Day 22: January Mindful Writing Challenge

treenothing left to say…
the oak’s
bare branches

*

Ben Moeller-Gaa

We’re on the twenty-second day of the January Mindful Writing Challenge - please post your small stone in the comments below.

If you’re not already signed up, our 31 Days of Waking Up daily email package was designed to accompany you during this (or any) month of mindful writing. Keep writing!

 

iamge: Attribution Some rights reserved by muffinn

Comments & replies

69 thoughts on “Day 22: January Mindful Writing Challenge

    1. JulesPaige

      While I have occasionally thought about those ‘ifs’ – I would not be who I am now, and maybe not where I am – and I am finally starting to be happy with both after 50 plus years…

      Reply
  1. Linda

    Cicada wings, seemingly the most fragile part of the insect,
    are all that remains once the body has been consumed
    by birds or ants, or decayed into the earth.
    Clear, black veined, they look like discarded angel wings.

    Reply
  2. Dorothee

    7 days of grey skies coming
    says the forecast
    i try and embrace them,
    but still,
    i long
    and long
    for sommer,
    and for white,
    shining winter
    and for
    a button
    to switch
    moods

    Reply
  3. Daphne Radenhurst

    Bending down,
    We bring up the energy of the earth,
    We lift it to the sky.
    Palms together,
    Breathing in, breathing out,
    We lower them to the heart.
    Left hand over right hand,
    Calm, serene,
    We bow to the Teacher.

    Reply
  4. JulesPaige

    a tanka:
    freeze frame
    *
    single digit weather
    time to layer what is worn
    outside, inside too
    *
    extra blankets for dreaming
    to keep muscle and bone warm
    *
    ©JP/davh

    Reply
  5. Karen Schorno

    The sun is putting on quite a show.
    First with last night’s spectacular festival of colors
    and again mirroring with a repeat with bands
    of pinks and purples this morning.

    Reply
  6. Jill Salahub

    Path: I walk the “path” between parking lots on my way to my office. The ground is covered with wood chips, springy like the old growth trails we hike in Oregon where the ground is made of a tangle of roots, dirt, and hundreds of years of decaying wood and leaves. The trees here are evenly and perfectly spaced, all in a row, and the path is flanked by parked cars, but I walk the full length of it and for those few steps I’m transported to a place that is quiet and far away. (with pictures, http://thousandshadesofgray.com/2014/01/22/smallstone-path/)

    Reply
  7. Maaike Klaster

    (not so) small stone:

    Waking up from a dream state, where i made out
    with a famous chef and ate a cheese croissant
    that i stole, slowly rolling into the cube that is
    my real life room, where the light pulls itself from
    under a granulated, black-grey-white world
    and unhappiness consumes me. Night, if you
    decide to fall again, please do.

    Reply
  8. Jean S

    Ears hiss.
    Traffic whizzes and shoots through
    my mind’s thought tangles.

    Adjusting posture
    back to the slow pulse
    of body’s diaphragm

    In and out
    Over and under
    the breath rocks
    gently loose the tangles.

    Reply
  9. Patricia

    It is said that “you can be anything you want to be.” If it’s true, I want to be a bear.

    A hugging, cuddling bear.
    A roaring, growling bear.
    A happy in springtime bear.
    A honey eating summer bear.
    And I’ll start with …
    the sleepy, hibernating bear.
    It’s the favorite of
    my tired me.

    Reply
  10. Gary Hewitt

    Water quivers in scarlet and white
    Susurrus whispers speak from on high
    The garish appeal of the house by the stream

    Reply
  11. Hajra

    Time and time again I have come to this realization that…
    A BOOK is a great companion
    For not only does it entertain you and give you the knowledge of the world (past and present)
    It does not pass judgment, does not criticize nor hurts you…

    Reply
  12. Malek Montag

    A monotony of merged non-spectrum colours. Walls that are grey. Floor that is grey. A ceiling that is grey. Light from the tin chandeliers peels the permanent monochrome and lays it on every surface. Yellows that are grey. Reds that are grey. Blues that are grey. Our outlook turns as bleak as the superficial world enslaving us. Faces that are grey. Actions that are grey. Thoughts that are grey. A shutter rolls up and the nature of things flies in on a breeze. Stand on the threshold, look up at clouds that are grey. A sun that is yellow. Sky that is blue.

    Reply
  13. Pookie

    Unaccustomed, my eyes struggle
    As the seldom seen winter sun
    Dazzles off the rain sodden road
    And the sea
    Blinding, beautiful light.

    Reply
  14. Lizzie Carver

    Memory suddenly peels back to a moment of warm greeting from my childhood;
    Tweed-jacket, patched with leather, tan and bristly against my cheek and fingers as I am rescued from exile by my father. He looks surprised but pleased by the force of my welcome.

    Reply
  15. Nerissa

    Footpath

    Fingerpost in tangled bramble,
    Modern mark of timeless routes,
    Wander-wraiths of ancient passers,
    Dog-printed mudway overlaid.

    Reply
  16. Christine de Jong

    late at night but satisfied with my book “how to be alone” ,curling up under the covers, being clear and connected……ultimate gratitude.

    Reply
  17. Jo Beall

    Waking up…

    sand painting anew

    beginning with gray, adding brown,

    now i see green, looking for rainbow…

    blowtorch to cold feet igniting combustion

    dancing rainbow gold.

    Reply
  18. larry p

    “Don’t spit into the wind”.
    Well, better look when you spit
    _away_ from the wind:
    my little brown friend
    carries a badge of shame, my shame,
    on her back as we lumber home.

    Reply
  19. Kathy Nguyen

    I pressed my breath
    into my palms
    and kneaded their muscles–
    this pure hope
    a yoga teacher has
    to bring her students home

    Reply
  20. sue

    Ode to an Office Chair Now Deceased

    Four sturdy ballbearing wheels
    to scoot quickly out of the way
    or cozy up to the desk,
    a smoothly twirling seat
    from keyboard to desk to bookcase
    and back over and over,
    soft padding for the rump,
    firm lumbar support,
    and a back just right
    for perching cats.
    A few short years together
    ended in an awkward crash.

    Reply
  21. Julie Gengo

    Friday, January 24, 2014
    Bottle Light – #smallstone
    Day 22: January Mindful Writing Challenge

    Bottle Light

    Clear glass
    Hangs from the ceiling
    Happy eyes
    Gaze up in appreciation

    Reply
  22. Joan

    #smallstones 22

    No matter what I say or do,

    it seems that I stay behind

    at least half the time.

    and most definitely behind on my smallstones *sigh*

    Reply
  23. Carol A. Stephen

    Jan. 22, 2014

    If I cried out, who
    in the hierarchies of angels
    would hear me? –Rilke, the First Duino Elegy

    If angels surround us waiting
    for us to call to them, as someone
    said the other day on Doctor Oz,
    why do their answers elude us?

    Or is theirs the other inner voice, muffled
    by the loudness of our incessant questions,
    our cries so frequent we can’t hear
    the answers between the thoughts?

    –CAS

    Reply
  24. Nina

    A conversation makes me feel awkward,
    exposed.
    Revealed too much
    spoke too soon,
    Wishing I could run back into the shadows and
    not be judged.

    Reply
  

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