felt so bad that Mrs. Pauley has to leave the neighborhood. It’s very sad at least for me. I’m sitting on my porch watching her sons pack all of her things, Mrs Pauley is sitting in her son’s car, she looks sad too. I don’t remember her sons much because they are so much older than me, but I remember Mr. and Mrs. Pauley. I don’t make friends easy, I like older people more, I guess because my parents are older, anyway instead of playing with the other kids I would go across the street and visit Mr. and Mrs Pauley. They would ask me if I would rather play with kids my age. I would say “No,” they would not press the issue, like mom and pa do. Play with kids your age, you’re much too young to hang with older people, don’t you think you would have more fun going outside playing and on and on and on. I said to my dad;

“Don’t you think if I thought playing with kids my own age, I would be outside playing?”

Let me say that wasn’t very smart of me. It landed me in my room for a month, I could not go anywhere but school, I could not do anything, not listen to the radio of any kind, listen or watch television, my father made sure he dotted all i’s and crossed all t’s when it comes to giving me directions, he says I’m too smart for my own good.

That month of punishment, was truly punishment, being away from the Pauley’s, I made sure I did not talk back to dad anymore, he sure knew how to hit a girl when she’s down. When Mr. Pauley died, I don’t know who cried harder, Mrs. Pauley she so funny she said, “Now who was married to John, his name was John Pauley, was it you or me, you cried more than I did. I happened to be the only kid at the funeral and the re-pass. I did my best to comfort Mrs. Pauley, well she did her best to comfort me, instead of me comforting and cheering her up, I mean she did lose a husband, she was cheering and comforting me. Anyway we got through and from then on in I was over her house everyday. Right after doing my homework, I flew out the door headed right over to Mrs. Pauley house. Now my best friend, my only friend, was leaving. What am I going to do now. I lost two friends, forever, this is the worst day of my entire life.

I could not go by without saying good-bye to Mrs. Pauley, so I walked across the street, to her son’s car. Tears were in my eyes, I saw Mrs. Pauley head hanging down.

“I’m going to really, really, really miss you Mrs. Pauley.”

She smiled, sort of.

“I’m going to miss you too sweetie, I was hoping to see you before taking off, I have something I would like for you to have.”

She reached down toward her feet and brings up this beautiful music box I had been admiring for so long. The one with grand piano and the pretty ballerina doll dancing across a stage once you open the lid. I don’t know the music, classical I think, but the ballerina doll is so pretty, I could watch and listen to the music all day, for me this is so therapeutic, better than any bike ride.

“Thank you” I started to cry very hard. She started to pat my hand.

“Oh now, don’t go on crying.”  “You stop being mean and start being friendly, you will make friends.” “We have memories and you will always be in my heart.”

*sniffling “Will I see you again?”

“Our paths will cross sometime in the far distant future and we will once again share joyful times, you, me and Mr. Pauley.”

We held onto each other hand, until her son finished packing the car. He smiled at me, I smiled back, I backed away from the car and watched the car rode away down the long lonely street. I held tight onto the music box gifted to me by Mrs. Pauley and slowly walked back to my porch.

This is writing 101 assignment day eighteen involves responding to the following prompt honing point of view: The neighbourhood has seen better days, but Mrs. Pauley has lived there since before anyone can remember. She raised a family of six boys, who’ve all grown up and moved away. Since Mr. Pauley died three months ago, she’d had no income. She’s fallen behind in the rent. The landlord, accompanied by the police, have come to evict Mrs. Pauley from the house she’s lived in for forty years.

Today’s prompt: write this story in first person, told by the twelve-year-old sitting on the stoop across the street.

Craft a story from the perspective of a twelve-year-old observing it all. For your twist, focus on specific character qualities, drawing from elements we’ve worked on in this course, like voice and dialogue.

Fear Overcometh Me

"class is in session"

“class is in session”










I don’t know what I fear more; extreme heights or public speaking, If I had the choice which is more fearful, it would probably be heights. I remember having to suffer through this class while I was attending college, I assumed this was most people’s “favorite” class, if definitely was mine (slight sarcasm here). But, with public speaking I can write a minute speech and it will be over and done, when it comes to heights, I will avoid climbing, overlooking extreme heights at all cost and I mean all cost, even if my life depended upon it. I get the same pulsing racing heart beat as the thought of giving a public speech, although when giving a speech it’s a love-hate relationship, my dislike for heights is pure hatred.









It’s more than just a racing heart beat but all the world around me starts to spin, my mind becomes fogged, I forget the century I’m living and I start to feel like I’m being torn away from Earth, it goes beyond vertigo, but I use to be able to tolerate the Ferris Wheel, I guess I’m a strange person.











When it comes to changing the light-bulbs that rest high within the ceiling or going up on the roof, I leave that for somebody else in fact I pay people to do these tasks for me, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground at all cost. I don’t know what it is that makes me so fearful of heights, a fear that has existed throughout my childhood, but it’s so much stronger now, maybe it’s because I’m short or chose to be brave in other ways. (I also don’t mind flying in an airplane which also adds another element to my strangeness).


This post is a part of Writing 101 Assignments. Writing 101, Day Seventeen: Your Personality on the Page We all have anxieties, worries, and fears. What are you scared of? Address one of your worst fears. Today’s twist: Write this post in a distinct style from your own.

Lost But not Forgotten

"class is in session"

“class is in session”

 Oh wow! I remember this. I said to myself as I was looking through a box for something, I now forgot what I was searching for, probably a book to read to my toddler son, I came across this book report I did when I was in the fourth grade. I remember the whole process. It started out as a book report I had to do for my class, the teacher gave us a choice of what person to choose but begged us not to choose the usual persons; Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, Martin Luther King, Jr., or Paul Laurence Dunbar, please search for someone not regularly heard about.  So I chose Dr. Charles Drew and this was a learning experience even though I tried to take the lazy way out.

My mother wanted me to read and really learn something new, which I did, reluctantly, I think what was on my mind at the time was going outside to play. So I finally finished the book report, I even put effort into the book cover, I was able to trace and color pictures very good so that is what I did, I carefully traced and colored Dr. Drew’s portrait.

My teacher was impressed and wanted me to re-do the report for a contest for a chance to win a hundred dollars savings bond for first place, seventy-five dollars savings bond for second place and fifty dollars savings bond for third place. I wasn’t really excited about this, I wasn’t going to tell my mother but miraculously she knew by the time I got home, so much for that brilliant idea. I spent the next two days re-writing the report and the cover page.

By the end of the contest I managed to win second place, I was surprised, mildly excited and somewhat proud. Seeing this book report brought back some pleasant memories, the memories everyone love. Struggling with my mother doing this report, wanting to do nothing but play, my mother “forcing” me to put my best foot forward and having it all work out for the best when I won seventy-five dollars even though it was a savings bond.

For Writing 101 Assignment Day Sixteen the goal is to  imagine you work in a place where you manage lost or forgotten items. What might you find in the pile? For those participating in our serial challenge, reflect on the theme of “lost and found,” too.

Imagine you had a job in which you had to sift through forgotten or lost belongings. Describe a day in which you come upon something peculiar, or tell a story about something interesting you find in a pile. I  took a little different approach.


It’s “D” Day

"class is in session"

“class is in session”


I’m so excited! My outfit is picked out, today I’m wearing royal blue, not just any type of blue, royal. It’s a special day for me because this is a celebration for every person whose name begins with the letter “D” in this small town. I know I’m not the only one in this little dinky town whose name begin with the letter “D”, but I feel as if the day was meant for me.I went all out, this year, to look good for this event, well in all fairness my mom went all out, because in her words; “I have no money,” she constantly reminds me of this, but that’s another story, anyway my mom brought me this pretty royal blue dress, I spent hours or should I say we spent hours at the hairdressers getting the perfect curls, and what goes better with a dress than blue shoes, blue suede shoes. It’s an all day event but I got ready six in the morning, I don’t get ready this early when I have to go to school, in fact I fake sleep as long as I can.

The town commissioner has decided he wanted to celebrate everyone. To do this one day is set aside in celebration of a letter representing a person’s name, like June 1st will be for all persons who name begins with the letter “A,” June 2nd for the letter “B.” My name begins with “D,” I particularly don’t care for anyone else. As I was making sure everything about my outfit was perfect, no wrinkle, no fuzz spots, my parents came into my room. They looked sad.

“What’s wrong, why ‘y’all look so sad?”

They sat down on my bed, asked me to sit beside them, I thought to myself this can’t be good, has something happen to grandma or grandpa?

“The event has been….cancelled.”

“Cancelled?”  “What do you mean?”

“This town is in a coo, and we are to stay inside until further notice.”

“A what?” “What the heck is a coo?” “What’s going on, I don’t get it.” “Am I being punked?”

“Honey, the town is being taking over by militia.”

“Who the heck is Militia, why can’t the police be called and escort her out of town?”

“It’s not a her, it’s a military group that takes control of the government.”

“So I don’t get my day?”

My dad looked sad, worried.

“No!” “We have to….”

“Oh this is some bull…..”

“Darcie!!!”  “Watch your language!!”  “They… may be watching us!!”

“I don’t care if they, whoever they are, are watching us, this is MY day, NOBODY MESSES WITH MY DAY” “Why can’t we chase these militia military people out and get on with my day?”

“It’s not that simple, sweetie.” “Let’s just sit….”

I started to jump up and down, pace back and forth, I was looking for something to kick, to punch, to destroy. I started to scream as loud as I could.

“Sit down, darling, calm down.”


“Darcie!!” My dad used his big, bold, angry voice.  “Sit!!!” “Relax” “We have to sit and wait for instructions.”

I sat next to my parents on the bed.

“This is some bull.”


A writing 101 assignment Day fifteen: Finding your voice: Think about an event you’ve attended and loved. Your hometown’s annual fair. That life-changing music festival. A conference that shifted your worldview. Imagine you’re told it will be cancelled forever or taken over by an evil corporate force.

How does that make you feel?


On Pilgrimage

"class is in session"

“class is in session”


My Dear Honorable Guide:

Do it now for the first time, that was your letter to me. Now this is my letter to you, pleading for guidance I can’t do this pilgrimage alone. I don’t even know where I’m suppose to go, what does this journey mean, what path to take? I need a guide, that is what you promised me the first time we met, remember?  Now you say I can, must complete this journey on my own. You know guides that have wisdom far from what I can comprehend.

I can’t embark on this journey all by myself, there is so much I don’t know, but your guide knows. I don’t even know what I’m suppose to search for. How am I suppose to go by this? What do I need to do? Your guide, the guide which you promise me can direct me. I don’t even know where this journey begins and where does it ends. Won’t you send someone, someone who’s full of wisdom, who can guide me, tell me what I need to do, what does this journey mean?

This journey you say is a long one, what better way to share a journey so long than with someone who has wisdom, that can guide me until the completion of this journey, guide me along this path, whatever this path suppose to be, you said I need to do this pilgrimage, this journey and search for treasure, well a guide, your guide, a guide which you promised to provide to help me, teach me. Don’t let me travel this road alone, don’t allow me to walk this path all by myself, I know this is my path, my path alone, but won’t this journey be better, won’t this lesson be more meaningful with the assistance from your guide?

I’m pleading with you, send a guide, your most knowledgeable, most wise guide for this once in a life time pilgrimage.



your pilgrim



Now on Day Fourteen of Writing 101 the goal is to Pick up the nearest book and flip to page 29. What’s the first word that jumps off the page? Use this word as your springboard for inspiration. If you need a boost, Google the word and see what images appear, and then go from there. 

Today’s twist: write the post in the form of a letter.

You have a number of options: you can write a letter to the word or an image, or an open letter to the world inspired by the word. You could pen a series of imaginary notes between you and a friend, or between two fictional characters, or between old you and young you.



Found treasure?

"class is in session"

“class is in session”

It was hidden between a bunch of dusty oldies records and some books, my mother’s eighth grade year book, clearly she had no intention on it ever being found. But leave it to a nosy ten-year old girl to find it. I looked through this year book, I felt I was in a time warm warp of the fifties, black and white photos, girls with very old hair styles, wearing cat eyed glasses, and the boys wearing big rimmed glasses, looking at these kids photos I feel like I’m watching some of those old movies my mother make me watch.

Then I search for my mother’s picture, she wasn’t wearing glasses, she looked like a little girl, not a girl who was thirteen or fourteen. Her hair was curled and slightly pushed back with a headband. This too was a popular style with the girls in this yearbook. I know I was looking for something, but finding this yearbook changed my focus. I grabbed the book and ran upstairs from the basement, my mother was in the kitchen getting ready to cook dinner.

“Look what I found”  I showed her the yearbook. She looked “enthused.”

“Oh where did you find this, I thought I left it behind somewhere?”

She probably wished she did.

“I found it between some old records and books.” “Were you trying to hide it?”

“Oh no, I just packed it with some books, it’s been so long that I almost forgot I had this.”

Deep inside I knew she was lying, I did not think she had anything to be ashamed of.

“Why were you looking at old books and records?”

“I wasn’t really looking at the books, I was looking at the records, I wanted to listen to them, I just started to look at the books too.”

So we began to look at the yearbook together, she told me the name of the hairstyles in the fifties, mainly older girls were allowed to wear this style and not one girl wore pants. The dress code was pretty strict during those times, girls use to try to get away with wearing “mini” dresses but was sent home and put on detention. I asked her if she was ashamed of the way she looked. She told me she did not like the way she looked, she did not like the school although she did have quite of number of friends. I told her I did not see anything wrong with the way she looked, she did not look like a teenager to me, she looked like a little girl with curls and a head band. I guess my mother was ashamed that her teeth was not straight, her family did not have a lot of money and what I gathered with her sharing stories of her middle school and judging from the pictures of those kids who also attended the same school, their families did not have a lot of money.

I asked her if she wanted me to put the yearbook in her room. She still wanted me to put her yearbook back in the basement among the dusty books. I did as she requested and continued to look through old albums to see which one I would like to hear, I did spend some time listening to old albums after I was finished I went back into that old stack of books, took out my mother’s yearbook and sneaked it  into my room. I would often look through my mother’s yearbook, until the time I had a yearbook of my own. I found myself doing the same thing my mother did, hiding the yearbook in a closet or a box, it’s still hidden, somewhere, maybe my eighth grade yearbook will be found by someone, or if I find it I may burn it.

Keeping up with the challenges of writing 101 This for Day Thirteen: Tell us about the time you retrieved your favorite t-shirt from your ex. Or when you accidentally stumbled upon your fifth-grade journal in your parents’ attic. Or how about the moment you found out the truth about a person whose history or real nature you thought you’d figured out. Interpret this theme of “finding something” however you see fit.


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