Author C.L. Charlesworth shares a childhood memory of herself as a young girl with her father.
When I close my eyes, blue skies make me happy, because they are of my childhood. Fears were really absent, except from the occasional bully (who I eventually befriended). My parents, the church, extended family, and peaceful, multi-cultural neighbors gave me a good foundation.
As an adult, I admit, I’ve lost my footing.
I asked a talented poet—Caeli McKamey to compose a poem. The words carry a profound weight.
Vision-less negligence shackles my birth
Systemic diversity layered deceit distorted inclusivity
Blind prison sentences sleeping awareness no want for future
I sat in the cell you created to punish our souls
Learning the ways of the mute irate mistakes wrongly incriminated
Your response will be written in the black books hidden in our coffins Continue reading
Recognizing (and accepting) one’s power isn’t hard if you have wisdom. Not everyone processes the right wisdom to avoid crossing the street against oncoming traffic—because they don’t trust instincts.
“For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away. The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.” —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
My grandmother, who lived to be over 100 years old, imprinted her wisdom—think for yourself and be an honest and compassionate person. Not all people would Grandma invite or even want in her home, let alone sit on her porch. Grandma was particular, not liking phony people, or those who drew a breath off someone’s misfortune. Grandma’s father, a Seminole Indian, and mother, a runaway slave, had a wagon full of children, who lived in Florida’s wooded swamps. As the eldest grandchild, I grew up hearing Grandma weave a quilt of stories from her Native American and Slavery Heritage. Continue reading
I have a collection of magazines, featuring articles and photographs of places where I’d like to rent a house, explore, and spend time writing. This is one of the few opportunities in my life when I have the money and time and not able to travel.
The scared elephant-in-the-room is blocking the door from COVID-19. FEAR is a dangerous house-guest. My visitor has taken up residency and freely confronts my-optimistic-self.
There’s a fine line, I think, between solitude, loneliness, and isolation. In any respect, FEAR, if not driven out—seeps into the mind—trampling logic, life, and reality. Continue reading
For many, bringing a sense of clarity is a daily struggle even before COVID-19. Now digesting and swallowing the bitter pill laced with self-quarantine, self-isolation, shelter in place: a table reservation is with one’s self—these new buzz words have replaced the more acceptable (and sadly accepted) terms of living: SOLITUDE, ISOLATION, AND LONELINESS. 
Writers, all too well, are used to living in a quagmire of cubical existence. We call it creativity. How fortunate writers are: we know the rules. Continue reading
Last week while looking though my window at the endless rain, my brain raced with ideas for my next 3 stories. I think the stillness of the room allowed thoughts to drift away from the saturation of recent NEWS HEADLINES. To be fair, I can’t blame the toxicity of what is trending into viewership obsession. I did need a break from marketing my present book, The Last Merry Go Round. It’s not that I don’t love the story—I do, and still feel I did the right thing by writing a not-your-normal-candy-romance-about marriage. The reviews so far indicate I was on to something. Continue reading
A major task in my city is freeway driving. Trying to get from Point A to Point B is an impossible issue. Traffic is a snail’s ride on a parking lot, causing significant irritations, especially when time isn’t on your side. Recently, when I was in a holding pattern, within a ¼ of a mile from my exit—a thought came to me watching all those solo drivers. ‘How many were alone, had family, or had friends.’ Continue reading
A tree is in my house. A tree in my house is unadorned with lights, ornaments, or presents. I’ve been studying its shape and its nakedness.
Over this past week, its image has become a focal point for my morning meditation. The tree’s calmness and the stillness of its branches, resonates inside me, a reflection of this year. Continue reading
There are times when I wonder what am I doing? Many days I talk to myself.
Writing is not an easy answer to a question that occupies the time. I achieve a form of satisfaction when people read my blog or books and compliment me, but the reality is I write because I enjoy it. My success is like an imaginary playmate, sometimes it appears, and sometimes it giggles, running away.
Any writer taking years or months to finish a project deserves an award. If marketing isn’t a skill, then a slow start is fueled by endless cups of caffeine, sleep deprivation, and self-doubt. Continue reading
I’m always reflective in the last two months of the year. I’ve always been this way for as long as I can remember. The changing of the seasons from fall to winter brings thoughts of the end of a year, and more often, how fast time has passed.
Time, as I age, becomes no more of a number, or a nail waiting in the wings ready to seal my coffin. In my mind, I’m still the wide-eyed, huge-smile child, the one whose picture is on my dresser—she’s in long, pig-tail braids and fashionable cat-eye glasses. She reaches through the frame and hugs me when I need it. She is my past, present, and future. Her voice is mine. Continue reading