In Living Color

I viewed some YouTube videos in which color-blind men saw colors for the first time. Each received a pair of newly patented glasses that corrected their achromatopsia, an inherited condition of total color blindness. What intrigued me about the videos were the men’s extreme reactions. In each case, they were overcome with emotion, to the point of tears.

I’ve tried to imagine a world devoid of color where every scene looks like a black-and-white photograph. Those of us who’ve always possessed the gift of being able to distinguish colors take it for granted. For most people, it’s one of those senses as natural as sight, itself.

As I sit in my sunroom writing, I glance out the window and spot two birds at the feeder. One is a Christmas red cardinal, and the other has cornflower-blue feathers and a chestnut-red belly. They are painted against the backdrop of a cerulean sky. With the advent of spring, this scene will be dotted with green leaves, pink blossoms, and yellow daffodils. How unappealing my view would be if the colors were limited to shades of black, gray, and white.

Inside my sunroom, I grow lush plants in varying shades of green: two ferns, a peace lily, and a Norfolk pine. In one corner stands a palm tree. In the opposite corner, a fichus tree (fake, but still colorful). I wonder what labels Crayola would give their slightly differing hues: Sea Green, Forest Green, and Jungle Green perhaps? I try to imagine them without pigment: gray, grayer, and grayest. How dull they would look!  

Can you imagine a bride selecting Dolphin Gray, Outer Space Black, and Crystal White for her wedding colors? Although Crayola’s creative names make these hues sound interesting, the wedding guests would soon yawn with boredom. 

Publicists know how to use color to energize their advertisements and products. Color garners attention. Color sells.

People (mostly men) with red-green color blindness have difficulty differentiating stoplights from “go” lights. In emergencies, the ability to see red exit signs and ambulance lights saves lives. Yellow center road lines separate opposite flows of vehicular traffic, and yellow lights tell drivers when to proceed with caution. The inability to distinguish these colors could pose a serious safety hazard. 

We depend on color cues every day. If I didn’t pair my husband’s jackets and pants and match his socks, he’d show up at church wearing navy-blue pants with a black jacket, one black sock, and one navy sock. Okay, maybe that’s not a safety hazard, but it’s a fashion faux pas that most of us can avoid with little effort. 

We’ve all watched movies like “The Wizard of Oz” that start in black-and-white then gradually emerge into the full spectrum of Technicolor. Suddenly, our brains awaken to whole new sensations. We sit up and take notice. This cinematic effect must be what it’s like to put on glasses that correct achromatopsia. After watching those YouTube videos, I’ll never again take for granted my ability to see the world in living color.

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room, and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Church of the Buzzards

Did you know that buzzards are Presbyterian by denomination? No? I didn’t either, until my husband and I moved to a condo community near a Presbyterian church. That’s when we discovered buzzards are quite devout, attending services not only on Sundays but every day of the week. Each morning and evening hundreds of the black, ominous creatures line up across the church’s roof peak and fill the surrounding trees. When their morning service ends, they glide overhead, wings outstretched in search of their daily bread, or more accurately, their daily road-kill.

I admit it. I’ve been a little creeped out by the Church of the Buzzards. Since ours is a senior community, I've wondered if the foreboding scavengers know about the advanced ages of our residents. Could they be ambulance chasers of the most sinister kind? Surely, I wouldn’t feel threatened by a row of roosting doves. I’d think they were simply gathering to witness the wedding of a couple of lovebirds. What about a row of storks? Time for a baptism, perhaps? 

Something about buzzards makes me shudder. “It seems like they’re lying in wait for someone to expire,” I remarked one day as my husband and I were walking past the Church of the Buzzards. “Do Presbyterians participate in human sacrifices?”

“Don’t be silly,” he answered. “Buzzards eat dead animals, not live humans. Besides, Presbyterians are pretty much like Methodists in their rituals. I’m sure they don’t have blood sacrifices.”

“But what if I cut my finger and they confuse me for road-kill?”

“I’ll pray for you,” he countered. “You know, p-r-e-y.”

“Very funny! Suppose their roof-top gatherings are, in fact, committee meetings where they’re planning their attack on our neighborhood. We could all perish! Get it? P-a-r-i-s-h.”

“They’re just innocent birds who’ve found a high spot for congregating. Congregating, get it?”

“Ha, ha! Well, I wish they’d buzz off!”

All punning aside, I did some research on buzzards (also known as vultures). I learned they’re social creatures who roost in large flocks in trees and on roofs to prepare for feeding or to rest from a busy day of ripping dead flesh into shreds. They seek out high spots in residential or industrial areas to soak up the morning sun.

So, it seems buzzards aren’t necessarily Presbyterian. They could even be Catholic depending upon the height of the Catholic church nearby. Finally, I can relax since I learned their talons aren’t strong enough to carry away a carcass. They must eat their road-kill where they find it. This carcass intends to remain strong, healthy, and undecayed for many years to come. 

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Surviving Winter

I admit it. Icicles are pretty, sparkling in the sun with their varying shapes of elongated raindrops. We even use the plastic variety to decorate our houses for the holidays. Yes, icicles are pretty, but not hanging off the end of my nose.

I really tried to take my walk this morning. After bundling up in sweatpants, heavy knee socks, two shirts, vest, coat, hat, scarf, and leather gloves, I ventured out the front door only to be knocked backward by a vicious gust of wind. That gust had it in for me. I’m sure of it! But I pulled myself together and persevered, knowing the eighteen-degree temperature couldn’t possibly feel as frigid once I moved into the sunlight. Wrong!

As I rounded the shaded corner, my eyes started to water, my bundled-up body was wracked with shivers, and my nose began to run. Quickly, the nasal drainage formed a snot-cicle and not a pretty one. With wind-burned face and frost-bitten toes, I did an about-face and headed back inside. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. Anyway, it had taken nearly twenty minutes to dress for the weather, and my walk lasted less than five minutes—not the aerobic event of champions.

The point is, I lived in the northeast for eighteen years, enduring its long, cold, dreary, snowy winters. When I moved to Virginia via North Carolina, I expected mild winters. And by “expected,” I mean ordered, decreed, demanded. Let’s just say it was a strong expectation.

During the thirty-four winters I’ve lived in Virginia, I’ve experienced five major ice storms, hundreds of snow days, and enough freezing temperatures to store a year’s worth of whale blubber for an entire Inuit family. Oops! Am I exaggerating again? Don’t get me started on hurricanes, spring pollen, and sweltering summers.

The good thing about Virginia’s weather, though, is it only lasts a couple of days. By Wednesday, the temperature might climb to the sixties. I’ll wait till then to take my walk.

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Perception

Since I started writing as a career, I’ve made immeasurable discoveries. One of the most interesting realizations is that perception is everything. Writers choose their words and phrases carefully to ensure the reader will connect, but each reader’s perception of words and their meanings can be different. Most writers keep a thesaurus handy and use it religiously. We want our words to reflect our intended thoughts as accurately as possible.

The English language abounds with synonyms. “But a synonym is a synonym,” you say. “What difference does it make which one you use?” It can make a huge difference. Take, for example, the word, cry.  As a noun, its synonyms include call, shout, exclamation, yell, scream, shriek, yelp, bellow, and holler. As a verb, it can mean weep, sob, blubber, snivel, whimper, bawl, howl, wail, and shed tears.

In my novel, The Dark Room, I use the verb, weep, for Stella’s response to being arrested after she thinks her life has finally turned around. She escapes her husband’s constant abuse and now she and her granddaughter are safe. To me, the word, weep, perfectly represents Stella’s crying. I imagine her sitting alone in a jail cell, feeling defeated and hopeless. I see her motionless, almost paralyzed, staring into space and crying silent tears. She doesn’t scream, yelp, or bellow. Weeping fulfills the image that I intend for that scene. It is my perception of how Stella would react in her situation. 

I select a different synonym for cry in my novel, I Want to Go Home. The little boys, Pete and Joey, endure several days of homelessness, first living in

their car in the dead of winter, then trying to sleep on the hard floor at Union Station. When their panicked sister, Abby, awakens them from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and ushers them outside to face the frigid darkness, they simply can’t take any more. I could have chosen for them to shriek or yelp or bellow, but my perception of their response is a mouth-open wail. No silent weeping or whimpering depicts the degree of their response. They are exhausted, resentful, and angry at the world. Even the word, sob, is not a strong enough synonym for their condition. They must wail.

Words are the raw material authors use to paint mental pictures. Words set the stage for our stories and construct scenes that we hope will come alive in our readers’ minds. Words invoke moods and describe our characters’ personalities. But as carefully as we select our words, the risk exists that our readers’ perception will differ from our own.

How often have you watched a movie after reading the book and remarked, “That was nothing like I envisioned it?” Often, I find my perception doesn’t agree with the screenwriter’s interpretation. Given a choice of reading the book or watching the movie, I prefer the book since the written account is closest to the writer’s intention. I understand how writers choose their words with care, and I respect the process because I know how hard it is to get it right.

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room, and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Why Do I Write?

“Why do you write?” a friend asked me the other day. “I mean, you’re retired. You could be relaxing, traveling, playing bridge, or any of those other activities retired people engage in.”

“Well, first, I don’t play bridge,” I answered. “But the simple answer is: I write because I must.” Call it therapy, a need for expression, or a passion for the power of language, but I can’t seem to get through a day without writing. Until recently, I didn’t realize it has always been this way with me.

As a child, I kept a journal and wrote poetry; not good poetry, mind you, but rhyming stanzas hewn from the depths of my young, full heart. I also dabbled in playwriting that reflected what I perceived to be the human condition. Oh, if I had known then what I know now about the human condition!

As an angst-ridden teenager, I filled my journals with hyperbolic declarations of frustration, betrayal, lost loves, self-doubt, and unfulfilled dreams. Angst. How I wish I hadn’t destroyed those journals later out of embarrassment! It would be fun, probably hilarious, to reminisce.

Now I write short stories and novels. I’d like to think my writing has matured a bit since those first sincere, pathetic efforts, but I find I’m still learning every day. The more I learn about the written word, the more I realize I don’t know.

My publisher insists I’m a professional author because I get paid for writing. But even after publishing three novels, I sometimes feel like a novice, an imposter. Had I known I would one day become an author, I would have spent more of my youth digesting the works of great writers instead of spilling my childish guts on the pages of a teenager’s diary. Now I wear a ragged, invisible tee shirt that reads: “So many books; so little time!” Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Shakespeare (okay, maybe not Shakespeare), Thomas Wolfe, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, and George Eliot all awaited my attention when I was reading the likes of Nancy Drew, The Little Princess, and Black Beauty.

To write professionally, one must cut off one’s arm and lay the bloodied, open wound before a pride of ravenous lions. The act of writing well, as the world’s classic authors would attest, is plain hard work.

So, why do I write? Storytelling is rife with enchanting word-play, literary decision-making, and the incurable disease of soul-baring. At its worst, it opens one to the potential for criticism, rejection, and even poverty. At the same time, words—when they work—propel their creator toward states of euphoria and gratification of the highest order.  

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room, and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Soul-Searching

New Year’s resolutions tend to focus on improving our physical fitness, losing weight, or adopting habits to make us more successful in our work and home lives. With each passing year, I realize how important it is to nurture the soul as well as the body. As I count the new gray hairs on my head and wrinkles on my skin and feel the little twinges that accompany aging, I’m more aware than I’d like to be that my body will eventually fail me. There’s no escaping it. I can exercise, eat right, get plenty of rest, and maybe even indulge in some plastic surgery, but I can’t prevent the ultimate, inevitable destiny of my earthly body.

Our culture is uncomfortable talking about death, especially our own. It makes us feel powerless. That’s because we are powerless to prevent it.

Have you ever wondered where the human soul resides? Have you thought about where it goes after the body dies? Is it possible to nurture the soul? In preparation for eternity, can we make it healthier through exercise? 

Most of the world’s religions include a tenet about that invisible, intangible, mysterious entity known as soul. Movie-producers and psychics have earned billions from our natural curiosity about the paranormal. Despite our limited capacity, we are determined to understand the supernatural world. We are attracted to speculating about ghosts. But are ghosts the same as souls?

The Hebrew word, “nephesh” translated by most biblical scholars as “soul” literally means “living being.” If the soul is a living being, it stands to reason we can nurture it through exercise.

I’m convinced the soul is located where we humans encounter The Divine. We only need to show up. For some, being in nature, walking in the woods, or digging in the garden are where they encounter The Divine. For others, this soul-searching happens through meditation, prayer or corporate worship. Seeking God is as natural to humans as breathing because each of us is created with a God-shaped hole in our soul. Only God can fill the void, not personal accomplishment, material possessions, or even loving family and friends.

We need not make soul-searching a complicated practice. The act of exercising my soul regularly has taught me that meeting, understanding, and communicating with The Divine is as simple as showing up, embracing silence, and listening for the “still, small voice.”

May 2019 be for each of us a year of active soul-searching and encountering The Divine. Happy New Year!

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.

The Greatest Gift

Yesterday I was sitting on the floor in our great room wrapping Christmas presents and listening to the King’s College Choir singing classic Christmas music. I had spent the morning shopping, then rushed home to change clothes and attend our neighborhood’s annual Christmas tea at the clubhouse which had been meticulously decked out in festive trimmings. Beside me, the tiny lights of our apartment-sized Christmas tree glowed, joining forces with multiple twinkling candles on the mantle above. Focused on how much shopping I still had to accomplish, suddenly I was struck with how far our Christmas traditions and celebrations have departed from that first Christmas in Bethlehem.

Not that there’s anything wrong with decorating, gift-giving, or gathering friends and family to enjoy food and fellowship. But when those aspects dominate our holiday celebrations, it’s not really about Christmas, is it?

Now that I’m retired from my demanding job as a church musician, I don’t feel quite as frantic about being ready in time for December twenty-fifth. But there’s still a sense of urgency surrounding the preparations: mail the cards, clean and decorate the house, shop for gifts and wrap them, attend concerts, plan special meals and gatherings, shop for groceries ... the list goes on and on until we want to shout “stop, slow down, there’s only so much one person can do!” I would add, “Take time to reflect on God’s gift to humanity, Jesus Christ.” 

God, the Father, is not the one pushing us to rush about, checking things off our to-do lists. Rather, we humans have turned Christmas into a competition to outdo each other. Maybe that’s why we’re called the human race. We even stretch our budgets to the breaking point, making retail merchants happy but causing ourselves more unnecessary stress.

What happened exactly that first Christmas in Bethlehem? “The Word became flesh.” God in the form of a baby, fully human, fully divine, came and dwelt among us, fulfilling the prophecy foretold hundreds of years before by Isaiah, Micah and others. More than our annual reenactment of Mary and Joseph gazing peacefully into a manger, surrounded by shepherds and animals, it was the greatest gift humanity has ever known. God’s desire to reveal His plan of love and harmony to the universe was so significant that He came and dwelt among us in the form of a humble peasant boy. Knowing His plan would include suffering and humiliating death, Jesus came to offer the ultimate gift of salvation, a gift that is free to all who accept it. Now, that’s a reason to celebrate!  

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook: Cindy Loomis Freeman. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com