I Don't Want to Write Letters to God

I don't want to write letters to You.
I want to steal away to a quiet place,
to feel the fresh and invigorating sunlight on my skin
and to know vividly that it is one of the wonders wrought by Your hand.
Your hand, alone, Oh God of Jacob
(and of Paris and Napa Valley and the Dead Sea,
and of Acorn Lane, where my knees were skinned,

palms sweaty from playground sand and monkey bars),
the God who quiets my heart and knows me
without misunderstanding, without manipulation
or assumptions or overlooking for something better, beyond.
I want to breathe air that is fresh- Your design,
and hear Your whisper on the wind- but closer,
to know Your nearness, nearer than the light

that filters through the maple leaves on a Spring morning.
I want to steal away into the quiet by Your invitation
for a leaning in, a softly spoken murmuring,
a dialog of ease and rest, a spell-binding conversation.
I want to hear Your voice, to know your cadence (-if only!)
to feel the love with my heart that I know with my head,
to have one look- to know You're looking back into my eyes

and feel that I am seen and known and understood and felt.
That one moment, a visit between friends, but so much more,
an adulterer and her Savior, a beggar and her King,
a helpless flounderer and the ardent Rescuer of her soul,
to still the anxious flutterings of my heart, the endless questions
of insecurity, the efforts to prove oneself, the desire to be known,
and to rest, and rest, and rest for eternity in the arms of my heart's One True Love.

Potty Training in (Re)Verse

It's the world's longest potty training

in which nothing is gaining,

only losing:

towels, clothes, sanity,

previously folded laundry

for a toddler's untrained musing

while standing in doorways

dripping, hesitating.

My head is tilted sideways,

asking, "Really?"

How long will this last?

Nobody knows, but the past

tells me not to hope,

only mop and regain scope

while wiping, waiting on her

flushing, frustrating

every daily intention.

And did my toddler mention

(oh, please let it be, once again)

that this puddle is not apple juice

I'm currently standing in?

An Ash Wednesday Psalm

Waste the flesh away

Waste! Waste!

But not the time of day.

Heed the Word of God

For thy Shield, thy Rod

Will hold thee fast.

Of earthly gold be rid;

Only this: Life hid

In Christ will last!

Contemplating the Unnatural Mother

          I reside in the mundane, living out the "softness" of the maternal season of womanhood. For me, the stay-at-home-mom life is a vista imbued with over-the-sink sills giving way to trash can-lined street scenes. It's the rolling in and crashing out of the seasons, the quiet thrumming and daily churning of a small but meaningful life.

          I question myself as much as I question the inscrutable images of other mothers, of other home life methods, comparing the variety of formulas, and weighing the pros and cons of every ritual and rule. And I come away with a resounding question mark, an unsolvable equation. Some mothers are master organizers, whipping out frugal solutions like a magician's rabbits. Others have mastered the art of riding out the waves, finding discomfort comfortable and chaos poetic. I admire both for their achievements and gifting.

          For a while, I grabbed a hold of the idea that there exist natural mothers and unnatural mothers. I decided that women who thrive in chaos, or at least more easily accept the nearly constant state of floundering that comes with sleepless nights, milk supply issues, and toddler tantrums, are the naturals. Some women, I supposed, truly love changing dirty diapers and scoff at the idea of doing anything else, or even wanting to do anything else, ever. Women like myself, I decided, who feel a distinct need for creative outlets, or who thrive in order and revel in routine, are just naturally...well, bad at motherhood.

          At some point, though, I started to suspect that if a lot of mothers look alike to me, then perhaps I'm just not looking very closely.

          Slowly, I'm beginning to accept the idea that there are not natural mothers and unnatural ones in as much as there is a vast variety of parenting styles, situations, convictions, and personalities which come into play to form the complete picture of anyone's experience of motherhood. I didn't cease to be a complicated, ambitious woman when I became a mother. She's all still there, sometimes crying into her cold coffee, and sometimes stomping on the cellar door with her daughters while the dog yelps like mad and I imagine we're princesses at a pow-wow.

          In short, I guess I'm becoming more and more comfortable with the idea that I'm dancing to the beat of my own maternal drum. If any other mothers out there feel out of place or ill-equipped for the job, don't listen to the lie that you're not made to do this.

          Just keep dancing, Darling. Just keep dancing.

Sincerely,
Natasha

Composting Roses

Composting Roses

The scandalous scent of dying roses emits a harbinger for some,
the effluvium of slow vacancy. Water and vase,
mold-laced, overwhelm the room and turn my kitchen thoughts,
wind them 'round filmy, gangrened corners
for a moment,
leaving me sepulchered.

Shunning dim bulb light,
I collapse my spirit,
(-and here:
pause)

partaking
of the great art
of lace-winged
humans,
               to blow hard
into the proverbial handkerchief
and wait until the dawn will rise (not rose)

And petal-death scent fades
to give way to something cleaner
and honest, like the harsh gulping of black coffee in ceramic and clay.



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I'm interested to hear your thoughts. I enjoy playing with white space in poetry, and using font styling and punctuation to more accurately reflect an impression. What is conjured for you? What do you like about it? What do you dislike about it? My hope is that there is much to interact with, much to contemplate. I realize it's a bit obtuse and I beg you to get past the very rational "what the heck?!" knee-jerk reaction to phrases like, "effluvium of slow vacancy" and take the time to go deeper. Follow the train of thought throughout each sentence, take it slow, and ask yourself what you see, feel, and are reminded of when, during, and after reading. Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts.


In other news, my publisher and I have decided to lower the retail price of the paperback of Wolves and Men to $11.99! I honestly looked for the absolute lowest price I could possibly afford because my greatest priority is to share the book with as many readers as possible!

The up-to-date list of locations for purchase are:

-Full Circle Bookstore, Oklahoma City, OK
-Hastings Books, Yukon, OK
-BDC Gunroom, Shawnee, OK
-Blue Seven, Oklahoma City, OK
-Steep and Savor (Click the Wolves and Men, A Novel tab above)
-www.beecreativeinc.com
-www.barnesandnoble.com

You can also find the ebook version at a ridiculously low price at:

-www.amazon.com


If you haven't had a chance yet, please add your review of Wolves and Men on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, and Goodreads.com.

Thank you for reading!

Sincerely,

Natasha W. 

Giveaway at The Pen and Whisk

I'm so excited to share that the talented blogger, editor, and book reviewer Katie Dupre is hosting a giveaway of Wolves and Men on her blog, The Pen and Whisk!

Follow the link to enter to win! A winner will be chosen tomorrow (Friday) afternoon!

http://www.thepenandwhisk.com/2015/02/giveaway-wolves-and-men.html

Good luck!

...

Who are your favorite must-read bloggers out there?

What kind of content do you like to find in a blog?

The Great Exotic Elsewhere

Lake Thunderbird

I used to dream about going far away and being somebody else. I often wondered with great distress how I would ever get to a, b, or c, (<insert names of glorified European countries) and how could I ever become this other, more exotic, more interesting person? And when I thought of the possibility that I may never get there and may never be some other person...well, it was depressing. 

One thing that writing has taught me is to stop looking far away and zero in on the life you’ve been given. Instead of aching to be someone who is taller, shorter, older, skinnier, smarter, or someone with a fascinating accent and a history entirely different from your own...pay attention to what you have and where you are. 

In Italy, speaking italian isn’t exotic, and in France, it isn’t necessarily interesting to be French. They are just people, too. And the places they grew up in are just their hometowns. That Great Exotic Elsewhere is another human’s backyard. It is the canvas for their mundane, everyday experiences. And yet, when I truly grasp this, it opens my eyes to the eccentricities and beauty of my own backyard, my hometown, my people, and my story.  I don’t know the history or the intricate movements of an italian’s backyard. I only know mine that way. (Okay, so technically I just moved and I don’t know my own backyard very well. But bear with me here. This isn’t just a lesson for writers.)

What I’m saying is, in order to dig deep and write to the best of my ability, I had to get into the practice of engaging with my very own life. Instead of viewing my upbringing in Little Axe, Oklahoma, America (rather than, say, Paris, France) as a burden of limitations, I began to see it as something that can be grounding and fresh, like nourishing roots. Instead of viewing my everydayness as mundane, I began to look at my life as a thing that only I can be truly intimate with. Nobody knows my life like I do. Nobody knows what it’s like to be in Natasha’s skin, to have grown up daydreaming out the window of Bus Number Nine, or to have explored the snowy woods of my front yard with my brother and loyal border collie, Molly. I own that story. And my history, hometown, family, and fellow Oklahomans are all a well of nourishment I draw on when I’m writing a novel, such as Wolves and Men. I’m not from the Great Exotic Elsewhere. I’m from the Right Here. I’m from Little Axe. I’m from dusty summer roads, rose rock gardens, red clay ditches, Lake “Dirty Bird” biking trails, and mimosa-lined highways. It’s the view to which I’ve been given a front row seat, and it’s something I’ve learned to embrace.

So, with that said, I challenge you to do the same. How would someone who grew up on the other side of the world view your history and your story, except as something exotic, fresh, and fascinating? Nobody knows your story like you do. But it takes being intentional in order to see our own lives with fresh, creative eyes. Value your own, intimate perspective of the world. See it for the truly unique and interesting thing it is. And then tell me about it. I’d love to hear from you. 

...

Can you describe a scene, moment, or image that only you own? 

Have you ever been somewhere you’d always wanted to visit, only to find out it wasn’t as amazing as you’d expected? 

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I will be at the Bean and Berry Coffee in the Shawnee Mall on Saturday, February 28th from 1pm to 3pm, signing books, giving away free bookmarks, and hosting a gift card giveaway! Come purchase a book, get it signed, chat about the book, pick up your free bookmark, and enter to win! 

I will also be at the March INK event at Full Circle Books in OKC on Saturday, March 21st from 3pm to 5pm to sign books and chat about Wolves and Men!