Grow, little seed, grow.
Grow and hid me from strangers.
Grow and keep me safe from the rain.
Grow and shield my little body from the wind.
We all start small.
But some of us can grow so much we can embrace the whole world.
So be it.
Say it loudly. With fire in your lungs. Scream it among a crowd. Whisper it to a baby. Like a lullaby, a mantra, and affirmation. One that says 'Fuck it' without cursing. One that pins down the route of our existence with these simple three words: SO - A word that describe a journey, and an outcome. A change, and the notion of TIME's existence. BE - A word that is life's soul: to be. Beingness. To be or not to be. Essential to the human condition. Being IS the human condition. IT - A word that relates. That describes a relationship to something. Anything. Be it a place, the air, an object, a person. A word that is about relating.
Together these words form a meaning that is more whole than most.
The journey of a screenwriter or the journey of any artist really, is paved with countless bumps in the road. Rejections. Denies. Objections. We eventually get used to those bumps, some of us even welcome them as we know 'every no gets us closer to a yes', but we all like the feeling of being seen, and for our work to be acknowledged.
Well, I today received a sweet letter that notified me that while I was rejected from a coveted prize... I was awfully close to it. I was encouraged to march onward and view this as a win. And indeed, I have.
To the judge who decided to let me know how close I was for the title: thank you.
Losing can be incredibly sweet, especially when inches away from the crown!
To march onward, with courage, with fire, and with a pen in my hand. (or a mac on my lap)
I'm driving the highway. The 405 highway. It's steep dark. Only ten at night, but already dark as if it was the wee hours ours of the morning. There are lights ahead of me: two police cars and a fire truck. An ambulance just left. The police cars are blinking and I am wondering who died tonight? Who died while driving somewhere - maybe on the way home or to a night out. Maybe to see a friend they haven't seen in a while. Maybe they just went on a drive to clear their heads and never came back. Who chose this route out of all routes. Who blindly followed their gps system. Who looked at their phone because some message popped up that was more important than the road ahead. Who drove as safe as ever but was in the most tragic place in the most tragic of times. Who drove and shall never drive again.
I'm driving the highway and counting my lucky stars. I know I could be in that other car that is surrounded by blinking lights. Lights of warning: this could be you. This could be you. This could be you. One message echoes loudly tonight: Drive safe. And count those lucky stars along the way.
Not because I want to, but because I must.
To write because I breathe words. I chew them. Cradle them. Baby them. Then I spit them out.
To write because there is no better way for me
To the great mystery of the SELF, to the inner most sensitive parts of the so-called soul, the inner life, the subconscious.
Playing catch up with life is avoiding the grim reality that it doesn't matter how fast we go. we are all ending at the same destination.
So slow down and smell the roses.
Because their seeds, deep in the soil... they don't smell like much.
*The ability to do something that frightens one.
*Strength in the face of pain or grief.
I go through cycles of courage numerous times a day. The pain, discomfort and dread of facing fear is something I recognize instantly. I know it well. Does it make me courageous? I don't know about that... but I am used to facing fear and doing something despite fear's very real presence and hold on me. To walk through the pain, the stress, the discomfort, the agony of something... to challenge myself to face them despite their strength, and to find my own strength in the process. Well then, I guess that DOES make me somewhat courageous. Fuck it, I AM courageous! And so are you. And you. And you. And you. Some days just getting out of bed is fighting some demons, and therefore - we all know COURAGE.
Are teeny tiny reminders
That the clouds also weep
To the heavens at night
That the ocean
Also breaks its heart
Over a love lost at sea
That the moon
Also howls in agony
In response to the lone wolf.
We think human tears are all so powerful
But all they really are
Are a message from the ocean
To never forget where we come from
Be it from the heavens
Or the ground below
We are water in all its emotional freedom
And we swim through life
Who we once were.
It is said we are not a drop in the ocean
An ocean in a drop
I say we are not an ocean
Nor are we a drop
We are water
We are here
We are there
And we are everywhere
Remembering who we once were.
Many of us have experience, expertise, skills. Many of us have knowledge to pass through to others. And many of us don't know how to go about it. But those who do - the teachers, the mentors, the guides, the leaders, the coaches, the inspiring nurturing voices in our paths... they know how to reach us. They leave a mark on us. A mark we never forget.
I don't know about you, but I remember all my teachers, the ones who made a difference in my life and my growth, the ones who left their mark on me. I remember them, and I cherish them. Even more so as the years go by.
But what makes a great mentor? A great teacher? A great coach?
To me, a great teacher SEES what the student needs or longs to, and tailors her/his teaching to THAT. A great teacher finds a way to access the student, and she/he reaches them, no matter the resistance, the barrier, the challenge. A great teacher SEES the student, and the student as a result learns to SEE themselves.
The mentor-mentee relationship is an exploration of expansion, growth, and communication. It is an opportunity to reach and to welcome another. It is a moment to hear and to be heard. It is having eyes to see and the perspective that is changed as a result of being seen.
If you were ART, what would you be?
A painting, a sculpture, a melody? A music note, a jingle, a marketing ad? Would you be edible art, performing art, would you be dance? Would you be words written on a piece of paper? Would you be jewelry worn on a bride? Would you be pet art, wall art, graveyard art? Would you be art for free? Would you be high art? Would you be art you'd see in the gallery or one you'd find the street? Would you be young childlike art? Would you be veteran art? Would you be stuffy, pretentious, a snob? Would you be down to earth, would you be raw and real and dark? Would you be art for someone, or solely art for you? Would you be art that makes one feel, or thing, or move? Would you be rich, or deep, or wise? Would you be art, my friend, would you? Maybe you are already all the art that's out there, and that is in you. Maybe you are. Maybe you ART.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman