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I got a letter from Anna. (Hi, Anna – I love you.) She’s someone I think of as a real writer, as opposed to my aspirational self, because she’s taken the risk of submitting work for publication and actually getting it published. She’s faced the fear of rejection, which is paralyzing for me, and met it head on. And defeated it, though I suspect its spectral form creeps and lingers every time she hits a submit button.

Her letter was handwritten, several pages, on thick cream vellum, the sort I imagine Jane Austen using to write to her sisters when she was away. In it, she advised me to write about the now-gone house, to go through it room by room, recording the memories housed in each, the appearance, the items, the events, the plans. Recreating it through words. I love this idea. I want to hold onto all of it, every carpet fiber, every window smudge, every seashell. Anna is a wise woman.

Writing here has been a comfort, an outlet, a place to spill my feelings when I’m spilling tears onto the floor or into one of MKL’s bandanna kerchiefs. I’ve also been writing in a journal, purchased especially for the purpose of recording thoughts about the fire. It’s turquoise, the color of my spirit. I opted not to get the orange one because I’m calling it The Burn Book (yes, a tiny homage) and I thought orange would just be overkill. The color is also slightly triggering just now, and I’m not a person who really buys into triggers. But here we are.

So I will likely use The Burn Book to capture the essence of the cozy home that for so long held my heart and dreams, writing when I am in a quiet place of solace, though that’s hard to find beneath the pain these days. And I will treasure it, protecting it as one of my prized possessions, because my fear of losing journals and books to flames is more pronounced than ever.

I wake each day hoping that the ache will have eased just a hair’s breadth, hoping that the flow of words and the busyness of living will help all that’s happened and all that’s been lost find their places in the mix of cells and stardust that is me. I’m sure one of these days, that will be true.

I emerged from the Retreat today to go to the market and the post office. As small a town as we are, we do have a fine post office. And I discovered that Monday is THE time to go to the market. They only seem to stock fresh produce once a week and today’s the day. I was not subjected to the combative little old ladies who would not hesitate to break your ribs to get their hands on a good head of lettuce in the market in Georgetown, Bahamas, but had I gone later in the day, hand-to-hand combat with Valley moms might have been required.

The clouds today were all astir. From the cotton balls poofing above the Retreat, to the mare’s tales swishing above Linger Longer Lane, to the rolling waves at the edges of the Frontier Scenic Byway, they were a melting pot of weather portents all swirling together. My Mother loved clouds…she would have loved today. By sunset, the clouds had all settled into a gray stew (how unromantic) as if all of today’s activity had exhausted them. Now it is night. Now, they sleep.

Daily gratitudes:
Black squirrels
Meeting a neighbor
New tires for Truck
Experimental cooking
That my lungs are starting to acclimate to 7200 feet

Come over to http://www.writerinthepines.com to read, and follow.

Love,
Me

Come follow me at http://www.writerinthepines.com.

Come visit me at http://www.writerinthepines.com and give a follow.

Today has been heartbreaking.

You know you want to read it….come on over and give the new site a follow!

Here’s a link to today’s post:

I’d love to see you over there.

To the FedEx Kinko’s lady,

Thank you for the walk down memory lane. Those days of IBM Selectric typewriters are so distant now (that backspace correcting key – a Godsend!) and yet, my memory of typing dozens of papers in front of the Duraflame logs on the floor of that apartment on Beacon Street are as vivid as if it were yesterday. Armed with White-Out and the weird eraser brush thingy (pictured below, but whose name we couldn’t recall). Retyping entire pages if I missed a line. Technology is not like that today, and I think I’m grateful. And thanks for sharing your memories about Seattle. You made my day brighter.

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Seattle, Washington.

And in honor of one of my favorite poets, who passed away today, I’d like to share the following poem. Reminiscent of my Weekly Wednesday Poems on this blog — I know some of those were Mary Oliver’s. Rest well, Mary, and swirl in the beauty of words and other worlds.

White Night by Mary Oliver
All night
I float
in the shallow ponds
while the moon wanders
burning,
bone white,
among the milky stems.
Once
I saw her hand reach
to touch the muskrat’s
small sleek head
and it was lovely, oh,
I don’t want to argue anymore
about all the things
I thought I could not
live without! Soon
the muskrat
will glide with another
into their castle
of weeds, morning
will rise from the east
tangled and brazen,
and before that
difficult
and beautiful
hurricane of light
I want to flow out
across the mother
of all waters,
I want to lose myself
on the black
and silky currents,
yawning,
gathering
the tall lilies
of sleep.
#yearoflove

The too-strong smell of Jean Nate in the elevator, taking me back to my teenage years…the sister of a teacher killed at Sandy Point speaking outside Union Station at a rally for Moms Against Guns….a red peony with no scent….a walk down 16th Street….lunch at Little India….tears sparked by the song “Leaving of Liverpool”…. leftover exhaustion from previous days….the first day that feels like summer.

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Denver, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “There are no random acts…We are all connected…You can no more separate one life from another than you can separate a breeze from the wind…” — Mitch Albom

Daily gratitudes:
Air conditioning when it’s needed
Hugs and kisses
That Kelsea comes home in less than two weeks
That my garden seems to be taking
That the woman loudly discussing her parenting philosophies a phone call  on the early bus got off shortly after I boarded

 

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