Tracks of Life

As of yesterday, I can admit that the thought of train tracks rarely crossed my mind, but a sudden urge to walk the trestles and tie rods recently overtook my thoughts. This urge hit during the cold winds of early March, and I bided time until warmer weather arrived.

Yesterday, restless from staying contained inside for a few days due to personal choice, my husband I, along with the dog, traveled to the outskirts of our town, where the tracks wind along the countryside.

Once part of the railroad system, the tracks were integral in shipping tools out of the factory here, crossing populated neighborhoods to get to the factory, which was in the heart of the borough.

Technology and times changed the delivery port, and the tracks were eventually removed from the downtown streets. The outer tracks remain as a framework of local history, meandering on the town's outskirts to a second factory.

Climbing the small hill to reach the tracks tells a story in itself: coal of assorted sizes, once cargo from the train over the decades, glitter along the well-worn path amid weeds, brush and broken glass. I wonder how many feet have trod before us, and what age those feet must have been.

In order to step on the rails, we scale small banks of loose, golf ball-sized rough cut quartz rock gravel. Using the rods as stepping stones, we begin walking, chatting about everything or nothing.

My husband, who has battled some personal demons during his life, is fittingly wearing a shirt that reads "Survivor." I am thinking of so many train track analogies comparable to his testimony that I am stopping frequently to take pictures of the track itself, and of him in particular.

The shirt is fitting for this trip.

Picture-less Frame

Platform. Brand. Social media. Writing. Video. Purpose.

All these form a picture-less frame made of my life experiences, skills, tendencies, and interests. This frame embraces the picture of the reason why I have breath in my lungs, why I rise in the mornings, the carol of my soul.

Communication Epiphany

Transporting readers to a destination.

Too much doubt has kept me from reaching towards a gift. Doubts of ownership that the gift belongs to me, that I have any right to use it, fear of wrongly using the gift, the laughter that will take place if I claim ownership (it's happened), the eye rolls, the exchanged glances--all of these I allow to usurp my gift and push it from me.

A few days ago, a thought settled into my mind and hasn't left yet. Perhaps it has taken root and begun to grow quickly.

Allow me to set the scene:

I was assigned to transport over 50 children ranging in age from third to twelfth grade to Battle of the Books, a reading competition (click here and here). As a school bus driver of the trip which was scheduled approximately 45 minutes northeast, I was mentally preparing the next day's trip of what to possibly expect on that particular route--the condition of the roads, weather, the excited-ness of the students, etc. when the thought quietly knocked on the door of my spirit.

My assignment was to transport readers to a destination.

Its deeper meaning ruminated within my spirit.

My assignment is to transport readers to a destination.

Isn't this what my gift does? Transports readers to a destination? Yes! Oh, yes! Let it be.




If you've read this, please feed my fish on the right side of this page.

Cee is for Conformity of a Caterpillar

The first Saturday of each month, a small group of devoted writers (some are published, others are soon-to-be) gather at our church, where we discuss a litany of subjects from marketing and publishing our writings, to the pros and cons of using social media as a platform. Most of this is new to many of us, while the more experienced writers in the group offer suggestions and mentoring.

This morning, I should have been in attendance, but I lingered in sleep longer than I ought to have, and when the appointed meeting time arrived, I heard the chime of a text from a friend, who was also attending the meeting. 

After a few back-and-forth messages, we turned to social media. The mentor of the group graciously provided the use of his laptop and Skype so I could "attend" the meeting. I couldn't help but feel during and afterwards, despite imposing upon the group, how important it is to have uniformity in social media. 

As much as I've prided myself on developing the "BytheCee" moniker, it only confuses the general public (and those I wish to connect with) when they're looking for Cindy Knier and find BytheCee instead, and vice versa. 

So today, I accepted the thought of conformity, switching my Twitter account and now my blog. It feels sort of revealing, in a way, that I am no longer hiding behind a vague name, lurking in the shadows of Cyber-ville, hoping to be kitschy enough to catch someone's interest. I am a butterfly, conformed.