haunted happenings

among the amazing things that happened at the retreat this weekend, were some fairly interesting happenings of the paranormal kind. it began when i walked into the old sprawling farmhouse where the group was staying.

as i entered the front door, a door to my left opened and closed by itself. i noticed it, but the person in front of me didn't. i also noticed no one seemed to be in the room, and no one came in or out of the room.... that anyone seemed to see. several times throughout the initial part of the day, i glimpsed a bright white flicker out of the corner of my eye, and while i was writing on the first exercise, someone touched my shoulder. when i looked up, no one was there.

(i also startled the facilitator by inadvertently disappearing during the exercise, but that's another story.)

when i tuned into the energy of the place, i got a lot of residual energy, simply from the number of people who'd lived there, the age of the various parts of the house, and the granite under the house, which holds vibrations. but i also got one very bright, young, female kind of energy - a girl about 13- 15, with long honey-colored curls and a big white bow.

after lunch i went into the kitchen to get myself some cream for my coffee. i took a handful of creamers from the fridge and carefully shut the door - it was one of the oldfashioned kind you have to shut and it clicks. i turned around to put the cream in the coffee, realized i wanted another, and turned back to see the fridge door wide open.

before the afternoon session began, i got up the courage to mention this to one of the other ladies, and someone else blurted out... WOW - when we were doing the writing just before lunch, i could've sworn i saw a young girl walk up the front steps. but i didn't want to say anything - i was afraid you'd all think i was crazy. the lady who was staying in the front room admitted her door opened nd shut by itself several times, randomly. there seemed no connection to anyone walking in the front door, or up the steps, or past it in the hall. other ladies began to share their experiences - some had heard singing, some had heard voices, some had felt tapped or touched. some, like me, had seen things out of the corner of their eyes, or had heard people come into rooms that turned out to be empty.

throughout the retreat, batteries drained at any alarming rate, and even rechargeable batteries didn't stay charged.

but the next morning, the lady who stayed in the room with the opening and closing door said it hadnt happened once since i called attention to it.

finding the Joy

after days of dank new england spring, the sun rose today in a burst of gold over the freshly plowed chyrsanthemum fields. the lilac is close to blooming and the light illuminates the shallows of the ponds where the tiny fish and tadpoles swarm.

i am itching to be outside.

but this morning, until nine am, anyways, and while it is still chilly, i plan to give to the character who's been chewing her way through my head for the last few months.

i have a sense of something welling, something swelling, something pressing up from the deep within. it is not a sense i have allowed myself to revel in for quite a long time.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

the Wisdom of the House

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."- T.S.Eliot

despite my trepidation, i spent the weekend with a truly lovely group of writers - women, who seemed, for the most part, to be just at the beginning of their deep descent into the fires of their creative souls. it was a uniformly good experience, for me, anyways. i felt heard, and listened to, in ways i have not sought for a very long time. i felt welcomed, and understood - even loved.

and what i discovered there was joy. that the real reason i write, the real reason i create, the real motivation that wells and springs eternal from the very depths of my soul, is joy.

and how ironic it is that the words of a poet i don't really like so perfectly expresses far better than i ever will what i discovered at Wisdom House, this weekend.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

full retreat

i survived my second kickboxing class feeling far better than i expected to because i made the mistake of telling the instructor that yoga made me more sore. but i not only survived, im less sore this morning than i expected to be, and i slept really really deeply last night - the rest of the well-worked-out.

or maybe it was my friend rose's rhubarb mead. :)

today i prepare to go on my writing retreat. it's not supposed to be a very nice weekend, so i won't have to feel guilty about missing the time in my gardens. the longer i live at pond house, the less i like to leave it. wisdom house is a pretty place - but pond house is prettier and a lot more private - AND it is set up to my own particular, persnickety tastes.

speaking of tastes - food is a huge issue for me when i go away. i generally lose my appetite immediately upon picking up a suitcase, and so consequently, i only want to go places where i really want to eat the food. my sense is that this lovely, welcoming, spiritual place serves a lot of pasta with a lot of whole grains, cheese and tomato sauce, all of which, for various reasons, twist my gut into knots. one of my planned stops today is the health food store for hemp milk and almond butter. between that and my paleomeal, and some fruit, i can make smoothies if they serve lasagna at every meal.

so why am i going at all?

in these last few years, i have made a conscious intention to deepen my writing, to make it not just a collection of syllables and sentences, but something that could make the soul of another sing, weep, laugh. my agent once said to me that i write the idea of a character, but not its heart. my journey of the last few years has been to find my way into my own heart, to reclaim all the shuttered places. and now that i feel those places are mostly healed, mostly reclaimed, i think it's time to work some more upon the craft, the technique... to marry more fully the yin and yang of what i do.

there are many many journeys on which we can only go alone. but every now and then, even the most solitary of souls needs a guidepost or two. and so i go to Wisdom House with a clear intention, a full stomach, and an open heart.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

sumer is icumen in

... loud sings the cuckoo.

or, the woodpecker drills and the wood doves coo. here in southern new england, the first day of the bright half of the year dawned as cold as a dark november morning. if i want to wash my face in the dew this may day, i'll have to wait til it melts.

it doesn't feel like summer, grumbled libby on our way up the hill. it's not the temperature, i said, it's the light. as we watched, the sun rose above the trees, stabbing through just-greening branches in long golden spears, cutting through the crisp air with all the vigor of a young man in his prime.

it sure is bright, said libby.

it sure is.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

blessed beltane

the first of may, which began on may eve, was for the ancient celts one of the most sacred turning points in the wheel of the year. the festival of "bel's fire" marked the beginning of the celtic summer. (this is why the summer solstice is referred to as midsummer. it's midway between beltane and lughnasa - the first of the harvest festivals which marks the beginning of the autumn in the celtic world.)

this is a time when the veils between the worlds thin, when the faerie frolic, when it is especially possible to cross the fluid borders between this world and the Other.

i marked the setting of the sun tonight in a yoga class. ironically, i thought i was signing up for Gentle Yoga - and found myself in Yoga For Strength. i am sure i heard my angels snickering - they seem serious about the kickboxing if im not quite convinced.

as i struggled to maintain torturous variations of Proud Warrior through an interminable number of breaths, i felt a deep burning in my core, in my muscles, in my bones. find the courage, admonished the instructor, when i would have wavered. two more breaths, you can do it. and i did. most of the time. it was after all, just the first class.

may the fires of beltane burn forever in the summer of your soul. blessed be.

called to kickbox

i know. i don't get it either. i do not understand why, after a near-decade of sedentary bliss, i am suddenly drawn to engage in a sport i have here-to-fore never evinced so much as an iota of interest in.

on the other hand, maybe i do.

the sport seems to require a certain focus, a certain drive... a certain intensity. and if there's one thing i have learned to understand that i am ... is intense.

Beloved is equally intense. it's undeniably part of the attraction and the glue that holds us together, even through hells like last week. Beloved studies chinese with dogged determinedness, driven by no need other than his own enjoyment and edification.

up until 8 years ago, i ran seven and a half miles five days a week, and worked out at a gym with a trainer for three hours every week. when i look back, i realize that the physical rigor somehow enabled me to endure the hell of my divorce. running all those miles - day after day - somehow kept me sane.

it was right around the time that the pressure finally eased, with my body feeling overtrained and tired, i stopped. over the years, i've dabbled - gone to gyms and trainers and classes and even run a few miles now and again. but nothing's stuck.

maybe it's too soon to think that this will. it feels good though... my body is pleasantly stretched in that gently achey way that tells you your muscles have earned their rest.

but there's another reason, a reason that roils under my skin. i can only write what i know, and marsia knows more things than i do. the bruises on my knuckles are already fading.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

work is the Word

...for the day according to my book of daily meditations, and i have a lot of it to do. the energy of this season is propelling me forward into a mad rush of days. the upcoming weeks are shaping up to be uncommonly busy.

one of the activities for which i must prepare is a two day "retreat" into writing and creativity. going anywhere for me, automatically represents not a withdrawal from the world, but an invasion into it.

it's been a long time since i have sought out the company of fellow-writers in the flesh. my interactions with my kind are largely confined to the cybercommunity, who form a kind of communal watering hole where i can go and sip my fill in the comfort of my own keyboard.

but the season demands a fresh approach, a new experience, a push into uncharted and unknown territory. and so, i prepare to go to a place called Wisdom House... feeling quite the Fool.

it's saturday morning... again

the film show boat ends differently from the book. in the book, the heroine, miranda, and her hero, a deftly drawn rendering of a riverboat gambler-sot-badboy named of all things, gaylord ravenal, end up anything but happy and together.

but in the film, miranda and gaylord find their way back to each other, and, after appropriate trials and challenges (as well as a few of my favorite show tunes), stroll off arm in arm along the riverbank, as a delighted capn andy beams from the deck of the showboat, whose name eludes me at the moment. "it's saturday morning, again," he says, with an approving twinkle and a puff of his cigar.

all relationships have their mondays and their saturdays, and some mondays seem like they drag on forever. there's more than a little bit of gaylord ravenal in the soul of my Beloved, and more than a touch of madness in mine. mixed together, they sometimes combust in a most soul-searing way.

but somehow, out of the ashes of monday, it's saturday morning, again.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

simply too sad...

to write. i'll be back.

advice sought

dear gentle readers and fellow bloggers:

i am in need of some advice regarding a certain person in my life who i am almost certain has morphed from prince to toad. please tell me if you think i am being overly sensitive in this matter.

here is what happened.

lo these many years ago, long before the Person In Question (PIQ) ever met me or even knew how to work a computer, a young receptionist (Q) came to work at the same wall street firm that he did. Q was some 14 or 15 years younger than PIQ is, with dazzling blue eyes, and a pair of boobs - all real - of such enormous proportions you could use them for flotation devices - separately.

they flirted on and off and when PIQ separated from his first wife, and Q separated from her highly abusive ex, they became Friends-with-Benefits. she even told him she didn't want to be his girlfriend. (they both told me this, on separate occasions.) indeed, PIQ could've gone out with Q on that fateful new-years eve we met, but he asked me instead - just to give you some idea of the depth of their involvement. at the time, she lived in another state, and was in the middle of her own messy divorce. after PIQ and i met, she dropped back down to friend status.

within a year or so, Q moved back to the area. i actually liked her. she is - or was - an amazingly beautiful woman, a little shallow but a lot of fun - the quintessential party-hearty girl. when PIQ went to work for another even bigger wall street firm, Q got a job with the same firm, in a different office a couple towns over. what neither of us liked was the way PIQ was an amazingly incredibly insensitive boar when she was around. i remember i said to her once, in tears...im so sorry we can't be better friends. (for example, PIQ would make these embarrassing freudian slips: breast for best... chest for test... shirt for skirt..you get the picture?) she lost her job, asked him for a reference, but blamed him when she didn't get the new job. they didn't part friends.

so..... last night PIQ comes home from meeting New Buddy (NB) and NB tells PIQ how he met this guy who worked with PIQ lo those many years at the bigger wall street firm, and the thing he remembered most about PIQ was that he had "the hottest girlfriend."

and PIQ, who doesnt seem to remember that *I* was his girlfriend at that time, and had been for some time, that Q was NEVER his girlfriend - certainly never in the same sense i was (didn't even WANT to be his girlfriend) - that when they worked at that particular firm, they werent in the same office and no one knew if they hung out on the weekends or even after work on occasion...PLUS *I* was working at the time in a neighboring building, we ate lunch together practically every day...we met each other at each other's offices and were always getting introduced to each other's coworkers....PIQ ASSUMES for some reason known only to him and his god (he admitted that) that the guy NB met is talking about Q and says something to the effect of:

well, no matter how hot Q was, i wouldn't trade annie for anything.

it really hurts me to think that "hottest girlfriend" in PIQ's head doesn't automatically equal me. i know he didn't mean to hurt me and his feelings ARE his feelings, and to his way of thinking, i should feel complimented.

but if HE doesn't understand why im insulted and hurt, do you?

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

under a scorpio moon

i accomplished an amazing amount - for me, anyway - this weekend. i spent at least three hours in the gardens - maybe four. the center plots are cleaned, raked, weeded and the first round of annuals planted - pansies and sweet alyssum.

i reclaimed a garden that has been allowed to run amok lo these many years, but its one of the faerie gardens, and so the plants were amazingly cooperative. my little center plot - the one i've been waging a pyrrhic war with for the last six years - seems to have come under the spell of the yarrow, the artemisa and the echinacea. or maybe its the sweet william, thyme and russian sage that seems to have conquered the will of anything else that wants to grow there. we had a relatively mild winter too, and i have learned to mulch that garden well, so maybe that's what did the trick. or maybe the faeries who live under the rocks decided to help out in that one, too.

i trimmed back all the ivy that grows by the back garden steps, chopping and tugging away what seemed like years of untrammeled growth. as i cut and raked and pulled and swept, it occured to me that without focus and care, even the best laid intentions and plans 'gang aft awry' as robert burns so eloquently put it. the ivy yielded to my brand new shears surprisingly easily. i think it was glad for the trim, too.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

ode to the scorpio moon

moon-lady gleams like a bone in the night,
rending the darkness with shadows so bright,
lighting up poets and madmen like me,
outshining the stars that hang on the trees.

if april really is the cruellest month, its full moon in scorpio may explain why. scorpio, ruled by pluto, is the sign of secrets and assassins, of madmen and illusion and delusion. its energy is intense as the oceans' depths that never see the light, as inevitable as the death brought by a scorpion's sting. under a scorpio moon, we have the opportunity to strip all our delusions away, to see ourselves not as we might prefer, but as we truly are.

as it happens, i spent part of the day with one of my favorite scorpios. (my ascendant is scorpio - whenever i'm with a scorpio, i like to keep in mind that what i appear to be, they really are. it helps me stay on my toes, because one never wants to be lulled too deeply into complacency with a scorpio around.) we spoke of dreams and visions, translations and manifestations, charges and journeys. what is your dream, she challenged me - what is your vision, your mission, your charge? where will the journey take you next?

two years ago at christmas, i received a compass from a dear friend who's gone sort of MIA lately. a year ago, i received my friend Lorraine's car. taken symbolically, as a set of three, these form a powerful message.

for the next two weeks, as the moon sinks down into the new moon in taurus - the sign of ultimate manifestation if ever there was one, i intend to shape my intention, gently, gradually, following this most ruthlessly honest of all moons down to the dark...and see what Dreams, indeed, may come.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

eight blissful hours

...of uninterrupted sleep and i feel new as the april morning shining outside my window. well...maybe not quite that new, but nearly. the gardens are calling me, the weeds are taunting me, but marsia is running rampamt through my head and i owe debby eight tweaked chapters of rigged.

im looking forward to this afternoon's workshop at rose's. vietnamese food sounds good for dinner. if i get the chapters done, and take a stab at the weeds, i may even have time to stop and buy flowers.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

buddy got me beat

my big dog buddy whined every two to three hours last night - he had a tummyache. since i have only now recuperated from dealing with the effects of the hemmoraeghic gastroenteritis that both dogs had just about two months ago, i found myself leaping out of bed, throwing on enough clothes so i could stand to be out of bed.. and walking him. he pooped all three times.

but i am so tired today!

a reach into my bathroom cabinet this morning showed me im out of several necessities... like conditioner and heel balm. my car was nealy empty, too. so i filled up on gas, stopped at the drugstore, and decided that today is a day to take care of me.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

and now a word from the Cranky Crone

i belong to an online forum for women called cafemom. most of the women are much younger than i am now, and it's odd to find myself among the Elders. it's a nice place for the most part - i've met a lot of wonderful women at all stages of their journeys. many of whom are married to a lot of really idiotic men.

don't get me wrong - there's many who are happily attached in mutually nurturing relationships. there's many men who are kind, caring, compassionate and mature. but there're a lot who aren't.

and they don't deserve the women who spend so much bemoaning what's wrong with themselves. so to all the women out there married to a man who seems impossible to get along with (immature, irresponsible, selfish, intolerant, etc) - YES, SISTER - HE IS.

and no, he doesn't deserve you. so leave his sorry ass by the roadside and go make a better life somewhere else for you and your kid. if he is really worth going back to, he will continue to help you in any way he can with the children. but if he's so messed up, he'd rather play a video game than change and feed a crying baby, don't bet on it.

posting that actually got me kicked out of one forum - i really don't play well with others - for not being positive. i don't understand. being a single mother is much better than just feeling like one.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

patterns of spring

the days have taken on a pattern of chilly nights and frosty dawns, followed by dazzling mornings and almost-warm late afternoons. the underbrush is alive with the dash and dart of small furred creatures, birds swoop and trill through the trees. a carpet of emerald is spreading from the sunniest patches of lawn to the edges of the ponds.

it's only been two or three days, but it feels like a pattern to me.

we humans have evolved to look for patterns from birth. structure, solace, evidence that we fit into a world that has a place for us - a pattern into which we fit and thus belong - all these things are so critical that whether there is one or not, we frequently rush to create one.

my weeks have evolved into a rhythm around baby jake - three days of what feels like frantic activity puncutated by two days of being grateful if i get half of what's on my list done. yesterday i was grateful i got anything done - baby jake was fussy from his shots. if my friend susan hadn't shown up quite fortuitiously, i would've had to wake him from a very much needed nap. (speaking of my friend susan, i intend to kidnap her some day soon and take her to my wise-women healer-friends for reiki and reflexology...she lurks on this blog... she can consider herself warned.)

patterns are not rigid things - though i think many of us might wish they were. patterns rise up, fall apart, rise up again. as above, so below. as within, so without.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

fast forward

at least... that's how it feels. i took yesterday off... spent much of the day writing, reading, napping or talking to my friend cheryl - one of the cosi girls, in fact. i found a novel to read that actually held my attention all the way through - the thirteenth tale by diane sutterfield. not quite as twisted as i would've liked - there were things hinted at that never got quite as much illumination as i'd've preferred - i wanted it made clearer, for example, that the weird twins were the result of brother/sister incest, but the nameless product of rape kid was a nice spooky touch, and all in all, an excellent read.

oh yes, the cosi girls saga continues... stay tuned for an update.. coming to this blog soon.

on other fronts, the political thriller my friend debby and i are writing together is practically writing itself. our strengths are so perfectly complimentary its almost eerie - im a big picture plotter person - she is a detail oriented character creator who has a gift for subtle pathos. she also knows this world we're writing about like the back of her hand so it all sounds... REAL. i DONT know the world at all, so for me, it feels like im stumbling around with a blindfold, feeling my way through the story. what amazes me is how much i get RIGHT.

blood moon is back - marsia has seized control of the story, and is now the focus of chapter one, while the prologue now centers on tavia and not dear dead caius. it's hard to start a book with a character who's dead by the end of his scene.

today is a day for chores and running around and following up and being interviewed with laura for an article in simsbury life. theres food to buy and phone calls to make and libby has a dentist appointment at three oclock. im hopeful that tomorrow i may actually have time and inclination for the garden (not to mention new gloves) while baby jake naps.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

this misty, moisty morning...

i woke to find Beloved and i alone with the puppies. libby was scarfed up by meg and taken on a shopping trip to Target to (finally) buy my birthday present (im all for extending the celebration) - and never brought home.

the rain was warm and wet,the sky lit by phantom flickers of lightning - a harbinger of summer's storms. buddy was terrified. now the sky is brightening and i can see the birch buds swelling on the branches outside my window. Beloved is napping off the affects of the morning's exertions.

the house is absolutely silent, broken only by the birds' chirping, the waterfall's gurgling. the sunlight shines silver through the thinning clouds. the day stretches out before me like a plate, each hour tantalizing with the hope of some delight. peaceful morning, a discussion group with laura, possibilities of readings and the hope of old friends, a dinner watching the yankee game, attended by not just one man, but two.

i have no idea when i will next see libby.

it occurs to me that even as one season offers glimpses of the next, this morning offers me a glimpse into another life that's coming, sooner than i can probably believe. one morning, some day soon, Beloved and i will wake, alone with the puppies, and there will be no one else expected home.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

spring's sprung

and with it... the race to get a jump on the flower beds. i noticed them this morning while i was walking the puppies - i've been avoiding looking at them too closely. along with the light and the birds and the green comes the weeds and the work.

the first order of business, therefore, was to go assess the state of the tools. a whole bucket of gardening implements, and gloves seems to have disappeared, so i guess the second order of business will be a stop at the feed store for stuff. this is not necessarily a good thing, since i have a terrible feeling that this need for stuff could get quickly out of hand, particularly when it comes to small green growing things.

i happened to have a cup of coffee with my friend rose the other day. she, good green witch that she is, has been nursing trays of seedlings practically since imbolc. i looked at those lovely trays of fragile nurslings and felt what can only be described as a ferocious wave of baby lust.

it really is spring.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

eating the angel way

for about a year now, i've been receiving a lot of Guidance around what i should and should not be eating. much of it is simply the common sense sort of stuff you would expect one to know after a lifetime's addiction to diet books, exercise manuals and women's magazines.

but a lot of it isn't.

in the last couple months, i've been prodded - directly asked, in fact, by people who come for me to readings - to share. now i can feel myself being nudged even more in that direction. the trouble is.. i feel absolutely in no way at all qualified to talk about these matters.

and yet...

my dear friend laura of the purple rose reminded me that if the Messages are from Spirit, it doesn't matter what i'm qualified to talk about. this morning in the shower, i was Reminded that edgar cayce gave all sorts of readings around health issues with no particular educational background i recall.

a few years ago, i was discussing a scene from one of my novels with another writer. the character was resistant, hesitant, uncertain of whether or not she should take on the task at hand, but i wasn't sure if that was the right way to play the scene or not. that's perfect, said my friend. the call is always refused.

at first.

yesterday, They told me that when it comes to our bodies, men are like raindrops and women are like snowflakes. gotta love those Angels.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

three questions from another blogger

this morning, i happened upon another blog (www.myspace.com/opti-mystic) that asked three interesting questions, so i'm copyiny them here, and ask you all to share, if you will...

a life-altering event, the movie you most identify with, and a song that's most you....

here's my answers.

other than the births of my children, i would have to say that the most recent life-altering event was the weekend my best friend's husband died in a car accident. i had such a strong premonition about a car accident and death - i even thought it was me who was going to die - that i could no longer ignore the Gift.

the movie i identify with is chocolat - i like to think i bring a little magic into peoples' lives... and it never hurts to fantasize about johnny depp as an irish gypsy ;).

the song - raglan road....

on raglan road, one autumn day, i saw him first and knew
that his dark hair would weave a snare that i would one day rue
i saw the danger, and yet i passed along the enchanted way,
and i said, let Grief be a falling leaf at the dawning of the day...

on grafton street in november, we tripped lightly along the ledge
of a deep ravine where can be seen the words of passions pledged.
the queen of hearts still making tarts, and i not making hay...
oh, i loved too much - by such, by such is happiness thrown away...

i gave him gifts of the mind, i gave him the secret sign
known to all the artists who have known true gods of sound and time
and words of tint, i did not stint, i gave him poems to say
with his own name there, and his long dark hair, like clouds over fields of may...

on a quiet street, where old ghosts meet, i see him walking on
away from me so hurridly, my reason must allow
that i had wooed not as i should, a creature made of clay
when the angel woos the clay, she looses her wings at dawn of day....

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

tending baby jake

for the next six weeks, my tuesdays and thursdays are committed to taking care of baby jake while my oldest daughter, his mommy, works, and my middle daughter, his babysitter, goes to school. this grandmother thing is an interesting journey in and of itself.

i remember the first day i had him in my care. he woke up from his first nap. libby, my youngest, is only 14, but suddenly it felt like lightyears since i'd taken care of an infant for any length of time. i picked him up, changed his diaper, all the while wondering what to do next.

i buttoned his snaps, pulled up his little sweatpants. and suddenly it clicked. i knew exactly what to do. it's time for lunch, i said.

it was something like the feeling i have when i get on a bicycle. i don't consciously remember knowing how to ride one, but somehow, my bones and muscles and joints all seem to.

baby jake is an even-tempered baby, who nonetheless, as meg acutely observed, might be described in classical baby terms as "slow to warm up." he isn't sure whether he likes me or not, but i can tell he's starting to trust - if not me - then the memories contained in my hands, in my arms, in my shoulders of rocking and soothing and changing and feeding.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!

visioning the light

for the first time in a long time this morning, i was able to light the candles on my altar and not fear setting something on fire. i didn't need to turn the light by the back door to walk the puppies. even under the blanket of sodden gray clouds, i can feel the sun growing stronger. patches of emerald green are spreading along the borders of the lawn, the buds on the birches outside my window are swelling. the silver willow across the pond looks yellow in the pewter dawn.

my meditation for the day suggested that to welcome the burgeoning light, i honor and recognize the Light in me. to that effect, i have already treadmilled for 20 minutes, folded laundry and driven libby up the hill. i have plans to continue more in the same vein. i have an article to finish, a class to teach this evening in Advanced Tarot. (the story of the mouse ended happily - i bought a new mouse and a new keyboard. now i have letters!)

but first, on this soft gray morning, i will first indulge in that most ancient Rite of Spring... and join Beloved back in bed. ;)

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

the mouse that died

i've always hated mice. my mother is not a fan of the small furry creatures at all, mostly because when she was 9 years old and wearing thick heavy tights, one ran up her leg. maybe it's genetic, maybe it's cultural inculcation. whatever it is, we're not fond of cats either, and so a certain state of detente mostly exists between my family and the rodents.

this dislike of mice transferred itself to the computer tool similiarly named. i didnt see the point of one, initially and for quite a while, when i first used a computer, i resisted using a mouse at all. unfortunately, the direction keys proved ultimately too unwieldy, and i was forced to accept and allow a thing called a mouse to become an integral part of my life.

so now that mine is dead - a cute little wireless version that operates on battery - i find myself adrift. im using Beloved's computer to type this. because its sunday, the mouse store won't open til TEN AM.... which has actually forced me to finish up the last bit of unpacking and putting away in my writing room. i have a few more pictures to hang, but other than a quick dusting and vacuuming, i think the room is almost ready for me to photograph and post - or even, to entertain visitors - both the invited ones, and those who are always welcome :).

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

under an aries moon

the new moon in aries is the time of year for new beginnings. according to the julian calendar, new year's day was celebrated on march 25 - a date associated with the conception of jesus, the vernal equinox, and the spring moon.

under the steady pattering of yesterday's rain, the earth is turning into puddles of mud and patches of startling green, the woods are noisy in the mornings now, and even the peepers have woken. the chamomile bed made it through the winter, the chives are poking their way up through the mulch of pine needles. across from the chamomile, the artemesias preen in soft gray puffs.

two novels have shouldered their way to the forefront - the political thriller, which is now over 10,000 words, and the fantasy, where the characters are revealing themselves in ever more lurid detail. i have an article to write on fairies, and one on raising daughters.

today im doing readings using the new tarot deck i was asked to review. i think after today i will be able to write it...tarot cards are like languages... some are easier for different people to speak than others...

but this morning, before i do anything else.... i am determined to finish my writing room!!

and furthermore, the war must end...blessed be.

ice cream and initiations

i came home from pagan study group last night to hear that the ice-cream boy who works at friendly's called libby. the ice-cream boy is a kid libby has had a crush on ever since she noticed him a few months ago. he was there last sunday when meg and libby and i were there. meg, fed up with her sister's giddy giggles over a kid she didn't know, left a note that said:

FOR THE ICE CREAM BOY - my name is libby and i think you're cute. call me if you want to talk to me. xxx-xxxx.

she's been screaming for an hour, Beloved said from the depths of the couch. well, who wouldn't be, i replied. the friendly ice-cream boy called her. and apparently the conversation went well.

our topic at study group was initiations - not a topic that sits easily on my skin. initiations smack of rituals and committments and rules - all things i'd rather do without. i'd rather slide around on the borders of things, and keep my committments close and few. but this was a rite of passage if ever i saw one - the first time libby saw a gutsy move pay off. it remains to be seen whether this particular baptism ends in fire or in balm.

the steady fall of april rain encourages me to stay in this morning, and complete the last of the tasks that will finish off my writing room. the new moon in aries tomorrow encourages me to start the year fresh with not so much a clean slate, but with a clean outlook, with perhaps more focus on the physical than i have paid it in a long time. it's interesting that both the readings i've done in the last few days have been about health and diet.

last night, my friend kim the kitchen witch brought homemade chocolate chip mint ice cream (special for my birthday - it's the only flavor of ice cream i really like or eat.) i have the rest in my freezer, and i think i'll end the final day of winter's moons with ice cream for breakfast.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

justice, revisited

a few months ago, i wrote a blog on justice - and how telling i think our iconic image of "Blind Justice" (the blindfolded lady with the sword) truly is.

a friend of mine who has been locked in a hellacious divorce from an abusive man got her decision from the judge yesterday.

to say she's disappointed is an understatement.

when my mother called me a communist, i asked her if she wasn't curious about what had changed her most conservative child into her most radical. characteristically, as i have come to realize, my mother looked at me blankly and said, no.

when i look back on the terrible years my parents were divorcing, i realize that the sole difference between my experience, and my children's - which was far more typical of so many children's - is that my father was a gentleman about it. what he had to give, he gave. whatever blow his pride and dignity and sense of self-worth suffered, he didn't make my mother suffer for it. and so, neither did we. (we suffered, but for other reasons.) as angry, as bewildered, as hurt, as he surely must've been, he did not allow his own pain to spill over onto the two little people who mattered most.

neither did Beloved. whatever issues drove him and his ex wife apart, Beloved's children wanted for nothing but two parents who lived together. and they, too, are the exceptions rather than the rule.

most men, realizing the marriage is over, turn vindictive and mean. the mother of their children becomes their enemy and in the process, the souls of the children become the field of battle. women, in desperation, turn to the courts for what they believe will be justice. but what the court understands to be justice and what women seek there, especially on behalf of their children, are two different things.

a few weeks ago, in court, my ex's attorney and the judge were discussing whether or not ray could be taken off the contempt list for non-payment so he wouldn't have to show back up in court the next day. after all, said his lawyer, it's less than $two thousand dollars.

there was a time not too long ago, when two thousand dollars would've sounded like a windfall of unimaginable, unreachable wealth to me. im sure two thousand dollars would go pretty far for most single moms with kids. you fucking bastard, i wanted to say. how dare you dismiss as paltry such a sum? had he no understanding of what two thousand dollars means? how many bags of groceries, how many socks, how many boots and mittens and notebooks and pens? haircuts and baby aspirins? diapers and formula? had he no fucking clue?

sure, said the judge, who clearly doesn't either.

i used to think the measure of a man was how he treated his mother. now i know that it's really how he treats his ex-wife.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

pet rock

a few weeks ago, Beloved asked me over morning coffee if the mailman had left one of the small orange slips that inform us a package is waiting at the post office. when i assured Beloved one had not been left, he said, "hm. maybe it was just a dream."

are you expecting something, i asked, casually as possible. Beloved is always expecting something. he trolls the world via ebay and his enthusiasm, as well as more than a few of his issues, manifest in some rather unexpected and puzzling forms at times.

oh yes, replied Beloved. i'm always expecting something. but this is Something big.

a week or two later, he had another dream - very similiar to the first, about a slip arriving. are you sure, he pleaded with me. it was such a real dream.

im positive, i said. no slips. no packages. no Something big.

a few nights before my birthday, i woke to find Beloved poking through his pockets. that slip came yesterday, didn't it, he said. you showed it to me, right?

no, i said. i didn't.

on my birthday, Beloved was disappointed. that Something big was for you, he said. i hoped it would be here by today. i even dreamed it would be. he went off to work looking vexed and puzzled by the intensity of the dreams. i was so sure it would be here by your birthday, he kept muttering.

in the mail, there was an orange slip.

the Something big turned out to be a sixty lb fluorite* sphere, a polished crystal globe that is now sitting in the middle of my dining room table, dense and gleaming, alien as the landscape of mars, banded with colors that blur from indigo to violet to purple, from deep blue-green, to dark forest-green to pearl.

i realized yesterday i didn't include it as one of my presents and i think i realize why. this isn't something one owns. it isn't mine, any more than the air i'm breathing is mine, or the tree outside my window. it was here long before i was, and will remain when i am gone. i have another crystal globe, a yellow calcite sphere that was melted and reshaped. it's a beautiful object, cosmic, even, its clear depths, but it lacks the energy, the charge of this new one. the yellow calcite feels... cooked. the fluorite feels... alive.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

*with many thanks to my friend opti-mystic over on myspace:
FLUORITE:
Stone associated with enlightenment and healing on all the three planes – spiritual, mental and emotional. Diminishes stress and aids in spiritual awakening. Cleanses, balances and focuses energies on all levels of chakras. Grounds and protects aura from leakage of energy. On the physical body, it heals ailments of bones. Alleviates arthritis, strengthens bone tissue especially teeth enamel and relieves dental disease. Ancient cure for cancer. Also responds well to hormonal balance and hormonal changes like PMS, menopause. Arouses sexual energy. Quickens healing from pneumonia and viral inflammation.

feast of fools

the first full month of spring dawned gray as march, but warm - so warm that for the first time in months, i didn't need a coat when i walked the puppies. the air felt like damp flannel, cottony and heavy and wet on my skin. i hear a cat bird calling in the birch trees, and a woodpecker knocking somewhere in the wood. i feel the world waking up.

i had a wonderful birthday. Beloved gave me, in addition to the black-sheep sweater and the books (the celtic way of seeing by frank maceowen; the celtic wheel of the year, by tess ward, sacred paths for modern men by dagonet dewr; and fairy houses everywhere! by barry and tracy kane) - a gift certificate for walking shoes; a new dog-walking coat, a tie-dye skirt, and a bottle of champagne. libby was sweet and pleasant and an absolute delight, and all the other children called. we had plans to go out for dinner, but because it was monday all the places i wanted to go to were closed. so i made a pork loin, and baked maple squash, and a broccoli carrot stir-fry. Beloved brought home strawberry cheesecake. my father sent an enormous bouquet, i parleyed my mother's $100 into a massage and lunch at my favorite tea-room. we curled up on the couch after dinner and watched a really bad movie until Beloved fell asleep. then i turned on sixth sense - its one of those movies that makes me feel almost normal.

today - the anniversary of the first day i ever saw - i plan to spend just being. baby jake is napping, full of cereal and pears. the second load of laundry is spinning, my evening's new-moon-in-aries meditation is planned. stew is simmering in the crockpot - im going to go mix up a meat loaf and freeze it before i do the morning's dishes. i have a bunch of bananas and a hydrangea to take to my grandmother when baby jake wakes. it is the most ordinary of days. and yet today, is the feast of the fool.

the Fool is the first card in the tarot, the card of fresh beginnings, eternal chances, and endless possiblities. it is a card that resonates in my soul. but in medieval times, the Fool was the voice of the Observer, who never missed a trick, and could be relied on to speak whatever it was that no one else could - or would - say. today the Fool reminds me, like emily in Our Town - to Pay Attention.

thank you to everyone who sent me cards and comments and good wishes. you enhanced my birthday more than i can tell you :).

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

the Best Day of the year

the best day of the year dawned raw as my feelings after visiting my mother, gray as the sweater made from black-sheep wool Beloved presented to me along with my morning coffee. the irony of such a sweater tickles me. there are gifts, and there are Gifts. this is a Gift.

i did not officially make my entrance into this side of the veil until 8:55 this evening, and so today has never exactly felt like my birthday. my mother was so proud she saved me from the awful fate of being an april fool. aren't you glad you're a march lamb and not an april fool, she'd coo.

considering my two favorite characters in all of literature - both from King Lear -are Edmond and Lear's Fool, no.

but that's another story. tonight, tomorrow - those are REALLY the first 24 hours of my life. my life began, as the ancient celts believed the day did, on the cusp of the night - the night of the Day of the Fool. as much as my mother tried to cloak me in lamb's clothing, i am very much an April Fool.

maybe it is the very perversity of my nature - nine of fifteen retrograde planets makes for a lot of perversity - that, unlike a lot of other people i know, i adore my birthday. i don't care how much older i get. i hope i celebrate as many birthdays as possible. when people stop celebrating your birthdays, the jig is generally up.

but it's the third scene of thornton wilder's Our Town that made an indelible mark in my 16 year old soul, and seared in me forever an appreciation of my birthday. it was the spring play my junior year in high school - for some reason i don't remember, i was not involved, which was unusual. but it meant that instead of strutting my little lines across the stage, i was sitting, in the audience, beside my best friend, josie. listening.

the line is spoken by the main character, emily, on the occasion of her 12th birthday - an unusual one because on it, she's back from the dead. what she sees, as she relives her 12th birthday, is the jarring clear juxtaposition between the dazzling magnificence of ordinary life, and lack of attention and appreciation we generally have for it.

as she stares at her mother, so young, her father, so vigorous, even her little brother looks cute - she realizes that something very precious is passing through her fingers, running like sand through an hour glass. everyone is busy, everyone engaged in the business of living, running to school, to work, to necessary obligations. but no one, emily realizes to her absolute astonishment, is noticing how wonderful, how beautiful it all is. can't we all just be? she pleads, and for one brief, shining moment, everyone - including the audience - does.

can't we all just be?

yes, i thought, that's how i want to live my life. it was one of the first times in my life that i heard truth, recognized it and felt it shape me, change me, alter something in me.

just being is a Big Task and i live a little life, chronicled more thoroughly here than anywhere else, i think. just being is a path from which i am easily blown off track, buffeted as we all are by needs and demands of all kinds. but ever since that moment, my birthday is the day - if none other - i devote to just being. whatever that happens to be.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed BE.

there and back again

my mother, in her own way, goddess bless, is as hale and hearty as anyone in their 70's with as many problems as she has, could possibly be. i was astounded to see how well she's moving around, how fast and light on her feet. allergic to most pain medications, she has somehow gotten through hip replacement surgery and recuperation on one percoset a day.

my mother regaled me with tales of her convalescence, extolling repeatedly the virtues of her friends, and my little brother, david, who despite his downs syndrome, stepped up to the plate and has been tending my mother with devotion.

as i listened to my mother talk, i remembered her stories about my great-grandmother, her grandmother, who had repeatedly hurt her feelings unintentionally by continously calling her ugly. quande se' brut'! my mother would quote, and explain to me that in it-lee, or the Old Country, it was considered bad luck to tell a child he or she was beautiful. it would either summon demons or have a bad effect on their heads, i can't remember which - probably both. but the upshot, my mother would gravely say, is that she learned not to tell a child he or she was ugly.

my mother has never told me i am ugly. however, if i had a nickel for every time this weekend my mother said "my genius children are worthless to me; it's the retarded one who's added value to my life," i could've paid my way across the tappan zee bridge.

it's not the first time i've heard this, of course. once i said in response, so the grandchildren, the great-grandchildren, the books, the degrees, the accomplishments in business and politics and the arts that john and sheila and i have achieved - they don't count?

my mother looked at me and said, nope.

i wondered how this woman of so many years and miles and experiences could miss that telling a child he or she is worthless could be just as hurtful as telling one he or she is ugly.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

back to the mother

i'm going down to see my mother today. i am not especially looking forward to the trip - it feels obligatory. and yet, i do relish the thought of those three or four hours today and tomorrow alone in the car.

i like to drive long distances. there's a stephen king short story about a woman who's always looking for the shortest way to get anywhere and ends up finding a Way into Somewhere Else. at the end of the story, she drives off into Somewhere Else with her handyman and i have to say i always thought she was not only obviously a very good driver but a highly practical woman.

my mother is a highly practical woman, the embodiment of the queen of the swords of the tarot. encased in a queen of pentacles body, she is the epitome of a woman who makes decisions with authority if not compassion. as much as i admire her ability, and understand that she is restricted by her culture as much as any of us, i still shudder at the sacrifice.

i read an article this morning by jamaica kincaid about her mother. her mother died three years after ms kincaid stopped speaking her, wrote her mother, in essence, out of her life. wow, i thought, that's what i wanted my mother to do to my grandmother. and in ms kincaid's honesty, i read something of the cost. and for the first time in my entire life this morning, i understood, by just a glimmer, why mother could not do that. it was just a glimpse - a peek of dawn across a mountain, or a sliver of sunlight through storm clouds - there, and just as soon gone.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

the week in review

i hear birdsong from my writing room windows this morning, despite the gloomy weather. Not simply the experimental cheeps and trills of mornings past, these are complex sound-signals in a language i can't help but try to imitate when i walk the puppies. buddy always looks at me strangely when i do. for awhile i thought maybe he was impressed i speak bird, albeit badly, but then it occured to me that maybe he understands what they're saying and i don't.

i gathered up my lists this morning from the week. i was pleased to see how much i was able to get done. i've been able to develop routines within the overall structure, routines like throwing in the first load of laundry for the day after i take libby up the hill, and before i do my morning minutes on the treadmill.

it's important for me to have these structured pieces, propping up the hours of my day. without them, the minutes merge and blur and 8 AM becomes 4 PM in a blink. and as creative and satisfying and soothing as that OtherPlace may be, there is a hazy nether-space, that's not quite one, and not the other, a very easy place to become trapped. as deeply as i immerse myself, so fully must i disengage.

the best way for me to do that, apparently, is via list, spreadsheet and treadmill.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

happy birthday, mister ray

i don't know if this is a true story or not...but i thought it was really funny and since today is my ex husband's birthday, i figured everyone should enjoy a laugh. so thank you to cheryl for bringing this little gem to my attention:

A little old lady from Wisconsin had worked in and around her family
dairy farms since she was old enough to walk, with hours of hard
work and little compensation.

When canned Carnation Milk became available in grocery stores in
approximately the 1940s, she read an advertisement offering
$5,000 for the best slogan. The producers wanted a rhyme beginning
with 'Carnation Milk is best of all.'

She thought to herself, I know all about milk and dairy farms.
I can do this!

She sent in her entry, and several weeks later, a black limo pulled
up in front of her house.
A man got out and said, 'Carnation LOVED your entry so much,
we are here to award you $2,000 even though we will not be able to use it!'

and here, at least according to cheryl, is the award-winning effort:

carnation milk is best of all,
no tits to pull, no hay to haul,
no buckets to wash, no shit to pitch -
just poke a hole in the son of a bitch.

which never seems like a bad idea in terms of my ex, either.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

the list - or more about me than you ever wanted to know

What is your favorite word? Yes
Least favorite word? No
Favorite sound? a final manuscript printing off
Least favorite sound? nails on chalkboard or a whining toddler

Favorite author? william shakespeare; jane austen, emily bronte, anya seton, margaret atwood, christopher bojahlian and sue monk kidd are a few of my favorite novelists.

Favorite book or poem? book - a prayer for own meany; poem - the cremation of sam mcgee, the highwayman and wynken, blynken and nod

What is your most proud accomplishment? my four children

Least proud moment? marrying their father
What are your top five wishes for your children? that they live happily ever after...what else?
What is your favorite food? coffee

Least fave food? cheese
Is there ONE particular event in your life that you will NEVER forget? selling my first novel
What are your favorite debate topics? i don't like to debate. it upsets one's equilibrium and brings on indigestion
What do you wish your MOTHER did different? i wish she hadn't given me to my grandmother
What are two promises you will keep to your child(ren)? i will always do the best i can with what i have to work with at any given time, and i will always be their mother.
One reason you are married? he asked.

Have you lost touch with a close friend? many Why? their paths diverged from mine
What are two of your favorite animals? pigs to eat and dogs to cuddle
Least fave animals? cats - we're all allergic

Do you have any pets? yes - six kids, two dogs and one husband

How many children? see above

Divorced? thank goddess

Age when married? 21 the first time. 46 the second time. Or how long? far too long the first time and hardly long enough this time.

Two foods you DO NOT like. other than cheese, tomato sauce because it looks too much like blood
One thing you love about yourself. i roll well with punches

Three things you love about your child(ren). they are wise in ways i am not; they understand things i cannot, and they are many things i will never be.

What, if anything, do you read religiously? everything
One thing you usually don't share with everyone. i see dead people

An embarrassing moment. too many to list

A crowning achievement. too few to matter

Biggest dream you hope to achieve. to die peacefully and painlessly surrounded by my loving family and friends
Thoughts on God / the Cosmos. read my blog

Favorite song. thunder road

Least favorite song. anything by fleetwood mac
How much TV do you watch? not much

Do you write poetry? once in a while

Are there other "humanities" that interest you? Art? Music? Dance? i paint, sing irish and celtic folk songs, and dance.

What colors are in your house? all of them Do you decorate? incessantlyWhat meal do you prepare best? dinner

What is your best memory BBM (Before Becoming Mama)? i dont remember a time before i was a mother - ive been a mother longer than i wasn't.

what was your best mama-memory? their births

Name three things you are teaching your kids. how to take care of themselves, how to take care of each other, and how to take care of their kids.

Why do you write? to shut up the voices in my head

What do you write about most? myself
If there is a heaven, what do you hope to hear when you die? "well done" and "welcome home"
What is your favorite "bad" word? jesus christ
Favorite sound? Least? didn't i answer this already, too?
Is there someone you'd like to sit down and talk to? The President? Martha Stewart? Alice Walker? i'd love to sit down with all of the above... im pretty sure the secret service wouldn't let me anywhere near our president though.

When do you write the most? Day? Night? i can write any time im happy

Did you DIARY as a child? no

Do you JOURNAL more during difficult times in your life? no i dont write well when things arent copacetic in the annie-sphere.
Did you know your grandmother? yes i knew my grandmother who's crossed....she comes to me frequently, in fact. and my other grandmother is still alive at the ripe old age of 95.

Did you host a holiday this year? thanksgiving for a dozen, and christmas for 13, then 6
Is there someone in your life/past that you have NOT forgiven? yes

Is there someone in your life/past that you'd like to apologize to? yes

Do you worry about violence in public schools? sometimes

Do you have a dedicated family day each week or month? no

Do you have a best friend? yes - all my friends are the best
What about you would surprise/shock your parents? i think if i told them i was bi they'd be blown away. but that's about all i can think of - now that they're past the fact i'm a witch and a registered democrat.

Have you ever lost a loved one? yes

Did you have a big wedding? no and no
Does your husband 'understand' why you write? Respect it? Does it irritate him in someway? my husband ADORES that i write - my exhusband hated it. this is the main reason he is my ex, and one of the reasons Beloved is Beloved.
Have you written anything for kids/childrens' books? no

Do you chronicle or journal for your child(ren)? i blog with them in mind
Pick one: Bohemian Eclectic or Conservative Mini-van? bohemian preppie
Favorite quote? kindness costs nothing

Do you compost? to a degree

Do you eat meat? yes
Do you call your mother-in-law "Mom"? or by her first name? first name

Does your mom "get to you?" on occasion? only when i let her

Do you have insomnia? not usually

What side of the bed do you sleep on? the left

Do you have a reoccurring dream? no
Do you believe that some people are sensitive (or psychic)? yes and i believe i am one of them
Do you do well speaking in public? yes

What could you start doing today that would improve your life? exercise more religiously
Are you writing a novel? i have three jostling for position... and casts of thousands screaming... pick me pick me!!!

How often do you lose your temper? hardly ever - im too busy listening to the voices in my head
How often do you day-dream? i dont think i ever stop

What is your idea of a dream vacation? a month in a castle in ireland big enough so all my friends and family could visit and stay as long as htey pleased.

When was the last time you took a vacation? last march

How often do you wear make-up? seldom

When was the last time you went all day without leaving the house? monday.... i spend lots of days at home and never leave the house.
Why do you write? i think i answered this question above.

What makes you feel guilty? nothing

Do you meditate? frequently

Do you pray? constantly

What is your political affiliation? radical feminist anarchist

What is your favorite academic subject? history

What do you love the most about life? the fact it never really ends, even though we get to change clothes.

and furthermore, the war - like this list - must end. eventually. sooner rather than later. blessed be.

while baby jake sleeps

as i write this, baby jake is down for his first nap of the day. he arrived bright and early, button-brown eyes wide with recognition he wasn't in his version of kansas. he fussed a bit about his bottle but sat agreeably in his baby seat, and threw a few toys around before he started rubbing his eyes. he's in his port-a-crib now, his noise machine alternately whooshing and chirping. he has the washer and dryer keeping him company too.

when he wakes up, im taking him to see my grandmother. debby sent the chapter back -im printing it out as soon as i splice it all together. we're over 7,000 words. i have some chores to do, dinner to start, boxes to unpack. chapter seven is unspooling itself across the screen two and three sentences at a time. i'm sore today, and the shoes i wore on the treadmill didn't fit my left foot properly. when Beloved asked me what i wanted for my birthday this morning, i told him proper walking shoes - or at least a gift card to dick's so i can go find my own. instead of the treadmill, i have a set of yoga cards i haven't shuffled in a while.

so far the nicest part of being so productive is wanting to be.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

finding inspiration

the robins' egg blue walls are soothing yet stimulating, calming, yet energizing. today, inspired by friends both in real-life and in cyberspace, i decided i'd had enough of moping, enough of being sick and feeling sluggish.

to that end, i followed - religiously, if i may say so - my daily regimen. i accomplished so much i thought i would share. so bear with me, gentle reader, while i indulge myself with a bit of organic chocolate and a pot of french lavender tea.

i made a delicious split pea soup for dinner tonight, in the crockpot with the hambone from easter dinner. good crone that i'm becoming, im not too proud to seek a place at another's table, to celebrate a holiday no longer my own, nor to scarf the remnants of the meal and turn it into something new.

i decided on slipcovers for my writing room. now instead of sage and sage and sage, the chairs are cream and cream and floral. i'm still not sure if im finished tweaking or not. tomorrow brad (the father of baby jake) is coming to hang my new curtain rods. i will have a better sense of how it will look when i see the drapes hung. Beloved has mended the marble top table i broke in a fit of pique once. it looks nice and, like the two of us, hardly scarred.

i got all the boxes hauled out of the living room. it's still a bit dusty and it could use another good vacuuming, but at least it doesn't feel like we're living like refugees. i have to save all the boxes, though, because if the kitchen renovation goes forward, i have an even more massive packing up to do.

i completed all my daily and weekly chores on my household spread sheet. libby cleaned zone one, but i managed all the rest AND i got a jump on tomorrow's laundry, because tomorrow, baby jake is coming for an unexpected day.

i finished chapter six of the political thriller - working title RIGGED - and sent it off to my friend debby for her to work her magic. we have nearly seven thousand words already. now that my printer is hooked up again, im planning to print the entire manuscript out when she sends me back six and read it from start to finish. we both know it needs some shading, but the bare bones so far feel good.

i spoke to my daddy today. we spend a part of every conversation talking about what it's like to die. he tells me what his doctors and friends tell him. most of his good friends have already made the crossing. i think my daddy knows that his teetime could be called any day. i think this is his way of finding out if i understand he has to go first. i do my best to reassure him that i do.

i did four readings online as a test of the ted andrew's animal-wise tarot. i got some really wonderful results. the cards themselves are wonderful to work with - i wish the publisher had invested in higher quality cardstock and clearer, less muddy photographs.

i spent an hour and a half on the treadmill, just walking, and meditating. i broke the time up into three twenty minute blocks during the busy part of the day, and then i did half an hour while the news was on, and the split pea soup finished cooking. i barely broke a sweat each time, but my thighs are sore. i even managed to stick to my "diet" - my intuitive eating plan that pretty much lets me eat what i want to eat when i want to eat it. i did pay attention to the foods i craved today, and i realized i have to add pineapple and more yellow fruits and veggies. i missed my banana today. i wonder if i remember how to foodshop with a baby.

my goal for tomorrow is to take baby jake to see my grandmother, and to complete as many of the daily tasks on my spreadsheet as i can. i'd like to fit in three twenty minute blocks on the treadmill, and of course i'd love for debby to send me chapter six so i can print the whole thing out and start thinking about the synopsis. these first seven thousand words have flowed so effortlessly, though, i think this book may be easier to write than poor hapless jack.

i'm still churning over my cosi girls letter. i can feel the words bubbling in my brain. i think they'll have ripened by tomorrow, maybe wednesday.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

easter morning six am

according to the story, it was right around now nearly two thousand years when the women who went to the tomb to anoint jesus discovered the rock rolled away and the body missing. they were met instead by an young man dressed in white who told them jesus was no longer in the tomb - he is risen, said the angel.

with those three little words, the shape of recorded history changed forever. this morning, those three little words will be trumpeted from pulpit and altar across the world. funny how it sounds like a battle cry.

leaving aside the miracle - which i was always perfectly willing to believe - after all, for a man who can walk on water, feed the multitudes and bring back the dead, rising from the dead himself doesn't seem like much of a stretch. but leaving aside the miracle, there was always one little detail that bothered me about the easter story.

if the stone was already rolled in front of the tomb, how did the women expect to get in? especially at dawn, when it was still relatively dark?

i remember asking this question of various priests, nuns and other adults. i remember my mother giving me one of her long convoluted answers, of the sort thomas acquineas would be impressed with, invoking the gods of archaeology, history and the sheer weight of the story itself.

i remember imagining myself THERE, as one of the women (come on, annie, up and at 'em - we got to get the Master anointed before he starts to smell bad), rising from my straw pallet, stumbling around for my sandals in the dark. and every single time the logical question that rose automatically in my mind seemed too self-evident for words.... how are we going to get in? and secondly - what did it matter, if jesus was already dead? as a five, six and seven year i couldn't imagine loving anyone enough to want to go stumbling around in the dark in a cemetery to pour a little oil on a dead body. anyone who loved me, i reasoned, wouldn't expect me to, especially if they were already dead and my life was potentially in jeopardy.

the logical inconsistency of this fundamental detail meant that for me, from a very early age, the entire easter story had an artificality to it that other holidays - like christmas - didn't. but easter is, as my mother always reminded me, the very core of the christian faith and my mother's understanding of catholic doctrine is ferociously complex. almost anything else in the bible could be understood as a metaphor, an allegory. but everything about jesus is rock-solid-true. to reject the belief in a literal resurrection is to reject the truth of all jesus was.

eventually, it was my inability to wrap my mind - puny as it may be - around the concept of a literal resurrection that led me to ultimately reject christianity as it is largely practiced today. unshackling myself from the burden of the irrational has allowed me to examine in the context of jesus's humanity what i believe to be true, to develop, dare i say - a personal Understanding of the man who millions believe walked the earth as Lord and Savior.

a few years ago, right around this time of year, my family and i were reeling under the news that my mother had breast cancer. she had found a lump in her breast right after new year's. one sunday afternoon i was meditating, when i saw jesus step out of my body. a woman entered, who looked like mary, but he turned to me, and said, this is your mother. they embraced, and where her breast touched his chest, i saw two flares of light, and in that moment, i understood that my mother would be fine. he smiled at me as he faded away, and i remember i asked, why is it given to me to know this?

and the little Voice answered, so that you may be absolutely sure of the presence of the Divine in your life.

a few days later, my mother called to tell me there were two lumps, not one. i remembered my vision, and i knew she'd be okay. and she is... to this day.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

making peace

i made up with my mother last night. after an hour's conversation where we delicately skirted around Issues, we parted friends, harmony once more restored. i'll go to see her next weekend to celebrate my birthday...she found someone else to wait on her.

i also slogged over to see my grandmother, who looked remarkably well as usual despite her best efforts to the contrary. i found her in pretty much the same position she was in when i saw her last. she was wearing different clothes and there were different sheets on the bed. all the complaints, however, were the same. i was feeling bad about not seeing her for a month but after a few minutes i realized it's like showing up in the middle of a nothing-nothing game - whatever you've missed may have been momentarily entertaining, but it hasn't made much of an overall difference.

i got all the books put back in my writing room. i like the robins' egg blue walls, the creamy woodwork. it's soothing to look at. now the trick is to stop Beloved from throwing things back in the room helter-skelter with nothing at all resembling order aforethought. my job today is to clean the rugs, and decide which of several slipcovers to use on the sofa and chairs. i need to find pretty curtain rods too,for the new blue curtains, because im not going to have the valances made for another few weeks. it's time to freshen up the living room, too.

and have i mentioned anywhere we are planning a major renovation to the back of the house.... assuming, of course, we can get a builder to call us back?

in the mornings when i walk the puppies, the skies are bluer, the horizon limned with a blazing edge of light. a growing chorus of birds cheep and call more insistently every day. today i saw the moon, fat and full, in the west above the trees, the red crescent of an aries sun just visible over the empty flower fields next door.

i'm having a massage today, then lunching with a friend at my favorite little tea room. Beloved continues to forage for the soup kitchen tomorrow. i have a press release to write, a chapter to finish. despite the lingering moments of exhaustion, i feel the unmistakable stirring of spring-time in my blood.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

fitting in, or thoughts from another blog

a few days ago i happened to read a post that struck a deep chord in me. what's wrong with me, wondered a fellow pixel-in-cyberspace. people don't like me...i'm not fitting in... what's wrong with ME?

it's a question i've struggled with all my life, and, in light of the events of recent weeks, it's a question i'm struggling with again.

so i read this sweet blogger's post and my heart just ached. what's wrong with me, she wondered, her agony palpable. she recounted her struggle with her shadow side, even envied the three faces of eve lady - the one who suffered such horrible abuse as a young child that her ego shattered into multiple personalities.

what's wrong with me, i wondered... the same thing that's wrong with her... not one blessed thing.

in the last year, i have dealt with the repercussions of not fitting in to a very large group among the new age community - and in the process made a real enemy who has done everything she can to actively discredit me. she has destroyed friendships, severed relationships and poisoned quite a few of the people i thought were my friends against me.

the reason she's done this is because i make a choice to do something this person feels is tantamount to the beating of baby whales with bodies of baby seals. for quite a while i felt rejected and upset and wondered what was wrong with me. then i came to realize that this person needs a demon in her life in order to define her own light. before i came along she could demonize the choice. now she has a much more tangible demon on which to project her Shadow. those who are really my friends are able to see through the projection. those who aren't, can't.

what we call our shadow is only our own pain, our own fear - the pieces of ourselves that need the most love. it doesn't need to be improved. it just needs to be loved and accepted. that is the beginning of wholeness, of bliss. that's what sybil couldn't do. that's why she had to sever. what happened to her was so horrific, she couldn't wrap her mind around the idea she could be treated like that. her reaction - like all of us - was what's wrong with ME? and of course there ws nothing wrong with HER - it was the horrific abuse she suffered.

unconditional love for all beings begins when we feed our inner demons with everything they want - when we look at the broken, rejected pieces of ourSelf, not with anger, exasperation or shame, but with love and acceptance.

there's nothing wrong with me, with you, with any of us, really. we are already the perfect manifestation of ourselves. if others can't see that, consider them the ones who are blind.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

back from the battle

the last day of winter found me flying through sluicing rain down to easton, pennsylvania, and a child support hearing. for the upteenth time in the last 12 years, my ex is once again claiming he's making less money than ever before.

even the judge noted the frequency with which ray has approached His Honorable Court. he peered over his bi-focals and said: i see you've been making this argument for quite a few years. then he let ray and his lawyer go on and on.

was it worth the trip, asked Beloved, to whom the machinations of the Halls of Justice mean as much as the stock market means to most people.

there is nothing fair about the legal system, nothing just. the cost of extracting what we call justice is scarcely worth the effort, it seems to me, when all is said and done. there is a piece of me that would so rather not engage with it or my ex on any level.

but there is also a piece of me that knows that this is not about me, as much as ray would like to make it. this is about libby. if i don't assert her interests, who will? if i don't speak up on her behalf, who does? and why should she believe her father was not much more than a sperm donor, unless she sees it for herself?

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

putting it all back together

on friday, the painters wiped, swept and packed up, leaving the writing room much more blue and far more clean than when they arrived. my focus for the last few days has been to put my writing room back together. i've painted all the mismatched bookcases to match the woodwork. i've ordered new slipcovers, but to hang the curtains i need new rods. but shopping will have to wait - tomorrow i have to drive down to child support court in pennsylvania, where mister ray is once more claiming poverty. at least all the plants are repotted.

the tempests that seemed to overwhelm me of the last few weeks have subsided - i've yet to decide what to do about my mother, but at least elissa's situation has settled itself and she has removed herself and her chaotic energies. i have a letter to write to the cosi girls, a visit to make to my grandmother. i have books to sort, my altar to re-assemble. Beloved and i are back on kissing terms. i have learned a lot of things about myself i didn't know. even bruised and battered as i feel, this latest walk into the valley of the shadow appears to have been worth it.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

slainte...or why i celebrate st patrick's day

quite a few pagans i know - especially those of the celtic variety - refuse to celebrate st patrick's day. they do this because, as everyone knows, patrick converted ireland from paganism to christianity. celebrating his day, they reason, is tantamount to expecting the survivors of custer's last stand to celebrate sitting bull's birthday.

but i celebrate st patrick's day - always have, always will. for one reason, it's the only time of year when i can be sure i will know all the words to all the songs. i was raised on the clancy brothers, and my repertoire of irish songs is unabashedly impressive. i remember my ex once asked me if i knew any songs other than irish rebel songs or irish love songs. well, i replied after some consideration, i know a lot of irish drinking songs.

it is the one time of year i can be unashamedly, unbashedly, not so much irish... as celtic.

and that's another reason i celebrate st patrick's day... always have, always will. patrick hated the irish - hated the wild celts over whom he was to have such influence. wherever he was from, it wasn't ireland, and he was sent there mostly because he knew the language - having learned it there as a slave.

if patrick changed ireland, the christianity he preached changed as well. celtic christianity was a horse of an entirely other color from that preached out of the pulpits of rome - so much so a special synod had to be held in the 11th century to stamp it out. it was a christianity laden with mysticism, speckled with humor and founded on the certainty that the OtherWorld was just around the corner.

because to a celt, it always is.

the celts are a unique people with a curious perspective frequently labelled by those who considered themselves more civilized as nasty, arrogant and uncivilized. for example, the reason they didn't write anything down was because the druids believed that writing made the mind lazy. they didn't fear death, because they knew the Next Life was waiting. the women of the western world, in fact, have yet to recoup the rights the women of ancient ireland enjoyed.

one in four people in the united states today has at least some irish or celtic blood.

and that's the third reason i celebrate st patrick's day, always have and always will. it is the day i recognize my connection and my kinship to the great Web that stretches from a green dot on the westernmost edge of europe, across asia, to the other side of the globe. it is the day i participate in the conjuring of the Dream, the ireland of legend, song, and story, and the myths that reach back into the deepest vestiges of our primal past.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

day of infamy

twenty-eight years ago this evening, just as the sun began to set, i walked down the aisle in a little lutheran church in a place called secane, pennsylvania and pledged myself in marriage to my first husband.

when i look back, and remember the child that i was, i'm not sure if i want to smack me or hug me. what i would really like to do is throw myself in front of me and plead: no, no, a thousand times no.

but i dont think i would've listened. i didn't know that i should've listened to the little Voice that said, don't go - when my ex asked me out. i didn't know that there are people in the world who can only express their deepest emotions with their fists. i didn't know there are sons who hit their mothers. i didn't know there are mothers who violate their sons. i didn't understand the depths of primal rage, primal pain.

i do now.

my own personal hades was mostly defined by what is not there. my walk down the aisle was just the first step into the first tier of a hell i had no ability to imagine. i once was blind, but now i see.

i see so well in fact, that i understand how necessary those experiences are to the person i am now. i understand that if i suffered, ray is still suffering. i walked through the fire of his hell and escaped. he's still there. i don't believe he will leave it in this lifetime.

and so this evening, as the sun sets, i raise my coffee cup and put down my paint brush and i will whisper a prayer ..both for the lesson and the teacher.

getting kicked out

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finding my voice

the weight of the last new moon clings to my consciousness like an unwelcome film, like the scum on overheated milk, like the sac surrounding the embroyo. pisces is the sign of absolute transcendence, the sign that signals the turning of the old thing into the new. it is the impetus that forces the seedling from the seed.

and oh, it clings, and clings, challenging me to enter into a new presence of mySelf, to find a new voice and speak in a new way... where i would so much rather sink gracefully into silence.

because to own this Truth, to speak these words, means i must accept and acknowledege the pain of my own wounding. to share means i must show this pain - not through the screen of fiction, not through distance, not through written words.

my cold's moved from my voice into my ears, corking up my hearing so that all i hear is the pounding of the blood in brain, beating against my skull like the push of a rootling against a hull.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

something silly...just for spring...

today i saw quite a wonderful thing,

there, on my window, the first bug of spring.

as i opened the door to shoo it away,

it flew off with a wink, and i heard it say:

oh, red are the roots of the cormorant tree,

and orange the sap that flows all through me,

yellow's the color of all that is fair,

and green is a ribbon to wear in your hair.

blue are the clouds when the moonlight is bright,

and indigo sings like a nightingale's flight;

violet's the color of all that you are,

and white is the love that shines through the stars...

an open letter to mrs spitzer

i don't like politics. i grew up around the edges of it and my sense is that it's a game tinged with cigar smoke and whispered deals done in little back rooms, regarding subjects not discussed in front of children. it smacks of that part of playing well with others that i don't understand, and so generally, i avoid politics and those who play them.

i also don't think prostitution is a crime. i think prostitution should be legalized, i think prostitutes should enjoy the same protections and rights as any other kind of worker. i also think men who seek out prostitutes are obviously - with few exceptions, perhaps - losers who can't get laid. in mister spitzer's case, he has a beautiful wife. maybe she's mean, maybe she's cold, maybe she's bitchy. maybe she doesn't like to play the kinds of games he likes to play, so he has to pay to play them. but whatever she is or isn't, she certainly didn't deserve the public humiliation visited on her by that hypocritical creep of a husband.

i watched her over and over, standing so silently by his side, and i thought about what i would say to her - if i could....if i were her mother, her sister, her friend. i put myself in her shoes, and this is what i'd say:

dear mrs spitzer -

just leave. he doesn't deserve you. it's not that he slept with anyone else - it's that he broke all his own rules. please don't stand for it. tell the world and your daughters that you aren't putting up with a man who is anything less than what he pretends to be in public. don't take him back, don't listen to his whining. he's a creep, and you deserve better. so do your daughters, so do mine. so do all of us.

sincerely, a concerned Syster.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

losing my voice

the cold that elissa brought into the house has lodged itself in my vocal cords, and for the past two days, i haven't been able to manage much above a labored whisper.

consequently, i can't talk to my mother to explain to her that i really AM sick, and thus can't come see her while she continues to recuperate from her hip surgery. when katie called to explain things to her, my own mother called me a - and this is a quote - "fucking bitch."

i can't answer the children's thousand and one questions, or help libby write a compelling thesis because i can't sufficiently explain what makes one statement compelling and another not.

i can't explain to Beloved that the reason elissa had a hissy fit yesterday was because i asked for a touch of consideration when it came to scarfing down and giving out to assorted friends the snacks meg and libby buy to take to school, and that i offered her, as a reasonable alternative, an apple, a banana or a yogurt.... all far more appropriate choices than rice krispie treats and fritos for someone nearly 22 years old. i also asked her to call ME ahead if she intended to show up around dinner time as she had the night before, and that calling her father isn't giving sufficient notice to the one who cooks and plans the meals. elissa can't deal with any kind of structure, and interprets all requests for consideration for someone other than herself as an affront against her soul. in short, she behaved like the 2 year old she is emotionally. she got stuck at two because her parents dont know how to say no to her, and the reason she doesn't like me is because NO is one word i've always been able to say to a bratty kid. and mean it.

needing to choose what words i do speak has made me even more hypersensitive to the uses of language than i normally am - which, even on my duller days, is pretty keen. hence, when a friend gave me a sample of a spray to "get me off her back" but was "honored" to do something else for another friend... it stung. but i was forced to resort to email to say anything at all.

it is times like these when i wonder why anyone would want to willingly prolong the agony of living one moment longer than absolutely necessary. the end...in hamlet's words... is indeed a consummation devoutly to be wished. but i apparently have made a bargain and it appears there's no escape. yet.

but there is respite. and this time, i get to flee... for a few days and maybe the last time...into the arms of the only person whoever had an iota of a clue.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

rain, relapse and rejection

a few years ago when i was speaking at a writers' conference, someone asked me how i deal with rejection. i drink heavily, i replied deadpan. for the space of about a heartbeat, i think the room believed me.

the reality is that rejection hurts. yesterday, true to the writers' adage that says good news comes by phone, bad news by mail, i heard from jenn that the house she'd sent Seventh Son to back in january declined the book. i can't say i was surprised - i didn't think a major sf house would be interested in a work that i characterize as literary fantasy, but what do i know? im only the writer.

when i was first starting out in writing, i happened to be a writers' conference where the keynote speaker was an agent who had worked for many years in publishing. i've been an editor, an editorial assistant, a first reader, a proofreader and now im an agent, she said. i guess i can't go much lower. you could be a writer, i quipped, just loud enough for her microphone to pick it up. that remark brought down the house.

but in the interface between the writer and the publisher, in between the writing and the world, is a cold brutal abyss where the name of the game is money. the truth is that publishers would far rather publish what they know will sell than take a chance on a book that might not.

just yesterday the story broke about how a reputed memoir written by a 33 year old woman who claimed to be the survivor of horrific gang violence and other abuse, has turned out to be - haha - fiction. why didn't she just publish the book as fiction, someone asked me.

probably because she couldn't sell it as fiction, i answered. desperate people do desperate things. i know how that desperation feels. i know that thing that gnaws at the center of one's soul, that drives one to carve out a little piece, put it on a page, and hang it up for sale.

my manuscript is now on the desk of another editor. i am among the fortunate, who have a reputable literary agency to do my legwork, my selling and my negotiating - who stands in the first line of fire, takes the first hit and then listens to me weep. to any writer who wants to know if i think they need an agent, my answer is an unequivocal yes - at least if you want to publish.

it poured yesterday, last night, and this morning, a flood of spring rain that calms and soothes and works its way into the fractured crevices of my soul. in the words of my poor rejected hero - there is a balm in gilead, there is, there is, there is.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.