The challenge: Everyone in the group was to write 10 - 20 beliefs about which they feel passionate. Without knowing why, we were each asked to choose one belief from a partner's list while they chose one from ours. And then we each had 15 minutes to write a scene between two people, each of whom shared one of those two chosen viewpoints.
My viewpoints:
(from mine)
I believe in chasing passion, because as soon as you settle for complacency, you start dying inside.
(from partner)
Any two people have the right to be married.
The 15-minute story:
Gettin' Hitched
"But mom, you haven't even met her. How can you be so heartless?" Blake asked, his voice rising frantic over a cacophony of clanks and shouts.
"I know everything I need to know, dear," she answered, and even over the phone, over the hundreds of miles in between the stable where he worked and the ashram where she lived, he could hear the corners of her mouth turning down in distaste, as if he were still a small boy playing ball with her sandalwood sculpture of Buddha.
"But you always taught me to chase my passions," he said. "With a bang, not with a whimper, right?"
She snorted.
"This isn't a bang *or* a whimper. It's a swift kick in the pants. And it's not passion."
"Yes it is. I've never felt such a strong connection, not to anyone or anything."
"Connection isn't what it's all about, you know. You were connected to that raggedy ass blanket growing up, but you didn't marry it. A marriage is about common goals, shared interests, a lifelong journey."
"Look, mom. We know. We talked about it."
Another snort.
"You talked, she listened."
"But I know she wants the same thing I do. If you don't believe anything else, you've got to know that I can see it in her eyes. You always said they were the mirror of the soul."
"Tell that to a blind person. Or a lobster."
"LINDSAY IS NOT A LOBSTER, MOM!" he wailed, and she could almost hear him pulling out his hair in that melodramatic way of his. She smiled in spite of herself and sighed.
He heard the slight whisper as she moved the phone to her other ear, her braided hair sliding over the mouthpiece.
"Fine, honey. You want to tell me what she is, then?"
"She is beautiful, mom. A gentle, natural soul. With hair as soft and dark as a raven's ebon wing--"
"Save it for your Byronic Poetry prof, Blake. If you want my blessing, you're going to have to do better than that. You just described half of my yoga class, for pete's sake."
"Just come meet her. Get to know her. Go for a ride with us through the forest. It's where we fell in love. I thought you'd think it romantic."
"I think you're an idiot!" she shouted.
"Why are you contradicting everything you ever taught me now that I finally have a chance of happiness?" he screeched, a note of madness entering his voice.
It wasn't their first argument, and she was used to it. There was another long suffering sigh.
"Because I love you, and I don't want to see you throw your life away. Yes, I believe that any two people who love each other have the right to be married. Yes, I taught you to chase your passion. And I was even nice to that tramp you brought home from senior prom."
"But?"
"But I'm not going to let my only son marry a horse."
"You're a hypocrite!" he shouted, and she shouted right back, "And you want to make me the grandmother of a hippogriff! I may be liberal, but I won't have it!"
"Fine," he said with a sniffle, deflating. "But will you at least buy us a new saddle for Christmas?"
