Use Your Imagination?

Today I have a story for you.

Photo by Gabby K on Pexels.com

Once upon an era two mice were put in the most wonderful cage either could imagine.

The cage was so vast they could hardly see past all the various plants and toys to the metal bars at the far end. There were tiny fruits growing on the plants, balls to play with, a ferris wheel to run around on when tearing from one end of the cage wasn’t enough, and even a maze to learn for extra treats. They were both smart mice with great imaginations and learned the maze fast.

Photo by Anne Bunner from Flickr

The trickiest play was the button push for water. It poured out into a little stream when you pressed your paw on the right one. That took many whisker twitches to figure out. But they got it.

Someone they called god came every other day to clean up after them, which was best of all. God put them here, didn’t he?

They built a nest in the best place beneath their favorite fruit tree near the water stream (there were so many fine places) and birthed six little mice. Oh, joy, six more mice running around and playing. It wasn’t long before six little mice became thirty mice and even more fun was had. Except when those mice turned into thirty mice and god came and not only cleaned, but removed some of the mice. They were missed, at first, but more mice were born to replace them.

Time passed, and one day god did not arrive to clean their mess.

Two darks later, and he didn’t arrive. Four darks later and their shit piled up, creating an interest to flies and other small critters the mice did not care for. There were no treats from the maze, either, no matter how often one ran it.

Also, it was getting a bit crowded in paradise.

One young mouse named Seed said, “Maybe we should do something.” 

Photo by Alexas Fotos on Pexels.com

Another mouse said, “God will provide.”

So they did nothing.

The shit piled up and more mice were born, and many of them were hungry.

Seed tried. “Remember who did best in the maze?” she said. “What will happen if we don’t clean up this mess ourselves? Use your imaginations.”

But they did nothing.

One mouse named Wiley, bigger than the others, got his friends and stood guard over the water button. “Bring me your females or you get no water, clean space, or places to play.”

Soon mice were fighting over whose females went for water and who got the cleaner spaces. Dead mice as well as mouse shit lay everywhere, and paradise began to stink and attract ever more undesirable creatures.

By now Seed had little mice of her own and friends who were trying to clean up spaces by tossing shit and dead mice out of their cage, but they couldn’t keep up as so many other mice were shitting and killing others to get clean space, water, and food.

Their plants no longer provided and hungry mice killed one another for food.

They were so crowded and filthy many became ill and spread disease. Those who were once healthy became weak. Flies dove everywhere, feasting. 

By now Seed was a great grandmother, and watched her grandchildren and great grandchildren fade with disease before her eyes, the once beautiful plants shrivel among the stinking piles of shit.

What became of paradise

Must you use your imagination?

Why I Write, A Memoir in Blog Form

This is the beginning of a series about why I write what I write. You could call it a memoir in blog form rather than in a book. One might say it has taken me two weeks to get the nerve to write these words, but in reality it has taken me most of my life—with the help of hours of therapy.

Cormorants at Isla Chimay, Mexico by Karen Lynne Klink

I’m posting this for me and for all those who have been through the same or a similar experience, and I believe there are plenty of you out there. The photos at the top of each post are from my adult adventures. They represent a success story, a survivor’s album, to speak. All the shit I went through as a child was survived by both me and my sister, and my Mom. We got through it. Not without bruises, mind you. Those will remain. Forever. But we have lives with which we are satisfied, even happy. Diann and I are stronger after what we experienced.

Diann paints abstract art, art that expresses emotion. I express myself through writing. 

A few members of my extended family are aware of what I am about to reveal in these posts. Others are not. What I write will be what I recall, my truth, and whatever my sister wishes to add. I will not embellish in any way. 

Much of my childhood I have forgotten. This “forgetfulness” may be subconscious protection, but I don’t know. Diann often recalls instances I do not. Perhaps this is normal.

I don’t believe I ever thanked my ex-husband, with whom I am still friends, for encouraging me to begin therapy. I thank him, now, if he ever reads this. Thank you, Fred, so much. I doubt I would ever have the courage to write this, otherwise.

I am an incest survivor. I, my sister, and my Mom also suffered emotional abuse, until Diann and I escaped the house as adults and Dad died. Mom cried at his funeral and his family thought it was because of his death. She told me it was because of all the wasted years.

I believe and sincerely hope that what was thought of merely as shyness is recognized today by teachers in schools today for what it was when we were in school in the fifties. Afraid of boys and practically unable to socialize among our peers, we were two terrified and abused little girls.

It began when he came home from World War II.

Above All Be Genuine

Featured

Child Dreaming in WindowAccording to Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Robert Olen Butler, the process of writing is not intellectual, but emotional, and it is necessary to enter our dreamspace in order to write honest, inspired fiction.

I dream a lot; our dreams dive deep into our true selves—into our anxieties, fears . . . and joys.

The photo above? That’s me, eagerly looking out the window at the world. Many pounds and wrinkles later—still searching.

I like to know what other people are thinking. I hope you will let me know. You can disagree with me, of course, but please be nice about it.