She Let Go – Ernest Holmes

I feel like my last post was super-negative and I don’t want to go a month on that note. I’ve been meditating with the Insight Timer app and came across this lovely poem, which really spoke to me in a downer moment. And I wanted to share it mostly to have something more uplifting at the top of the page for a while.

She Let Go – Ernest Holmes

She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go… She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go. She didn’t journal about it. She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn’t call the prayer line. She didn’t utter one word. She just let go.

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go. There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.


Friday Fictioneers: Homeland


PHOTO PROMPT c. Roger Bultot

get the InLinkz code

Rose crossed the border illegally when she was still a small child, too young to remember. That’s the truth as they’ve told her, so says the immigration official with the kind but firm eyes.

She wants to join the military, to serve her country and, okay, to help herself through college. That’s how the truth came out.

In her heart, she is a patriot. She loves this country, the country of her heart – if not her legal birth.

She waits at the metal table with held breath to find out what will happen next.

IWSG: Find Your Voice


Well, here is February. Like many people in my local area, I’m a bit cabin-feverish. I’ve managed to dig out my driveway, cutting a path through the snow drifts, but the roads are scary,  reduced to 1 1/2 lanes at unexpected, brake-hitting moments. I find myself only going out when absolutely necessary.

I have had more than usual amount of time to think – and read – and write.

I recently read Stephen King’s newly updated Salem’s Lot.


I can’t lie; I love his prose, especially his early novels. Every time I hear the phrase “turtles all the way down” I think fondly of It. (And how as kids who read the book we’d have fun with the pronoun.)

IT cover

Anyway, in the foreword to Salem’s Lot, King compares creating a novel to breathing and outlining to artificial respiration. And, I thought, ouch! That was really funny – and cutting. Perhaps there is something to that, not the outlining part which is personal, but having the courage to speak in a cutting – and funny – way. Some might say – well, he can say that because he’s *Stephen King* but I wonder sometimes if in part he’s *Stephen King* because he is willing to say things like that.

I need to find my voice. I was reminded of a song I wrote when I was young and naive, and wrote songs intended to encourage. One of the lines went “Find your will, find your spirit, find your voice.” The words haunt me, like a ghost of something I once knew. Writing, to me, is in part this bug, this childhood fantasy I can’t quite let go of or forget.

What about you? How do you find your voice? How do you create? What do you most respect in other writers? Has a writer ever spoken especially to you?



Friday Fictioneers & A-Z Challenge: Island Dreams


PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast

This is my post for Friday Fictioneers and the A-Z Challenge, a hundred word story in response to the prompt and my entry for the letter I. For more stories click the frog and for more fun “I” stuff, check out the challenge!

Island Dreams

Funny the things we tell ourselves.

I’m better off without you.

Couples with children noisily talk, laugh, play, while I turn the page in the latest epic adventure tale of the moment.

Maybe I’m not really an island. Maybe I’m a causeway gurgling beneath the surf. Maybe I’m the chain between two box-cars, shattered, destroyed, and useless without you.

Then again, maybe I like my freedom, the open sky, no arguments, no promises to “never again,” no cops called by concerned neighbors. Maybe I am an island glistening amidst living waters, trundling peacefully along the track of my new life.

E- On Eagle’s Wings


This is my entry for the A-Z challenge. (For some reason I can’t seem to save the A-Z letter images to my computer (it saves as an HTML no matter what I do, which is really weird). Anyone know why?)

On Eagle’s Wings

Screams pierce the flaming night.

They always say it is darkest before the dawn, but not this time.

Another voice of “wisdom”: if you saw your friends jumping off a bridge, would you do it too?

But mommy, but what if the bridge was on fire?

Uncertain, terrified, I close my eyes and leap, hopeless, hoping, into the swirling deep, as if childish choices could catch me. As if, perhaps, we are wise before we learn better.

If anyone is listening, if anyone can see, may we be borne up, free from this trap of death. And if I should die this night, then may the Lord keep my soul – or whatever.

My body hits water. I sink briefly. Then, I swim up and out to shore. From there, I’m free to head back to my grown up, rational world, only occasionally haunted by moments in between, when for a second I was floating, as if carried as if on eagle’s wings. Also, I’m really glad my car was fully insured.


I’m not a thoroughly practicing religionist by any means, but I always wonder while sitting in the packed church for Easter, where are all these people most Sundays? Why come to church one day a year? I thought it would be fun to write about a not super-religious guy who has a brief religious experience – and then moves on.

Friday Fictioneers: Awakening

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Here’s my story for Friday Fictioneers. Am lagging again this week, sorry! For more stories, click the froggy:

Reluctantly, the weary soul rises from her long slumber, dusting the mist of ignorance from her sleep-encrusted eyes. At last free from the seemingly unending dungeon, the crystal clear colors of reality are at first too bright. Fearful, she flees, returning to the world she once knew, a world now pale, now lifeless, to her waking eyes.

Despondent, yet hopeful, she must learn the ancient lesson: truths learned can never be forgotten. Once awake, once truly awake, it is impossible to ever sleep again. Weary, but determined, she must turn and prepare to greet the day again.

Okay, this week I’ve been spending a lot of time researching Greek-influenced mystical works for a project in progress. This story is partly inspired by our beautiful photo, partly by Plato’s famous Cave, and partly by one of my favorite songs (which I’ve had on repeat play while waiting for this looong winter and my gloomy mood to end!)