The Junk Drawer

Everyone has one. In it goes all the odds and ends, the tidbits that lack another logical home, and glimpses of our lives, habits, where we’ve been and what we’ve done. I speak, of course, of the Junk Drawer.

What’s in yours? What story does it tell?

One glance in my Junk Drawer tells much of my tale.

It is neat and orderly, which seems oxymoronical for a Junk Drawer.

You’ll see expired ski passes – mine, my sweetie’s, my youngest son’s. Those are in the front, left-hand corner.

And pens (yes, they all work), more pens than I could use in a lifetime. There are pens from faraway Marriotts and Hiltons. There are pens from exotic resorts in Jamaica, Mexico, Italy and France. There are a gajillion from Panhandle State Bank – do I get those when I make deposits or withdrawals?

Over here is a stack of coupons, long expired – pizza, girl products, toothbrushes. Guess I paid full price.

Batteries are rolling around in the Junk Drawer. I wonder if they are dead or alive.

Look, it’s the itty bitty screwdrivers my dad used to use. When he passed away, I got all of his hand tools. Funny, that’s all I would have wanted. Oh, and his old, beat up, well traveled leather jacket. What else would the Tomboy daughter want? I can’t count the hours I spent, as a wee lass, retrieving tools from the shed for my dad. Yes, I have brothers but … By the time I was 5 years old, I knew my way around the tool chests. If he yelled for a 7mm socket wrench, by golly that’s what I delivered. I always loved these mini-screwdrivers. Heck, they’re so cute, Barbi could love them.

In the back right corner is the organizer box. One compartment for needles for the bike and ball air pump, another has spare game parts – Monopoly, Cribbage. I’ve got push pins, straight pins and needles … Pins and Needles? Here is some florist wire, which is one of the handiest things a girl can have on hand. Well, that and cammo duct tape! I’ve got nails and screws, for nailing and screwing. There are wall anchors of all shapes and sizes, Canada coins and rubber bands.

You’ll find a couple of decks of cards – full decks, a cribbage board, and a local phone book. And where did all of these wine corks come from?

Finally, there are the keys. What are all these keys? What did they open or lock? When last used, did they leave things locked or unlocked? I like to think unlocked, that the last click the doors and padlocks felt was one of opening - of freedom.

Instead of throwing away the key, I put it in the only logical place, my Junk Drawer

A Love Story and a Love Song

I am one of the lucky people. I have a few good friends who see me, the true me. Through their eyes I am more than I ever imagined.

They look at me and see a woman who can sing. Who can write songs. Who is a true and dedicated friend. Who is fun (who, me?). Who is carefree. Who makes them laugh. Who is compassionate. Who listens.

There must be something wrong with their vision! I spend most of my time afraid. I tear up songs in fits of frustration and toss them in the fire. I’m awkward and clumsy socially. I blurt out stupid stuff all the time. I’m frozen in place by indecision, sure that any decision I make will be the wrong one.

I tell myself this is who I am, that my friends don’t know me. I am not the person they think they see. But what if …

What if there is something to what they see? What if I could do these things? What if I could be this person? What if …

Some people see right to our hearts and souls. They don’t see, or at least they don’t focus on our weird little quirks and defensive behaviors. They see the stripped down, childlike person we once were. The one who sang at the top of her lungs. The one who wrote silly songs with no agony or judgment. The one who made spontaneous decisions and had no regrets.

The simple fact that they see us, the true us, frees us to become our deepest, bravest, most creative, delightful selves.

If you are a person who looks at others through Beautiful Eyes, thank you. You have surely set people free to, once again, show their greatness. I am filled to the brim with gratitude for the men, women and children who have put me on a better path by helping me see, and be, the best that’s in me.

This song, Beautiful Eyes, is dedicated to all the people who see us through their beautiful eyes.

Chorus:
Beautiful eyes, see to the heart of me
Beautiful eyes, see to the soul of me
Beautiful eyes, find only the good in me
Your beautiful eyes see me, free me, to be me

Enjoy a free download of Beautiful Eyes

Happy Valentine’s Day and much love every day,

Dawnya Clarine

For Passion not Pay

Earlier this week, we had a couple of traveling, performing songwriters couch surf with us. Our town is one of several stops they will make on their winter tour.

They were playing at one of our favorite watering holes, Eichardt’s. We stopped in to introduce ourselves, and to listen for a while.

Burke, stage name Church Mouse, writes and performs tunes of a darker nature. He uses two vocal mics, which give his voice a haunting, almost forlorn feel. Tunes that make you think.

Adam is idealistic and innocent. Everything about him feels happy. He uses the base of his stool to tap out rhythms with his feet – sorta like a toned down clog-dance - while playing the guitar, singing and smiling. Cool!

Musicians, songwriters, creatives of any sort really, love to talk to others who share their passion. So despite their long day of driving, setting up for their gig, playing, tearing down, packing up, and driving to our place, Burke and Adam wanted to talk (and so did we).

We talked about what inspires our songwriting, how we get started, what blocks us, what sets us free. We talked about our fears and our joys of performing. We shared stories of the road - our best and worst gigs. And, we swapped the names of venues that attracted appreciative audiences.

The best venues often can’t afford to pay, so you play for tips. Many times you play and sing your heart out, and the people walk by as if you weren’t even there. So why do it? Why drive over mountain passes in the middle of winter? Why spend time, gas, miles, and money to play? Why pack the gear in and out of venues and drive through the night to the next gig?

Ask Adam. Ask Burke. Ask the guy in the grocery store parking lot who plays his sax and gives it all he’s got when it’s only 27 degrees outside. They will all give you the same answer, “because we have to.”

When I wrote Man on the Corner I was thinking about the buskers who play in the rain, and snow, and the heat of the day. I was remembering the artists who bare their souls in the dim corners of bars, or noise filled coffee shops. I was writing a tribute to all the players who probably didn’t even cover the cost it took them to get there.

Dawnya Clarine
Soul Appeal

A Wannabe Burglar and a Mother’s Grace

We all have our stories. Stories we love to tell from our life’s book. Some stories grow old, or maybe our lesson is learned, so we no longer need to retell them. Those are closed chapters.

Others always seem fresh. They bring up certain welcome thoughts or feelings no matter how many times or years in the telling.

My new friend Robyn told me one of her stories last week. I will share it here in her words, as I remember them.

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My daughter was home, not feeling well one day. She was on my bed upstairs. Sometimes snuggling into momma’s bed is the best thing for healing.

She was sleeping, so I left to run a few errands. When I returned, the window was broken out of the back door. Electricity surged through me. Someone broke into my home with my daughter asleep upstairs. I need to get to her NOW.

As I started heading up the stairs, a young man, arms full of our laptops and such, was coming down. I started to speak, mind crazed, to this man between me and my daughter. “What are you doing”… I demanded. Then, “put that stuff down on the table.” He did. ‘Do you have a weapon,” I asked. He had kept one hand out of sight.

“No,” he said.

“Let me see your hands.”

The hand he’d kept hidden was wrapped in one of my bathroom towels and was bleeding heavily. I was insane with a need to get up to my daughter. “Lemme see your hand,” I said. He held it out to me. “We need to get this cleaned up. You sit down. I’m going up to get some things to clean these wounds.”

“What would your mother think,” I said, almost under my breath as I headed toward the stairs.

My daughter was not in my room. I looked out the front window and saw that her car was gone. She must have gotten up and left before the young burglar showed up. I sat on the edge of my bed, somewhere between breaking down and punching something.

After I pulled myself together, I got the peroxide and bandages.

He was still sitting at the table (I figured he would have made a run for it but …)

As I cleaned his wounds, he started to cry. “My mother would be so disappointed if she knew,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket and returned heirloom rings and jewelry that had been in my family for several generations. “What can I do to make it up to you,” he asked.

“Well, you can fix the door,” I said.

We went to the hardware store, got a new pane of glass and some trim. He fixed the window. When he went to leave, I handed him $20. “I don’t know what your situation is, but twenty dollars should help you for a day or two. Take it.” He took the money and left.

Every year, on Mother’s Day, I get a card from him. I have gotten them for 18 years now.
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I was speechless after hearing Robyn’s story. I’m glad she hasn’t worn tired of telling it. I wonder what the story would sound like from the wannabe burglar, and if he still tells it.

Dawnya Clarine
Soul Appeal

The Puddle Party

I voted today.

My polling place is an elementary school.

I showed up a few minutes before 8 AM, early, so I waited in my car, reading and watching kids walking down the sidewalks to school.

It has been raining in Sandpoint. Of course it’s been raining in Sandpoint. It’s fall. It’s always raining in Sandpoint. There was a good supply of puddles in the uneven sidewalks. That’s another given in Sandpoint, potholes and uneven sidewalks makes for lots of puddles.

Anyway, I watched the kids negotiating the puddle directly in front of my car.

The first two girls, probably 7 years old, stopped and carefully skirted around the puddle. It was just in the way. They had boots on, but didn’t want to get them wet I guess.

The next second-grade pedestrian was attired in high-top Converse All-Stars and Pippy Longstocking-style hosiery. She stopped, gazed into the puddle, skimmed the surface with her high top and then proceeded to stomp both feet in the puddle, before sprinting to the door. My kind of kid.

Then came a pair of blond elementary-goers to the puddle. Both bent at the waist, looked at their reflections in the puddle, burst into giggles, and jumped cleanly over the pool. Must have been a good two feet across, and they were flying!

There was a constant stream of kids taking their turns at that puddle for the 20 minutes I sat there.

It occurred to me that every kid that came along saw that puddle in their own unique way. Some didn’t see it at all, they only saw themselves, and that was ok too.

What a perfect place to participate in the democratic process - freedom at work, and the future of it all out exercising their simple right to see things as they want to.

I’m glad I live where I can vote. Where children can look into their very own puddle and dream whatever they want.