I have been feeling a bit creative or like I want to be creative and was searching for some creative writing prompts and found this:
I was searching for fictional prompts, like short story ones, but these ones are real life ones.
I’m choosing this one today :
“In Your Own Image”
“In many ways you are everyone who came before you. Your uniqueness is your own spin on the DNA of your ancestors. Spend several minutes sitting quietly in front of a mirror. Reflect. Other than you, whom else do you see? Write 500 words about how you feel towards these people you’ve never met but who are a part of you. Their story is yours, too.”
What a beautiful concept and writing prompt.
As I look at myself, I see my eyes and everything they convey. On the surface, I see the color, the blueness and the deep splashes of green, like flourishing floret splashes across an afternoon sapphire sky, I see my very long, thick full lashes I have had for as long as I can remember, one of my mom’s gifts to me which I used to loathe now I love. I can now see creases around my eyes, which were not present previously in this life of mine, creases which signify age, years of struggles, pain, laughter, wisdom, heartache…lines upon my face – the result of a lifetime of belly laughs & smiles and sunshine.
I see my long, thick tresses, cascading my shoulders like burnt sienna waterfalls and clinging to my waist, with natural golden & orange highlights.
I see my freckles which become very noticeable every Fall and I have never liked but my mom always thinks are so cute. My sister and me both have them.
I see my mom. I have inherited her youthfulness, her glow, her long lashes, her easily amused temperament, her ability to see the positive in almost every situation , her love for animals, I may have inherited a bit of her aversion to death and anything that has anything to do with it. I see my grand mom, my mom’s mom who must have handed down that youthful glow to my mom which I have inherited.
I see my dad. I have almost his same hair color but mine is a shade darker. I inherited his natural thinness which usually stands unbuffeted by anything I put into my body or anything going on around or within me. I have his legs which we always joke in my family are “chicken legs.”. I see me as a little girl doing a chicken dance with my silly chicken legs having my family laughing uncontrollably.
I have inherited my dad’s love of intellectual thinking, debates, writing, reading, his love of personal development topics…and also his nocuous longing to be reassured again and again and again that “everything will be ok.” I have inherited his heartburn, the need to feel I have gotten my point across or I feel unsettled for the rest of the day, his agonizing mental health condition, his shyness, and his playfulness.
I see my little sister. We connect in uncanny ways. We both look at something that has absolutely nothing at all to do with something else but it somehow automatically reminds us both of that something else. We often *know* without a doubt what each other is about to say before it’s said. We have conversations like this:
Me: hey, remember whe….
Her: (laughing) yeah that day at the mall when…
Me: we had those Spring rolls and..
Her: they tasted the way a pony smells!
Lol! We just know.
I see that one Christmas Eve when we ripped open my mom’s Christmas gift that my grand mom bought her that was not to be opened until Christmas day by my mom. But my sister and me just had to know what the gift was while my mom was fast asleep with visions of sugar plumbs dancing in her head. It was big warm, fluffy sweaters! We wore them all night long into Christmas morning laughing our heads off, bouncing off the walls, watching holiday music, listening to holiday cheer, drinking hot cocoa… We can be each other’s worst enemy but we can be each other’s best friend. My sister, my friend.
I see my dad’s grand mom who I have never met. She died before I came to be. My dad told me she had a strong powerful loving like no other. I like to think I inherited that love. She couldn’t shower people in enough love. Sometimes I feel there aren’t enough people in this world for me to love. And I think of her. She bought candy and toys for all her boys. She gave them shelter and comfort. My dad says she always dreamed of having a sweet little girl of her own, a daughter or a granddaughter but all she ever got were boys. He said she would have loved me so much. She never got her girl. Sometimes my heart aches but I let her strong, potent message of love be my guide. I never even seen a picture of her but sometimes when I look into my eyes, I see her. She never got the chance to be proud of me. But I can be the kind of girl she would be so proud of.
I see my mom’s dad. My grandfather I never got to meet. She said he was beautiful, caring, full of love & light. He died tragically young. But through the stories, I can feel the love he put into the world which he left too soon but his love still lingers.
I see my dad’s mom who I have met but can’t remember. She also died tragically soon. I heard she was extremely friendly and very sociable.
I see my father’s father who I hear died for love. He was hopelessly in love with a Japanese girl who went back to her own country without him and so he drank himself to death when he was 30 years old. Tragic & heartbreaking but what a passionate kind of love. I vow to love that way but still stand strong enough to handle rejection abandonment, & heartbreak.
I see all of the people who run through my blood today and everyday. The people who have been with me since I took my first breath and laid eyes on the world they brought me to and even before. I see their gifts, their struggles, their heartache, their hard lessons learned, their tears & their laughter. I see their joy and their will. I see what I want to be and what I don’t want to be.
I see the people who go way way back, the primitive people who led to me. I see a reflection of hope, perseverance, strength, and love.
I wish I could have met each and every one of them. But whenever I long to look into their eyes, I glare into my own. And I see them. I carry them with me everywhere, everyday.
They survived many unimaginable things. And I will survive.
They gave me life. And while I can never repay or thank them. I can repay and thank the world. By being the best me that I can be. Not a perfectionist who never fails. Not someone who is never wrong. I will be wrong again & again but I will never go wrong with love.
I see the day I said to my mom “that happened long before I was ever even thought of!” & my mom said “You were never not thought of, I thought of you, loved you since I was a little girl myself and I always knew I wanted a little girl of my own.” My mom couldn’t have kids for so many years and was told maybe she never would and now here I am! And 10 years after me, my sister came along!
And that man in the picture with me. I see him too. When I look into my eyes. Uncle Al. We’re not related biologically but he loved me. I love him. I don’t have many early memories. But I remember him, vividly. I remember his love. I remember how funny he was. I remember how sarcastic and silly he would be. The way he would pretend to be angry then start laughing. The small gifts he bought me, the smell of his car and the feel riding in it with sunlight streaming in.
It’s incredible how vivid those memories are, so profound, and true when I was so young. They are forever etched upon the premises of my being.
I see us many years ago. Standing in a car parking lot on a bright & sunny day outside of a dollar store in Philadelphia, my city. I see me standing there. I see him walking out of the store with a big, warm, bright smile on his face waving a fan around in his hand with bunny rabbits on it. He looks at me, “Look what I bought for you, my love.”. Thrilled I run to him as he wraps me in his warm loving arms. He holds out the fan. I reach for it. He pulls it back just before I reach it. “Unnnccllee Alllll” I yell while giggling so hard.
I don’t remember when he died. He was just gone one day.
But I know…
His birthday is in May. Just like mine.
I remember he would fill his hands with coins and tell me if I can get his fingers open, I get to keep all the coins. My dad said when he was a little boy he did the same to him. We could never get his fingers open. But he let us keep the coins.
Never get so used to yourself that you forget the true “miracle” you are.
Check this: http://zaborski.org/?p=20
Someone shared this with me for my 27th b day on Facebook.