"The Puzzle Piece"

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Red Light, Green Light"

             A game of “Red Light, Green Light” often began with only a few of us scrambling from driveway to “Light”. The call, “green light” accompanied with the varied pause and then the shouted, “red light!” acted like the siren’s call, luring kids from throughout the neighborhood to dash with breakneck speed at the target. It never took long for the game to disintegrate into an endless argument on who got caught in movement by the “Light.” Before chaos descended, the game morphed into “Freeze Tag” or “Statues.” Both games shifted tension into uncontrollable bursts of laughter as bodies and faces contorted into hilarious positions.

            I loved “Statues” because one of the older boys would grab my wrists and spin me mercilessly. The world blurred into the muted colors of dusk as I tried to focus on something. Upon release, I’d soar through the hot summer air, capture a pose in midflight, and freeze into position once I bounced to a halt. Everyone wanted their turn to spin and throw me because of my pixie body and “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” good humor.
            As an adult, I’ve come to believe in the value of play. Not being on a team, coached and hemmed in by adults, but unfettered play within a diverse pack of kids that created its own hierarchy and rules. I didn’t get shuttled to and from structured soccer practices. I didn’t spend hours in lessons after school under more adult supervision. I know my mother listened to our games. I remember seeing her outline through the screen door when she snuck a peek at our antics. However, parental presence stayed in the background and the shadows through most of our evening play, emerging only when there was blood spilled or bones broken. All the fussing and fighting that came about as we struggled with pecking order? We accomplished this without adult input or supervision. This autonomy in play, I believe, is the greatest loss for the generations that followed my own.

Playful adult me!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"My Morning Musings"

       It occurred to me recently that I need to live my life the way I write about it. When I sit down to blog, I have a general idea of what’s on my mind, but I never generate an outline or a formal form of preplanning. Instead, I let fancy and serendipity take control. I “wing it.”

         In my life, though, I’ve always tried to map out the route to every goal. I’ve planned my agendas with the optimistic misconception that I won’t hit a roadblock or setback that screws everything up. But chaos and life go hand-in-hand. No matter how many lists, outlines, or plans I plot, the unexpected and unpredictable plops dead center and forces quick thinking and alternate courses.

         And isn’t that the fun of life? That spontaneous event that forces us to diverge onto a new track? I wonder about all of the wondrous people and places I’d never encounter if every plan panned out safe and predictable.

The road not taken? Hmmmmm. . . maybe

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Chaos and Destruction”

 

            As the world around us blows up with intentional chaos and destruction, we cope in different ways. My husband and son, both artists, pull canvases onto easels and tables to create in quiet determination. Their banter stays light and hopeful as vibrant colors splash and play into their extremely different pieces.

            When not painting, my husband helped me with assembling a large galvanized steel raised planter for my huge aloe and its pups. We built something small, and positive, and controllable. My hands in soil, I planned ahead to winter’s inevitable freeze with promises of insulating hay and heavy freeze blankets protecting these plants.

            We counter chaos and destruction with creation and propagation. We narrow down our days to whatever comes from our hands and hearts. 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Survival Mode"

One mishap
And Life freezes into chaotic misery 
An unavoidable illness burns your Future
An accident-not your fault-crushes Hope
An invasion of tech ruthlessly slaughters Livelihood

One mishap
And Life freezes into chaotic misery
An unrepentant storm heaves debris on your Path
An unforeseeable betrayal of Love and Trust erases you
An accumulation of losses and loneliness syphon away your Soul

One mishap

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Puzzle Piece"

 

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Haikus with Rules"

 

David Chapman-artist

 

Daughter, Mother, Wife,   

Sister, Friend—a collection     

of masks worn daily   

 

Imagination   

renews me like Dawn’s fresh breath   

Inhale, Exhale—ahhhh   

 

I am a cynic   
words on the tip of my tongue   
sharp as a razor   

 

We dream together

our interwoven fibers 
clothe and protect us  

 

No fairness in Life   

Just Fate and Chaos dancing   

Among Night’s shadows   

 

Constantly caring   
Silently sublimating   
self—piling regrets     

 

Distilling my thoughts   
Into crystal drops  of Truth—   
I write, write, write, write   

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Thinking Too Much"

My thoughts     

swirl and whirl into a tornado of confusion   

rolling over the landscape of my life   

sweeping up debris   

into the vortex   

flinging order into chaos   

roaring and thundering with unexpected velocity   

leaving destruction     

discouraging hope   

exploding my world with reckless carelessness   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Watched Pot”

Water simmers   

on the edge of boiling   
Steam rises to the rim  
swirls with deceptive beauty 
a mist—that scalds and burns   

A few degrees more  

and turbulence erupts    
whirling into blistering instability   
Unrealized outrage   
that seethes and sputters   

A few degrees less   

and danger recedes—    
Gentling back into     
warmth and comfort   

Simmering again on the edge   

 

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Thinking Too Much"

My thoughts     

swirl and whirl into a tornado of confusion   

rolling over the landscape of my life   

sweeping up debris   

into the vortex   

flinging order into chaos   

roaring and thundering with unexpected velocity   

leaving destruction     

discouraging hope   

exploding my world with reckless carelessness   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

" My Morning Musings"

         It occurred to me recently that I need to live my life the way I write about it. When I sit down to blog, I have a general idea of what’s on my mind, but I never generate an outline or a formal form of preplanning. Instead, I let fancy and serendipity take control. I “wing it.”

         In my life, though, I’ve always tried to map out the route to every goal. I’ve planned my agendas with the optimistic misconception that I won’t hit a roadblock or setback that screws everything up. But chaos and life go hand-in-hand. No matter how many lists, outlines, or plans I plot, the unexpected and unpredictable plops dead center and forces quick thinking and alternate courses.

         And isn’t that the fun of life? That spontaneous event that forces us to diverge onto a new track? I wonder about all of the wondrous people and places I’d never encounter if every plan panned out safe and predictable.

The road not taken? Hmmmmm. . . maybe

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman