Our Place- feminine voice dare

Had to get outside- snow on the edges of the yard, 40 degrees and dropping, but working in the mail room is not ok today. I don't belong in an office. I belong outside.
I put on my silk long john's, my cold weather under armor and headed out to rake the yard at 5:45 pm. I had started a new garden bed at the beginning of fall, and it needs much more work before spring.
Scratching scrape scratching scrape- heaped the pecan leaves into the garden. The boys will have a new chore of running back and forth a bit everyday to crush them up and speed composting. The soaker hose caught my attention. It kept getting stuck in the tines of the rake. I was getting annoyed by some issues between some friends and even more annoyed that I was dedicating more time to resolving that than tending to my own life. The soaker hose trapped again. And again.
There are two kinds of people, I decided. Those who pray for rain and those who use the talents and skills the creator gave them to over come the drought. It must be very insulting to give possibility only to have it ignored, or worse unnoticed. I know how it has felt at times in my life. I mulled over what my gifts, my talents and skills are. Seems silly to say I have forgotten, but the hard knocks and losses of the year made me forget. There has been unemployment, draining of all savings accounts to live, replacing cars, loosing loved ones- either from moving away or moving beyond. It's strangely difficult to remember.

There is a wonderful children's book called "I Am" by Mac. One every page are stick figures beside words that say things like "I am creative. I sing. I dance. I tell stories. I am creative.... I am strong...I am helpful...." The most important sentiment is "I am what I say I am. I am not what I say I am not."

I was working by the street light that made the snow deep amber. I looked up, sifted through the airplanes and found the First Star.
Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. I am keenly aware of the importance of vocabulary in these things. I had not made my new year's resolutions yet. I do this on the winter solstice. It makes sense to me that the longest night night should be the end of the old year with it's enveloping of light, and the beginning of the new one like an enormous egg with a tiny yolk of daylight that grows to something comparatively enormous. A resolution wish for me and only me- scratching scrape, scratching scrape. Last night I fell asleep thinking about a challenge tourney we were all in in May. When Erika could not decide who she should call out, I asked her "Who was the scariest one up there? Who could she learn the most from when the fight was over?"
My thoughts were like pop corn- soaker hose, drought, star, fight- me.....
I made the scariest wish, biggest leap of faith, the thing I could learn and remember the most of myself from to counter the drought.
"I wish to become everything the Maker has faith in me to be."

I can not longer lie in my later years. It's not that I am bad at it, I simply can't make myself do it. When I can say out loud "I am what I say I am. I am not what I say I am not" then my wish will have come true.

Time for dinner. Arin and Jason are cooking. And I have to write something down so I don't forget it.

3 am again, no 4 am rant

The middle of the night is the only time I feel like I have myself to myself. It is also the worst time to write, or sew and expect to be able to go to work the next day. Well crap.
Sometimes I come home for lunch just to be alone for 15 minutes. Even if the family all backs off and know Mom's in time out, their enerigies are there. My darling love is wondering and reaching out to me with his heart- it is not the same as just being alone to recharge, to find restful peace before starting it all at full bore again. I keep telling myself, because others keep telling me- there is always tomorrow, or next week- and it fills me with rage.
Later is the kind of thinking that has it all ending up being too late in the end. I've spent too much time waiting. I have full faith in all of you to be able to figure it out. Leave me to me. I don't want to go out. I want to stay here, alone. And when I come out in 3 or 4 or 8 or 12 hours, it will have helped and I won't resent being needed, or the being the only one who knows what to do. As much. The thing with moms needed to take time for themselves is something we know in a full "no Shit" capacity. It's everyone else who needs to respect that fact, and give it to us. I don't feel that this need is respected by anyone. Otherwise, they would not tell me to just do it tomorrow, or next week. And if I had that feeling about making dinner......? It's starting to sound like a reasonable idea to pack up the sewing room and let the boys have it for play room. I'm not using it and they could. And it makes me sad that I feel like my need to have my own kind of recreation feels so disrespected that it does sound like such a reasonable idea. I packed it all into the attic before when the boys were all in diapers. It cracked my heart a little each day to see what was such a part of me having to be ignored. It was less painful to put it all out of sight and forget how it felt to feel peaceful creation. There was a bit of release when I did that- like when I mowed over the gardens, or decided to stop clearing the work benches- a relief that I didn't have to be sad about it anymore because it was gone. And I stare at the TV doing nothing and feeling like I don't know anything anymore. Worse part is, I can see the same broken heart behind the eyes of the boys about the things they used to love. No time or soul to play baseball with Patrick, teach Richard to sew, play music, rock climb, draw, paint, build- I don't even know what they like anymore. I don't know any of us anymore it seems. It makes me very sad that this is the only kind of writing I can come up with because of the emotional, mental, and spiritual log jam feels iced over with no signs of spring in sight. Even more so that I have to rant and demand to get respected time alone. That feels dirty- not at all helpful or healing. I don't remember the last time I relaxed- that I was not in full speed ahead mode. I some how think if I get what needs to get done, then I will have time for myself to enjoy the things that being me peace- as long as no one else needs something from me, even if it is just love. I'm tapped out and it's hard work to scrape the inside of that barrel. Me, what I do, my time, does not feel important enough in others minds. I want to run away from home. Or change the locks, albeit temporarily. So this is Purgatory-
There's always next week, I'm told.

Back to bed. Being so worn out will not help my defeated feeling. It only makes it worse. I had a life goal to be a force of change for myself, and not a complainer. That goal is out the window tonight. I do feel better though. Thanks for listening.

fire in the sky

Every day on my work breaks, I go for a walk to look at things far away, esp the clouds. They have been very white and remind me of charcoal drawings the way they feather out. They are usually a blank slate to stretched cotton. Every day this week, I have seen the form of a phoenix in the skies.
We hear what we want to hear, but we see what we need to see. Phoenix is fire. Phoenix re starts, redoes, or begins to continue.
Which pile of ashes am I to sweep up and drink the tea of? I am eager, even impatient to know. I can start feeling like I am living my own life again. I was a fulfilling and powerful, grown up feeling when I had it in the past. Fire does not wait well.

Repetition as a Form of Change- Feminine Voice week 20

After a long respite, I began fencing again. Reading – and understanding- Fiore’s manual has reminded me how seriously I take this martial art. I wanted to start with drill work to build my strength back up again and I am more determined to train it right right from the beginning. I paid attention to what I learned from Dr James and from 41 years of getting to know the quirks of this particular make and model of human being.
Every joint in my right leg is like raw nerve. I had forgotten about my ankle- that I had severely sprained it 3 times, minorly countless others and fractured it. As I lunged, my knee and toe were in perfect align, my stance wider and my pelvis tilted too correct fleet angle. The deeper I lunge, the more my heel rolls under, my ankle not supporting the leg above it. I would still lose my balance and my knee was in grinding pain because I had forgotten about my ankle.

The first few days of physical therapy were exhausting. With every bit of focus I could muster and every muscle on the right side of my body, I slowly did 10 lean drills. I forced my ankle into proper alignment by brute force of will. I wanted to cry with the same screaming as when I injured it falling through the stage years ago. I wanted to be rescued and comforted. Who knew it took so many muscles for a foot and ankle to stay put? I can feel the work all the way up to my hip. My knee brace is too uncomfortable to wear.

And then I did it again the next night. Four days later, I think about foot alignment while walking on my breaks at work. Every step is controlled, precise, and perpetual correction. I do not roll to the outside of my heel while at standing at rest infrequently enough that I have noticed I have changed. Last night, I did 45 lean drills. For the first time in years, I had to stop an exercise because of muscle fatigue instead of knee pain.

I have added neck therapy and once these become habits, wall angels. I might not have to stop fencing after all.

Is 5am too early for a beer?

It's Thanksgiving and I have been up since 4:45 am sorting out the difference between being thankful, and accepting things as they are. I always get very lonely around the holidays. I left New York state 18 years ago. You'd think I'd let go of the memories of the hills, the people, and what I felt like there. My circular harpies remind me it's never pretty, the mountains are never as tall- you can never go back for these reasons. I have been away from for so long, I do not remember childhood traditions. The boys are with their father as always. I still have not yet formed traditions of my own. At least not other than the cyclical harpy that feeds off the conflict of being thankful for what and who I have and aches for something I am not even sure I am remembering properly. It's a yearly thing. To let go of my days of coming into adulthood and true independence is not something I'm willing to do. I ended up in the deep South with ever intent of moving on in few months- to keep the gypsy life that I was enjoying. One thing lead to another and to quote Jimmy Buffet- "Summers and winters scattered like splinters ad 20 more years slipped away...."
I'll be ok. I will go back to bed after I cry for bit, go to the orphan Thanksgiving that one of my dear friends will host and enjoy myself. Until then, unhelpful as it may be MY tradition is aching longing in private and feeling very alone for an hour or two before a party.

Confidence- week 18 Feminine Voice

the lion within

I have an admittedly hard time knowing the fine line difference between confidence and arrogance. The minute I realize I am describing myself in a congratulatory way, I feel I am that shameful descriptor- Show Off. (remember, no one likes a show off) and my confidence fails, my lion with a thorn in her paw. When I am aware that I feel confident in a skill, I fail. When I am absolutely sure I know what I am talking about, I am wrong. When it doesn't feel like anything out of the ordinary, it's all good. When I think - hey- this was a pretty darn good .....smack!
I do not like it. I am constantly struggling with it. I have been consciously and somewhat unconsciously holding things back and in more and more.

I listen over the cubical walls and I think there is something better- more intelligent- more creative to me and to my friends. I think I must be stuck up to think so. I think about the life I have led and their "35 years of dedicated service" plaques. I keep very quiet and to myself as much as possible. To paraphrase Mr Twain- better to keep your mouth shut and appear a stuck up bitch, then to open it and remove all doubt. And I roar at my sister's memory when she said I was too stuck up and that's why no body likes me. And in the echo I wonder if there is any truth to it.

Where is the line between confidence and arrogance, I wonder? Today I do not know. In a day or two, I will be sure I do. All I am sure of is there is a cyclical quality to my feeling this way about myself. And I don't like not knowing.

Impotence - femine voice week 17

-inability to preform and accomplish
-too much pressure, which is an unblaming way of saying insecurity and fear
Frozen in fear
Impotence:
frustrating at best in terms of creativity
terrifying at worst in the face of violence when being frozen in fear results in harm.

I have spent many focused weeks on creative writing- poetry- and now this feels foreign. it will take some getting used to to write in full sentences again.

Illusions- feminine voice week 16

I'm back in order, and almost on time-

I am disappointed to realize that my own search for truths in life has resulted in the disbelief of illusion. Like a Victorian scientist, I am focused on looking behind the curtain, to not let myself be swept away, or otherwise fooled by a trick of the eyes or hand. I'm finding it terribly unfair to my heart, my spirit of whimsy to not let it be amazed by a street magician's card tricks.

Pray to not lose your innocence- to not lose your ability to just be amazed.
Pray to not need the truth.

Simple Subtraction- femine voice week 11

This topic still eludes me. I read it, and I have nothing.
Math?
Paring back commitments?
Eliminating unhealthy people?

Not a thing has come to mind for 6 weeks.
I think I'm going to have to pass on this one, Alex-
Maybe someday something will come of it. Until then, I'll put a line through it on my list of things I hope to right about.

done and done

Poetry, by it's very nature is secretively personal, whatever the emotional circumstance. I have ones from when I was sure I was in the deepest love or pain (sometimes both at the same time)that I was sure were brilliant at the time, but now I shake my head at how little I knew about either thing at that time. I would never let them go though. They are more than mine. They are the manifestation of something significant enough for me to document.
Because of that personal nature, poetry is so very intimate. To send out a manuscript is a huge step of chance. It feels riskier than other forms of writing. It is standing naked at the Super Bowl and asking everyone what they think of your body, and then compare it to others equally naked.
I just mailed my first collection of poetry to be judged. I'm at the 50 yard line, during half time, and I can't see how much time is left on the clock.


Exciting, isn't it......?

other missings and noticings

Last night I had a meeting with the director of The Polk Street Players- a tiny community theater that uses the basement in our church. Michael is an 842 year old Englishman. It was nice. I helped him tape the seams on the flats before the painters tomorrow and we talked about all 38 of their par 38's. The theater seats 50.
I had not planned to go back into theater again. It's bad for families, esp those who want to do other things on the weekends. Of course, I have not done a quarterly production deal since high school, so maybe it's not as bad as the weekly event work, or local crew.
The point is I'm toying with the ideas of happiness. What was going on when I had my own person satisfaction and happiness at it's highest?
The Furniture Doctor-
being a stagehand-
the first couple years of my business-
Yes I love love loved doing the work. I loved the job, even (maybe especially) when I complained. Deep down, I wouldn't trade those 15 years for white collar any day. My only regret of that fact is monetary, but not the experience. The common thread was us working to realize a common goal- the team work, counting on each other to do what needed to be done and being trusted to do my part. It was knowing for sure that if any one of us failed, they others could absorb and get the job done. Unwarranted blame was unacceptable. Someone had your back. The end game was the goal, not the praises of any one of the team, and we were going to make it happen. We needed it to happen. And we are not going to bed until it does.
Back in those glory days, the goal was all we had. There were few pets, fewer relationships (outside the wings) and no kids. Our only obligation was the show. Once you have the pets, and love, and kids, and the house, and PTA and all that, is it the natural flow of life that you lose that single mindedness? This may be a motherhood thing where you have no choice but to split your own goal concept and give slivers to all your charges.

Away from home-

I've been missing my book. I'm out of the house a lot more now. My eyes are so tired by the time I get home. I'm feeling the "practical" of my everyday like distracting grains. I miss my characters and taking them out to play with them to see what happens to them and when. I miss seeing if a situation fits this character or that one better. I have not been completely keyboard quiet.
I have been working on the Walt Whitman Award for Poetry entry. I still have a few weeks. I just might make it to 50 pages without resorting to double spacing. I'm ok with taking the time off to take the stab at the poetry project. I first wrote poetry and didn't think I could write fiction. But I'm missing it.
It'll be good to go back after being away to see if what's there still holds when my mind is different. I'm looking forward to finding out if it does. And if it doesn't, I'll take a break, then go back again to see if it was the writing or my mood.
But I miss it-

Summer silence in the south ends
with the cooler air of an October night
raising the song of birds from
heat hiding hibernation

The low southwest sun of morning
Pulls heartache for the hearths
of flagstone chimneys in
history's abandoned houses.

Acoustic morning music moves through a memory
of long back days
that began with cooler October nights
and melodies of morning

Silence - Feminine Voice week 15

Unplug
Turn off
Let go
What is there to do
When the power goes out?
An awareness acknowledges the
Audio electromagnetic gang rape
that is convenience
forces a fear of quiet.
No comfort taken or relaxation
in case the assailant comes back-

Constant contact
forces fear of time alone.
Perpetual stimulation
Under satisfaction
Let go-

What is there to do
When the power goes out?

Paths- Feminine voice week 14

Two roads diverged in the woods.
I ignored them both to head into the wild- the unknown, to mark a trail by which others may learn to travel.

When I have been able, I have decided fully what I would do and who I would go to for learning. Of all the things I know how to do now, I created another path just to see where it would lead. My treasure map is in my head. I had no degrees, or accreditations, nor certifications when I handled and repaired Egyptian mummified cats, or Roman artifacts, or Napoleon's personal effects. I did not have years of specialized training for setting off explosives within 3 feet of 25 actors, nor for building the controller for doing so. I have been put in charge of $1,000,000 of lighting equipment. I learned and have done these things be picking through the vines, wading in the waters, and like in The African Queen, salted the leeches from my body only to slide back into the swamp to pull my burden to the sea.

I do not regret these paths. I miss them fondly as I attempt living outside my comfort zone in constancy and familiarity. I find new paths, though smaller, to relish. Perhaps less wild than before, but still there.

Autumn- Femine Voice week 13

In the courtyard
White wines in the afternoon
tea and toast with ginger jam at bedtime.
A great lid is taken off.
From no where, crows are every where.
The sky and heat are let out
cirrus clouds as vague as steam
draw out and cool the cauldron earth.

Black wings fan and cool the courtyard.
The metal bench pulls my body's heat
calling the needs of warmth
reflected from amber windows.
Feathers on feathers as they fly-
hollies and box woods shake
replying to the wind they make

Femine Voice- week 12 Sweat

I cry at the drop of a hat- any hat. I cry at beauty and pain, pride and elation and times of passion. Salt holds my emotions and carries my energies out. Otherwise, I become laden down, heavy, nonoperational. It's too crowded inside me, like sand in a pipe. I can not think things through. I grind to a halt and shut down. To relieve the pressure, salt purifies. It must come out. Crying is not the only way. It's the bleeder valve, but not the switch. Exercise videos and "working out" are not a substitute- forced, useless sweat like a love token to a stranger, too easy to forget because I have gained nothing.

The sweat of hard work lightens my load. I can load a truck, climb a mountain, rearrange the woodpile, shovel snow- things like these are the best therapy. An hour or two of sweat filled productivity brings my wisdom, peace and cleanliness. I need a visual confirmation of my work, something accomplished, pile A is now pile B. I have succeeded and have proved my worth. Then I can sit down to write what I have learned.

Tears of my body- Salting the earth of my garden.

This bell is ringing quiet

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/121

Erika sent me this. I have been going through all my notebooks and I am having a very hard time finding 50 pages, let alone 100. To be honest, I don't have that many good poems. It's always interesting how age and experience changes everything. Some of these are downright embarrassing. I thought they were so very good and insightful and moving when I was 20. Oh, how I was full of pain and love and fear and it was all really really really important. I understand now why I was not not popular at poetry readings with my peers. Sheesh. When I read some love poetry with my mom's friends, they said they were beautiful devotionals to God. I didn't take that well at the time because I was sooooooo in love with the boy I wrote them for. God had nothing to do with it, and if they didn't get my poems, well I don't know what's wrong with them. Kids are goofy. Half my life later, I see where they were coming from, and they are right.

I have a bit more time before the deadline for the poetry contest. We'll see if I can get my soul moving enough to be poetic. It's been a rough couple weeks and I haven't had the focus to write, edit, even reread recently. It'll come.

A Whole New World

When creating a fantasy world, you have to know who your "good guys" are. You have to explain to your reader why they are the good guys and your bad guys are bad guys. I'm finding G.G. society has to be somewhat idyllic, but not unbelievably Utopian. You want your reader to want to live there on some level. Some parallels and a touch of reality makes a connection between what the reader knows and what you tell them. As a writer, I have to understand that a crime free world probably came from an extreme disciplinarian mindset. It's core social evolution things like that which determine the flow of classes and religion. I'm don't think I have to explain the full history, but I do need to know what it is to reflect the mood.

My society is classless so far. The religion is basic and sparsely mentioned in the form of traditions. Genders have equality. "Protect the men!" is just as likely as a cry as for the women and children. While parental responsibility is big, being a biological parent is not. To write a society, I have to decide what these people strive for, what they hope to earn in their lifetimes, and to achieve their end.

In short, in your created world, who are your hero's heroes?

I know who they are in my story. If I did my job right, then the reader will know who I am talking about. If I'm really lucky, I will change an ideal or two-
One can only hope.

Needing Pep

I'm having temporary discouragement. Other than the big bad world stuff, my application for another job has been rejected as well as my first attempt at a paid writing piece. It's the self pity moment of the new writer. I feel the same way when I think about how many books are in the library and who do I think I am believing my silly story is worthy of sharing shelf space? It's a nagging doubt that everybody has. You know you did at some point.
Just 5 more minutes to feel sorry for myself, then look at the review of my work and learn from it. But for the next 5 minutes, I'm not going to be so happy.

Lines- feminine voice dare - week 10

originally written 4-26-1993

What do you think it is? No, look deeper- it goes further than just geometry- more than just a line on a sheet of paper. It's a line sure- but it could be a line connecting two points. They are different, but the line between them joins them and let's them respect the privilege of having an opinion.

And it could be more than that. Instead of just a point at each end, maybe there's more- five, six,twelve, a hundred- a hundred points in between, all connected by a hundred tiny lines. A hundred separate thoughts all pulled together and depending on each other to pass the line along. Maybe a thousand pin points doing the same thing- a million- trusting the unwavering strength of each other to keep the line alive. Without one point to bind them, the whole thing would be blown in to utter chaos- the kind that crumbles nations.

Every line we draw and the shape it makes defines us. Each line shape we put on paper holds a segment of our infinite ideas that need to be understood. We have to be careful about the order the lines go in. The order helps us to perceive- to join thoughts without criticizing the other. And we are different, but the lines we draw join us and let us respect the privilege of having an opinion.
The more finite the lines, the more points, the more thoughts connect and more ideas, joining in comprehension until it all just flows back and forth- different and same in improbable continuity.

You look confused. Where did I lose you? At a line connecting two points....Maybe if you look at it this way? No? Maybe I just have a longer line than you. Or maybe mine is just a different shade of blue- either way...

Phonetically speaking

I noticed this morning something about the character names I created for my book.
There are essentially 3 generations. The wise sages, the main characters(let's say mid-teen to 40ish), and the very young children.
Those in the eldest have names that sound distinctly different than other names.
Of the mean age group characters- The women have primary vowel sounds, specifically long E and short I. (the two are indeed similar)
The men all have double consonants at the exact center of their name. This is more a fact of spelling than sound.
The youngest have short A common.

An interesting subconscious trend-

Refining words

It is not enough for me to simply say I am a writer. That is so broad a definition. It's like saying "I am water"- are you a gentle rain, a pond, a waterfall, a river? There are too many ways to be to limit explaining yourself. A writer is someone who can place words on paper, like a ToDo or grocery list. I write all day on scraps with what ever bit of knowledge I need in 5 minutes or 5 days. I write here. I write more private things there. I add to things and take away lines to poems no one will likely ever read. On paper, on line, on my hand, with chalk in the driveway - "Writer" is not clear enough for me.

I am a story teller of dream-like tales
I am a poet
I am a witness of places I visit.
I am a teacher from far away.
I need to know what hat I am wearing or the words won't come.

When you are a writer, what kind of writer are you?

New ground

I have been laboring probably too much, over an article for http://unfinishedprojectparty.wordpress.com/
a sewing blog run by a new friend. I'm having some difficulty trying to narrow down my subject matter. I have only taught orally. Putting things down on paper for the first time like this is an interesting learning process. I have to assume my reader has limited knowledge about the subject. At the same time, I know they are not stupid. I'm learning to find the point were over explaining becomes the problem. I hope I can learn this, because while writing this article, about six more ideas for later ones came to mind! I'm also increasing my computer skills. I am teaching myself to add pics and links to an document. It feels good to catch up.

Almost poetry

I laid down and cried today.
broken cars, broken window, broken tree

I had no answers, no solutions, and no plan to repair the imperfections in my life. My eyes burned with bitterness and my head ached while I listed off the reasons for my sorrows today. I am out of hope and faith. In a pause in the tears I prayed not for a bail out. I prayed- "Teach me to fish, so I can eat for more than one day"
I was deeply reassured by the words of an angel that it will be.
I cried again and felt happiness as a reflection off the drops of dispare.

Life is not strong unless it has something to reach for- My own words. My own tears a salty rain pouring in large circles around my garden self-

I have no answers, no solutions, and no plan. I have a ring of faith to reach for. Trust is the key to having an adventure-

Acceptance- feminine voice dare week 9

It has been the thought - how did I end up like this from the unstoppable I was?

When life was limitless, things came to me easily. I knew there was something to it, and I embraced, relished in it. I do know when I noticed that changed. It was further ago than I like to admit, and since it has taken so long to get over it, clearly I'm not doing it right. I met Geoff in summer 1993. I had a sweet boyfriend who accept my wondering, stagehand life and was willing to keep a place for us- be an anchor while I traveled around. He wanted to be my light on the horizon. Geoff was at my apartment in Virginia. He backed me to the wall and kissed me despite me asking him not too. Due to past abuse, I stopped resisting and just let him. I had a grain of 'they will just take it' rubbing a spot raw in my head. I had maintained control of my thoughts and body from when I was 16 until this point. I had fought back anyone who dared touch uninvited. Something about this moment in Virginia, I could not. I was compelled to continue in something my very being was opposed to. We went to Goshen Pass and splashed in the river. I said out loud that 'This feels like home" while my brain was screaming that I was lying. The place may have, but he did not feel like home. Again, I felt like I had not choice but to end my relationship with Lonny, and go with Geoff. I have told different reasons for this change of heart that were absolutely true, but the deep down one was I felt I had absolutely no other option.
I finished my contract in Virginia and went to New York for a short gig and to pack up my life. I knew in my deep that I would never return the same. I felt forced on a road I would not choose of my own volition. We sold my car. We loaded my personal acquirements into his truck, and onto a trailer. My inner deep was hoping, praying, begging my parents to refuse to let me go. We stopped in VA to pick up a bigger truck and his stuff. We drove to Florida. He backed the truck up to the single car garage that we would live in and convert to an addition on the house for rent. He left for an ex-girlfriend's house and left me to unload on my own. I was usually alone at the house. I would realize he wasn't around, so he was at work or at Kristen's. He didn't say goodbye. He just left. I had no car, and no way of getting around. My roommates left me completely alone (at Geoff's request)

Geoff's confession 2 weeks later was while I was packing my NY, his ex Kristen had come to see him. They had sex and decided to get together, and live the life they had been talking about for years. He came to NY to tell me face to face, and that the offer of a job in FL still stood if I wanted to come as a friend- to offer me the choice. When he saw how much packing and prep work I had done, he felt guilty for my effort and kept quiet. His run to Kristen's house as soon as we arrived was to tell her of the change of life plans for them. She was supposed to be moving in with him that day. He asked me to be kind to her, because her feelings were so hurt by the whole thing. After all, I wasn't the one who had my heart broken. No. I had been betrayed, kidnapped and left for dead. Also, the evil bitch who stole him away from her. When I asked him months earlier if she was his girlfriend, he said they never had been a couple.

This is when my life went from an adventure to forced acceptance. My decisions were made for me. Out of money, with no transportation and an unwillingness to abandon my possessions that I had worked to hard to earn and restore on my own, I was in a situation I could not change. I was forced to accept the limits of a predetermined life. I lost my ability to do anything independently. I couldn't drive standard. He retreated into video games and beer after months in Virgina of hiking, camping, etc. He said I had grown too dependent on him for time and conversation. He was ignoring me to force me to make friends and do other things. Leave him alone because he deserved to be alone from growing up youngest of 9.
If I could not longer have my own life as my heart lead, accept what is and make the best of it. I shut down and did what family and friends expected next. What makes the most people happy was the logical thing. I became irrelevant the day he showed up in NY, maybe the day he kissed me. So I married him and made the best of what was good for him and let myself come second, third, eighth-
I do not know what power this person had over me. I do not know why I was compelled to do everything he directed when my core cried out otherwise to me. I didn't stand up for myself. For 13 years, I had erased myself, and I don't know why.

I do know that I have not forgiven myself for all of it. I don't know if I can even though this dreadful road has led me somewhere to my heart again. If everything had not happened as it did, I would not have the people I love now. That makes it very hard to forgive myself for living halfway for 17 years- nearly half my life sitting and waiting for the chance to be unstoppable again.

my book

I'm taking a minute to plan where to go next. A list of the thought process:
I'm writing an hour or so in the morning for the time being. I'm having some difficulty in generating names. When it's hard I pout- do I really have to? Isn't it difficult for the reader? What if the pronunciation in their heads is not the same as mine? The new guy will be named 'Bob'. That's just easier on everyone.

In the afternoons, I have been listened to "Eldest". He, along with Tolkien, McAffrey, and dozen others have done it. Every fantasy writer has to for some degree. My story is a fantasy novel. It doesn't have magic and dragons, but it still is for a list of reasons-
I have generated a map of this place. I have created a religion, social structure, and code of ethics, not only for the main culture, but for an opposing force as well. I have created a sunrise unlike the one I see. Names would reasonably follow suit. If I'm worried about pronunciation, well that's why God made appendices.
I have realities as I understand them. There is civic planning and military tactics, schools, hospitals, farms and livestock. The research is there.

Something I knew, but finally understood clicked today. This is harder than it seems.
The technical aspects got in the way for the first few days. My verb tenses are all over the place. I have good sentences I keep moving around until I find the right spot. That's not my part write now. The designer of a universe is my job right now. I's and T's come later. That makes it easier. Sort of-

busy tired

I need some exercise. I'm a climb mountains kind of girl. What I can do in the house when it is in the high 90's outside does not satisfy. I miss hard physical labor. I miss the physical demonstration of how I have spent my day. It hurts me deep inside to not work my body to it's capacity of strength. I miss fall and spring like no one else. In the south, the hibernation season is summer. I have cabin fever, just like February in New England where you are nearly mad mad mad from the lack of being yourself, and only the weather to blame for it. I need some exercise- very much so. It's interesting to me to see what bit of yard work wisdom will come my way. I would like to read "Shop Class as Soul Craft" by Matthew Crawford. I have a feeling I will agree with everything he says-

Space- feminine voice week 8

The boys have gone back to school already , and I have had a strangely difficult time writing.I had been looking forward to the time to mentally and emotionally stretch out- to let my mind take up all the space it can in my head while the boys are under someone else's care. I haven't written yet. I have rearranged furniture, painted the pantry (:-)), mowed the lawn, ironed everyone's shirts, caught up the laundry and dusted the living room. I have manipulated my space. Now that I have my space, and the uninterrupted time to write, I still don't have time to do so. I want my space to be right- to be neat and tidy and I'm making excuses. I see me, trying to hide over there in the corner of a sphere.

Some friends moved away yesterday. I called the truck pack and tried to keep it tight, but easy enough for them to unload. Half the truck was still empty. I can manage space well. Managed space is efficient, efficient is easy and quick. There is something to be said for slopping right in too. I keep thinking about my book. I'm going to write some now-

Girl Chat

We talk about the sorrowful things in our lives. We do not do it for sympathy. We do not ask for solutions. We talk these things to remind us what we have passed through, what we have succeeded in overcoming. We do it be sure we know- We have done this. We are able to do it again and to do more.
Button by button, our cloaks are trimmed into a powerful flail that separates the sweetness from the chaff. We make a piping hot loaf of honey dripping bread to nourish whatever we do next- nor have we forgotten about the tea.
So if you are looking for a pity party, our door is not so easy to open.
tea and talk
bread and wine-

Condition - feminine voice dare Week 7

This week's topic won't nail itself down. Rather than continue to damage the coffee table, I'll opt for free verse- short, but all I've got (like me)

Condition as a noun is a limiting circumstance, a reduction to the whole.
You can have everything you want on one condition
An incurable medical condition prevented him from becoming Idaho's square dance champ.
The living conditions reminded me of the cardboard sidewalks in Tijuana.

Change your grammar and you have a verb which proclaims a rewarding journey to full capacity.
After the deep conditioning treatment, her hair was strong as Rapunzel's.
These conditioning drills have really improved my fencing.
His months of mental conditioning carried him to the final round.

one yard of me

I remembered to wear my apron today.

My mom had a huge assortment of pretty aprons. My favorite was a ruffly red one. Her's seemed only decorative- much to delicate for the rough hand wiping of a kitchen. There were affectations of the feminine persona.
Aunt Mary and Uncle Mel had given me a simple apron when I was about 12. I wore it every time I made bread in my adult years until I gave it to my son once he started helping in the kitchen. I had out grown it. The cord was too short, and the waist tie was just under my bust. It did not occur to me to get or make another. In my struggle to obtain womanhood,(I did not see myself as a girl; more like female guy- the word for adult men, but quite men. Women don't have a good word for that) a few friends and I rediscovered those feminine affectations. I now have 9 hats and I wear them as often as possible. I have gloves from crocheted lace to opera, which I also wear often. I have silk neck scarves. I felt like a woman, and a respectable one, while out and about. Now for at home too. I found a cute little blue gingham apron at the town rummage sale in Talking Rock, GA for $2. There is a pin-upesque woman on it with an unattached full skirt. When you flip up the skirt, you see her matching panties. I washed it, pressed it, hung it in the closet and promptly forgot about it.
How very embarrassing. I was making dinner today. I found myself wiping my hand on my shirttail. I wish I had a apron. Oh wait- I do! And my little lady was around my waist. I felt even more at home in my kitchen. I want more of them, not as a matter of costume, but as a necessity to being more at home.

Power and Control- Feminie Voice Dare- week 6

Rational says I'm reaching too high. In all truth, I know no other reason for reaching: on my toes, with one foot out to counter, stretching precariously off the side of the ladder for an invisible something just past my fingertips. There is a small part in me that says the rules count, as is, will be, what you know is not what you think. There is a greater part in me who wells up and call sit untrue. The small part says I dream unrealistic, wasting my hopes and harming those who depend on me for it. There is a greater part who does not want to listen. The small quotes the news, the rumors, the authority, the Raven. The greater part remembers differently.

In my garden, I teach my boys "Water a little at the base, but make a big circle too, so the roots will stretch. Life is not strong unless it has something reach for." I had said so to be life lesson to them. I will water my garden again today.

Button Makers

I am in need of a pep talk today. From reading some of the rest of us, we all could use a line or two.

When I was awarded my Companion of the Argent Rapier, I was told it was because I teach women to fight- to be stronger. I have never forgotten this reason and I take it as an important responsibility. I must often remind myself that I promised to live up to that band on my arm. Promises mean more when you say them out loud. You have a witness to make your truth binding and unchangeable. A promise is a choice. I presented a choice to the women in my immediate life. I asked my students, my friends, my sister-mentors to make a promise, to me, to whomever, but most importantly to themselves
To learn to be
to teach to be
and to remain
Ever Stronger

We made buttons with our own little hands as tangible proof of word. These buttons were given to the keeping of the woman who gave me that award several years ago. I could use a view of those buttons inside that carved wooden box to remind me that no matter how defeated I feel today, I will persevere; A magical replenishment of my choice to remain Ever Stronger, a promise made out loud, and physical, unbreakable. I would reach my finger tips in to touch my words made so much stronger by the words of my sisters building up steam rolling around on a pillow of velvet. So much power is so small a thing. Like me-

To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a heavenly cause

And I know if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this
That one woman, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with her last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

Long Distance Kin

I just shot awake to find an email that my Uncle Mel did not survive the mysterious e-coli infection that cropped up last week. It went to his blood. He had polio, so anything going near his spine or brain is ever worse. Mary was by his side as much as possible. She had gone home to rest, during that time, he died.
Mary is a former nun, Mel a former priest. I don't know why either of them chose differently. They never talked about it, and I never asked. Somehow, I knew it was not because of each other though. He continued to minister on the White Apache' reservation where the called him White Man who Brings Bread. He and Mary had free passage on the res and were frequent attendees to the more private rituals.

Mel had a firm kindness about him. He was handicapped and taught college classes to handicapped individuals. If there was anyone who could actually see only a person's soul core, it was Mel. If there was ever a man who knew how to make sure a handicap was the least inconvenient possible, him also. He had an off road scooter and took the kids on a hike when we visited for the family reunion. He was good through and through.

Good Hair Day

My hair is being 'that way' today. You know the one- when it's so silky I can't keep it pinned up. It just falls slowly down on my shoulders, and all I can do is brush it back from my face and sigh or run my fingers through its volume to keep it from my eyes. What's a girl to do?

Homesickness

I remember being amazed at how big the sky was my first night in the deep south. The stars seemed further apart, though jut as many. I noticed everything of that type and found it interesting how the northern and the southern ends on the country were so vastly different parts of the same body. After all this time, these new traits are how it is.
I am homesick- maybe for the place, maybe for the wild eyed child I was in my hometown, but I am homesick.
I miss the angle of the sunrise on the first day of spring.
I miss forsythia and lilacs, Lily of the Valley.
I miss the echos of voices and water in the gorges and the blackness of the deep lakes in the height of summer.
I miss the sounds and shots over the cornfields as summer turns to fall, like a calling to the end of the season.
I miss the scent of hickory and oak leaves crushed under my feet in autumn.
I miss the smell of snow and eerie brightness of a full moon reflecting off fresh snow drifts.

Filters- week 5

Rosco is the industry standard, Lee is more durable, but Gam is still my favorite. The swatch book had an easy layout and 4x4 pieces made lighting design much easier.

The Drama would throw away all the lighting gel at the end of the season. (I last worked there in 1993, and I still have 20 or so fragmented sheets.) My first apartment needed dressing up, so I cut gel into random shapes, overlaid colors and attached them to my windows. The kitchen went from vague weak white to amber sepia like Auntie Em’s kitchen. It was warm and generous though I never made anything more extravagant than scrambled eggs or Ramen noodles. The living room windows had different color themes in each; a blue one, a purple one, a red one. Sunlight filtered through making faux stained glass puddles on the floors and walls. My bedroom was shades of yellow. I had heard that yellow was the color of hope, so I wanted to see it first every day. A friend visiting for the first time said she didn’t need directions. She knew exactly where my apartment was. The colorful windows were easily seen from the street and she just knew that had to be my home.
The sun shines low through the southern windows during winter in my current home. For the sake of energy efficiency, I need to cover them in plastic. I had used sheets of lighting gel to remember that first home compliment.
‘My love, she comes in colors’- I had hoped that song was about me.

I used my Gam swatch book when I didn’t have the proper filter for my camera- magenta for shooting under fluorescent lights, blue for tungsten. I miss my 35mm very very much. I could spend hours watching in one spot for the perfect shot. Successful days were rated by rolls of film. Three was an exceptional day. Five and I might not be heard from for more than a week while I examined every tiny detail to narrow down my favorites.
I would play with my polarizer and color filters, especially with snowy shots. Somewhere I have a set of blue, and red icicle covered waterfalls in an ice storm in Watkins Glen, NY. Dan, Bill and I didn’t care about the treacherous road conditions. We wanted to play with color and snow. Sunsets are made more vivid by filtering out some of the excess color. Tree bark becomes abstract confusion; a wine glass, clear but red, and empty.
My camera sits in its dusty bag. It has a jammed shutter and I can not justify the cost of repairing it. I sold most of the filters for grocery money. I still have my Gam book – just in case. Every few years, I get out my old pictures and miss my days of dancing with color and light.

Things and stuff

I have time to be alone. I can be alone - unbothered- when I vacuum or mow the lawn, water the garden or for most of a shower. I am alone when the boys are in school and I spend my time doing for the house, or a random sewing commission. I have time to be alone. The wrong word has been nagging me.
What I feel a lack of is privacy. It's the nature of 5 people in a small house. It's the nature of a relationship where I don't have to edit my unexplains. When you don't have to hide anything, is privacy a necessity?
"A girl needs a place to keep her secrets" Darcy says of her vanity case in "Vampirates"
Is it a good thing to have a harmless secret?
A bag of chocolates in the back of drawer
A sketch pad no one ever sees
That first love letter you ever got, even if you don't remember his name any more?
Absolutely. In my case, it's not that I want to harbor something. Having that option though is something I need. Maybe that's why I like little wooden boxes- secret little boxes.

Synchronicity - feminine voice dare

Synchronicity –
Rule # 2 Two objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time. Two thoughts can.

Prudentia is as Athena. The masculine science of Prudentia is the understanding of measure and tempo- my mind’s keen perception of Where my opponent is and exactly how long it will take me to dispatch him. Her feminine art, her improvisational wisdom of the When is painted with my eyes and by my body.

After time consuming mulling over, I rather suddenly understand the definition by Rudolfo Capo Ferro; “tempo is the measure of movement or stillness”.
Seeing stillness had eluded me. You don’t often see a fencer stop in the midst of any play. Where is all the stillness I need to see? It’s found at the other end of my blade.

Tempo measures my own stillness as well. I can not fight effectively if I do not have a frozen instant to access, a moment to reflect on how to continue. A dull axe cuts inefficiently. Hone to hewn. Stillness to movement. Fiore’, Capo Ferro, and the rest change their frustration to a sigh of relief. My realization is more powerful than their instruction. My greater realization is to take this speck of a spark and fit it to my life outside the lyst.

Prudentia moves in her own time. She is still in her own time.
I have been writing since 1982. I have so many years of writing poetry, short essays, anecdotes, and three unfinished novels on scraps and in notebooks. I could sit down and post for days straight. But I won’t. Too many times, I have seen myself come to loathe something I loved because I became too head over heels for it. My own enthusiasm of the goal drowns the satisfaction until I am lost. Too much focus, even on joy, will sap your passion. I become too engrossed and have to walk away for my own sanity.
No, I will use what I have learned from Prudentia. Slowly, carefully, with greatest precision, I am acting within my own stillness.

With any luck, by the end of the weekend, I will know the easy way to transfer what I've written from my lap top to here. I hope so. I'm looking forward to sharing. I'm going to go read this week's challenge- synchronicity is the theme- about a dozen more times so I can post it. I'm not sure if I'm saying what I think I'm saying. Public opinion is the way to know that!

Yard Work

The most important safety precaution you can have when studying a martial art is knowing, understanding, and respecting that it is meant to hurt and kill people.

Automation made the work more important than the man doing it. Mankind as a whole has never recovered from the blow.

Joining a group, esp. a church, because you are angry at another one and hoping it make you happy will lead to disappointment.

The Last Family Reunion

July 5, 2008, edited July 4, 2010

My mom, the boys, Arin, and I had spent the morning at the Georgia Aquarium. The dash board lights lit up on the way home at the corner of Windy Hill and 41. The car was coaxed into a gas station parking lot. Tired boys and Grandma piled out into the shade while Arin popped the hood. I stared at the engine hoping it would tell me where it hurt and how to fix it. Arin called his boss to get the afternoon off, our mechanic, then AAA. This added too much to an already burdensome weekend. I was hosting the first family reunion since my father died. He was the central key of everything I felt as family. Without him, I honestly didn’t know if we had anything to hold us together. I had prayed for weeks for Dad to let us know he was with us at the reunion- if it was any way possible, please show me you hear me. Now, here I was, broken down and 37 brothers, and sisters, and cousins, and friends arriving at my front door any minute. Calls and messages for help to those siblings went unanswered, even as they drove past us. I asked Dad how to fix this. There was nothing about this easy enough for me to take care of on my own. I remembered when I got my first car. Dad hurried around the garage and handed me a bundle of random, mismatched tools. He said to always keep it with me. Even if I didn’t know how to use them, someone would always stop to help me. There are no tools in this car. I paced around as the afternoon traffic began to back up ridiculously in all directions. An accident had lanes blocked in 3 of 4 directions, cars as far as I could see in every direction. Dad, help me figure out how to get us home when no one is answering.

After a few minutes, I watched a small car cut a perfect arc through the parking lot and come to an abrupt stop in the space next to us. With speed and efficiency, a young man in fatigues got out and looked under the hood. He found nothing helpful either. He looked at the group of us and without hesitation, offered us a ride. I knew it would be ok. Arin stayed with the car, waiting for the tow truck. The rest of us climbed into the small car. The accident cleared, and the traffic backup evaporated when we pulled out. I thanked him repeatedly. He said he had a wife and kids and he would hope someone would help them if they were stranded, so it only made sense he should do the same. He was a Marine. So was my Dad for a short time. The young man began to tell me about his day. Hours earlier, he had started running late. A lost set of keys, misplaced equipment, a broke down car of his own - one inconvenience after another kept putting him further and further behind schedule until the accident on 41 infuriated him into the U-turn- the perfect arc that landed him next to us. The only reason he was right there at that time was because of his awful day. Even he saw the coincidence. He had to take care of what he felt was the reason for it.

It was hard to speak, but when we got home and I invited him and his family for our Fourth of July cookout later. He graciously declined and disappeared. I forgot his name. The enormity of the moment was too strong. I thought about my weeks of prayers to my Dad and the one sided conversation I had with him half an hour ago. I thought about the stumbling coincidences of a young soldier's day that forced his course to us in a time of need.

From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli, a Marine ends up exactly where he needs to be.

Thanks for following orders.

Thanks for answering prayers.

needs extension cords-

I have been writing like mad on my lap top. It is not set up for internet. I have the computer savvy of an emu, so I can't figure out how to copy any of it over to here without getting an HTML error code. Nor do I know how to poke around and be confident I will not lose what I have written. It's getting disappointing. I don't have the opprotunity to rewrite everything from scratch over to here. I have a hard enough time finding privacy to write the first time. It's discouraging to work on something and have a road block in sharing it.

An inconvenience, not a tragedy. Defiantly annoying. And it makes me feel stupid.

Family time

With one exception, I am not close to those I was born to. My life and choices have been very different than my brothers and sisters, parents. I have been described, at best, as weird, at worst as dangerous. I try to force myself into a closer relationship that doesn't make me feel like myself. Since I've been in Georgia, I have had less and less communication over state lines. I came to be more of my own in that time- of what struggle and motherhood had be become. I was told I don't act like myself when my friends are around. I need to be more like myself. Truth is, I am not myself when my family is around. Our connection is on a cellular level, not a soul one. I feel the absence of what was not there. I am told I am somehow to blame. I think to much on that idea because it makes little sense to me. I'm trying to put logic to something too intangible for it. I need to understand that it is what it is. I need to understand that my siblings don't know that either.

The family reunion is next week. I have attended every one since The Big ToDo in 1992. Mom believes it has run it's course. She and every one of the 6 kids have hosted, along with the both aunts from the Watts side. She feels we have finished and there should be no more. The Watts' need not come together after this year. Her sentiments bother me very much. What bothers me more is I'm not sad about not going. My indifference is unsettling. I have no affinity with my blood kin, save my brother Kevin. The thing that binds us most is being outcasts of our nest. He has had much the same kind of life. He feels the same lacking. We spent hours trying to make sense of it or put it down. We were unsuccessful.
With Dad gone, I have little to draw me back.

I struggling to know if it's ok for me to choose to be orphaned.

Dirt - week 3

Relaxation for me does not involve being still. Relaxation comes from the satisfaction of a hard day's work. I'm not meant to sit still. Ideas come to me when I mow the lawn. I find clarity in stacking the woodpile. Sweat and peace are equals. Quiet mediation comes to me only after the hard climb up a waterfall. After patching the roof, digging in the yard, cleaning the garage, I am sticky, stinky, and filthy. Then I shower. The water sloughs off heavy thoughts that are now on the surface of my dirty skin. It leaves behind comfort and pride. I watch the darkness of the water swirl in the tub and down the drain. It feels like victory. I feel like I have endured something and come out a better person on the other side. I have proven my strength to myself and then blessed myself- rain to wash me clean. Dirt on the outside is not the problem. Its the stuff on the inside.
I cry to wash it out. It's not enough. Give me tools, a goal, and the time alone to finish it.
I have earned my rest. My mind is clean of it's sown dirt. And I can be who I know I am.
Sweat, and dirt are my path to beauty.

the things left behind-

sometimes I mourn the lost time that comes with motherhood. Not just a busy day, but that I don't can't won't do what I knew to be me before they came along. I started fencing and started my redefinition. Their father moved away, and I lost my fencing weekends. Coming close to yourself, then losing it a bit is hard. Grief comes from out of the blue. That is one of the reasons I randomly cry.

Real life education

Sometimes my replies on Facebook get long. I will be adding more to this. Right now I need breakfast-

*****************************************************
Common sense doesn't mean as much as it used to. Common sense is taught in the home, while the broad spectrum to application is what is refined in schools. We SCAdians need to remember we are a rare exception to the general whole society rule. I had 5th graders at the museum that didn't know you could cook without a microwave. As American's evolution dumbs down, common sense disappears. We have lost the understanding that kick ball is an application of practical physics. Or that imagination is the source of innovation, not just macaroni art. Go play kid!!

I don't "qualify" for any jobs I want for lack of a piece of paper. I know what I know and what I am capable of doing and learning. My word is no longer enough and that makes me very very sad.

Blue SIlk

I'm a huge fan of silk. I'm an even bigger fan of not paying full price for it. I have spent so much time working with fabrics that I can spot 100% and blends almost every time. I shop at Good Will. I run my fingers along the packed racks and can pull out 100% silk shirts for $3. Sometimes they are even in my size. If they are not, I have now awe of brand names, so I have no trouble at all with the idea of cutting apart a linen, silk, or wool garment to reclaim the fabric for other uses. It makes me feel very resourceful.
As luck would have it, a found a dark blue silk suit with lovely embroidered details on the jacket hem. I wore it to church on Sunday. I wore it with matching shoes, and the proper foundation wear and lingerie. I wore a black wool cloche hat. I wore white crocheted lace gloves and carried a clutch purse. I've dressed like when I was in my 20's. I have a drawer with elbow length gloves. I always wore full garters, fancy shoes, and I had few hats. I wore it because it was fun, like playing dress up.
I did not expect (nor realize until later) that today I felt so much better about myself . I wasn't dressed to the nine's since it was church, but it was my current Sunday best.
I felt strong. I felt like I was right. I felt like I had the authority to tell the girls in backless mini dresses that they were absolutely inappropriate for church. At least wear a shawl or little jacket. Even in front of their mom's who let them wear them.
I felt intelligent. I was positive that every one knew that I didn't have to rely on sex to get by- that I had know how, skills and the strength to make things happen- all with out having to show as much skin as possible. Tiny clothes mean a tiny mind. The wonderful thing about that is minds can grow. Your butt is no longer the only interesting thing about you. Your cleavage is not your resume'.
My absolute favorite part of dressing well and feeling well was four out of eight of my tattoos were clearly visible. All but one are behind me. I'm a different person coming and going. I've always been a fan of being a variation on a theme.

There might be an emotional point between recognizing my inner power and a superiority complex. If there is, it'll show itself. Until then, lead by example

unexpected

A friend sent me one of those lovely emails about living life and loving full and send it back if you are a friend. I put this at the top of the note before forwarding and thought it came out well-

****************************
I've cut out a bunch (including people) lately so could see the good stuff. Last weekend, we went hiking. The boys went nuts in the waterfall's natural slide. I laid down in a puddle of cold mud to spread my hands amid a puddle of yellow butterflies sucking minerals from the rocks between my fingers. Extraordinary adventure with my fingertips.

missyouloveyou :-*

Even trade

At the last family reunion, my sister ripped me up one side and down the other about deeply emotional things and was very harmful. I have not healed yet from it. She told me I had ruined my relationship with Dad. I had not kept my promises, and stopped being honest with him and refused to communicate. He had died 2 years earlier, so there is no repair. More importantly, there is no forgiveness.
A thought popped in my head less than a minute ago.
If these things about my Dad are true, then I am fucking pissed that he didn't have the balls to come to me about it. I called. I wrote letters. Not once did he lament a loss to me. The fact that I did not visit physically does not at all mean we did not communicate.
If these things are not true, then I am fucking pissed at my sister for being a liar about me and my Dad.
Either way, I have lost a member of my blood. I have gained myself by realizing it.
My truth is the truth. Don't try to describe the ocean if you've never seen it.
There is a Jimmy Buffet line for everything.

jumping on the bandwagon

Ah me- insomnia is part of my daily routine. A wise person makes wise use of their time and takes advantage of opportunities as they come.

Strength- I want it- physically, spiritually, emotionally, psychologically.
I love being physically strong. I was not a tom girl (or was it boy) nor girlly girl. I was in between. I still am absolutely in between. I want to be able to throw a pack of shingles on the roof, fell trees and build whatever needs building. I want long, flowing gowns and long, flowing, curly hair. Strength and independence go hand in hand. I have to be physically fit to care for myself, my family and my property. I will not be helpless because something is heavy or difficult. I love watching old movies because the women are so strong. I love the tough broads- Rosie the Riveter types who rise to the challenge as if it were merely an annoyance like spoiled milk. Look at those photos from the 40's. They are perfectly made up and coiffed with a smile for the camera and hope in their eyes. And they never backed down. They took the shot gun off the wall, they threw boiling water, they stamped their feet and refused and insisted. They had curves and loved themselves for it. They knew they had power and strength by that love. Their clothes were to die for- glorious bias cut satin gowns, fun denim capries and knotted button down shirts and always the perfect shoe. Don't forget red lipstick and a hat, a lace hankie with a drop of perfume.
Pin up girls are strong and wonderful. Her image was on airplanes, on posters, everywhere. She was a bit risque' - sometimes very risque'- but not pornographic. She was alone. She was having fun. She was strong and doing just fine. She was virtuous by the strength in her fidelity.
My god speaks to me in a language that I understand. I also speak to my god in a language that can be understood coming from me. I can not pray with a French accent, nor should I try. I speak with smoke and fire and images in my mind. This is how we communicate most efficiently. It takes a long time to say things, but the conversation is there. Efficient and fast are not the same thing. The more I use my form of prayer, the more I feel the presence of god in my life; the more I see it others, the more I listen.
Scarbage- the mental junk you can't manage to throw away, even though you know it is useless
I watched commercials for Scientology as a child and thought it should be looked into. I have issues with some of Mr Hubbard's ideas. He's a bit of a chauvinist and I think he made poor vocab choices here and there. The theories work though. Auditing works. The most difficult part is that I have insomnia so much, that we can not do a session for my lack of good rest. Nonetheless, what we have been able to do, and what I hope we will be able to do again, has healing qualities. I'm looking forward to sleeping, so we can clear out all this- Scarbage that I know is there but can't find the handhold yet to throw it out.
I need to learn something. Anything. I have a quote from The Once and Future King by T.H. White. "The best thing to do for being sad is to learn something. It is the only thing that never fails." I do not know as much as I would like, and what I do know, I know well. I can't tell you a thing about the infernal contraption I am using right now, but I can tell you everything about the fabric I'm wearing. The more I know, the better I can apply my physical strength and know how to accomplish goals with intellect when muscle is not enough.

It's been 2 of the 3 hours I have been awake this night. I will now lay in bed doing isometric exercises while doing crossword puzzles in ink.

physically strong = independence
emotionally strong = virtue
spiritually strong = indelibly
psychologically strong = restful body and thought
intellectually strong = order and understanding

On Strength

Strength is that which endures. Strength holds up hearts and holds up buildings. Strength remains constant reliable truth. Strength maintains. God has given me strength.
But to grow, create, change, advance; this is courage. Courage pulls you into the unknown. Courage reaches unaware of the fear of falling. Courage is the means to the end.

God grant my courage. My prayers for strength have been answered in abundance. I have the strength to go on and on without change, continuing, feet firmly planted, holding up my orb of self with all this excess strength.
Bless me with the audacity of Moses, the daring of Joan, the dreams of Columbus, and the voice of a Suffragette. Bless me with the infinite possibilities that only courage can bring.
Bless me past the fear of falling.

Water 3

*a tiny mention of some really important water*

Introduction

I am a dandelion
growing alone in a field of roses
with nothing to do
but indulge myself
with the uniqueness of being a weed.

My oneness makes me whole
'cause I have a driven soul
a determination
that can build a bonfire
from a bucket of water
And I intend to set the world alight
with kaleidoscopic flame-

You can't kill a weed
Cut off their heads
poison their hearts
trample their core
They will always return
more alive from the learning
A weed will always survive-

June 22, 2004, revised June 21, 2010

Water 2

I'm glad to be here in Boggs' Creek
to be here with the '-ures' all around me-
the stature of salamanders
the ligature of vines
in the texture of tree bark.
The lecture of water
the future of me
throwing rocks in the water
leaning on trees
to see a salamander on a vine

May 2010

Water

Dare #1 water


Rain to wash me clean
that is not cold
Rain that has a purpose

Rain to wash me clean
of the sickly, smoldering embers
who waste their heart

Rain to wash me clean
to polish the hearth
with drops of thunder

why come in from the rain

Feminine Voice Dare

* a message sent to many of us from a woodpecker with a cattle prod*

The Feminine Voice

Saturday, June 12, 2010 at 4:06pm

Message to all women: write.

I've realized just today why I hate the term "women's history" or "women's studies." I have always felt that women are/were a part of ALL history, that we didn't have a separate history where we evolved in a bubble. Our lives should not be considered separate from that of men. Our lives are defined by our relationships to them and to each other. However, women came late to literacy, so that most ancient records portray the feminine voice as one of muted pluralism defined and described in most part by men. I don't want our voices quieted again, so I'm asking the women in my life to write. Write fiction, non-fiction, conversations, letters, journals, blogs, cookbooks, strategic battle plans, etc.

These are the keys to being heard by future generations. Tell your own stories. Please don't be quiet. make some noise, ladies. :D
*********************************
I had always been proud of my writing until one English teacher told me it sucked. I kept much of my writing private, having become so self conscious of it. A poke from the right place at the right time can start the ball rolling. She plans to give us a subject and we have one week to create.
Let's see if I still got it....

first day with a new blog-