Michelle Garren Flye's Blog, page 39
March 23, 2020
Out of focus
Today I sat in my silent bookstore hoping for the phone to ring with someone wanting to take advantage of my Covid-19 remote shopping option. The silence is of my own making. I closed to the public at the end of last week. It felt like the right thing to do.
It’s very difficult right now to know what the right thing to do is because it’s difficult to know what to focus on. Medical experts who say this epidemic will not end well if we don’t continue to isolate ourselves? Government hopefuls who expect real life to echo the movies and miracle cures to materialize out of thin air? Economic brains who anticipate the further shutdown of the economy to be more catastrophic than thousands of deaths?
And truly, it’s hard to see the true danger. It’s invisible until it hits you or someone you love. The medical community understands this. They’ve given us the tools to defend ourselves (wash hands, don’t touch face, remain socially distant), but they warn if we don’t use them, the effects will be devastating.
The truth is, though, this silent and invisible enemy will be the most devastating one we’ve ever faced if we don’t listen to facts. Scientific facts—something we’ve been trained to disbelieve in our recent alternative fact universe—are what can save us, but how likely are we as humans to listen now that so much is at stake? Our lives depend on it, but are our pocketbooks more important?
What do we focus on? We can’t focus on any one thing, really. We have to see the whole picture. All at once and from every angle. And know that what we don’t see—the invisible—can harm us.
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March 22, 2020
Who says life finds a way? This flower.
I took this picture this morning. Dogwoods are blooming in North Carolina. I’ve been photographing them ever since they started peeking out a week or so ago. But this particular bloom intrigued me. Why?
Because it’s blooming on a broken branch.
The branch was half severed during a storm in the late summer/early fall. It never died, though. The leaves stayed green until they reddened to brown in the fall. I’ve been watching this branch since then, waiting for spring and wondering if it would bloom like the rest of the tree.
It is. Blooming. A little stunted, a little slower, but blooming nonetheless. Partially severed from the rest of the tree, this little blossom is still struggling for survival. It has a message of beauty and purpose to spread to us. No doubt this flower would prefer to still be on a limb that is fully attached to the tree it comes from, but it’s taking what’s been given and going with it.
It occurred to me that this flower is much like us right now. Do we wish we weren’t stuck in isolation? Would we prefer to be able to go to dinner and movies and parties like normal? (Okay, the parties thing is not me, but I understand I’m less social than the normal human being.) It would definitely be nice to go out shopping without wondering if this is the time we pick up the COVID-19 virus and bring it home to our families.
Yeah, we’re all blooming on our own broken branches right now. But we’re blooming, nonetheless. We’re helping each other and spending time with family members that maybe had been a little neglected, tending to gardens and cleaning our homes. Our children are still learning from teachers who are overcoming what would once have been insurmountable obstacles to teaching.
Life is going on. To quote Jeff Goldblum (and either Michael Crichton or Steven Spielberg?), “Life finds a way.” We are alive. We are finding a way to live.
March 20, 2020
Poem: Pandemic of the Head (with commentary)
In truth, I feel we’ve all been denying truth and facts and science for so long in favor of what one political party or another says, I’m not certain we’re going to really get this pandemic thing until it smacks us in the face. And it’s a slow-moving thing that we’ve been misled about by the government that’s supposed to be looking out for us, so now that we’re told what’s actually happening and what needs to be done to stop it…nobody believes it. Even I—and I am far from a fact-denier—have a hard time believing it’s really so bad that restaurants need to close and kids shouldn’t have play dates. I still go into my store every day hoping it will be normal again. But it’s not. The little town I live in is spookily empty on these bright spring days.
And in spite of all that, it angers me to hear others make this political. The Democrats made it up, the media is whipping us into mass hysteria, it’s no worse than the flu. Yeah, I know it’s hard to accept, but this thing can kill you. And if not you, then someone you love. It’s the first true pandemic since the 1918 influenza epidemic which killed more people than World War I, and we’re still in the beginning stages of it. Denying it won’t stop it, any more than denying global warming will stop the seas’ rise.
That’s where we are right now. We have to make some tough decisions. Tough times are coming, and if history is any indicator, we most likely won’t learn anything from it.
Pandemic of the Head
By Michelle Garren Flye
It’s never happened before, so it can’t be happening—whoa!
Who can tell if this is the end of the world…or just for show?
Yet people sicken and die—but that happens every day.
How can we judge if it’s wrong to go this way?
Time to be responsible, that’s what you claim—
Have you no care for the pocketbooks you maim?
No parties left but political ones, and those you can’t attend.
Who will be left to pick up the pieces of what’s left in the end?
The sweep of a pen proclaims we must stay at home to work.
But what of those whose businesses can’t survive such torque?
Some will suffer more than others, of that there is no doubt.
The choice is simple—sickness and death is the only way out.
Shelter in place to protect the weak of our society.
Quarantine is a trial, but there’s nowhere left to flee.
No matter how this ends, both sides will declare tis what they said:
A pandemic like no other before…but it was all in your head.
March 19, 2020
So many wonderful things, so much hope (and a poem)
I’m seeing so many wonderful things happening in my little town during this COVID-19 outbreak, I can’t help but be hopeful. Yes, the downtown is a bit of a ghost town (as it should be), but friends and strangers are reaching out in whatever ways they can to help support the businesses that are suffering, including my little bookstore.
I’m seeing teachers reaching out to students, helping them adjust to distance learning and trying to reassure them. Schools are sending lunches out to children in the community. Everyone in the education community is doing their best to help kids accept the “new normal” that might be with us for quite a while.
No, none of this is okay. But with a little faith, it will be, and you can find faith in unexpected places.
Finding Faith
By Michelle Garren Flye
Faith grows in unexpected places
You find it in the darkest spaces
And on the homeliest faces
And sometimes in bright daylight
Even out in plain sight
Or in the laughter of pure delight
It can be found in the smile of a child
Or growing free in the wild
Or possibly among the papers you filed
Just watch and you’ll see
How easy it can be
You’ll find your faith eventually.
March 18, 2020
Poem: All Right Again
It’s so tempting to think everything’s fine. The kids are home from school, sure, but that’s happened before. They always go back. Downtown is mostly empty and the restaurants are all closed but hey, that happens whenever we get half an inch of snow or ice. And yeah, people are having to cancel dream vacations and the stock market is tanking, and nobody is going to parties or play dates or visiting grandparents…no, everything’s not fine.
Eventually it will be, though. We’ll pick up the pieces, but I think we’ll pick up a few other things at the same time. A new appreciation for a hug from a friend, for instance. Less reluctance to get up and take the kids to school in the morning. A newfound faith in life and whatever power has helped us get through it all.
Yes, eventually it will be all right again.
All Right Again
By Michelle Garren Flye
When we pick up the pieces again, what will find there?
Can we put them together the way they were,
Or will it become something wholly new?
For some will be missing, little pieces torn away.
Lost in the big picture of our new normalcy.
What will it be like, this mishmash of bits?
When we turn it shiny side up, will enough be left?
Or will the picture be distorted by what we lost?
Or maybe by what we added along the way.
March 15, 2020
Poem: What’s Fifty? (Happy birthday to me)
I won’t lie, it’s difficult celebrating today. But it’s also sort of necessary, isn’t it? I mean, every year on this day, I look at the flowers blooming and think, I hope I’m here one more year to see this. So, no matter what the next year brings, I celebrate last year and say goodbye to it. It’s time to turn to what’s coming with gratitude for what came before.
What’s Fifty?
By Michelle Garren Flye
It’s not so important, this birthday of mine.
I’ll toast and forget it with a little red wine.
What’s fifty, after all, but a number of sorts?
It’s not like it comes with big lumpy warts.
I’m not really any older than I was yesterday—
I’ll still skip and holler in the midst of the fray.
If you think about it, each day leaves us a bit worn,
And it starts from the very hour we are born.
What’s fifty after all, but the next logical step?
Each year, just a memory, so carefully kept.
We build our remembrances up until the end,
And hope time’s passage brings us another friend.
What’s fifty? I yell to the rest of the world.
I’m nothing without age…let the years unfurl!
It’s not like it’s something we’d want to avoid.
If we try to, our hopes will just be destroyed.
What’s fifty? A point on a timeline, if you would.
Just you wait, this year I’ll make fifty look good.
Poem: What's Fifty? (Happy birthday to me)
I won’t lie, it’s difficult celebrating today. But it’s also sort of necessary, isn’t it? I mean, every year on this day, I look at the flowers blooming and think, I hope I’m here one more year to see this. So, no matter what the next year brings, I celebrate last year and say goodbye to it. It’s time to turn to what’s coming with gratitude for what came before.
What’s Fifty?
By Michelle Garren Flye
It’s not so important, this birthday of mine.
I’ll toast and forget it with a little red wine.
What’s fifty, after all, but a number of sorts?
It’s not like it comes with big lumpy warts.
I’m not really any older than I was yesterday—
I’ll still skip and holler in the midst of the fray.
If you think about it, each day leaves us a bit worn,
And it starts from the very hour we are born.
What’s fifty after all, but the next logical step?
Each year, just a memory, so carefully kept.
We build our remembrances up until the end,
And hope time’s passage brings us another friend.
What’s fifty? I yell to the rest of the world.
I’m nothing without age…let the years unfurl!
It’s not like it’s something we’d want to avoid.
If we try to, our hopes will just be destroyed.
What’s fifty? A point on a timeline, if you would.
Just you wait, this year I’ll make fifty look good.
March 10, 2020
Going for it: Heart of the Pamlico Poet Laureate finalist
In April 2017, I began writing poetry. As in writing a poem a day for all thirty days of National Poetry Month. I don’t even know why. I had never thought of myself as a poet. I’m not a classically trained one, anyway. My degrees are in journalism and library science. The only things I know about rhyme and rhythm and meter are the little bit I remember from high school—and what I feel in my heart.
Since April 2017, which I now realize was almost three years ago, I have written poetry often, usually to vent something, political or personal. I’ve taught a few elementary poetry classes to kids because I still remember the first time I read e.e. cummings’s “in just—” and I wanted to share that with them. I’ve read and written poetry for more than one voice, which is not something I learned in school. I’ve played with rhyming and not rhyming, sometimes in the same poem. I’ve written prose poetry and limericks and haiku. (Haiku, done properly, is much harder than you might think.)
Last year, I published a little booklet of my poetry because a friend had passed away and I wanted to dedicate something beautiful to her memory. I chose fourteen of my favorite poems, formatted them with some of my photography and sent them off to a printer. I have given away more of those booklets than I’ve sold (it’s only available at my bookstore).
And that’s what poetry is to me, really. It’s meant to share. I’m more than happy to charge you $9 for one of my romances, but poetry, to me, is something different. Most of what I write goes on my blog, if I think it’s any good. I’ve only ever tried to submit it to poetry magazines or contests once or twice, more because I wanted to share with a wider audience than anything.
So, you might imagine my surprised delight when I was notified yesterday that I am a finalist for the title of 2020 Heart of the Pamlico Poet Laureate. This means I have the opportunity to present my poetry and my view of poetry to an audience at the historic Turnage Theatre in less than a month. I’m thrilled, rattled, uncertain, ecstatic and pretty sure the selection committee sent the email to the wrong person, but at the same time, I’m gonna go for it. This is a huge honor for me, as well as the opportunity to express my love for this art form.
Wish me luck.
[image error]My poetry booklet.
March 6, 2020
Finishing Something
It’s a good feeling, right? Finishing something. I recently realized my next book is finished. I mean, yeah, it was written a while back, but even the editing stages are finished. It’s as polished as it’s gonna get, I think. Well, maybe one last run through.
I’m not going to tell you anything about this book except that it’ll be book 7 of my Sleight of Hand series. If you haven’t read any of my Sleight of Hand series, never fear. All of them are stand-alone romances with occasional appearances of characters from previous books. It’s like a romance series that focuses on a family or a particular small town, but the community that these books focus on is actually a little more…magical. The characters are not related except by marriage (well, there’s one set of brothers…). As for being set in one small town, nope. Settings range from the coast of North Carolina to Hollywood, Las Vegas and New York.
It’s kind of fun to think that this all began with Close Up Magic in 2013. I’d always been fascinated by stage magic. I often tell the story of five-year-old me being chosen by a magician to be on a “flying carpet”. I was instructed to keep my eyes closed so the magic would work. My mother told me afterward it certainly appeared that I flew. Ever since, I have loved stage magic. I know there’s a trick and I sometimes try to catch the magician at it. But even if I do figure out how a trick is done, it doesn’t spoil the fun for me. Often it just increases my respect for the magician’s performance.
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So why am I not announcing more about my next book in this series? I obviously am very excited about it. It’s the best one yet, I know it. I put a lot of thought into this one, which is why it took so long. The answer is simple. I’m planning to roll out the next book on The Next Chapter Books & Art’s social media first. This bookstore has become so much a part of my life, including my writing life, it just makes sense.
So if you want to be one of the first to see the cover (which is bound to be beautiful due to being designed by the fabulous Farah Evers Designs) and read all about my new book, follow The Next Chapter Books & Art on Facebook and Instagram.
In the meantime, I have a couple of other projects in the works. I’d like to put out another booklet of my poetry, rework my backlist now that I’ve discovered Vellum, and Book 8 is calling me already. Not to mention my alter-ego Shelley Gee wants to get to work on Jessica Gravely as soon as possible.
So I’m off to the bookstore. Come join me there!
March 2, 2020
Poem: Mourning Daffodils
Mourning Daffodils
By Michelle Garren Flye
Time for daffodils is done—
Azaleas are too serious for fun.
And then the dogwood arrives
To sermonize as she staidly thrives.
Beautiful roses may lighten us all
But hark the approach of coming fall.
I’ll have to wait for the mums to grow
To have a little fun before the snow.
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Yes, daffodil time is over for good.
Spring’s best bloom now buried in mud.
On the horizon, dark clouds loom
Set to bury us all in eternal gloom.
When yellow buds return, who knows
Which way they will find the wind blows?
Will I be there again to greet my old friends?
So many factors on which that depends.
