I'm not sure how winter will go for us this year, but today we're warm, in a little house that sat empty since the 1980's. It's got several layers of wallpaper peeping out that refused removal and it's got old green shag carpet that came from the seventies and walls with cracks and places where the batton-board shows through broken plaster wall.
And we love it.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Sunday, October 27, 2013
The point of being a Gemini (rising)
Art journaling
Journals de Art
art journal techniques
Art JournalingThis is probably the OLDEST and the NEWEST of the things I've found to interest me. Once, I chose an old book and Guessoed (is that a word?) a few pages (actually, many pages -- many, many pages). But it seemed daunting. The book was too big and I was too small. Plus we moved to a farm and I spent the whole day farming. Plus, I have Gemini rising...
Journals de Art
art journal techniques
Art JournalingThis is probably the OLDEST and the NEWEST of the things I've found to interest me. Once, I chose an old book and Guessoed (is that a word?) a few pages (actually, many pages -- many, many pages). But it seemed daunting. The book was too big and I was too small. Plus we moved to a farm and I spent the whole day farming. Plus, I have Gemini rising...
that was then
In the forties, when my parents were in their thirties, rent was forty dollars a month, a Coca Cola was five cents, gas was fifteen cents a gallon, and you could buy a house for under $4,000 dollars. None of that mattered to them. They were not in the economic bracket to afford a car, a house of their own, or the rent in a middle class house. They might wrap their hands around that seductive waist of a coca cola bottle once in a while and eat a five cent hotdog at the Oakford restaurant, but for the most part, they were not realistically involved in the pursuit of the American dream.
They dreamed anyway. Mom dreamed of lace curtains while she sewed hers from flour sacks. She might have dreamed of steak while she cooked pinto beans. By 1948, they had eight children, had moved back and forth from Ohio to West Virginia, lived in temporary-looking houses, on hand-me-downs and cornmeal.
He worked as a brickmason. Sometimes she worked outside the home as well as seeing they were all fed and had something to wear, as well as turning something that looked like a boxcar or an outbuilding into a home.
By the time I came along in 1953, they were living up a holler above Richwood, West Virginia. He worked as a block and brick mason for low pay, always on the move, looking for work. They moved to Charleston when I was three, and back again to Richwood when I was five. We moved into in a sweet little house, albeit with no indoor plumbing, right next door to my Uncle and Aunt and my Grandparents. I had no concept that we weren't as rich as anyone, no one ever mentioned the word poor and we would have been insulted if anyone had suggested such a thing. In fact, years later I was in fourth grade and a girl looked at my clothes and asked, "Are you poor?" and I was in danger of getting into my first fight.
We had a woodstove in the living room and I would lay on the floor by that stove and draw and try to write words, though I couldn't spell yet. I looked at letters Mom would get and try to write one, little squiggles with an occasional line that went up or one that went down. I could print, and I spent hours putting letters together in groups and asking Mom if they were words yet. The first word I accidentally wrote was people.
Dad had steady work and it looked like it could last, so Mom made up a budget and marked envelopes with the amount it took for rent, what she estimated for groceries (we even bought orange juice), for a block of ice for the icebox, for incidentals like a pair of shoes or a coat when the time came, and she put a few dollars in an envelope marked theater.
We went to our first movie in town. Down that cobblestone road and through Dyer "bottom" (the level below the hill), and up Oakford and turn left onto Main. The Star Theater had closed in the forties, when the drive-in stole it's thunder, but another had opened overtop the fire department. We bought popcorn and sat down toward the back (why?) to watch King Kong.
I had a piece of popcorn halfway to my mouth and stuck there during the tower scene. I remember looking at the popcorn when the scene was over, wondering if it was ok to eat it. (I have no idea why I wondered that).
The walk home had to have been at least as good as the movie. Walks home at night, with the whole family, up that curving road of cobblestone, under the shadows cast by trees, through tunnels of darkness, sometime with the moon lighting the road ahead of us as we came from the shadows. Once, I remember a lantern. Not a flashlight. A lantern. We were walking home from church. The lantern light around us was like a church itself.
Never too steadfast in church-going, we'd get the spirituals every season or so and start going to some church. Probably the result of a visiting preacher and most probably, Dad's rash promise to "Yessir, we'll be there next Sunday." He'd nod his head, and then shake it once, maybe saying again, "Yessir".
Mom would get hopeful. She'd get our clothes ready, the best we had. Of course, Dad didn't actually go to church with us. He'd sometimes walk off the hill as if he was going, but more often, he'd be home or somewhere Away and we'd go by ourselves because the notion had struck. It was the Church of God on Church street once. It was the Seventh Day Adventist. It was the Nazarene church. Denomination didn't matter to us. We were Protestant because that's what we were born into and no one ever thought to question. Mom said she'd once gone to a Catholic church to see what it was like, but she didn't know when to kneel and when to stand and she didn't know the songs. She said it was a pretty church.
Mom and her Mom both wore little hats to church, with a veil that came down over their eyes. Mom's stockings had a seam up the back and she carried a purse across her arm. She said one time her youngest sister was walking up that same hill and Grandma let her carry her purse. When they got home, Grandma turned to take the purse and it was gone. Alice said she'd gotten tired of carrying it and had "dropped it down". They retraced their steps back down the hill and it was still there.
Enough wandering down memory lanes -- on to other things...
They dreamed anyway. Mom dreamed of lace curtains while she sewed hers from flour sacks. She might have dreamed of steak while she cooked pinto beans. By 1948, they had eight children, had moved back and forth from Ohio to West Virginia, lived in temporary-looking houses, on hand-me-downs and cornmeal.
He worked as a brickmason. Sometimes she worked outside the home as well as seeing they were all fed and had something to wear, as well as turning something that looked like a boxcar or an outbuilding into a home.
By the time I came along in 1953, they were living up a holler above Richwood, West Virginia. He worked as a block and brick mason for low pay, always on the move, looking for work. They moved to Charleston when I was three, and back again to Richwood when I was five. We moved into in a sweet little house, albeit with no indoor plumbing, right next door to my Uncle and Aunt and my Grandparents. I had no concept that we weren't as rich as anyone, no one ever mentioned the word poor and we would have been insulted if anyone had suggested such a thing. In fact, years later I was in fourth grade and a girl looked at my clothes and asked, "Are you poor?" and I was in danger of getting into my first fight.
We had a woodstove in the living room and I would lay on the floor by that stove and draw and try to write words, though I couldn't spell yet. I looked at letters Mom would get and try to write one, little squiggles with an occasional line that went up or one that went down. I could print, and I spent hours putting letters together in groups and asking Mom if they were words yet. The first word I accidentally wrote was people.
Dad had steady work and it looked like it could last, so Mom made up a budget and marked envelopes with the amount it took for rent, what she estimated for groceries (we even bought orange juice), for a block of ice for the icebox, for incidentals like a pair of shoes or a coat when the time came, and she put a few dollars in an envelope marked theater.
We went to our first movie in town. Down that cobblestone road and through Dyer "bottom" (the level below the hill), and up Oakford and turn left onto Main. The Star Theater had closed in the forties, when the drive-in stole it's thunder, but another had opened overtop the fire department. We bought popcorn and sat down toward the back (why?) to watch King Kong.
I had a piece of popcorn halfway to my mouth and stuck there during the tower scene. I remember looking at the popcorn when the scene was over, wondering if it was ok to eat it. (I have no idea why I wondered that).
The walk home had to have been at least as good as the movie. Walks home at night, with the whole family, up that curving road of cobblestone, under the shadows cast by trees, through tunnels of darkness, sometime with the moon lighting the road ahead of us as we came from the shadows. Once, I remember a lantern. Not a flashlight. A lantern. We were walking home from church. The lantern light around us was like a church itself.
Never too steadfast in church-going, we'd get the spirituals every season or so and start going to some church. Probably the result of a visiting preacher and most probably, Dad's rash promise to "Yessir, we'll be there next Sunday." He'd nod his head, and then shake it once, maybe saying again, "Yessir".
Mom would get hopeful. She'd get our clothes ready, the best we had. Of course, Dad didn't actually go to church with us. He'd sometimes walk off the hill as if he was going, but more often, he'd be home or somewhere Away and we'd go by ourselves because the notion had struck. It was the Church of God on Church street once. It was the Seventh Day Adventist. It was the Nazarene church. Denomination didn't matter to us. We were Protestant because that's what we were born into and no one ever thought to question. Mom said she'd once gone to a Catholic church to see what it was like, but she didn't know when to kneel and when to stand and she didn't know the songs. She said it was a pretty church.
Mom and her Mom both wore little hats to church, with a veil that came down over their eyes. Mom's stockings had a seam up the back and she carried a purse across her arm. She said one time her youngest sister was walking up that same hill and Grandma let her carry her purse. When they got home, Grandma turned to take the purse and it was gone. Alice said she'd gotten tired of carrying it and had "dropped it down". They retraced their steps back down the hill and it was still there.
Enough wandering down memory lanes -- on to other things...
Saturday, October 12, 2013
apple seeds and playing cards
Not long ago, we wrote with pens in notebooks. Some of us had typewriters. We had strikeouts and white out for mistakes. If we wrote something more than journal entries, we'd cut and tape to move one part from here to there. Even writing lightening quick, we couldn't follow our line of thought. Our thoughts had to slow down a bit so we could find them in ink.
Friday, October 11, 2013
giggling brushes
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
feeling crafty
 |
| Tree Orbs |
I wasn't doing anything and there was this paint laying there and a picture I intended to give to the goodwill (it was still life and rather dismal).
There was also a top to a bedside table, one of those cheap things with dowels as legs.
So I made these.
 |
| Blessed Be This House |
This other picture to the left has a remnant of a previous attempt. I kept the cauldron from something I painted a few years back. I'm not fond of the sun/moon in this one, and could have chosen a better background color, but it is what it is. I'm pleased with the quilt squares. By air and fire, by land and Sea, by Moon and Sun, So Shall It Be!
Maybe I'll paint a quilt next.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
old poem refound
This used-to-be town
When the eyes in the mirror look back,
you step into another dimension,
Elsewhere is always the twilight zone,
Would you have it some other way,
Drumsong only a measured beat,
and beat poets morphed into car salesmen?
Here in the land of used to be,
the clerk tells me she used to do
astrology, Now, she's found Jesus, there are no more stars.
She sells us candles, two for five, and reminisces
her Aquarian nature,
Is that what you want?
If there was a way to step through to when
a farm fed a family, light came from the sky,
fire warmed our houses, that would be worth
losing to,
With their Eleanor faces, I see them through
ripples in attitude, like waves in old windows,
I expect them to turn back again to mannequins
when the lights go down. There'll be one fellow,
old, in baggy clothes, sweeping streetsof cluttering smiles.
He still sweeps, the only skill that kept him.
When the eyes in the mirror look back,
you step into another dimension,
Elsewhere is always the twilight zone,
Would you have it some other way,
Drumsong only a measured beat,
and beat poets morphed into car salesmen?
Here in the land of used to be,
the clerk tells me she used to do
astrology, Now, she's found Jesus, there are no more stars.
She sells us candles, two for five, and reminisces
her Aquarian nature,
Is that what you want?
If there was a way to step through to when
a farm fed a family, light came from the sky,
fire warmed our houses, that would be worth
losing to,
With their Eleanor faces, I see them through
ripples in attitude, like waves in old windows,
I expect them to turn back again to mannequins
when the lights go down. There'll be one fellow,
old, in baggy clothes, sweeping streetsof cluttering smiles.
He still sweeps, the only skill that kept him.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
yard sale math book
Saturday, June 22, 2013
There were yard sales all around the neighborhood and across town. Looked like houses threw up all over their lawns. They had too much to eat, they stood in the sun too long, they're hung-over -- whatever, and they up-chucked.
The yards look anxious, waiting for someone to come and make them well.
The sales are all rumpled clothes that the owner keeps folding as the day fades into the sun, makeshift tables of boards set up on chairs and sawhorses, old TVs, futons, lamps, lampshades, a cooking pot without a lid and a lid without a cooking pot. Desperation spelled out in old shoes, faded plastic toys, assorted fragments of dinnerware sets, and jewelry someone's aunt used to wear. Books. Here in this town the books are mostly about Jesus.
But I'd stopped and so, looked for something.
Found this mathbook. Price written on the cover in ink said one dollar, but this was the third day of the sale, so the books were ten cents each. I paid the dime for the dollar book; already the math wasn't working right.
This book promises me fractals and polygons. I love math. I'm no good at it, except when I'm measuring ingredients, counting change, or figuring aspects. But I know it's a pure language and what it says is what it means. Until you get to algebra which is the poetry of math, in which X stands for Y.
I've dreamed math before. Woke up saying, a'hah! and then lost what I knew before morning came proper. Numbers mean other things to me besides their value in equations. Always did. Before I knew there was a thing called numerology. I liked some numbers, didn't like others. I didn't like six. Six made me think of staying home when the circus was in town. It made me antsy. I loved nine, even liked that it could also mean no. Eight was hard work. Seven was mystical. Two was difficult.Three was just about perfect.
Now I can add initiative and hard work and get to a number with plenty to share, where things that have been known have only to be recalled, not relearned, though the basics of how I got here are a bit hazy.Why is 72 degrees important? I sense the answer.
My new book tells me it is important to have precise meaning for small words such as and, if, then,and or, and to understand the meanings of symbols such as <, =, and >. If that isn't poetry, I'd like to know what is.
The price of the book, when new, was $12.97. The book hasn't aged any. It's pristine, barely used, and the only thing that sets it apart from others still in the store is that someone wrote $1.00 in marker on the top front corner of the cover of the book for which I paid a dime.
Math is absolute. But values are still subject to our perceptions.
There were yard sales all around the neighborhood and across town. Looked like houses threw up all over their lawns. They had too much to eat, they stood in the sun too long, they're hung-over -- whatever, and they up-chucked.
The yards look anxious, waiting for someone to come and make them well.
The sales are all rumpled clothes that the owner keeps folding as the day fades into the sun, makeshift tables of boards set up on chairs and sawhorses, old TVs, futons, lamps, lampshades, a cooking pot without a lid and a lid without a cooking pot. Desperation spelled out in old shoes, faded plastic toys, assorted fragments of dinnerware sets, and jewelry someone's aunt used to wear. Books. Here in this town the books are mostly about Jesus.
But I'd stopped and so, looked for something.
Found this mathbook. Price written on the cover in ink said one dollar, but this was the third day of the sale, so the books were ten cents each. I paid the dime for the dollar book; already the math wasn't working right.
This book promises me fractals and polygons. I love math. I'm no good at it, except when I'm measuring ingredients, counting change, or figuring aspects. But I know it's a pure language and what it says is what it means. Until you get to algebra which is the poetry of math, in which X stands for Y.
I've dreamed math before. Woke up saying, a'hah! and then lost what I knew before morning came proper. Numbers mean other things to me besides their value in equations. Always did. Before I knew there was a thing called numerology. I liked some numbers, didn't like others. I didn't like six. Six made me think of staying home when the circus was in town. It made me antsy. I loved nine, even liked that it could also mean no. Eight was hard work. Seven was mystical. Two was difficult.Three was just about perfect.
Now I can add initiative and hard work and get to a number with plenty to share, where things that have been known have only to be recalled, not relearned, though the basics of how I got here are a bit hazy.Why is 72 degrees important? I sense the answer.
My new book tells me it is important to have precise meaning for small words such as and, if, then,and or, and to understand the meanings of symbols such as <, =, and >. If that isn't poetry, I'd like to know what is.
The price of the book, when new, was $12.97. The book hasn't aged any. It's pristine, barely used, and the only thing that sets it apart from others still in the store is that someone wrote $1.00 in marker on the top front corner of the cover of the book for which I paid a dime.
Math is absolute. But values are still subject to our perceptions.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
post-moving syndrome
yea, so...
we got moved from the farmhouse where bats flew down from the attic and rats inhabited the ancient player piano and mice were legion and the vacuum cleaner daily ate its way through lazy armies of lady bugs and flies of Amityville horror house proportions.
And we let out a breath we didn't know we were holding, and settled into our little house by a road between a place called there and a place called elsewhere. We sat on the front porch and listened to cars shush by in the rain. We ate our lunch of baked potatoes and homebaked bread in our little kitchen at a 50's era table (with four matching chairs) left behind by previous tenants, and we began to recover.
Moving out of the farmhouse was a long process as we had no help and little money. We were so slow, old neighbors there decided to help us by helping themselves to everything they wanted in between our truckloads from there to here. I am still missing things that came suddenly missing. My sewing machine, a dutch oven, the canner, some jewelry... and little things that hurt worse.
But we're here in one piece now. I trust people less. Care less. Try less. But already I see that changing, as I don't. It's my way, isn't it? To do what I can for other people. That's who I am. So, I do.
We've got a ritual to go to this weekend for Summer Solstice. Old friends from this area will circle round and honor the Gods and Goddesses and Ancestors and Otherkin. We celebrate renewed friendships here with folks we met just as we were leaving the last time. Sometimes it is necessary to go back where you've been to pick up a thread you dropped.
we got moved from the farmhouse where bats flew down from the attic and rats inhabited the ancient player piano and mice were legion and the vacuum cleaner daily ate its way through lazy armies of lady bugs and flies of Amityville horror house proportions.
And we let out a breath we didn't know we were holding, and settled into our little house by a road between a place called there and a place called elsewhere. We sat on the front porch and listened to cars shush by in the rain. We ate our lunch of baked potatoes and homebaked bread in our little kitchen at a 50's era table (with four matching chairs) left behind by previous tenants, and we began to recover.
Moving out of the farmhouse was a long process as we had no help and little money. We were so slow, old neighbors there decided to help us by helping themselves to everything they wanted in between our truckloads from there to here. I am still missing things that came suddenly missing. My sewing machine, a dutch oven, the canner, some jewelry... and little things that hurt worse.
But we're here in one piece now. I trust people less. Care less. Try less. But already I see that changing, as I don't. It's my way, isn't it? To do what I can for other people. That's who I am. So, I do.
We've got a ritual to go to this weekend for Summer Solstice. Old friends from this area will circle round and honor the Gods and Goddesses and Ancestors and Otherkin. We celebrate renewed friendships here with folks we met just as we were leaving the last time. Sometimes it is necessary to go back where you've been to pick up a thread you dropped.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Inventory
We've moved again. The rented farmhouse in the middle of the cow fields didn't do much for peace of mind and did not fulfil its obligations to shelter -- so we divorced its sorry ass and moved to a house on the edge of a small town where a new mayor is trying to bring back the dead.
Periodically, notices are sent to folks who pile junk in their yards and occasionally, somone listens. I see improvements. Someone cleaned up a junkpile. Someone else fixed a roof. Someone painted a storefront.
Unfortunately, like most towns, bad news is swept into the wastebin or tucked away in old suitcases and only the good is allowed to seep out to print. So, when a meth lab blew up here a few weeks back, the report downgraded it into a "possible gas explosion". The golf course is bragged on, but no one mentions that golf balls regularly rain down on houses nearby, pelting the sides and breaking windows and rolling off the rooftops. Local lore is that the golf course owners have an insurance policy in place to pay for the first person hit and killed by a golf ball, although they don't take responsibility for house damage or the fact that kids are told to play near the highway to avoid the back yards nearest the golf course.
Nervertheless, I've started calling it our town. We'll see where it goes from here. And where we do.
Periodically, notices are sent to folks who pile junk in their yards and occasionally, somone listens. I see improvements. Someone cleaned up a junkpile. Someone else fixed a roof. Someone painted a storefront.
Unfortunately, like most towns, bad news is swept into the wastebin or tucked away in old suitcases and only the good is allowed to seep out to print. So, when a meth lab blew up here a few weeks back, the report downgraded it into a "possible gas explosion". The golf course is bragged on, but no one mentions that golf balls regularly rain down on houses nearby, pelting the sides and breaking windows and rolling off the rooftops. Local lore is that the golf course owners have an insurance policy in place to pay for the first person hit and killed by a golf ball, although they don't take responsibility for house damage or the fact that kids are told to play near the highway to avoid the back yards nearest the golf course.
Nervertheless, I've started calling it our town. We'll see where it goes from here. And where we do.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Book Review -- NO WAY OUT by Susan Sleeman
No Way Out by Susan SleemanMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
This is only the second Harlequin romance I've ever read. The other, along with a science fiction novel, were research. Therefore, if I review this as if it were mainstream fiction rather than as fan of romance novels, you must factor that in.
That being said, I would like for the romance to have unfolded slowly, while keeping the quick pace of the action.
The romance:
Alyssa and Cole fell head-over-heels from the first sighting, In the midst of life or death circumstances. They spend the rest of the novel discussing, in internal dialogue, their individual baggage, and trying to convince themselves they MUST not do what they've already done, which is fall in love.
The story:
Alyssa Wells, widowed mother of two, is in the wrong place at the right time, when she overhears a conversation that may lead to her husband's killer.
Cole Justice, a troubled veteran, is in the right place at the wrong time, and rescues Alyssa, as she's being chased by the men she heard discussing her husband's death.
Together, Alyssa, Cole, and Cole's assorted siblings seek to protect Alyssa and her twins while pursuing the suspected killer, and clearing Alyssa's deceased husband's name.
The craft:
The author did her research well. The detective work, the technical descriptions, references to police procedure is well written. There are no spare words, this novel races from beginning to end and keeps the excitement building.
The character's faith is in evidence, and quite realistically portrayed. She acts as a person of faith (in any religion) would act, with silent conversation with her Diety during times of thanksgiving and times of trouble. The author proves that it is impossible for anyone to forbid prayer in any setting, as the character's prayer is silent by necessity of her circumstances, and yet is as strong as the most shouted prayer in public places.
If this were a mainstream novel, I would give it 3 stars. In the genre in which it was written, I give it 4 stars. I give the author, Susan Sleeman, as many stars as she would like, because her work is excellent.
View all my reviews
Thursday, April 18, 2013
37th anniversary
April 17, 1976
We've been on a journey that's just begun,
hill paths and winding dirt roads,
tap tap of city streets following drum beats,
and up the sides of hills
and dipping down in low greenlands where rivers flow
and dipping down in low greenlands where rivers flow
We catch the river's flow,
we watch the ripples in the tide,
we watch surf hit sand and riverfalls crash tumble rocks,
We burn brighter than night stars,
You and me and Orion are constant friends,
You and I
Me and You
We been to see things, moving... moving...moving
Because there is more to life than one sunset over one hill
We capture the essence, the mystery, the moment,
You and I, wild mountain honey,
You and I sing songs and laugh off the arrows and the slings
of anywho that doesn't get it.. that doesn't get us -- they don't get us,
We take what's to be known and wave in the rearview,
we got places to know, we got peoples to see,
we got mornings untouched, untampered,
we got mornings untouched, untampered,
and a myriad of stars to guide us,
Settling down? That's what rocks do.
Ah.... me and you,
We find another road and put our steps to it,
What's around that bend is the mystery made new...
Monday, April 15, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
New moon -- new tide
New Moon in Aries -- This is the eleventh new moon that begins in the sign previous to the sign of the "moon". In other words, this is the Taurus/Scorpio moon cycle, but the new moon is in Aries. By this evening the voc moon will enter Taurus.
The I AM slant of the moon's moment of coming new shows that WHO we are is more important to us at this time than the I HAVE focus of Taurus.
How would you finish this sentence:
I AM...
Make a list, a poem, as did Taliessen:
http://youtu.be/oNT4a6pKqck
http://www.celtic.org/birthoftaliesin.html
The I AM slant of the moon's moment of coming new shows that WHO we are is more important to us at this time than the I HAVE focus of Taurus.
How would you finish this sentence:
I AM...
Make a list, a poem, as did Taliessen:
http://youtu.be/oNT4a6pKqck
http://www.celtic.org/birthoftaliesin.html
Thursday, April 4, 2013
There's lately come a good thing...
That's my story and I'm sticking to it. The weather will turn toward Spring and we'll survie the flu and poverty and even the second bout of the that small town we left last year and to which we are (temporarily) returning. A good thing is right up there around the corner. It doesn't have hidden costs and angry people attached to it. It does have opportunity and pleasant breezes and a road that opens ahead of it.
All my energy will come back.
And I will come back.
I'll write poetry again and learn to belly dance.
We'll hang out with our kids.
We'll travel just because.
We'll stand on some street corner and choose a direction.
We'll walk on a beach and down a mountain path.
There will be people like us.
At night, we'll sleep in a goodly house.
The cards, when I turn them up, will fill the room with goodwill laughter at all the sweet things coming into play.
All my energy will come back.
And I will come back.
I'll write poetry again and learn to belly dance.
We'll hang out with our kids.
We'll travel just because.
We'll stand on some street corner and choose a direction.
We'll walk on a beach and down a mountain path.
There will be people like us.
At night, we'll sleep in a goodly house.
The cards, when I turn them up, will fill the room with goodwill laughter at all the sweet things coming into play.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Saturn, limit your limits
Our first Saturn return, we lived on a farm up Crupperneck road, a road shaped like it sounds. We were not yet thirty. We'd built a grainery, goat barn, woodshed, hayshed, hog lot and barn... and we'd settled in with dairy goats, cows, a few rabbits and chickens. Sarah was 2, Heather was 4 and Jennifer was 6 when we moved there. Jennifer had already been in another school before we moved there. We didn't have 2 cents to rub together and we lived off what we grew -- mostly. If we'd been a little older and lot wiser, we'd have made a good thing of the situation. Even after what happened.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Those white dog days.
On the 3rd day of the Yellow Star wavespell (White Electric Dog), the farm house we rented decided it was time to shake itself loose. A strip job nearby had been wearing and tearing on old farm houses for awhile and our chimney was cracking open from the shaking. That day, the smoke rolled back into the house and out through the holes because it could not get past the chimney blocks fallen inward. I stood in the yard and held the collars of two white dogs who had become a central focus of the whole neighborhood.
In the morning, brilliant sun had streaked across the sky and then the clouds rolled in. The groundhog, had he been looking around down in Williamsburg, WV, would have seen his shadow and predicted a long winter and a late Spring. He would have been right.
In the morning, brilliant sun had streaked across the sky and then the clouds rolled in. The groundhog, had he been looking around down in Williamsburg, WV, would have seen his shadow and predicted a long winter and a late Spring. He would have been right.
Monday, March 18, 2013
the stars are calling...
Astrology opened a new chapter -- or
I opened a new chapter in astrology.
At any rate, there's a new level of skill that came along all of its own after this fallow time of reading novels and carefully not listening to the constant stream of negative bullshit that surrounded us this February. I just looked back at old charts of friends and family and new levels of story started telling itself.
I'm so glad to be back on the star path.
I opened a new chapter in astrology.
At any rate, there's a new level of skill that came along all of its own after this fallow time of reading novels and carefully not listening to the constant stream of negative bullshit that surrounded us this February. I just looked back at old charts of friends and family and new levels of story started telling itself.
I'm so glad to be back on the star path.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
here, there, and nowhere much
February 2nd, I bought time for my cellphone and prompltly called the fire department. Flames were not yet shooting out of the top of the chimney as they had once before in my life on another farm during my first Saturn Return. Instead, there was roiling smoke snaking out a crack near the roofline and furthur down along the line of the chmney. Honey closed the drafts and we both went outside. A house that old a brittle can go in seconds if fire hits. I didn't take time to save anything. I wouldn't. It'd be "bye, bye, whatsits, it's been good to know you". Instead, I went out to make sure Lily, PanDi, and the dogs were where they needed to be.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
fractured fairytales...
that's the image that just came to mind. The little witch flying across on her broom and landing with a kerplunk next to a book that tries to close on her until she glares at it.
Good image.
I am, however, hoping for the book to close and another to open. I'm a bit tired of the old book. I am not the same character I was in all those pages. I always thought I'd go back to being the character I was in the beginning, but that is not so.
I am a new character, awaiting the new book. Waiting for the first line. Waiting to see which shelf belongs to me.
Right now, we are in February limbo. We are not where we were and not yet where we will be. I see us moving into a house on the edge of some town for awhile. I am not a town person. Not at all. I loved the country. Walking out and seeing the stars at night, I told myself (all of 3 weeks ago), that I would never live in town again.
But now...
I'm trying to look at what is and not what I wish was. What is?
The chance to do it right... is.
You can't skip steps if you are doing it right.
Let's do it right.
In the next book.
Good image.
I am, however, hoping for the book to close and another to open. I'm a bit tired of the old book. I am not the same character I was in all those pages. I always thought I'd go back to being the character I was in the beginning, but that is not so.
I am a new character, awaiting the new book. Waiting for the first line. Waiting to see which shelf belongs to me.
Right now, we are in February limbo. We are not where we were and not yet where we will be. I see us moving into a house on the edge of some town for awhile. I am not a town person. Not at all. I loved the country. Walking out and seeing the stars at night, I told myself (all of 3 weeks ago), that I would never live in town again.
But now...
I'm trying to look at what is and not what I wish was. What is?
The chance to do it right... is.
You can't skip steps if you are doing it right.
Let's do it right.
In the next book.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
out of here
Once we decided to move rather than try to get the landlord to do the right thing and fix the chimney, moving is all I can think about. I want out of here ---- yesterday.
So... today -- first day in a long time that I've actually been...not warm (that would be asking a lot), but not freezing, I'm ready to tackle this place and begin again with -- what is most important and what can get left till last. And what I don't need at all.
Moving to a smaller house (I never did get big house attitude).
It's a good day for packing!
So... today -- first day in a long time that I've actually been...not warm (that would be asking a lot), but not freezing, I'm ready to tackle this place and begin again with -- what is most important and what can get left till last. And what I don't need at all.
Moving to a smaller house (I never did get big house attitude).
It's a good day for packing!
post from July 6 2012
I still feel like I'm in somebody else's house. You know that feeling? You don't know where to put your toothbrush. You don't know if your precious books will be safe. You don't know which cupboard is for glasses and which one is for pots and pans.
We brought some of the little things today. I'm in that mood that means no good, wherein people show up and I give them things because I don't want to deal with the things. My old granny herb woman just found a niche in the china cabinet. I took two bowls out and put them in the kitchen. Bowls wash, but ole granny, and other things like her need to be taken care of.
When you live in the country everybody is your neighbor -- that song is stuck in that ole' 8-track player in my head. I think it when I see spiders dart out from behind pictures. I think it when I see that a mouse has been here, when I carry out two bats from the living room, when I see snakes slither off the porch and when I see silverfish around the bathtub. I'm not fond of old farm houses. Rotting wood in the windowsills, roof tin that rattles in the wind chimney blocks that threaten to tumble.
We brought some of the little things today. I'm in that mood that means no good, wherein people show up and I give them things because I don't want to deal with the things. My old granny herb woman just found a niche in the china cabinet. I took two bowls out and put them in the kitchen. Bowls wash, but ole granny, and other things like her need to be taken care of.
When you live in the country everybody is your neighbor -- that song is stuck in that ole' 8-track player in my head. I think it when I see spiders dart out from behind pictures. I think it when I see that a mouse has been here, when I carry out two bats from the living room, when I see snakes slither off the porch and when I see silverfish around the bathtub. I'm not fond of old farm houses. Rotting wood in the windowsills, roof tin that rattles in the wind chimney blocks that threaten to tumble.
recently...
I've chucked it all
two dozen times
Since beginning
This house,
the rat in the piano,
the incessant cold that
keeps me wearing
3 shirts under my coat
in my kitchen
But just now,
Watching PanDi decide
if she would put up with Lilly
eating along at the feeder
And deciding not,
I know I could keep this
two dozen times
Since beginning
This house,
the rat in the piano,
the incessant cold that
keeps me wearing
3 shirts under my coat
in my kitchen
But just now,
Watching PanDi decide
if she would put up with Lilly
eating along at the feeder
And deciding not,
I know I could keep this
Post from 6/22/12
I'm in a love/hate relationship with this house. It's got a huge country kitchen and plenty of yard, a firering we didn't build and a large space for a garden or three. It's got potential for homestead animals, milk goat, fiber rabbits and all that we've been wanting.
But half the time, I'm thinking "I've got to get home."
I feel like I'm in somebody else's house. I'm placing my things here and there, wherever they seem to fit, but it feels like I'm visiting, arranging my personal items on borrowed space until it's time to check out and move on to the next place.
I expect I will get over this.
Yesterday, working with my husband, Mark, my nephew, Jack and his daughter, Sissy, I felt at home for the first time. I cooked them a good breakfast and we went out for a bit of yardwork before they were to help us haul the bigger things from the other house. We worked a good long time on the yard, though. It was soon lunch time and I fixed a great lunch and we sat around the table and talked. Sissy thought the kitchen looked like the Waltons.
Back out again to finish a few things they'd seen that needed done (we didn't ask -- they just knew what was needed). Soon it was 4 o'clock and we had not hauled anything. I was ready to call it a day, but Jack just laughed. They got in their truck and we got in ours and loaded out a large load of things from the previous house.
This morning, first thing, I rode my bike up this lane in back of the house to and through the woods to the hillside. I did morning rite in the woods, spooking a few birds and starling the deer. It's a good place. It's bigger than us, but maybe that means we'll grow into it. Maybe we get us some big house attitude. I don't have it yet. It needs more people in it, the way it had more people in it yesterday. And my Gemini keeps wanting to go somewhere -- maybe downtown for a cup of coffee and tea at the Wild Bean. Ten years ago, I would have been ecstatic about this place. I still am now, for five or ten minutes at a time. Then I wonder what we're up to and if the Universe is setting us up.
But half the time, I'm thinking "I've got to get home."
I feel like I'm in somebody else's house. I'm placing my things here and there, wherever they seem to fit, but it feels like I'm visiting, arranging my personal items on borrowed space until it's time to check out and move on to the next place.
I expect I will get over this.
Yesterday, working with my husband, Mark, my nephew, Jack and his daughter, Sissy, I felt at home for the first time. I cooked them a good breakfast and we went out for a bit of yardwork before they were to help us haul the bigger things from the other house. We worked a good long time on the yard, though. It was soon lunch time and I fixed a great lunch and we sat around the table and talked. Sissy thought the kitchen looked like the Waltons.
Back out again to finish a few things they'd seen that needed done (we didn't ask -- they just knew what was needed). Soon it was 4 o'clock and we had not hauled anything. I was ready to call it a day, but Jack just laughed. They got in their truck and we got in ours and loaded out a large load of things from the previous house.
This morning, first thing, I rode my bike up this lane in back of the house to and through the woods to the hillside. I did morning rite in the woods, spooking a few birds and starling the deer. It's a good place. It's bigger than us, but maybe that means we'll grow into it. Maybe we get us some big house attitude. I don't have it yet. It needs more people in it, the way it had more people in it yesterday. And my Gemini keeps wanting to go somewhere -- maybe downtown for a cup of coffee and tea at the Wild Bean. Ten years ago, I would have been ecstatic about this place. I still am now, for five or ten minutes at a time. Then I wonder what we're up to and if the Universe is setting us up.
An old post from last summer --The where the hell-am-I blues
Looking out my window
Beauty I see,
But where oh where do I see me,
There's an empty barn, and a shed that leans,
And a piney wind blowing cross the evergreens,
Beauty by the acre and a sky that's blue,
But where am I and where are you
This house is so big I can dance and twirl
If I feel like it, I'll give it a whirl,
Beauty by the acre and plenty of room,
But where oh where are we
I got a china cabinet full of pretties to see
A player piano that sings to me
There's a stairway built in 1862
But I still have where the hell am I blues,
But I don't recognize anything I see,
I got those just moved in, don't know where I am,
I got those just moved in to a new house blues.......
Yeah.....
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
IMBOLC
There may be absolutes, but they are not in how we see
things or how we best follow our spirit's path to wholeness. My way honors the
land and place but it also links the inner and outer universe, the earth and
sky, this world and the worlds of the Unseen. In that vein, time does make a
difference. Climante was not the same everywhere and yet the same moments were
held in common as being holy. That leads me to the sky rather than to only the
earth.
The Day of the Dead in Mexico is at the same time as Samhain,
Cinco de Mayo is the same as Beltane -- 15 degrees Scorpio and 15 degrees
Taurus, respectively.
In celebrating the cross-quarter days, 15 degrees of
Aquarius and Leo also figure in, 15 degrees Aquarius being the time of Imbolc.
Though many of us choose to ride in on the skirts of that point of power and
adopt the local customs (such as Halloween on the eve of November instead of 15
degrees Scorpio proper).
IMBOLC
The way I celebrate Imbolc is to use this moment to honor
the Grandmothers, the women in my family line, and the nurturing Goddess. This
works in my personal wheel of the year because it is directly across from
LoafMas when I honor the Grandfathers, the men in my family line, and the
giving God.
February represents hope of the end of winter's cold and the
greening of Spring. Even in the bleakest and poorest of winters, we can see the
greening of the world that is coming. As soon as we turn the page from January
-- the long, cold month -- to February, I begin to look for signs of spring.
Something beyond lovely dandelions (who sometimes hang on all winter), Even if
the snow is belly deep to a tall cow, I still know that Spring is bubbling away
under there, getting ready to shove us up some crocuses and daffodils.
I see Imbolc as nurturing -- mothers in milk. A time to
nurture all the young, including the seeds of promise we've been incubating.
This is preparation for harvest, which is across the wheel at that which some
call Lugnasadh or Frey Fest or First Harvest.
Ok, so... that's my take on the holy day coming up.
If none of that works for you, you can watch ole' Puxutawny
Phil to see if he predicts sunny days or six more weeks of weather -- another way we hope toward Spring.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
turned a leaf and wrote some more
I decided to make up my NY resolutions as I go along. So one day, I made the res to write...that day. I wrote.
Another day, I made the res to forgive everyone I know, even the gossipers and the ones who say I'll fail. Not every day. But that day
One day, I finished things I started.
One day, I ate right, exercised well, and laughed often.
One day, I decided to create something.
Another day, I made the res to forgive everyone I know, even the gossipers and the ones who say I'll fail. Not every day. But that day
One day, I finished things I started.
One day, I ate right, exercised well, and laughed often.
One day, I decided to create something.
I made these.
The next day I spun them on the deck where the sun shone to 60 in January and the birds sang and the geese flew over.
What new resolution should I make for today?
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
listening to them
I'm almost 60.
I should know this.
Don't listen to them.
And yet...
Sometimes, someone seems to know...
And so, I hear them out.
this brings questions
Not in the daylight
When i know all I've been and done and said
And that failure follows success follows failure
or some shit like that...
But in the night, I wonder
And then wake laughing at myself
for hearing experts debate what i'm doing.
I should know this.
Don't listen to them.
And yet...
Sometimes, someone seems to know...
And so, I hear them out.
this brings questions
Not in the daylight
When i know all I've been and done and said
And that failure follows success follows failure
or some shit like that...
But in the night, I wonder
And then wake laughing at myself
for hearing experts debate what i'm doing.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Old Christmas Eve
13 years ago, today, I entered circle for the first time. The catalyst for this bold step was a book called Drawing The Light From Within, a book about art.
It was a mild day and I was at Metsokodu, a borrowed house through the woods and down a moonpath from the half-finished and unheated house we were building.
I read about art and the interplay of light and shadow and without another thought, I stepped out onto the porch barefoot in January and cast a circle and called quarters.
Since I wasn't yet out of the faith in which I was raised, my elements were tinged with Christian terminology: The Rock of ages, the Breath of life, the Fire of Pentecost, and the living Waters. Before the circle was through, I'd made my way to the Mother Goddess.
And cast off a thousand weights of other people's designs --and I've never been the same since.
It was a mild day and I was at Metsokodu, a borrowed house through the woods and down a moonpath from the half-finished and unheated house we were building.
I read about art and the interplay of light and shadow and without another thought, I stepped out onto the porch barefoot in January and cast a circle and called quarters.
Since I wasn't yet out of the faith in which I was raised, my elements were tinged with Christian terminology: The Rock of ages, the Breath of life, the Fire of Pentecost, and the living Waters. Before the circle was through, I'd made my way to the Mother Goddess.
And cast off a thousand weights of other people's designs --and I've never been the same since.
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