grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Seven Shades of Yoga

By

morgueFile Kakisky
Within seven seconds, I chose yoga over Facebook. I hadn’t been to yoga in weeks and was spending way too much time with the other. But I’d been busy. Writing, I’m alway writing. And last month I had strep throat that lingered. Plus we just returned from vacation. 
Yada, yada. 
Excuses, excuses. 
Seven minutes later, I was out the door and into the humid morning wearing my favorite yoga pants that somehow seemed smaller.
After a seven minute drive, I signed my name on the clipboard. “Don’t worry if I spend the whole class in child’s pose—just ignore me, I’m rusty.” I explained to Michelle who teaches Explore the Body. I needed to explore my body. We had become strangers as of late.
Michelle laughed and promised to call an ambulance if I stopped breathing altogether. She’s nice that way.
I sorted through at least seven yoga mats to uncover mine, dusty and abandoned, propped in the corner where I left it in July.  
Seven minutes into shoulder stretches, I felt the squeeze of a Charley Horse building through my arm. I adjusted. Charley eventually released his vise-grip hold on my invisible bicep, but not until I reverted to steady pre-labor breathing exercises. 
Seven minutes later, I floundered into and out of Thread the Needle Zen Pose. But I did it. Sort of.
Seven more poses, and my shoulders loosened, my mind cleared, the nerve endings in my body tingled. 
Seven cleansing breaths into Uttanasana, I could bend near enough to the ground to notice my shabby toe polish. 
Seven shades into final Shivasana, I remembered why I love yoga. 
Namaste.
talya
This was written for the Write Tribe Festival of Words. Prompt: the number Seven.

Economic Collapse. Seven Years from Now…

By

September 2020

Economic Collapse

 

It seems ridiculous to lock the door and arm the security system, but old habits persist even coated with an unlikely chance of returning. Shutting the door on Dallas, we head toward Arkansas before daybreak, the safest time to travel.

We take only what we can cram into our vehicle–mainly clothes, photos of the kids, and a few family heirlooms that won’t mean much to anyone else. I stuff my purse with a six-month supply of prescription medication, worthless cash to make me feel better, and important documents. Birth certificates are now needed to cross state lines. I check three times to make sure I still have them.

Along the bottom of the floorboard, John stacks quilts, canned food and water bottles. Jewelry is hidden underneath the rear compartment where the spare tire is stored. We may need it later.

Lucy rides in my lap, motionless. She sleeps most of the time, yet is still in good health considering her advanced dog age. Annabelle, warm against my thighs, curls next to her, unaware.

There were signs.

There are always signs.

For years everyone pointed fingers and slung accusations, everyone from Washington’s self-important talking heads to the regular Joe-Facebook complainer. George Bush is to blame. Bill Clinton started the whole mess promising homes to everyone. Obama armed the Syrian rebels seven years ago, leading to the destruction of Israel.

I don’t blame any one person or group. I blame everyone. I blame myself.

As other countries collapsed—Greece, Egypt, Syria, Portugal, Lebanon—the U.S. government continued handing down policy, keeping interest rates at rock bottom. Only the shrinking speculative market cheered. Individual states and cities went bankrupt, yet Congress debated stances with no real bearing on citizens. Natural disasters afflicted the planet, and America sent aid she didn’t have.

Bernanke pumped money into the system, and the stock market soared. With merely a whisper of Wall Street negativity, the market plummeted. Violent swings continued for years as Summers, the new Federal Reserve Chief continued Bernanke’s strategy of printing Monopoly money. When the market plunged twenty-five percent, people panicked, selling low. The next day stocks spiraled another thirty percent. People swarmed the streets, demanding answers, pulling money from banks to stuff beneath mattresses. Not that anyone saved money anymore. It had been decades since people really saved.

President Clinton, nearing the end of her first term, did little to calm the nation. The nation was too far gone. Unemployment soared. No one bought anything. Businesses folded.

When the Federal Reserve collapsed under the weight of its own debt, Clinton addressed the nation reporting that last year ninety-three percent of tax revenues went to Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security and interest on U. S. debt.

Did we really think we could deficit spend our way to profitability?

Is anyone surprised?

A dark cloud now sits over the nation, thick and stifling like Panhandle dusters during The Great Depression. The world watches as Americans demand answers, steal to survive, loot to release tension. The National Guard attempts to keep order.

My family is thankful to still have the farm, the land. Things may be no better in Arkansas, but we will feel more secure among friends and family.I check my purse again for the birth certificates. Barring no problems on the road, we’ll be home in seven hours.

Mississippi County, Ar
Mississippi County, Arkansas
talya
Nothing mattered except states of mind, chiefly our own. –John Maynard Keynes

the dark side of writing

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A few days ago, I threw myself an old-fashioned pity party.  Just me and my faithful schnauzers.

And potato chips. 

What began as a morning of productive writing spiraled into an afternoon filled with thoughts of what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life and what-makes-me-think-I-can-write-anything-worthwhile? 
writer's block grace grits and gardening

It was ugly. 
And it all started because I let someone get under my skin. 
A simple comment brought back a flood of insecurities and second guesses. Add to this a lingering sore throat and ear ache plus another 100+ degree day, and I became a crazed and disheartened shut-in wallowing on the couch.

Writing can be lonely and dark on the best of days. Staring at a blank sheet of paper, seeing self-doubt instead of words.

I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.

creative writing

And then it began to rain.
In Dallas.
In August.
A steady soaking rain.
From the porch swing I watched fat drops splatter on my tired ferns. The trees took notice as a breeze moved through, dropping the temperature instantly. The entire neighborhood exhaled.
I grabbed my journal and wrote about the rain. Its smell and feel and the way the steam rose from the sidewalk. A few houses down, kids laughed and splashed, delighting in the rareness.
And I remembered why I write.
talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.


Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow. -Margaret Atwood 

“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon
The Sky is Crying, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

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