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Don't you dare

Look at me that way. 

With that smirk on your face

And your knowing eyes

You weren't there. 

Don't you dare

Measure my life

With your own ruler. 

I've given inches

Had miles stolen

And not returned

Don't you dare

You can't possibly know

The days of my years

The nights of my life

It's not what you think

But it is what it is. 

You weren't there

So don't you dare.

-Kim

A poem

Him

If I say I have no regrets

That might not be entirely true. 

He was married. 

I was not. 

We were friends

And then we were more. 

He travelled. 

We saw each other 

Only sometimes. 

And phone calls

Just checking in. 

I loved him, but not enough 

To want him daily. 

He was easy. 

Because he was hers. 

Not mine. 

But one day he showed up

At my door 

With sorrow and confusion

Sitting on his shoulders 

Like a heavy winter coat. 

I'm dying

He said. 

She's being selfish, worrying

About what her life will be 

Without me. 

I'm the one dying. 

I can't hold her up  

Because I'm crumbling. 

But I need to keep

All my pieces together. 

He sat on my steps

And cried tough guy tears. 

And in that moment

I fell in love with his

Dying soul. 

I drove him away 

On a foggy morning. 

'You mean the world to me.' 

The last words I heard him speak. 

All these years later

I know that sometimes

The world isn't enough. 

That regrets are floating there

In the fog. 

- kjsmith

Snow in Salt Air

     A little more than twenty years ago, I spent an entire week on a small island off the coast of Rhode Island ...in January.

     Alone.

     Just to think. 

 

     I arrived on a ferry the day after a severe ice storm. I remember the huge ropes they used had been dragged inside the ferry to thaw out from being frozen solid. Normally, I would be outside up in the bow feeling the boat hit the waves and dodging hungry seagulls. But it was still ridiculously cold and the deck was icy. So I rode inside, the only person on the ferry besides the crew. I think maybe the mail travelled with me. 

     It was a small island. Upon arrival the ferry captain offered to make a call to find me a ride, but as I could actually see my accommodation from the harbor, I declined and walked, dragging my wheeled suitcase behind me over the slippery road. 

     I stayed, mostly alone, in a three story Victorian Bed and Breakfast.  My only real companion was the owners big orange cat. I only closed and locked my door when I left for the day, so the cat took to hanging out in my room and even slept on my bed a night or two. The owners daughter came in each morning to check on me and make sure I had everything I needed for the 'breakfast' part of the deal. I wouldn't have cared if she showed up at all. There was a pub or two open where I'd eat my dinner most nights, and a small grocery store.
 

     I spent the week reading and wandering the island...Took a stroll to the island cemetery where I found graves from the 17th century and deer tracks in the snow. At some point in the week I stopped by the local library and they knew who I was...'the girl who's been walking the island'. 

     One day, I walked to the cliff side. At the top of the cliffs you can look out across the Atlantic. The sun was filtered through clouds, making it look like moonlight in midday. I took off my winter hat so the wind off the ocean could blow through my hair. It was my personal earthly heaven. 

     However, my favorite moment was on about the third day. Walking on the beach, bundled up from the cold, I looked down and saw the only footprints in the sand belonged to me and the seabirds. Then as I walked, it began to snow. I spun around and around on the sand with my arms out wide, taking it in...enraptured.  It was a gray day, yet it sparkled...with beauty...with possibility. The smell of snow in salt air is now indelibly printed on my writer's soul...yet words can never fully explain. 

     Breathing in salt air brings clarity. When I left the island eight days later, I knew I was going to head off into a new life...alone...centered...sure of my power. 

-Kim

The Ladder

     You've heard it before...growing old ain't for sissies. It's true. Growing old takes moxie, chutzpah, good knees.


     As I climb higher into my 50's, the ladder begins to creak and sway. It's just half rotted wood, after all...not sturdier aluminum. There's no one at the bottom holding it for me. It's frightening being at these heights. I try not to look down too often or else I'll get dizzy with nostalgia...nauseous from memories. But you can't stop climbing, quivering in fear. Gotta suck it up, buttercup. I fight my fear of these heights by doing things that make me feel brave. Maybe it's false bravado, but it's better than showing the world how truly terrified I am.


     First, I let my hair turn gray. Owning it, loving it was brave in a society that puts so much value on young and beautiful. I decided silver was beautiful, too. Then I dyed part of my hair purple, because it looked like a pretty color on the box. It's a sassy, courageous color.


     I've always been a writer, even when I wasn't. Even now, I can walk into an office supply store and get all tingly inside when I see those stacks of blank paper and unsharpened pencils waiting. Waiting for me. At a friend's insistence, I began thinking seriously about writing. Then I actually started doing it. There've been bumps and roadblocks, but it's moving along. I'm writing a novel...a book that other people might actually want to read someday...and that's pretty brave.


     The limits of my patience have been clearly defined. The days of giving my 'self' away to people who don't understand me, are over. That's brave...to draw that line in the sand and say, "Do not cross this" and mean it.


     Only recently I did something I thought I'd never do. I made new friends. Friends who weren't schoolmates or coworkers first. Creative people who understood me before I even spoke a word. It's courageous, peeking out of your solitary cave and finding an entire village of people waiting for you.


     I realize this will sound overly morbid, but I'm well aware that each rung up this ladder brings me closer to death. Knowing that, yet still climbing, is brave. Awareness of our own mortality is terrifying as hell...but still we climb. Hoping. Dreaming.


     The top of the ladder is hidden from view. Shrouded in clouds. I'm in no hurry to get there, but I'm pretty sure I'll do it with purple hair and a finished novel tucked under my arm.


Kim
    

Mood Killing Sleep Elves

Sunday evening hello!

This weekend has found me feeling so good! Emotionally, I mean. I'm sure and solid. I know what I'm doing and where I'm going. 

But tomorrow is Monday and I'll be back to my usual routine of waking up at 4:45am. Send The Man off to work with lunch and a kiss. Errands, housework, dogs. Wanting desperately to write. 

I'm hoping that the night doesn't steal my confidence. That those sneaky little sleep elves don't tiptoe into my bedroom and kill my delightful, dreamy mood. 

Because writing is everything.

It's my breath. 

My blood. 

I'm not me without a pen in my hand. 

Words in my head, waiting patiently for their turn on the paper. 

So the elves need to stay away tonight...

Because tomorrow, I write. 

~ Kim

Changes

So, here I am...changing the name of my blog...again.
I've decided to stick with the same moniker I use for most of my other social media stuff:


kimblewrites


It's to the point and suits me. My name isn't Kimble. My friend Amber calls me that sometimes and I like it. So there you are...I don't know why I didn't use it to begin with...


For anyone new to me...I say what I want. I occasionally cuss and I'm sure, at some point, I'll piss you off. Oh well. There's the door.>>>


Life is weird as hell. I write about that. I write about what moves me, impresses me, shocks me. Sometimes I ramble. Sometimes I'm eloquent. But whatever it is, it's always real.


As I tell my young friends...you should listen to me. I'm old. I know shit.

Life has to evolve in order to function at it's highest level. Things for me are going to have to evolve.
My laptop is sitting on the kitchen table surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of daily life: unread mail, a few groceries that still need to be put away, a cookbook or three. My life needs to declutter. I have far too many things that are demanding my attention. I have packratted too much, too many.


And I'm done. I'm about to get ruthless. Changes will be made. Peace will be had.


~ Kim

Beribboned

     There are pictures of me as a toddler with blond curls. When I was about 3 or 4 my  grandma came to live with us for a little while and started braiding my hair. This upset my mother who always swore that braiding my hair straightened out my curls. Grandma always used a satin ribbon that she braided in with the sections of hair and then the ends of the ribbon were used to tie off the braid. She did this every day and when she left, my mother continued the practice. There were ribbons that matched every outfit.  

     As the years progressed my blond hair turned brown…my two beribboned braids eventually became something resembling a mullet, with the back long and the front and sides shorter. That was my first real haircut…at a salon. The girl asked my mom if she wanted to save the hair. Mom said no…then as the hair started falling to the floor she changed her mind and salvaged what she could before it was swept up. Mom straightened out the hair a bit and braided it, tying off each end with a piece of red yarn.   Then there was a chin length bob with bangs. This time mother came prepared, having braided my hair, with the usual ribbon, in one long braid down the middle of my back. The stylist had only to chop the hair at the top of the braid…so mom didn’t have to retrieve it from the floor to save it. A few more years passed before the last cut orchestrated by my mother. I was about 12 I think, and she insisted it be cut short again…though I really wanted the long silky hair that was getting to be so popular.

     Over the years I had a few disastrous Toni home perms. My hair was pretty much stick straight, fine and probably a bit stringy. I was not blessed with thick, luxurious waves. Once in my teens, I put my foot down and the hair cutting and perms ceased. By the time I graduated high school my silky brown hair had grown down past my waist. And then the coloring started.

     I can honestly say that, until recently, I had not seen my natural color in 32 years. It started the summer after graduation with a bottle of stuff called Sun-In.  You sprayed it on your hair and sat in the sun. It stunk to high heaven so I think it was laced generously with peroxide.  I spent an entire summer  lying on a towel in the back yard, fair skin slathered with a mixture of baby oil and QT (quick tan) lotion… hair generously spritzed with a concoction that promised blond tresses. What I ended up with was orange skin and brassy, apricot hued hair. Lovely.

     There was eventually another perm followed closely by a brown dye job that went much too dark thanks to the perm and left me looking like Rosanne Rosanadanna from Saturday Night Live.  There were numerous cuts and colors. I’ve been blond, red, brown and every nuance in between. My hair has been long, short, straight, curly,…I’ve had ‘feathers’ and bangs. For years I settled on straight, just past my shoulders and reddish-brown. It was easy and the colored suited me.  Until it didn’t…

     I grew older. I struggled to keep the roots colored to match the rest of it…yet all the while something amazing was happening. Underneath the cuts and colors, my hair turned gray…without me.

    When I turned 50, I decided enough was enough…enough mess…enough aggravation.  I made the decision to stop coloring my hair. Cold turkey.  Knowing that stripping the color off could be harmful, I decided to simply let the color grow out. It took exactly two years  before the last of the dyed brown hair was clipped from the ends.  I felt liberated.  There is beautiful silver hair on both sides of my family and yes, I got lucky. I must admit, my silver hair is nice…more than nice, really. It’s mostly silver-white and silky and shines in the sun.  It has made my grayish eyes look bluer and has softened my expression. If hair could talk, mine would thank me for allowing it to grow old gracefully.

    My parents both passed away not long ago…within months of each other. Their apartment had to be emptied in a hurry so my sister and I loaded up boxes of their belongings and brought them to my house for storage. A few weeks ago I was finally going through one of those boxes when I found something wrapped up in a paper towel. Unrolling it I found two silky brown braids of hair…one messy and tied on each end with red yarn and the other neater and tied with a yellow ribbon…

Kim