Freedom of Voice

Two years ago, I wrote about ditching resolutions in favor of realizations --my attempt to address the underlying causes of the things I needed to change about myself.  I made it all the way to realization #1 and never wrote about it again. Until now. Realization #2: Anything that requires sustained attention and commitment is not my thing.  OK, OK. It's a bit of an exaggeration. I would say a 26-almost-27-year-old marriage is proof that I can indeed commit to something for the long-term. But, oddly enough, when it comes to commitments to myself, I fall short. It used to be a big mystery to me. Why do I work my ass off (literally) to lose weight and get in shape only to fall back into comfortable habits that have me reaching for my comfortable yoga pants in lieu of tight jeans? Why do I commit to writing every day only to let my pen ink run dry from lack of use? Why do I research getting my master's degree only to let it fall by the wayside? Why do I spend hours upon hours...

Even though I'm a huge fan of the song, "Silent Night," what I really love is a silent morning. I am having such a moment right now. Since my furry little sidekick can't tell the difference between a weekday morning and a weekend morning, I have been up since 5:45. Would I love to sleep until 6:30, possibly 7? Sure. But, as I sit here, Christmas tree lit up, coffee in hand, half of an asiago cheese bagel toasty and warm and ready to eat (there was only one left, and I took the bottom half, leaving the top for John. If that's not love, I don't know what is), dog curled up next to me--asleep already--I can honestly say I'm reveling in the silence. Don't get me wrong. I love the company of others--chatting is my favorite past time--but, sometimes not having to say anything is kind of nice. It gives me a minute to reflect on things like how blessed I am, how filled with gratitude I am to have this life, even in the midst of some trying situations that ar...

I'm in a weird little funk this holiday season. There's very little la in my fa, if any. Back in my hay day, I mailed Christmas cards the day after Thanksgiving, had all my shopping done before Thanksgiving (I once vowed to never go to a mall after Thanksgiving--a consequence of working retail and seeing how crazy people got), and had all my gifts wrapped early in December (minus the Santa gifts, of course).  I have never decked all of my halls, but the tree was always decorated, and there was some evidence of Christmas in the main areas of the house. This year, well, not so much. I just got Christmas cards stuffed in the mail slot and finished my shopping yesterday. The tree skirt is fully exposed--not one wrapped gift to be found. To top it off, I'm pretty sure my son has seen the stuff I bought him in the closet of a guest room I thought he wasn't going to open. We bought a new tree, but I didn't dig out any of the family ornaments that are safely tucked away i...

Last year, a friend asked for a list of my top ten favorite songs. He did the same with my husband and his wife. Then, he made playlists from all of our top tens and played them. Mine were all thoughtful, soulful songs with meaningful lyrics (see last week's post for some insight into why). Theirs were all upbeat, fun, and well, sometimes just silly. I don't remember all the songs I named (it was an on-the-spot situation), but I know the Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony," The Rolling Stone's "Wild Horses," and U2's "Bad" all made the list. Needless to say, my songs went over like a turd in a punchbowl. Those lyrics meant something to me but didn't have the same impact on them. We ended up listening to one of Joe's top ten--"Welcome to My House" by DJ Sungh--ad nauseam that evening. I don't ever need to hear that song again. Ever. I will admit that most of my music listening happens when I am in the car, and my ...

"You came out of the womb acting like an adult," my paternal grandmother would say to me sarcastically. I often wondered how she made such an observation since we only saw her once a year from my birth until we moved to Florida when I was 10. But, apparently, those times were enough for her to draw that conclusion. Not that I would have ever said this to her--lack of respect for any adults was not tolerated in my family--but in my defense, I felt that it was expected. I was the oldest of three girls. I was told explicitly and repeatedly I had to set the example for my younger sisters. Acting silly often got me in trouble--not because I did anything wrong but because it irritated one or both of my parents. In her defense, I am inherently mature--to a fault. I bossed my cousins and sisters around. Took charge of most situations with friends. Became an unwitting leader. I was often viewed as stuck up by my peers, surely because I looked at them like they had five heads whe...

Recently, my friend Helen shared an article from the  New York Times with  13-word love stories  it solicited from its readers. Always up for a challenge, I responded to her thread on Facebook: A blind date arranged by my airheaded sister became love at first sight.  Of course, there's a lot more to the story, but it was fun condensing it into one line. So, I decided to use 13 words to describe other life events. It's especially fitting because in my house, 13 is a favorite number, a lucky number. For those of you who like a challenge, this is a fun one. I'd love to see your 13-word stories or descriptions in the comments section! Parenthood Wiping butts, noses, spills, and tears until there's nothing left to wipe up.  A bundle of emotions--the good, bad and ugly--wrapped in a blanket.  The hungry love that chews its way into every cell, swallows you whole.    Career When you receive a paycheck for pursuing your passion...

It's not a coincidence that more than one very important person in my life has recently exclaimed, "You need to get back to work!" I believe that messages are all around us. Some are subtle; this one was not. I don't disagree. In fact, I am one of those important people. Flashback to that 80's PSA showing an uncracked egg, the narrator announcing, "This is your brain." OK. Then, in dramatic fashion, the egg is cracked wide open and dropped it in a hot cast iron pan. As it sizzles, he proclaims, "This is your brain on drugs! Any questions?" Yeah, I have one: Who wants a fried brain? Not me. I can assure you my brain isn't the fried variety--more like soft boiled, maybe even scrambled. Don't get me wrong, my 6-month sabbatical has not been spent lounging on the couch eating bonbons and watching soap operas all day. I started writing a book. I completed the Artist's Way, a 12-week creative recovery program. Took an online grat...

What happens when you commit to posting a weekly blog piece--one that will show the world your heart--and all the thoughts and ideas swirling in your head prevent you from honing in on a publish-worthy piece? You admit it. My problem isn't a lack of ideas, it's too many ideas. After a four-day inspiring writing conference in Sanibel, I left pumped about micro memoirs and other tiny texts and new forms of poetry to try. The following evening, I saw a fantastic stage version of The Giver that left me contemplating the human condition. Four days after that, we went to the Imagine Dragons concert. The energy from that is still coursing through my veins. I am buzzing--like someone hopped on too much caffeine. "Let it percolate!" my friend Laurie would say. I'm percolating all right. I just wish I had some fresh brew to serve my friends.

For the past few weeks, I've unwittingly abandoned my normal "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade" attitude and have adopted a "when life gives you lemons, find the sourest one there is and suck on it until you pucker so hard your face collapses into itself" philosophy. It's not a good look. Not only does it not look good, it doesn't feel good. Anyone who knows me knows I much prefer bitter, intense flavors--think dry red wine, sharp cheese, straight up espresso, hot sauce--to mellow or sugary bites. But my taste in food and drink doesn't necessarily match my personality. Not that I'm always Sally Sunshine, but for the most part, I do lean toward the optimistic side of the feelings meter. It all finally came to a head early last week. It will hereafter be known as Meltdown Monday. John came home for lunch, a real treat at the moment because I'm not back to work yet, and it's kind of nice to see him in the middle of the day.  W...

My good friend and fellow writer, Helen Sadler, posted this quote by Michael Xavier to a page she created for a few of us attending the Sanibel Island Writer's Conference this week: So You want to be tough You want to be rebellious You want to be a badass Then show your heart to everyone... EVERYONE. Whenever she throws down the gauntlet, I am willing to accept the challenge. In fact, this one just helped push me into something I was already thinking of doing: Sharing my blog in its entirety with everyone on social media, not just posting pieces here and there but mostly keeping it within my safe writing circle.  My writing is where I truly wear my heart on my sleeve, leaving me feeling pretty vulnerable at times. The empty page is my playground at times, my therapist at others. It oozes with authenticity, bleeds my true feelings.  I've decided to be tough, rebellious, and, well badass, I first have to be brave enough to show the contents of my heart...

As I sat Bonita Beach this morning, notebook and coffee in hand, the dolphins that came to say "hello" to my friend and I the month before were absent. In their place were birds--pelicans, seagulls, sanderlings, and snowy egrets--on the shore and bobbing in shallow waters, grabbing their morning meal. I started writing in my journal as the waves crashed on the shore, the cool breeze licking my arms, the sun warming my shoulders. My writing complete, I dug my toes into the shell-strewn sand and started to observe my surroundings more closely. More birds--and more people--had congregated. A few joggers went by. A couple of elderly ladies caught my attention with their sweatsuits, visors, tennis shoes. Their stroll was slow and purposeful, their glances fixed on the ground ahead of them, a plastic Publix bag sagging with seashells. As they ambled by, they debated if what they plucked from the sand was worthy of being tossed in the grocery bag, destined for some jar on the back...

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." That line from "Closing Time" by Semisonic plays on a loop in my head every time I hear the song. It makes me contemplate what an end really looks like, if it even exists. We have tons of phrases that relate to the word  end. Some that come to mind: All's well that ends well. The end of my rope At the end of the day Loose ends At my wits' end The end of the road Burn the candle at both ends End of the line Going off the deep end Holding the wrong end of the stick Fairy tale ending The light at the end of the tunnel Begin with the end in mind What I hate about the idea of an end is the abruptness with which one thing stops and another starts, the lack of connection between the events in our lives that it implies. I don't think life works that way at all. Instead, I believe that every situation--whether we perceive it as negative or positive--builds toward another. Every thin...

Incidents like the mass shooting in Vegas have many engaging in some long overdue soul-searching, including me.  This morning as I journaled, I dug deeper, started mining what's in my heart. Fueled by coffee and the need for some answers, I relentlessly dredged into the depths, leaving no stone unturned. It led me to this burning question: What is love? It's a word we like to throw around, make cute phrases out of, but do we know what it really  entails? I began my list: It means to lay aside blame, shave away prejudices, forgive flaws, lend a hand, even when it means sacrificing my own needs and wants, see everyone--and I mean every one-- through a lens of compassion. Then, it hit me: there's a profound definition of love in the Bible. A quick Google search helped me find 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7: Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it ...

Inspired by my friend and fellow writer, I used this line from Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz's poem, "Capri" to write my own poem: What did you do with your life, what did you do? It's a question with an ever-changing answer, so I look forward to re-visiting it at different times in my life. Thank you, Helen, for issuing the challenge! What did you do with your life? What did you do? Did you face your demons, slay them, and send them back to the hell from which they were unleashed?  Did you lift a friend up with encouraging words, supporting her through an awful time, only to find you needed to heed your own sage advice? Did you fiercely protect your time, the time you needed to do things important to you, even when life tried to steal it from you? Did you strap on your armor against the evils of the world--the hate, the absurdity, the pain, the suffering--and win one battle--no matter how small--to counteract it? Did you take the time to thank th...

Fear blocks us,  paralyzes us, renders us useless, makes us angry, frustrated, mean, narrow-minded. I always say I fear the unknown,      but that sounds so stupid now. To fear the unknown is to fear life itself,      for how much do we really know? Fear is an excuse, a cop-out, a crutch, a trap, a self-made prison. I’m so busy being afraid, cowering in some corner, I miss the opportunities that pass by. Some may return but many won’t.

It’s OK to mourn your old life while embarking on your new one. Beyond-wise words from a friend—one who has restarted her life many times, one whose Zen-like approach to life has become my personal goal. She embodies calmness in the midst of chaos.  And, so here I sit—sad that I can’t just call a friend or my daughter to meet me for a pedicure, an impromptu trip to TJ Maxx, or a walk around the neighborhood. Pining away for those opportunities—even though I didn’t see everyone as often as I should have, taking for granted the close proximity and availability—missing my job and the connections I made with students and peers, despite the challenging—and sometimes frustrating—nature of it.  It begs the question: How do I move along without moving on?  To me, moving on implies leaving all of that behind. I am not willing to do that.  In contrast, moving along means I will carry my old life with me as my journey continues in a different place, keeping th...

Still dizzy from the merry-go-round, he stumbled over to the grassy area of the park, staring at the ground to force his head to stop spinning. Once his eyes focused, he spotted two little white puffs in the midst of the sand and patchy grass. He strolled over to get a closer look. A pair of tiny white flowers stuck out from the ground. He looked back in the direction where his mother sat, scowling at nothing in particular. He wasn't sure what he had done to make her mad this time, but it didn't take much these days--dribbling Kool-aid on his t-shirt, leaving the cap off the toothpaste, laughing too loudly while watching cartoons, sticking his tongue out at his little sister all triggered her. All he knew is she proclaimed they were going to the park for a while because she couldn't take one more minute being cooped up in the house with two brats pestering her every second of the day. It was a welcome reprieve from her normal reaction to snatch him up and shake h...

There are a multitude of times in the Bible when angels appear to advise humans to "fear not." Some will say there are 365 times to match our 365-day calendar, while others have debunked this inaccuracy.  I don't really care about the numbers--I'm not into data or trying to prove anything here. What I find equally intriguing and disturbing is our use of fear as a weapon--a way to hold ourselves and others back, keep everyone in check, get what we want. Fear is a weapon of mass destruction, one we both use and fall prey to on the daily.  Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of success, fear of death, fear of what comes after death--fear grips us and has a negative impact on the decisions we make, big and small. It prevents us from living an authentic life and hinders our accomplishments. And, at its worse, fear is the foundation for hatred and misunderstanding--the building blocks that create walls between us.  We don't need bombs to blow things u...

I was never allowed to cook in my mom's kitchen.  She may have let me help prep at times--I truly don't remember--but, for the most part, it was her kitchen, and she hated messes.  She has always had a very particular way she likes things done, and cleaning up as you go is a must. I, on the other hand, am kind of a disorderly cooker, preferring to whip up a mess along with my culinary creations. I lived at home part of the time I was dating John, and I wanted to invite him to dinner--one I cooked myself.  I decided on chicken parmesan and happily set out to make him and my parents a meal we could all enjoy together. I won't bore you with the details (admittedly because I don't remember most of them--a coping mechanism for sure), but let's just say it wasn't a June Cleaver occasion, and by the time I was done cooking, I was angry and upset because I felt like my mom took over after a barrage of criticisms about the way I was preparing the meal. And, I was pre...

I have to admit, I am missing writing daily acrostic poems with my students. It became a ritual that helped us connect and provided some teachable moments. In fact, one girl would often say, "Here it comes--a lesson!" when I had a chance to sneak in Grammar 101 or tie our words into the PACE principles.  I decided today, instead of pining away for those days, I will write an acrostic. Calling out, your soul begs you to Recognize your talents, Embrace your Artistry. Today, your soul Invites you to use your Voice, listen to your Intuition, Take a stand for Your creative self. AMF 6/16/17

It's so cliche'--      finding yourself. You've been here all along--       haven't you? You've just been snubbing her--       the real you. The You that can move mountains,     leap tall buildings in a single bound. You squashed her for so long, she hid from you, retreating further into the shadows until she became invisible. An abused girl, a battered woman, afraid to speak, flinching every time you raised a hand. You wouldn't be on this search and rescue if you hadn't lost her in the first place.

You've all heard its voice: You're not good enough. No one cares what you think. You'll upset someone.  You can't do that. You'll look like a fool. The enemy within. In the Artist's Way, Julia Cameron exposes the enemy within and the core negative beliefs it espouses as a way to keep you scared. And, fear is a mighty motivator for most of us. It keeps us in check. It keeps us safe. It keeps us from humiliating ourselves. It keeps us from hurting others. Or does it? When I think about my deepest fears, most revolve around not wanting to disappoint, hurt, or look stupid in front of others.  But, topping my list is the fear of success. What? you may chide. That doesn't make any sense. Everyone wants success; it's not something to be feared.  Oh, but it is.  I don't want to harp on my upbringing or appear bitter because I know my parents did what they felt was right. But, I grew up with a lot of children should be seen, not heard kind of t...

Why is it that women feel the need to downplay their accomplishments, their specialness, their unique contributions to the world? Maybe not all women do this, but many I know (barring a few enlightened ones and a couple narcissistic ones) do. Why? I can't answer for every woman, but I know mine stems from a culture of claiming it's a sin to think highly of yourself.  I understand conceit is an ugly thing sometimes, especially when applied to superficial things like looks or position in society, but can't conceit be a positive thing too?  Why can't I be proud of my special set of skills? Perhaps, if I acknowledge that I am good at things, I will be more inclined to use those talents for the benefit of others. Look up the word "proud" in the dictionary. Go ahead. I'll wait. Do you notice anything interesting about the definitions? I am struck by the antonymous nature of the two entries. The first has a distinctly positive connotation. And, the senten...

Today in my Q&A for Writers  journal, the prompt asked me to write an apology in the form of a poem.  Right now--perhaps for the first time in my life--I am not feeling the need to apologize for anything.  Here's my anti-apology. Sorry Not Sorry by Annmarie Ferry Sorry not sorry for speaking my mind,  calling you out on your bullshit, holding you responsible for your careless actions. Sorry not sorry for  being myself, embracing my uniqueness, living unafraid of not being cool enough, fun enough, everything enough. Sorry not sorry for letting go, releasing the things that no longer serve me, removing the shackles of the expectations of others.  Sorry not sorry for  shedding my skin, changing my facade every so often, seeking my truth while searching for my place in the world.  Sorry. Not sorry.

Dear Students, I hear you when you tell me I need to “relax” and “chill.” I do. And, trust me, I try.  But, I can honestly tell you that it’s not going to happen.  Why? Because I care. I am deeply invested in your success, not only in my class, or even in school, but your lifelong success in everything you aspire to do.  And, I want to help you accomplish your goals.   That’s a heavy order to fill.  Sometimes, I feel like I care more than you do, and that’s a frustrating feeling.  I work beyond my regular workday to find things I know will help you learn. I also know that the majority of you will complain about the very lesson I think is the bomb.  I know I give you “boring” passages to read, make you write on topics you have no interest in, give you difficult assessments, and push you when I know you’re not giving me your best. I do it on purpose. And the purpose is this: Whether you want it for yourself right now or not, I want to se...

It's 11:15, and I haven't made my bed. Some of you are shrugging and thinking, so what.   This is my everyday situation.  I don't know how you can live that way. Documented proof: just in case you don't believe me! Right now, that messy bed is taunting me with its dented, unfluffed pillows, bunched up sheets, and rumpled comforter. The decorative pillows tossed carelessly on the storage bench at the foot of the bed, the ultimate insult. "Come on, Annmarie," it's calling. "It will only take a few minutes. Don't leave me like this. I beg of you." Sorry, bed.  I'm committed to this nutty little experiment. Meanwhile, every fiber of my being is holding up miniature picket signs reading: Make the bed, NOW! Disarray is the ENEMY! An unmade bed is a SIN! Sheet lives MATTER!  I will resist. I must. Not that I wasn't already acutely aware of this, but all signs lately lead to one undeniable fact:  I am wound tighter than an ...

"I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord."  This famous Phil Collins line loops in my mind's soundtrack, a grim reminder that changes are coming--quickly. Stress is building; doubt is rearing its ugly head. How do I know?  John was up at 4:30 this morning, out the door by 6:15. As we talked while he was getting ready, he ticked off a list of all the little things that need to be accomplished over the weekend. He sounded a lot like me when I feel overwhelmed, fretting about the small stuff because it can be managed, conquered more easily than the big stuff. Guilt squeezes my stomach the way I wring out a sponge. I'm all twisted up inside over something I said last night. Something I should have just kept to myself. "I can't believe in a little over a week, you're going to be leaving me," I whisper as we are dozing off. "I know," is his answer. "It's sad."  That last, short sentence hangs in the dark...

Author's note: The morning prompt in the Q & A for Writers daily journal I am working from challenged me to give life to something that doesn't breathe. Then, I caught this view from my condo window, and I knew I needed to capture the moment in writing.  Post-sunset sky over the Caloosahatchee River 1.4.17 Sunset Streak  by Annmarie Ferry The streak of red burning through the twilight sky,  setting the horizon ablaze. The sunken sun's brazen attempt to cheat nightfall, splashing its lifeblood across the city. The camera fails to do it justice,  unable to capture the inaudible but perceptible scream. This poem fails to speak its glory, yet these feeble attempts are all I have to burn this image into memory. 

This little flash fiction piece is inspired by a prompt from Q & A a Day for Writers and  is really supposed to be a character sketch. The prompt asks you to use a handwriting sample to develop a character.  This is where mine went. Sketchy by Annmarie Ferry http://graphicinsight.co.za/writingsamples.htm Glenn didn't have time for a perfectly penned letter.  He only had a few moments to communicate this important message--a few scribbled out letters wouldn't hurt anyone anyway.  It had occurred to him that he should type the note to his supervisor, but again, that would waste precious time. Not to mention he didn't want any "evidence" on his computer. He hastily scratched out his plea: They're out to get you. Watch who you trust. He folded the paper over, holding it lightly as he sauntered down the eerily empty hallway, quickly pivoting to the left as he reached his boss's door. His eyes nervously darted around the room as approached the...