Light Keeps Going

I love the stars. I lived in the Texas Hill Country for many years. In the front yard you could look straight up and see the milky way like a bright splash across the sky. (I honestly never learned to identify any constellations fancier than the Big Dipper and Orion, though.)

The beautiful thing about star light is that the light we see on earth today is actually ancient. That light has been traveling for thousands or millions of years to reach us (depending on how far away the star in question is).

That means that there are some stars we might see tonight that actually went out years and years ago, but since the light is traveling from so far away, the end of that light hasn’t reached us. In other words, to us, those dead stars are still shining.

And our planet isn’t the end of the universe, either. All the starlight that we see doesn’t stop because it’s reached the end of its journey. That light doesn’t know who sees it; it just keeps going.

Space is infinite. So in theory, because light keeps going, stars shine forever – somewhere. Light never stops.

I’ve seen the good acts of others cause echoes in other people’s lives that keep going for generations. A good man once shared a piece of advice with me that he had received from his mentor in his youth. I realized as I listened to him that his mentor was a good and humble man who had no idea that his words were still being repeated – and bringing great comfort – decades later.

You might worry that you’re one small person in one big universe, and you can’t possibly make a difference.

Don’t worry about it. Just shine.

You’ll never know which kind words and good deeds make a difference, just as a star doesn’t know as it shines which particles of light will take your breath away on a cold clear night. But stars keep on shining anyway, and our dark nights are more beautiful for it.

Your light will change lives. It will change you. It will change those around you. Be kind. Be brave. Be honest.

Just shine.

Because light keeps going.


Freaky Friday Prompt #002

I spent multiple days this week convinced that it was Thursday. This kind of Calendar Dislocation is pretty common for me…. and it usually causes some (amusing) problems when I can’t be on the same calendar page as everyone else.

Your character is going through his normal routine (feed the dogs, hack the computer mainframe, hide the evidence, whatever) but everyone around him is acting a little strange. Turns out he’s forgotten what day it is….

How I Love Spanish…

Let me count the ways.

1) I grew up in Texas, and grocery shopping happened at Fiesta a lot more often than it happened at Kroger. One of my early memories is of standing in the aisle at Fiesta and hearing two small dark passionate women chatter away very fast in a language I didn’t know. It sounded so mysterious! Dramatic! I wanted to know what they were saying. I wanted to know what they were so excited about. Were they comparing generic brands of corn flour, or was this a real life soap opera episode without the subtitles? The curiosity killed me! (But I came back.)

I imagined up entire conversations for strangers who looked like Hispanic versions of my own grandmother, and imagined understanding every word without ever showing that I understood. They would never guess! I would be like a spy! (I have always loved the idea of being a spy. Age and reflection has brought me to realize it would be very uncomfortable to actually be a spy, but I still pretend sometimes.)

2) Everything in Texas has Spanish subtitles, from the signs in grocery store aisles to the warning signs on the beach telling stupid tourists not to go out and drown themselves. On one vacation my dad pointed one of these signs out to me. “Danger!” it warned. “Peligros!”

“What do you think a peligro is?” he asked me. “They must be dangerous. We should find out what they look like so one doesn’t take us by surprise.”

After some discussion it was agreed that peligros are large migratory birds, about the same size as an albatross, but with huge red beaks and terrible claws. They may also breathe fire; I don’t recall. But even now, whenever I think of the beach, I remember the importance of keeping an eye out for peligros.

3) When I was thirteen or so I read a book – an introduction to Spanish, I think – that mentioned how many million people in the world speak Spanish. I remember looking at that number. It seemed vast. Huge. Crushing.

All those people will never be my friend, I thought, because I won’t be able to understand them, and they won’t be able to understand me!

(I understand that it takes a lot more than a common language or even a common homeland to make friends. I’m certainly not friends with every Texan. But it helps.)

Being an impatient person even then, my very next thought was, It’ll be a lot faster for me to learn Spanish than to wait for all of them to learn English. And then we’ll be able to be friends after all!

And then I cheered up and started learning how to count. Uno amigo, dos amigos, tres amigos…

4) One hot summer day, my family was on a bike ride in the Texas Hill Country (great training territory for athletes, great scenic country for rambling drives, but horrible terrain for beginning bicyclists, because there is no such thing as flat). My dad and I were laboring up a steep hill. I told him to go on without me; I was going to pull over and quietly expire in the roadside prickly pear cactus.

“No!” he said. “Don’t stop now! We’re going to Mamacitas after this! Think of the fajitas!”

“Fajitas,” I said weakly, squinting through the heat waves.

“Fajitas!” he cried.

And then we began to chant together: “Fa! He! Tas! Fa! He! Tas!”

I live to this day, so clearly it was an effective rallying cry.

5) Speaking of fajitas: tortillas, guacamole, refried beans and rice, chips and salsa, queso, quesadillas, tamales, and chorizo and eggs. And Mexican chocolate!

6) Whenever you are feeling loud and colorful, there is nothing like exclaiming some Spanish phrase at the top of your lungs to express your feelings. It doesn’t even have to be relevant; if it’s Spanish, and as long as you roll all your Rs, you will achieve High Drama near instantly.

“Que hora es!”

7) I just like it, okay? It’s a beautiful language, spoken (in my experience) by warm and friendly people. I may never be as fluent as I once dreamed of in the aisles of Fiesta, but I will always love Spanish.

Me llamo Raquel, y soy de Tejas. ¿Como se llama?

Freaky Friday Prompt #001

Your character (hereafter known as ‘you’) is waiting at a bus/tram/taxi/train station. A stranger comes up and asks you what your favorite murder method is. They’re not joking.

What happens next?

Write responsibly 🙂

Weekly Short Story Challenge

A short story ranges from 1,000-10,000 words.

At an average typing speed of 50 words per minute, it takes 20 minutes to write 1000 words. From there, it takes about 3 1/2 hours to write 10,000 words.

So there’s no reason why you can’t write a short story a week, right?

(Muffled maniacal laughter.)

But seriously. One of my favorite stories about Picasso (basically the only story I know about Picasso) tells how, at the request of a near-stranger (or acquaintance or in-law or postal worker; like many stories, this one has warped in the retelling), he drew their portrait with a single pencil stroke. (Maybe this was a skinny guy. Or he was drawing their good side, and it didn’t take much.)

Picasso then asked for $5000. When his acquaintance/in-law/mailman/now-less-enthusiastic-fan protested, Picasso pointed out that while it only took a moment and a single line to draw the requested portrait… it took his whole life to learn to draw like that.

This is where most people wax poetic about a lifetime dedication to art and fixing a monetary value to your work and so on and so forth.

This is where I think Hmmm. So with enough practice, great art can be produced with ease and speed.

This write-a-short-story-a-week challenge is not new or unique, but it is valuable. If you’d like to join me in a quest to become as proficient (and maybe someday as expensive) as Picasso (but with words instead of pencils), then come aboard! Adventurers wanted!

I Choose to Choose

The first reason I don’t drink coffee is because it’s against the Word of Wisdom – the health code that I believe in as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (you know us as those weird Mormons).

The second reason I don’t drink coffee is because I get scary hyperactive just on sugar. A handful of Skittles can make me vibrate in place so hard I blur around the edges. The world is not ready for me on caffeine.

But the last reason I don’t drink coffee is because there are too many choices. Starbucks has a menu more than a meter long for just one beverage! And I don’t even speak the coffee language well enough to understand what all those choices mean. Latte? Cappuccino? Decaffeinated? (Why?)

Just like setting up this website, in fact. So many choices! Options and themes and plugins and styles and colors and oh my!

Decision fatigue is a real thing. So I often stand at the threshold of decision, hesitating to step out because, as long as I don’t choose yet, I can’t make the wrong choice. So I’ve hesitated to start a Real Writer (TM) website. I’ve hesitated to start a blog. I’ve hesitated to choose a pen name. (This isn’t one, by the way.)

Today, I choose to choose. Maybe I’ll choose wrong. Maybe my website will be hideous. Maybe my blog will be the newest non-addictive anesthetic of choice for people going into surgery.

But definitely I can choose again. If I’m brave enough to make the first choice.

I choose to try.