sources of inspiration

these are the pillows i happened to see the other evening, as i was contemplating what to do about the color scheme. Beloved doesn't seem to understand that i need a sense of where it's all going before i feel i have a framework within which to make the thousand and one decisions we are going to have to make.

for me, it's not simply a question of choosing what we like - it's a question of choosing what we like relative to everything else that we also like. as i said to Beloved this morning, i'm trying to create a vision that hangs together as a cohesive whole. each part has to work together, and some parts have to play the backdrop so that the important stuff stands out.

you clearly care a lot more about this than i do, said Beloved, before he said the magic words: annie, do what you want.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

warm, welcoming and comfortable...

...spiritually-aware, harmonious and ordered.

these are the six adjectives i settled on to describe the feeling i wish my house to evoke. i also found a color scheme last night... quite by accident... as i was gazing moodily into the distance, thinking about nothing in particular.

three of the scattered pillows on the sofa in my writing room coalesced into a palette both soothing and warm, and appropriately pastel. (Beloved and i had a bit of a spat over what constitutes the definition of "dark" wood yesterday.)

the colors are cream, taupe and robin's egg blue. now it's off to the paint store for samples to put on the walls... and maybe even the floor :).

if i can find the camera in all the mess, i will post some photos of what i find.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

do you believe in magic?

well, sometimes.

i've been pondering the questions one gentle reader posed a few days ago, which is essentially this, at least as i understand her...as someone who not only believes in Magic, but has been known to use it on occasion, how do i respond to books that include the use of magic and people who use it?

for me as a reader, i am willing to believe anything the writer can make me believe. in other words, i don't read stories in which magic is used to learn how to use Magic. i read stories for the Story. magic, when it appears in a story, in its simplest terms, is really about the manipulation of either power or energy and sometimes both. however it works, it has to make logical sense within its own universe. as long as it does that, i dont care how far off the mark the writer is from the way i experience and manipulate Magic.

on the other hand, to read a story in which the characters experience magic in a similiar way as i do, is a delight. there is a new author, sarah addison allen, whose debut novel Garden Spells, is an absolutely charming story that reminded me of practical magic - only better.

as far as the more stereotypical presentations of charmed and such, i don't pay much attention. the good thing about them is that they introduce the ideas of magic and spells and witchcraft in a way that is a bit different from previous ideas about witches - at least the girls on charmed are young and cute rather than old and warty. anything that asks the public to think about anything in a new way can only be a good thing in the long run.

i think the way to create believable characters who use believable magic is to focus on them as characters first, who have needs and desires and flaws. magic in a story is not exactly the same as Magic in the Real World, just as characters in a story aren't really people, no matter how closely from Real Life they may have been drawn. your job is not to make the reader believe in your magic, but to make the reader believe in your Story.

i find that's when i need all the Magic i can muster. :)

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

dancing with the dark side

a month or two ago, I received an email from a writing friend about a new writing circle she was starting a few towns over. i liked the idea of a circle, and i like her, so i thought i would show up the first night and find out what she had in mind.

one thing i like about my friend karen is that she is amazingly thorough. despite being nearly nine months pregnant and the mother of a two year old, she had clearly put a great deal of work into the circle even before its inception. i am never sure about groups, but i appreciate hard work.

our first writing prompt is supposed to be about our fears. i appreciate a challenge, too. here's what i wrote instead of my blog the first morning my internet was down.

“Having trouble?” Her voice is like the purr of a Cadillac’s engine. I hear it deep inside somewhere… but where, exactly, eludes me, just the way so many words, so many sentences and images and metaphors have eluded me this morning.

I hear the echo of a distant laugh.

She knows I’m after her.

She is Published Writer. She is hard and sleek and prefers to wear high leather boots – shiny black, of course – and a lace-up leather corset. Her favorite toys are whips and knives, and she is quite merciless.

She steps out of the shadows and I see the glint of her long white teeth, her blood-red lips, her long red nails. “Feeling brave, are we?” She chuckles. Over the corset she’s wearing a black and white hounds-tooth checked suit. No boots today; her stockinged legs end in pointy black pumps. Her hair is the color mine used to be.

“Maybe,” I say. I’m wearing jeans and my sweatshirt with the ratty sleeves, the one that’s soft and blue as my baby blanket. My feet are bare.

“So what do you want?” She lights a cigarette, blows the smoke in my face. I want to blow it back, but I don’t smoke.

“I want to ask you – no, I want to tell you – to leave my first drafts alone.”

She sneers, rolls her eyes, takes a long drag. “Are you kidding? The way you write, you might as well wander around all day with a paper bag over your head. Who are you trying to fool? You need me –“

“You’re right, I do need you. I need you to make phone calls and read reviews and talk to Jenn, and if we’re ever going to have an editor again, I need you to deal with her. Or him. I need you to – to make the revisions, to sense what sells. But I don’t need you ravaging my first drafts.”

She puts her face close to mine, and I can smell the blood on her breath. It’s my blood, every drop, and deep inside my chest, my arms, my throat, I feel the scars begin to ache, the places that she’s mined and fed. Not for the first time, I hate her. She licks her lips and says, “You think you got all the time in the world, sister? You’re not getting any younger, you know. At the rate you write…”

“You know, that’s the trouble, right there. You’re mean. I don’t like you. You don’t just ravage the drafts, you shred them. You’re hard and you take away all of my joy.” I look over to the wall, where a slim white wraith of a woman is chained. “You took my Muse. I want her back.”

“You gave her to me.”

“You didn’t used to be so mean.”

She laughs, snaps her fingers. “It’s a mean business, sweetheart. And you need me to survive in it.”

“Maybe I don’t think you’re worth it.”

“You blaspheme!” Her face contorts, her lips thin as they pull back from the razor edges of her fangs. Her body swells, lengthens. She is an enormous Cobra, dancing above my head.

“You’re very scary,” I say as calmly as I can, because – besides blood - she feeds on fear. “This is why I can’t have you around the first drafts. You just proved my point.”

Again she shrieks, and the huge head lunges forward, fangs dripping venom. But the snake body collapses as she shrinks, morphing back into a woman, a tiny woman, who runs shrieking into the void: “We’ll meet again, my pretty!”

so many blogs...

...so little time.

yesterday, as i was bringing sam and buddy home from their annual vet checkups, i happened to hear the local talk-radio guy bemoaning the fact that now, in addition to daily papers and internet news, he's also a blog-junkie and spends hours a day reading and commenting and emailing individuals who write enormously interesting blogs.

wow, i thought. i know just how he feels.

my two days, one hour, five minutes and twenty nine seconds without the internet showed me what it must be like for a heroin addict to go cold turkey. i didn't break out in physically cold sweats, but i was close. deprived of my daily infusions of pixels from cyberspace, i felt disconnected to the point of feeling marooned on an island of Real Life.

on top of that, Real Life has been demanding more and more of me. with libby home from school, my days are not so free, even if my house - at least where its not torn apart - is getting really clean. the construction - or should i say destruction - commenced at a blitzkrieg rate: where once stood a deck, there is now nothing but air.

i have a decorating lady coming over at ten oclock to take a look at the whole mess. i hope i dont throw myself at her feet and sob. i have some tidying up to do - haha - before she gets here, but this afternoon, libby and i are going off to see an exhibit called "the pettibone ghost" in simsbury. it's about the ghost who haunts an old tavern about half way between our house and my grandmother's place. i pass it every time i go there.

the place has an interesting vibe - everytime we've tried to go there, something's stopped us - and every time i think of eating there i feel faintly sick. and yet, they say they have good food.

one of the comments i came back to asked a really interesting question that i continue to ponder even while life continues to suggest other topics. and so, ms robertson (i hope i can call you linda, please call me annie) congratulations on your first publication (do leave details next time you visit). i am pondering the answer to your question:

when you read books with magic in them, even knowing you are reading fiction, especially if they are set modern, do you ever find yourself judging it as too fantastic or too real or do you suspend disbelief and dig in?

but in the meantime, gentle readers, what do you all think?

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

happy birthday, miss elissa

my relationship with my stepdaughter elissa is one of the two more difficult relationships i have with my children. (the other's with my son, jamie, whose behavior reminds me of his father more frequently than i care to remember him.)

in elissa's case, the lion's share of the fault - if there is one - lies in my opinion on her mother, who encouraged elissa to despise her father for no reason other than he chose not to remain married to her mother. on the other hand, i arrived with not just one rival, but four for her father's affections. never made to share anything, elissa was understandably puzzled when the demands on her father's heart quintupled. how could there possibly be enough left for her? the child's fear of abandonment coupled with the mother's need for revenge ignited a fire that i fear will continue to smolder long into elissa's adulthood.

or maybe not.

last night, she came over with two friends to celebrate her twenty-second birthday. over cake - an especially pretty cake in just her favorite flavor that caught my eye the other day at shaw's - she casually mentioned to her friends that "anne can talk to dead people."

i was tired. i really didn't want to be a party game. this sort of thing makes Beloved particularly uncomfortable - he always looks for the exits if the conversation takes a serious veer into the psychic. but her friends looked like sweet girls, girls who wanted to look a little tougher than they actually were - just like elissa. and there were so many bright young spirits around the one who looked at me with eyes as wide and liquid as bambi's.

well, whoever would've thought that, said Beloved, when they left two hours later. elissa spent two hours here on her birthday and most of them with YOU.

i guess stranger things have happened somewhere.

and furthermore the war must end. blessed be.

arte y pico

among the three hundred plus emails i managed to wade through yesterday afternoon was one from my dear friend rose of Walk In The Woods of winsted, connecticut. she was kind enough to present me with an AWARD! - the Arte y Pico Award. i am both awed and humbled she would select me for this honor.

as she explains on her blog, WhatRoseMadeToday:

This award, originally started by Esey, was created to be given to bloggers who inspire others with their creative energy and their talents, be it writing or artwork in all medias. And, I must add, to receive an award such as this from a peer and associate makes it an especially special honor. :)

The Arte y Pico Award is meant to be paid forward to bloggers who are deserving of it. rose has presented me with the award and I would now like to recognize the following five blogs:

Stacie's Homeschooling Blog
Eat Man Drink Water
Cabin Fever in Alaska
Cynwrites: a blog for grownups
Diary of a Wicked Stepmom

So, gentle readers, I invite you to visit each of the five blogs I've listed.

If you have been selected for the award, please pay it forward, following the steps below:

1) Choose 5 blogs that you consider deserving of this award based on creativity, design, interesting material, and overall contribution to the blogger community, regardless of the language.

2) Post the name of the author and a link to his or her blog so everyone can view it.

3) Each award-winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award.

4) The award-winner and the presenter should post the link of the "Arte y pico" blog , so everyone will know the origin of this award.


5) Please post these rules!

The Arte y Pico blog is in Spanish. I can't seem to make the English link work. To read it in English, go back to rose's blog. i am currently attempting to fix this problem, but nothing i do seems to work. :(

a day without the internet....

...is like a day that didn't happen.

at least, not according to my blog.

a bad storm on sunday afternoon during jamie's graduation party knocked out our modem, and consequently, it was almost exactly 48 hours until our connection was restored. i signed on to find SEVEN comments - THANK YOU to all who took the time to consider the answers (they were most illuminating as was stacie's feedback, cause she's actually been HERE - i should ask questions more often, i see) and over 300 emails. most of them were from freecyclers, but still... 300 emails is a lot to cull through.

so here it is, a brand new month. joe the builder and his crew showed up early. my brother had the good sense to plan to leave today. now half the deck is mostly demolished. the other half is packed up in my living room.

to warm, welcoming, comfortable and spiritually attuned, i am determined to add ordered to the list.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

setting the intention

ive been giving a fair amount of thought to intentions, lately. intentions are powerful things - properly focused, they are prayer with punch. a prayer, as far as i can tell, is something you ask for, then allow for the will of the divine to work. an intention adds an element, at least for me, of MY will into the mix. it represents a conscious joining of my Self with the Divine Flow.

not just thy will, but mine, as well, be done, so to speak.

and so, as i've been clearing and decluttering and simplifying (three big garbage bags filled today, in fact) i've been giving thought to my intention, to what sort of home i wish to create, to the idea of our home as an entity of its own, to what sorts of energies i wish to call to me, and what kinds i wish to release.

i've been trying to think of six adjectives i'd like my home to evoke. so far, i've come up with warm, welcoming and comforting. Beloved has suggested eclectic, colorful and spiritually-awakening. i like the last, but find eclectic and colorful too verging on chaos for me.

so what about you, gentle reader? what six adjectives would you use to express your home's chi - for lack of a better phrase - and would you care to share?

going for the gold

my brother john arrives this evening with his two little girls in tow. they're staying with us until tuesday and then going off on a round-robin tour of the east coast that extends from ocean city to boston. my mother, stepfather and other brother are coming tomorrow for jamie's graduation party. im planning on sending my brother to pry my grandmother out of her bed.

i doubt that my sister sheila will join us, however, because she has sold her house in boston, and now she and her husband have to find another place - within six weeks - for themselves, their two very small children, and their au pair to live. as i remember, they got themselves into this fix the last time they sold a house and ended up buying one that was eerily reminiscent, to me, anyways, of the house we grew up in after we moved out of ocean city.

sheila is much younger than john and i. when she was little, she had a bed with drawers under it. one of the favorite things john and i used to threaten to do to her was to ask her, whenever she misbehaved for us, "do you wanna wake up in a drawer?" i know we were never serious, but i guess because she was little, she thought we were. she still talks about it.

this past year, at the ripe old age of 37, sheila took up ice-skating. this is significant because we were never a sports-minded family - team spirit, playing well with others and joie de vivre weren't things much mentioned when i was growing up. no one ever suggested i should join a team of anything after my ill-fated experiences in girl scouts when i was nine, and my brother's days in little league ended early. sheila had asthma, as well, growing up, and my brother david's needs simply didn't allow my mother much time to encourage any after-school activities.

last night, my sister won a gold medal in a skating competition. not only is this the first gold medal that she's won, and the first skating competition that she's ever entered - it's her first competition EVER.

there'll be no putting her back in that drawer now, im afraid.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

twelve years ago tomorrow

... i woke up for the last time in a house i shared with my ex, showered for the last time in the one tiny bathroom, and drove off to a new life in connecticut with not much more than my clothes, my books, and my three girls.

i remember that when i turned the engine on after filling up the car, the tail end of thunder road was playing on the radio. "it's a town full of losers and i'm pulling out of here to win," sang the boss.

you got that right, i thought.

this morning i woke up in a rosy dawn to a world all emerald and gold, punctuated by the woodpecker's drill, the bullfrog's drone and the chipmunk's cheep. the air was thick with mist, the long grass wet with dew. the puppies rolled at my feet before breakfast, Beloved rolled over and loved me before i rolled out of bed.

this morning i read in an email from my lawyer in bethlehm that in court yesterday (mister ex hasn't paid his child support) my ex - the possessor of three degrees, including a jd - is no longer employed as a purchasing agent for a cement company - which is what he was doing as recently as march.

he's now working at the crayon factory, putting boxes of crayons together.

oh, how the mighty have fallen.

i remember how he used to talk about his father who died at 55 a broken man, largely, ray said, because he lost his job as a skilled tradesman and ended up as a janitor. now it seems his son is headed in the same direction.

the email also explained that ray plans to file a new motion to reduce the amount of the support he owes each month, based on mental illness and disability.

if there's one thing i know as surely as i know the sun is setting in the west tonight is that ray is mentally ill. if he sees it too, finally, perhaps there's hope for healing after all. i don't know if the law allows a parent to escape completely from the obligation of support, but i will not stand in the way if the court, in its blind rendering of justice, decides to reduce it.

because there is a part of me that's sad. there is a part of me that even now, after years of legal and mental and financial harrassment and abuse, weeps for the wreck that is ray. i escaped because it was either leave or die, but, oh, how hard i tried to love him better. i didn't understand at the time that the only kind of love that can fix what's wrong with ray is self-love.

but there is a part of me that stands dazzled and not more than a little vindicated by the Justice that has condemmed this man of such ability and education to stand all day in a factory putting rainbows into boxes.

because, after all, that is what he tried to do to me.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

apologies forthcoming

.... by xujun eberlein (livingston press, june, 2008) is a collection of short stories about life in china both immediately before and after the cultural revolution. ms eberlein, who emigrated to the united states from china in 1988, and now holds a phd from MIT, tells these stories from her unique - at least to most westerners - perspective as someone who not only witnessed, but grew up, during that tumultous time period.

my interest in all things chinese was initially sparked by Beloved, who has been studying mandarin for the last four or five years. i tried it and it made my brain swell at a time when my brain was already under assault writing the silver trilogy. it is becoming increasingly clear to all, i hope, that china has emerged as an important player on the global stage, and it seems to me that anything that can be done to facilitate understanding between our two very different cultures should be encouraged.

and so, i highly recommend this book. ms eberlein is a gifted storyteller, with a unique viewpoint, not to mention an impressive command of the english language. her characters are drawn with great tenderness and sensitivity, as they struggle to create lives and loves and relationships against the enormous backdrop of the cultural revolution. i found the stories addictive... it was hard to stop at just one.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

decorating and other dilemmas

i love to play with paint and fabric. putting up curtains, tearing them down and making new ones is one of my favorite ways to freshen up a room. i like paint, too. i'm not a very good painter - i dont have much of an eye for detail - but splashing around in bright colors always makes me feel good. my ex used to say i painted like i was drunk. but im such a happy drunk, i used to answer.

i wish i had that feeling now. this renovation is bigger, even, than the kitchen - if such a thing is possible - because it affects more rooms. and each of the rooms has different choices. it isn't a question of JUST choosing walls and floors and window treatments. it's cabinets and window placements. it's electrical outlets and overhead lights. it's furniture arranging and refinishing.

it's an off-center fireplace, a ceiling fan, a picture window and a set of couches Beloved is wedded to with a passion almost great as the one with which he is wedded to me. it's my grandmother's piano and my mother's Singer in its mahogany cabinet, with the little leather topped stool i used to use for tea parties.

every time i start to think about it all, my head starts to ache and my brain starts to swell in the way it did when i was writing the silver books. and on top of this, im having a party for 20 people on sunday, my brother is coming on saturday from california with my neices, allie and zoe, and i have no idea when the construction might begin in earnest, although the mess continues to mount.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

feeling the burn

i got home from kickboxing cardio class about half an hour ago. Beloved has gone to dip in the town pool, i preferred to shower and ice my muscles over pot roast.

i remain puzzled by my body's apparent inability to drop weight according to the scale, although it's clear to me that my clothes are fitting more loosely, and my muscles are becoming more defined.

i must assume that the older i get, the more room i will require.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

decadently delicious

the first official day of summer vacation begins with a downpour so heavy the world wavers behind a sluice of silver water. buddy curls at my feet, terrified of thunder; sam, who has claimed the larger of the two dog beds i brought home the other week, has tucked herself comfortably in a corner.

libby went to katie's house with meg to play with baby jake last night, and so Beloved and i went out to dinner. i remember i felt, as we left the house, an amazing sense of freedom. children dispersed, dogs attended to, grandmother visited, parents spoken to... i could pick up my bag and walk out the door, free as a kid on the first day of vacation. we lingered over dinner - lingered for us, anyway, and got home later than usual...(nearly 8 o'clock! practically pumpkin-time in our universe!)

and we slept late, too, lulled by the chill in the dawn air, the sound of the torrential rain.

it was a most deliciously decadent beginning to this most decadently delicious of seasons.

it isn't very often that i have felt that way in the last twenty-some years or so. it was a glimpse of a future that still seems so far-off - a glimpse of days and evenings free to wander wherever i would.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

fifty years ago, tomorrow

my mother and father were married in the church two blocks from the ocean, where i would be baptized, communed and confirmed, the foundations of which my great-grandfather had literally poured. it was the same church where my mother would meet my stepfather, some six or seven years later.

but on that first glorious day of summer in 1958, all looks rosy and well in the photographs. my mother is an appropriately blushing bride, my father a handsome and charming groom. they look happy and proud and only a tad terrified, as if they were just beginning to realize that perhaps they'd bitten off a bite of something that they weren't quite prepared to chew.

which as it happened, they weren't.

but in the meantime, they pledged and they kissed, they danced and they waved, and they went off to bermuda and consummated their vows in a room overlooking a pink-sand beach. thus, i was conceived of not one virgin, but two*, on an island in the middle of the atlantic ocean, on the shortest night of the year.**

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

* i confirmed this fact with my father, who when i mentioned it, chuckled in the way he does when i show him i know something he doesn't expect me to know, and said, "You're right."

** this is confirmed by my mother's original due date. i was ten days late, and thus, my original due date was march 21, exactly nine months to the day they were married.

last day of school

the last day of school is wet and green, and nearly chilly as september. libby faces two exams - i have a mounting mess. i suspect that all the rain we've had int he last week is the reason that we haven't seen joe the builder back. the holes that will house the supporting columns that he dug and poured in the steaming heat have yet to dry, since they promptly filled in with water.

i asked Beloved if maybe he thought we should cover them, and he replied that surely, if covers were needed, covers would've been supplied. joe knows what he's doing, said Beloved, soothingly. for which i have no reply, of course, because, after all, i have to trust that joe DOES know what he's doing.

yesterday, somewhat frustrated by the scale's refusal to do anything other than bounce between 145 and 150, i decided there were other ways to lose weight. i weeded through my cupboards and found at least 30 lbs of clothing i never wear and have no intention, if im honest, of ever wearing again. i felt so good about it, and it was such a sleepy day, i got hardly anything else done.

i DID read a book called "No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club!" about a lady turning 60. it was an interesting enough story - especially given that i am turning fifty next year - but in so many places i saw how i would've done the very opposite of what the character thought or did. and since the character was a first person narrator, it was sort of annoying. i found myself in more than one place thinking: " 'I' would do no such thing!" but then, of course, that's not the first time i've thought that :).

the sun appears to have decided to shine after all. this morning my task is to harness the energy of the waning moon - especially as it passes into hard-working capricorn - and address more of the mess with something other than good intentions.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

this just in

Researchers led by Esther Lopez-Garcia of Universidad Autonoma de Madrid in Spain followed 84,214 U.S. women from 1980 to 2004 and 41,736 U.S. men from 1986 to 2004.

They found that regular coffee drinking -- up to six cups a day -- was not associated with increased deaths among the study's middle-aged participants. In fact, the coffee drinkers, particularly the women, experienced a small decline in death rates from heart disease.

The study found no association between coffee consumption and cancer deaths.

"Our study indicates that coffee consumption does not have a detrimental effect," Lopez-Garcia, whose research appears in the journal Annals of Internal Medicine, said in a telephone interview. "It seems like long-term coffee consumption may have some beneficial effects."

vindication comes from strange places, at odd times, and generally when you least expect it.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

super tuesday

a sore shoulder and a twinge in my elbow this morning was enough, in the interests of discretion, to keep me out of class. i was disappointed because the rest of me woke up feeling as if my muscles are somehow binding themselves more closely to my bones.

i did manage to get all sweaty on the treadmill, and then i spent twenty minutes doing the sort of kicking drills the instructors have us do... the kind where you do five crunches, run a few yards, kick the bag, and run back and do crunches. i worked up quite a reasonably satisfying sweat.

i re-read enough of a prayer for owen meany that i can have an intelligent conversation with the cosi-girls book group tonight about it. the cake, the same sour-milk sponge everyone enjoyed so much last month, is baked and frosted with almond buttercream.

i need to put together dinner, and spend some time packing up more of the deck. i have a reading this afternoon, and then - because i will be half way to her place, anyway, a visit to my grandmother. in lieu of glazed doughnuts, i bring bananas and sour-milk cake.

Granny Annie's Sour-milk Sponge Cake - adapted from The Joy of Cooking, page 939

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour any size pan you please.

Cream together 12 Tbs softened butter (1 1/2 sticks), 3 eggs, 1 1/3 cups sugar, and 1 tsp of vanilla. you don't actually have to add vanilla. you can leave out vanilla, or substitute something else, like rum, or almond extract or espresso. you might even be completely bold and add something like lavendar or minced rosemary. blend in 2 and 1/3 cups cake flour. (yes, it's worth it to use cake flour. you can use self-rising cake flour, but i don't recommend it. you can also substitute as much as 1/2 cup of cocoa powder for 1/2 cup of the flour of you want to make a chcolate cake.) if you are not using self rising cake flour, add 1 1/2 tsps of baking poweder and 1/2 tsp of baking soda. alternate the flour with 1 cup of milk into which you have added 1 Tbs of white vinegar - not cider vinegar. when smooth, pour into pan or pans and bake until a toothpick comes out clean, about 25 - 35 minutes later, depending on the size of your pan and your oven.

Butter cream frosting:

Cream together 2 sticks softened butter, 1 box confectioner's sugar, dash cream to taste. this time i added almond extract and sprinkled slivered almonds on top.

these recipes lend themselves to endless variation. be free!

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

a blog about libby

what are you doing, mommy, asked libby, this morning when she appeared in the doorway of my writing room, looking especially waiflike in the wet gray light.

today is a big day in libby-land... the last review day before exams. libby is convinced she could fail, though it boggles my mind that anyone so disciplined, so thorough and so detail-oriented - not to mention an A student - could possibly worry about failing.

im thinking about my blog, i replied, and trying to decide what to write about. shall i write about you?

oh yes, she answered. then she bent over and farted. you don't have to write about that, she giggled. we'll just keep that between us... and the dogs.

ha.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

memories of daddy

many years ago, in one of the darkest hours of my life, i was asked to complete a questionaire for a counseling center. i had gone there to seek help, because the weight of an abusive ex intent on unleashing the full fury of the american legal system,and the needs of my four children seemed more than i could bear.

the questionaire consisted of the beginning fragments of sentences, which i then had to complete. the one i remember began: "my father...." i wrote "loves me" with no hesitation.

the counselor was very kind, very helpful. i remember at some point she said to me, "you're going to be okay, you know."

and i looked at her and said, how can you know that? i dont feel that way at all.

and she pointed to that sentence. "my father loves me you wrote." and she smiled. "not one person in a hundred comes in here and finishes that sentence that way. you have something that not many do, something that supports you, not only around you, but within you. we just have to help you know that for yourself."

i call it one of my bedrock moments, a moment when i connect to one of the deepest underpinnings of my soul. the great gift that my father gave me had nothing to do with money or things or education. it came in the long dark nights when he, natural nightowl, was assigned the task of comforting the screaming, fussy, ever-so-sensitive baby that was me. it came in the hours he spent digging sand pits so big my brother and i could build sand castles in them, in the afternoons spent spinning the stories he made up, in the saturday morning pancakes topped with sugar and butter, never syrup. it came in the games he played with us, in the blocks he built, in the messes he helped us make. it comes in the delight with which he talks to me, in the way, he - still - calls me princess.

i doubt my father even now realizes that as he walked me through the long dark nights of my infancy, he was sowing the seeds of the strength that would carry me through the long dark nights of my soul.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

messages from angels

from the messages:

"The teachings of the Angels first and foremost concern the need to approach our food and our eating and our bodies with appreciation for how uniquely individual we truly are. What works for me I would be very surprised if it worked exactly the same way for you. This information is primarily intended to help you get into touch with your own unique body/mind structure/energy-vibrational pattern, and to help you figure out how to nourish it in the most easily assimiliated, holistically healthy way, for you.

There is more information available now than ever before, and while this is unquestionably in many respects a wonderful thing, because it signals an expansion of the human consciousness, it also can be a very confusing thing for the individual who is seeking to understand the workings of his or her own body.

You are a unique individual. Your body functions in a way that is wholly unique to you. Much of the information disseminated is not necessarily bad information - it simply may not apply to you. Men, for example, have totally different nutritional needs from women. Many women fit their food intake around the needs of their partners and their children. Consequently, they are eating out of sync with their own needs, in what may be only a very slightly skewed way, and yet, if this continues over time, the skewed feeling adds up into disequilibrium.

This is why it is important to be in touch with your own bodies. You can only make sense of the information you are flooded with on a daily basis if you know what feels right and good and true to you."

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

ides of june

not only is it friday the 13th, an auspicious day on any witch's calendar, but it's also the ides of june. i know this because long ago, when i was 13, i memorized a handy little bit of doggerel i found in a gothic romance novel by victoria holt. it goes:

march, july, october, may
the ides fall on the fifteenth day;
the nones, the seventh; all other months besides
have two days less for nones and ides.

the ides of the month - which signified nothing more portentous to the romans than a way to manage time - as far as i can tell, got a bad rap when julius caesar had the misfortune to get assassinated on the ides of march. the moon is nearly full. and experience has shown me it is better never to be complacent when such potent eneriges blend.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

mama said there'd be days like this

... and she was right.

it started off well enough. there was plenty of coffee, more than enough cream. libby wasn't late for the bus, the dogs didn't do anything unexpected in the night. in fact, the day was going along swimmingly until buddy decided to barge through the back door and run off into the woods, tail wagging in the dog equivalent of "free at last, free at last, thank dog almighty, im free at last."

Beloved helped look for him of course, but it was nearly thirty minutes later before buddy returned, giving new meaning to the expression "hang-dog"... long enough to make getting to morning krav class impossible, or doing much of anything else until he was washed and de-stinked.

by the time i finished with buddy i was as wet and smelly as if i'd gone to class.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

ten days to go

i looked at the calendar this morning and realized there's only another ten days til my Eating... the Angel Way workshop.

here is a portion from one of the messages:

the Angels love our bodies as much as they love any other part of us. where we see division, they see seamless expression and manifestation. where we see imperfection, they see marvelous creation. while we tend to focus on what we perceive to be flaws, angels are as dazzled by the grace and strength and miracle of our physical bodies as we are by the Angels. for all that they are, a body is what they lack. they are saddened when we criticise ourselves or punish ourselves or in any way try to manipulate our bodies with anything but love.

i suspect that these messages are not unique to me. i believe the information actually comes to many many people - if not everyone - but most of us either aren't listening, don't know how to listen, or, which is even more insidious - don't know how to trust the information they do receive.

for those who can't join me in Simsbury on June 21, i will be posting portions of the messages here. for those readers who are moms or stepmoms, i invite you to join www.cafemom.com - a sort of myspace for mothers. i have an online group that i have been running since the spring, when i was first directed to share the information. all of the information that i have so far received is posted there, as well as the interactions of the group's participants. one woman is so thrilled she's coming on the 21st all the way from upstate New York to share her experiences.

the Angels really don't care how the messages are spread- what they care about is that they are.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

how hot is hot?

i guess i didn't realize just how out of touch and out of step i am. i don't talk much about my sex life, and consequently, i guess i don't pay attention when others talk about theirs.

but an article in the new york times today about two couples who decided to have sex every day - one for a year, and one for 101 days, though how they arrived at THAT figure i couldnt quite understand - certainly got my attention. it seems that these two couples have written books about their experiences. the underlying assumption of the article, as well as the books, apparently, seems to be that no one in a long term relationship has that much sex.

Beloved and i have sex every day. we have neither bets, nor gifts, nor obligation over our heads. we just like sex. and we like each other. a lot. we've been together nearly 13 years. i guess that qualifies as long term.

so, please, tell me... are we REALLY all that different?

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

in for a penny

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "no win, no how":

Either you are an incredibly self-centered individual lacking all compassion for others or you are just totally ignorant of the disease process of dementia.Do you,and your fanclub,realize that you "can't get through" to a person suffering from this brain condition? Do you have a clue,or even care,that she is afraid,betrayed by her mind? Do you blame her for her anger? You sound so trite and cold,and you use her very real suffering for your own glorification,taking a private tragedy and asking the public at large to judge you the longsuffering heroine and your grandmother the ungrateful object of all of your devotion.You can't even allow her the dignity to not hold her up for display,like some blogger's sideshow.I,too,practice the craft and let me tell you,sister,you couldn't pay me to take the karmic debt you're gonna pay for this.

imagine my surprise when i found this waiting for me after a fairly pleasant afternoon's visit with my grandmother.

i doubt Anonymous thought i'd publish the comment... i doubt Anonymous thought i'd make it the subject of an entire blog. but i don't mind negative feedback - in fact, i rather welcome it. i think it's the celt in me that likes a good brawl, or maybe it's all that bad "karma" im racking up.

and so, dear Anonymous, since you so graciously took the time to offer your opinion of me, let me respond openly to you... i don't step away from negativity - rather, i embrace it.

first of all, no one has diagnosed my grandmother with dementia. the episodes of dementia that she has exhibited at all seem to be linked to urinary tract infections. it is absolutely possible to "get through" to my grandmother because she is quite cognizant of her behavior. and her behavior is not unfamiliar to me. she's been behaving this way for the last seventy years - according to my mother, who is now 73. so unless you want to assume my grandmother's been demented her entire life... no, Anonymous, considering i've known her for nearly fifty years, and you haven't - i think i can safely call her mean without incurring the wrath of Karma.

and there, "sister", we come to the second part of my response. you must have a kindergarten understanding of what karma is and how it works if you think that my sad little rantings on this silly little blog amount to a speck of flyshit on a camel's ass in terms of karma. there's nothing wrong with the expression of human emotion. this little piece of the web is mine and i get to say anything i want any way i want. if you don't like what you read for some reason, don't come back. but don't think that you are going to cow me into silence for speaking out about a very subtle kind of abuse that infests MANY mother-daughter dyads in MANY MANY families. i was never one to suffer in silence, either. i learned the hard way what THAT gets you.

you see, grasshopper, in terms of karma - it's what we DO that counts. it is in ACTION that karma is invoked,earned, expiated and expunged. words are clumsy things - the invention of the left brain to capture the unspeakable that the right brain knows. if you don't want to read my complaints about my slog up the hill with my particular albatross, as i said, please... don't come back. but i'm entitled to my complaints. if you think they're cold and trite, i think you're rash, shallow and judgemental. i don't know what kind of "craft" you think you practice, but it clearly isn't anything close to the one i do.

because what i see you are, more clearly than anything else, is a coward. only a coward leaves an obnoxious judgemental comment like that behind the veil of anonymity. speak your truth all you want, but claim it as YOUR truth. otherwise, don't bother to say it at all. because that's how abuse gets spread from generation to generation. it hides in the shadows and it wears different names, and any time you call it for what it really is... it pokes back and makes it YOUR fault.

so feel free to say, think, or judge what you want, Anonymous, but at least be witch enough to own it.

cosi girls, a deux, adieu.

the cosi girls are at it again.

for those of you, gentle readers, who don't know the story, a few months ago i was kicked out of my coffee group for daring to suggest to the leader - let's call her Silly-Lilly - that we should refrain from sending each other political-type emails. she didn't like what i said to her, so she kicked me out. if you want to read the gory details, please check out my blog titled HOW I GOT KICKED OUT OF MY COFFEE GROUP - published on march 15 of this year.

a few of the other ladies objected to this high-handed treatment, but one of the women - lets call her (H)AG - really took issue with my blog, and because i won't rescind it, decided that "ethically" she can't have anything to do with me.

(H)AG's even quit the cosi girls book club because the book club ladies all decided they wanted me to stay in the book club, which is a spin off of the original coffee group. (are you confused yet? i am.)

(H)AG was really mad after the last book club meeting in may, when i showed up and somehow managed, according to her at least, to make myself the center of attention. she glared at me the whole time i was recounting my invisibility story. of course i was the center of attention, you silly tw-t, i wanted to tell her. that's what a good StoryTeller does.

however, (H)AG was so traumatized by my horrible, despicable blog - published on march 15 - that she was compelled to start her own spin-off group, a so-called support group for those select few of the cosi girls who met her muster.

unfortunately, when she proceeded to use said support group as a forum in which to roast ME (yes, me... innocent, sweet, ME) one of my more ardent supporters stepped forward to counter her claims of my evilness. Silly-Lilly quit the support group - in Silly-Lilly's world, it's her way or the high way... she even has a daughter she has not spoken to in EIGHT years because the poor kid did something to piss off the Queen Mother. (now i ask you... is this the sort of therapist you'd want to go to? maybe i should track the daughter down and offer to adopt her.)

in any event, the girls let (H)AG rant at the first meeting, but when she ranted again at the second meeting and decided to quit, they decided to let her go. until she changed her mind and wanted back in. (are you still reading?)

the long and short of it is that the original cosi-girls coffee group was dissolved by Royal Decree of Queen Silly-Lilly (all are invited to reapply.) the support group has collapsed under the weight of the acrimony of the (H)AG - she's still ranting about my blog - the one published on MARCH 15.

i didn't know i had that much power, let alone that many readers.

but the cosi-girls book club meets next month, and they're discussing one of my all time favorite books... a prayer for owen meany. and you can bet i'll be there.

and furthermore the war must end. blessed be.

hazy, hot and humid

seven am and the world is already sweltering. i could've walked the puppies naked this morning. the light is steaming through the trees, the pines hang heavy, pearled with dew and pollen. rivulets of that pollen, thick as chalk dust, streak the surface of the driveway. it poured last night, but did nothing to relieve the heat.

my grandmother woke us with a phone call at 4 AM, and then another at 445. she seemed particularly hostile and crazed yesterday, to the extent i spoke to the nurse about it. her mind is clearly going. the tumor is unquestionably affecting her ability to relate to the world around her...where once she had the ability to relate to other people if she wanted to, now she has lost the choice. her entire existence spins around herself...her mindset, i am convinced is much like that of baby jake.

and oh, she is angry... angry at the world spinning out of her control, angry at the people and the places and the systems that betrayed her. she expresses her frustration with big eyes and gritted teeth and sentences that make no sense. take me back to the flower store, she pleaded. i have a room on the second floor.

no, you don't, roey, i said as patiently as i could. when she started threatening to call the police and her lawyer, i said i'd had enough and got up to leave. that's when she changed her tune and begged me to stay.

this afternoon, after Beloved and i go to home depot and pick out the rest of the kitchen... pick out some new hardware and a new dishwasher, as well as a couple air conditioners... including one for my writing room... i will go back to see my grandmoher and deliver, as gently and kindly as i can, a small dose of reality.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

06-07-08

a date like that comes along once in a century. there are other consecutive dates, of course - every year up to 14 has one. the last will be 12-13-14. what does it mean? well, nothing, of course, unless you WANT it to mean something, like my cousin mike, whose son is getting married today.

today we swelter in the first real heat of summer. the air conditioners are going in - i've already done as much in the gardens today as my continuing to improve knee and the heat will permit. i plan to visit my grandmother and take meg and libby out to lunch.

the remodeling project is staring in me in the face and it's a little scary, considering i also have a graduation/21st birthday party to plan. jamie has graduated from uconn, meg is turning 21 in july. the fact that my brother is visiting at the end of june suggests the perfect opportunity to celebrate both. so there's guest lists to plan, menus to think about, deorations and accutrements to consider.

on top of that my angel workshop is just two weeks away.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

do you know what day it is?

from a cartoon seen on another blog:

... i don't either, but enjoy it anyway!

no win, no how

my grandmother is the master of the no-win situation. unfortunately, what she has not learned in her long life is that in a no-win situation, no one wins, including the person who sets the situation up.

on tuesday, feeling guilty that i had not been to see my grandmother for any number of reasons none of which mean anything at all to her, i promised to bring her a hamburger for lunch on wednesday. she told me she was "dying" for a hamburger. i had an appointment with my chiropractor and high hopes she might be able to do something about my knee. her office is half way to my grandmother's. i had to eat lunch anyway.

while enjoying the ministrations of the massage therapist, i racked my brain trying to figure out where i was going to find my grandmother a hamburger at 11 am. all options seemed to include driving the other direction - and the knees's made driving even more painful than $4.35 gas. finally, i settled on what seemed to be the only solution - the mcdonald's at bishop's corner in west hartford.

for those of you who don't know this part of the world, bishop's corner is the ubiqitous name the natives use for the intersection of route 44 and main street. created as a mecca for shoppers, it is better described as a maelstrom of suburban hell. but i have good reflexes - and for my grandmother's sake i was willing to go toe to toe with all the suburban assault vehicles driven by all the soccer moms in west hartford. besides, i left the chiropractor's with my knee feeling pretty good. just don't do the stuff that makes it hurt, she said as i left. like drive, i thought, as i slid behind the wheel.

with hamburgers in hand, however, i arrived at my grandmother's to find her sitting in the lobby, fast asleep. we went upstairs, she seemed pleased to see me. then she started. her stomach hurt, she was cold, her shoes hurt. she couldn't sit in the kitchen chair, it was too hard. she couldn't sit in her big red chair, it was too soft. she hadn't slept, she's tired of being all alone, she wants to go home. (she has no idea how fervently nor with how many that feeling is shared.) her stomach hurts.

needless to say, she can't eat her hamburger. she has to go lie down. she wants to go home to ocean city where at least people come to see her. what people, i asked? she didn't answer, probably because she couldn't remember anyone still alive. so she started about her stomach again.

the nurse said it's all the food you've been bringing in, she said. oh, i replied, you mean all the food you've asked me to bring in? i got up, gave her a kiss, threw the hamburger away, and told her i hoped she felt better soon. then i left, wondering why on earth i had gone to trouble she neither cared about nor seemed to appreciate.

when the phone rang later yesterday afternoon, i was tempted not to answer. it's not that i was feeling especially psychic - the miracle of caller id told me it was my grandmother. BE THE BETTER PERSON, i heard my mother say.

im very sorry, my grandmother said when i picked up the phone. i want you to come back.

i can't come back, i said, as gently as possible. the doctor said i shouldn't do things that hurt my knee, and driving is one of them. and it's late now, libby will be home from school and i have stuff to do around the house.

well how about tomorrow, she said.

im not going anywhere tomorrow either, i said. i have to rest my knee. i'll try to come on friday, but i really have to see how it feels.

i could feel her sigh as she hung up the phone. maybe it isn't ever too late to learn.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

blame it on buddy

by six oclock yesterday evening, it was painfully apparent that buddy's attempt to run down a bunny while leashed the evening before has caused me to reinjure my knee. i have one of those funny bodies that seems to wait a good day or so before reacting to injury or strain. even my muscles ache more the second day after strenous exertion than they do the first.

and so i retreated once more to comfrey compresses, salt baths, ice packs, and aspirin. tomorrow i see my chiropractor - who worked such magic on my hip. perhaps there's something she can do about my knee. in anticipation that she can't, i plan to spend the day - after a visit to my grandmother - either on the couch or in the tub.

to make matters worse, this morning, i tripped over a bone. make that plan a promise.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

comforting comfrey

one of the nicest things about knowing healing-witchy type women is that they can be counted on to leap into action at the first peep for help. not only that, but some of them make housecalls.

yesterday, my dear friend rose was kind enough to swing by the house with a packet of green wonders. the little brown bag included st joan's wort oil (you may know it better by its more common name - st john's wort) - good for rubbing on bruises and sore joints, face cream - more heavenly than i can tell you - it makes the commercial stuff smell like poison after a while, and a few surprises, not the least of which were a couple packets of seeds, an energy spray and some comfrey leaves, all moist and fresh and prickly and green.

so last night, in my epsom salt bath, i rubbed the area around my knee with oil, smooshed up some comfrey, rubbed that in too, and covered it with a wet comfrey leaf and a washcloth. the little pricklies didn't bother my skin between the oil and the heat, and the wetness. then i iced it, then i applied the warm comfrey compress and oil, then i iced it.

i repeated the same routine this morning. i'm ready for my knee to get better. i hope it will be soon, too.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

in like a lamb

for the first morning in forever, i was able to walk the puppies wearing only a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals. the air was still heavy with last night's rain, mist drifted off the mum fields. the bullfrogs croaked and the woodpeckers drilled a counterpoint to the raucous chorus of crows and catbirds, and not a ripple of gooseflesh stippled my skin.

by six oclock, as i write this, the sky is already blue. against a backdrop of bright spring green, the flowers preen every shade of purple and pink and yellow and red and blue. the crabapple on the other side of the driveway is blooming.

it's sunday, and even the puppies are snoring again. i took my coffee on the deck and listened to the water bubble over the fall, watched the spears of sunlight stream through pine-branches like black lace. no window at chartres or notre dame or anywhere else, for that matter, ever glowed with more exquisite grace.

in this little piece of paradise, it could be hard to imagine that there are places where the world seems not so sweet. but i remember too many mornings when i was not so grateful to be alive.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

out like a lion

a sultry silver sky and the forecast suggest that this last day of may is going to be a doozy. severe storms are predicted - the kind with winds over 60 miles an hour and golf ball size hail. and, as the weather man cheerfully reminded us all a few days ago, storm severity does not include lightning severity... so along with hail and the wind, i can expect buddy to try and climb up onto my lap anytime i sit down.

i've already weeded as many of the gardens as my knee will allow. after i ice it a few minutes, im going out to harvest the chamomile that's ready. the scent of apples it gives off is heavenly. i hate the thought of hail crushing my poor little buds.

today will be a good day to play catch up around the house... both girls are home and bored. buddy is already pacing and whining and looking nervous... he knows a storm is coming hours before it gets here.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

pounding the pestle

there's nothing like playing with a mortar and pestle to make you feel like a witch. okay - there's nothing like playing with a mortar and pestle that makes ME feel like a witch. particularly when its smashing up eggshells to nourish my garden. my dear friends rose and ruth gave me some advice on how to deal with the ants invading my thyme garden - ruth suggested asking them to go away, and rose suggested a sugar-salt-eggshell combination to both nourish the soil AND make the suggestion more potent.

i decided to leave out the salt. sowing the ground with salt raises unhappy memories of latin class - the romans sowed the soil of carthage with salt after they destroyed everything to make sure nothing else could grow there. and without the salt, the ants don't need sugar.

so im brewing up my eggshells - libby wondered why we had breakfast for dinner every night this week - adding a bit of old dried comfrey i found at the bottom of my herb chest, as well as a bit of cinquefoil to strengthen the concoction times five. im letting it simmer and then i'll dilute by a few watering cans full of water.

then i'll add it to the thyme and the other herb beds... and very strongly ask the ants to please take their colonies Somewhere Else - like, say, anywhere on the other side of the ponds.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

on the mend

my knee, after much rest, ice, and elevation - with a lot reiki, and some salt baths thrown in - feels at least sixty percent better. it only twinges when i walk - more or less normally, and the stabbing pains shooting up and down my leg when i try to go up and down stairs are far less acute than they were.

ive already given it one ice-salt bath-reiki-ice treatment. i'm having a massage today and i must remember to tell my dear friend rose that her white-willow ginger-root tonic she made for my mother (who refused to try it) made a wonderfully soothing brew, especially with a few dried wild blueberries blended in.

and i will miss class... alas.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

nod to my knees

yesterday afternoon, while attempting to steam clean the carpet where buddy vomited last week, i felt something funny in my knee. not a good funny, but not a horrible funny either. just a twinge that made me think... oh, that's not good.

it was sore, but not so sore i didn't go to class.

alas.

my poor left knee is done in.

i've iced it twice this morning, and had a hot salt bath. while sitting in the tub, i made sure i thanked both my knees, as well as my feet, my ankles and my lower legs, for the amazing job they so effortlessly do, holding up the rest of me, while bending and flexing at will. i don't spend a lot of time thinking about my lower extremities, unless some part complains. and then, i realized, its the quickest fix possible, and on to the next adventure. but really, is that how *I* like to be treated, when i feel sick?

a big piece of the angel's way of eating messages have to do with self-love and self-acceptance, which includes accepting our own limits. and limits aren't something i accept easily - in anyone, or in any situation.

so today im taking care of my knees. i have another ice bag chilling, i have plenty of epsom salts. im putting it up, im resting it, im giving it lots of reiki. today, rather than the other way round, i am bending to the will of my knees.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

happy birthday, laura rose

shortly after i moved in with Beloved, i discovered that right around the corner from my house, the universe had most thoughtfully provided a source of inspiration, knowledge and understanding.

the name of this place was the purple rose and the person who owned it was a little woman with curly dark hair and big brown eyes, eyes that even then i noticed looked alarmingly like mine.

laura needed customers. i needed books. it was, as they say, a match made in Heaven.

looking back, over the last five years or so as our friendship has grown, i realize now that Heaven must have had a hand in it. there are people, who, when i met them for the first time, i have felt a kind of unmistakeable recognition... a resonance like a chime within my soul. oh, there you are...i hear.

my dear friend lorraine was one. Beloved was another.

and laura is a third. i think we were siblings in other lifetimes, quite possibly even twins. Prodded, nudged and nurtured as i've been along my path, laura has been beside me, every step of the way. we've been mistaken for sisters, for cousins, for lesbian lovers.

today is her birthday. it's a big one... a threshold birthday, as i think of them - one of the ones that has come to signify a transition from one stage of life into another. fortunately for laura, it's one i've already crossed, and as she said, i make approaching fifty look easy. we're going out to lunch, even though today is gray. i cant wait to hear what she thought of my angel workshop. i hope she likes her present.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

in memoriam

"in flander's fields, the poppies grow... "

i can hear my parents' voices, one overlain upon the other, reciting those lines to me and my brother. my parents - both of them - read poems to us from an anthology that included the works of poets who ranged from chaucer and shakespeare, to donne and marvel, to ae houseman, blake, yeats, poe, kipling, kilmer and hughes.

i had no idea what the poem meant of course, but we called my great grandfather "poppy" and so the word hooked in my mind. i remember my father and mother trying to explain that it wasn't rows of old men growing in those faraway fields, but flowers. i think they left out the part about the tombstones.

i figured that part out myself when i was a freshman in high school and encountered a similiar poem in the same vein. this time i was studying latin and was able to translate the final line - dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, as "it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country."

but in the poem, that line is called "the old lie."

according to my father, my irish grandmother's family, the moylans, arrived in the mid 18th century - early enough in the life of the young country to establish themselves as gentleman farmers and merchants by the time of the revolution, and i may count general stephen moylan, who endured the winter at valley forge with washington, as one of my grandfathers.

i am not yet so much a pacifist that i dont believe that there are causes worth fighting for. my uncles and great uncles - on both sides of my family - all served in world war two. but i do not believe that i disgrace their memories or their acheivements to say that i am proud that not a drop of any blood directly linked to mine has been spilled in either viet nam or this ongoing disgrace in iraq.

i bought a poppy yesterday, from a veteran - a man old enough to my great-uncle. i said thank you as i stuffed my dollar in his box. it occured to me that the poppy is the opium flower... and in the image of the red poppies, the white crosses, i saw an interesting juxtaposition of dreams and death and sleep and illusion i hadn't seen before.

i think it is a lie that it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. countries are artifical things, carved up men or accident of geography, recognized only by our self-created conventions of culture and time. the struggle of an individual or a group of individuals against tyranny, on the other hand, is a struggle that transcends cultures and conventions, and carries across time.

when the individual sacrifices his life for a universal cause - something that benefits the good of all beings - his life is not given in vain. but when individuals are deluded and seduced into giving their lives for something made up only by men... like a country... a revolution is called for.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

eating... the angel way

my first workshop went well. it helped, of course, that i did it before an audience of people i generally know, love and respect.

a funny thing happened about an hour before it was time to start. i was tidying up my writing room, and wondering when the angels might be arriving.

i distinctly heard the doorbell ring. Beloved was downstairs, cleaning up the chairs. i didn't understand why he'd be ringing the doorbell, though it was certainly possible he'd locked himself out. but i distinctly remembered unlocking the door that morning...

so i went downstairs. there was no one at the back door, and Beloved was busily engaged in his cleaning.

why'd you ring the doorbell, i asked, as i tested the knob to see if it was locked. (it wasn't.)

i didn't ring the doorbell, Beloved replied.

you didn't? i asked again. you're not locked out?

of course not, he answered. the door was wide open.

it's nice to know the angels are not only punctual, but polite.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

satisfying saturday

i spent four hours in the gardens today - two hours this morning, and now two more this afternoon. the beds are mulched and weeded, the flowers potted at the back door. its still too cold to think too much about herbs, and im hoping my dear friend has some ideas as to what to do about the ants who've moved into my thyme beds. i even got the zen garden weeded, and the sweet annie bed raked out.

libby cleaned out my car (remuneration is appreciated, she reminded me. four times.) we went grocery shopping, for the angel workshop tomorrow. i found some lovely chocolate. the hand outs are complete, the notes are done. i have some tidying up to do, but otherwise, the house is clean and i just need to print the handouts.

i sent debby two chapters of rigged and i have a third nearly finished. the new book is coming along, but marsia is on hold. now, i need a nap.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!

fabulous friday

my right hip is amazingly better. my left quadriceps is strained. i had trouble kicking last night, raising my leg above the level of my hip was hard, and got harder. when i came home, i took a salt bath and iced it the rest of the night. today i intend to rest and ice it, and i may even break down and take an ibuprofen.

i'd like to go to the krav class tomorrow.

sunday is my first eating...the angel way workshop, a sort of preview that i am offering to friends and other healers who may be interested enough to get the word out.

the new story is coming along well, though i have to resist reading too much history, too much of the "real story." there's conflicting myth and no one knows when it "really" happened. So there is no real story, i have to keep telling myself. there's only the one we make up.

and that's my "story," and i'm sticking to it. (;) rose.)

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

the risks of writing

this morning, the first blog i read happened to be from one of my aol friends (LGVernon) announcing the publication of her first novel TOMORROW. (The Wilderness Road - set in the post-Civil War West - i have to order a copy for my mother the civil war buff.)

although she's proud and happy, she's also mostly scared. that's how i felt when my first novel was published - as though i'd taken all my clothes off and was dancing naked on a billboard. i can't say that feeling has ever gone completely away. each story demands that i strip away another layer, peel off another piece, mine another vein. the process of writing has taken me deeper and further into my own unconscious than i have ever wanted to go.

it is the doorway for everything else, so the compensations are great. but it is always an act of courage for me, on some level, to write, because i never really know what demons will rise, what monsters will creep, what truth will inevitably spill its guts across the screen.

just yesterday, the first bisexual character i have ever created stepped out of the shadows and into the story. it is the first time this piece of myself stands so revealed. my bisexuality is not something i ever talk about - to anyone, anywhere. it's always there, i think, in the way my left-handness is there - but most people don't notice. or maybe it's just i don't think they do. :)

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

thorough thursday

i didn't make it to killer yoga. my hip - due to ministrations and manipulations of a chiropractor, a massage therapist, a cranial-sacral therapist and a personal trainer - actually only twinged now and again, and when libby started whining that she didn't feel like going, i decided it was a signal from the universe to Rest.

i was tired from cleaning up dog vomit. there was a spectacular thunderstorm going on, too, that felt like the first summer storm. i opted to cuddle with libby on the couch and then annoy her by calling out jeopardy answers.

this morning i have a dentist appointment (shudder), and then myriad chores to make sure my day is clear tomorrow, so laura and i can go visit her mother.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

worrisome wednesday

for the second morning in a row, i woke up to dog vomit. buddy, otherwise known as mister buddy love, all 100 loveable, luggable pounds, has been throwing up for the last twenty four hours.

im pretty sure he has to just get whatever it is out of his system - he's not lethargic, just hurt at being kept penned up. he's drinking and peeing and pooping normally. but i guess a call to the vet is in order, and maybe the hibiscus tree my sister gave me for mother's day should go live at Beloved's office.

i went to the cosi-girls' book group. it was good to see the ladies, and next month they are discussing one of my all-time favorite novels in the world - a prayer for owen meany. so i sure don't want to miss THAT.

i not only survived my first krav class, i liked it. Beloved is impressed to no end at my endurance. i mostly punch like a girl, but im getting it. as chris the krav instructor reminded me, no one's ever taught me how.

i hope Beloved follows through on his promise to get himself a punching bag like they have at the gym for father's day.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

tumultous tuesday

so i survived... not just a day that began at 430 am... but my first krav class. yeah, im sore, and yeah, i ache,.... but it's a good ache, a good sore. tomorrow i plan to stick much closer to home...my characters are callng.

merry monday

today was busy. it started off with a two hour folding and stamping and stapling and sticking marathon with laura - we have a mailer to get out announcing my new angel workshop and support group, and her new psychic development circle. i think both of us are pretty excited about it, and what's wonderful is the way they dovetail together.

i wanted to stop at our favorite tea shop, but it was pouring rain, and so i opted to come home and nap before tackling any other projects. but i managed to get the laundry done, dinner cooked, and all the zone work finished before kickboxing... at which class i did SIXTY SIX pushups.

tomorrow i have another busy day - and possibly my first krav class... assuming i wake up tomorrow and can walk.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

sleepy sunday

i think my favorite month, if i had to pick one, would have to be may. the sun is warm, the air is - here in connecticut, at least - still crisp enough at night to make snuggling fun if not strictly necessary, the days are long and full of the kind of promise only possible in spring.

the gold light, the green wet grass, the birds all beckoned me out to the gardens where the weeds are beginning their annual riot. whatever leap i had on them, they are rapidly gaining ground. i heard them snickering at me as i trudged from garden to garden.

this may brings a second full moon in scorpio, a one-two punch of tough love incarnate that calls me out, into the gardens, to dig my hands in the soil of all that i am rooted in, to pull out the weeds and address the pests. mercury is in its home sign of gemini, encouraging open communications.

but despite all good intentions, after just an hour, the afternoon turned chilly and gray again. i saw it as a clear invitation to snuggle up on the couch, go to bed early and let the waxing moon shine through an early summer's night's dream.

in the afterglow of forest folk

i roped meg into coming along with me to the second day of forest folk. laura and i had considered setting up a table, for which we needed accoutrements, like chairs and a table cloth. but once we arrived, laura suggested we make do with a blanket - it was much sunnier and drier today. so we did. laura read a few cards, meg read a book, i mostly talked.

i think my workshop was well-received - its one of my favorites, any way - and i heard a lot of people say they were going to laura's. i reconnected with an old friend who'd disappeared off my radar screen, my dear friend rose gifted me with a beautiful purple handmade spirit cord with a pentacle attached. i met a lovely couple from vermont, whose handmade rope sandals looked very comfy and definitely bear a second look, given the tattered state of my birkenstocks. it wasn't a long visit, but it felt very far away.

i came home to a clean house. meg and libby are off to a prime rib dinner - their reward - and i'm waiting for word of Beloved, who went off to learn to how to fend off attacks from those wielding sticks, knives and guns. a turkey breast is roasting in the oven, i have sweet potatoes and purple onions and fresh broccoli to go along with it.

as we were leaving the festival today, i asked meg what she thought of it. she paused, gave me a long look and said... well, mom, im glad you have people.

here's to my peeps. long may you frolic.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

post three-oh-one

that's the number of this post. it's ironic that today im going to give a talk on tree wisdom at the forest folk festival in oxford, ct. three and one, in combination, have always been magical numbers to me.

my birthday is the 31st, i have 3 girls and 1 boy. baby jake was born on 13th, my eldest daughter's birthday is 10-30. my father's birthday is 03-01. threes and ones appear frequently in various combinations in other places throughout my life, including the three holly trees which were planted on the day i was born.

it pains me immeasurably to think that i am the one who will sign the documents that take them out of my family forever, that may, on some level, seal their death warrants. only two of the original three are left, and that missing tree was the prettiest of them all. i will miss them greatly when they are gone.

when i was a little girl, my favorite story of all was called The Little House, by Virginia Lee Burton. i can still hear my mother reciting the story to me, as we turned the pages over and over. it's a story about a little house built originally far out in the country, around which a big city grows.

the story of the little house ends happily, for the great great grandson of the man who originally built the little house comes and finds it, and moves it, far out again, into the country. there will be no such happy ending for my grandmother's house, nor, i fear, my holly trees.

the realtor called the other day - there's a couple interested who've come to see the house three times now, and the third time, they brought an architect. he has high hopes an offer will be coming soon.

my only wish is that they let my hollies live.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

blessings on a dismal day

yesterday, i woke up scared and cranky. i had a dentist appointment and dentists scare me... the way some people are scared of spiders and snakes. to make matters worse, my teeth, like the rest of me, appear to have become inordinately sensitive.

the gray weather perfectly matched my mood, as did the dog poop i had to clean up first thing - fortunately in the laundry room, this time, on the tile.

but i am happy to say, the day improved steadily from there - the dentist was a kind, gentle man who insisted i call him dave, his assistant took the time to deaden my gums with some sort of topical anesthetic. i wasn't too sore afterward, and i was able to reward myself at mickey d's.

libby had a half day, so i picked her up at school. we went shopping for birthday presents for respective friends, and i was able to further reward myself with a new vera bradley bag.

the day ended well with a brutal workout, a concert at libby's school, and a hot salt bath. today laura and i are driving down to Forest Folk Festival in oxford... to read tarot cards, give a workshop or two, and hang out with kindred spirits. if the rain holds off, that is.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

no greater love

people should actually be required to pass tests, i think, before the State or anyone else gives them a license to marry. and one of the tests should be the survival of a home renovation project. one of the reasons i married Beloved was because the summer after i moved into Pond House, we renovated the kitchen. since we were still willing to talk to each other and sleep together at the end of the four month project, i figured the relationship had legs.

now we are about to embark on another grand project, even grander, really, if one is counting square footage. we are about to enlarge our kitchen, and turn our three-season deck -which currently serves as dog pen and catch-all - into real, live, actual liveable, useable space. it will give me a kitchen more than twice the size of the one i've got now, a garden window, three times the cabinet space, and even, possibly, a room just for eating... which will enable so many more possibilities in the current living/dining room combination we have now.

that is, if Beloved and i don't kill each other first.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

this happy golden day

i had a wonderful mother's day. the sun shone, i was showered with cards, flowers, and compliments. the food was good all but for the ham, which was a tad fatty, and the chocolate cake, which came out a bit dry. i was surprised - i found the recipe in the joy of cooking which usually is quite reliable. i might've overbaked it... i was a tad distracted when i baked it. but the other cake, also from the joy, came out really well.

this is a good thing - since im bringing a smaller version of it, and a gift over to my grandmother today. i haven't been to see her in two weeks - and of course she complained to my mother that i NEVER come. (never mind she's seen more of me in the last nine months than she has in the last nine years.) but mama pele must be appeased... i think i will bring her some bananas and sprinkle a little coconut on top of her cake.

today is gray and chilly - a good day to unwind, come down and tidy up. tonight is also kickboxing. this is the first week since starting this regimen that i have time to do all three classes. may goddess have mercy on my soul.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

faster than a speeding bullet...

the table is set. the cakes (one buttermilk, one devil's food) are baked. both will be frosted with the same buttercream frosting... one will have chocolate sprinkles and one will have strawberries.) the ham is lounging in the fridge, Beloved is retrieving last minute necessaries.

the house is clean - zones one and five (thanks to libby) are cleaned for the week. the laundry's sorted and cued for tomorrow. Beloved and i made headway in the gardens. i still have weeding and mulching to do... and one last big garden to clean up... but the bulk of the gardens are on maintenance mode, at last... heavy constant maintenance mode, mind you... but maintenance mode.

the rest of the mother's day menu includes pineapple pudding, string bean casserole, scalloped potatoes, crescent rolls and baby peas. the only thing left to do is wrap the gifts, put my feet up, and enjoy the sunshine.

happy mother's day, gentle readers and fellow pixels. blessed be.

in defense of single mothers

a few years ago, in the local paper, a woman who happened to be a single mother wrote an article on mother's day in which she pretty much bemoaned her single state. the mother of one child around 8, she was upset because on mother's day, there was no one to make sure she had breakfast in bed, a special dinner, or any of the other hallmark card attributes we're all told we're supposed to expect from our children and significant others. i felt sorry for her, but i also felt she was doing single mothers a disservice by creating the illusion that all of us were mourning the loss of less than ideal relationships.

you see, at the time, i was a single mother of four. i left my abusive husband in march of 1995, moved to connecticut in 1996, and i have never looked back. and so, in the interests of single mothers everywhere, i am reposting my letter to the editor - the only letter to the editor i have ever written - and the only one i've ever had published.

Dear Ms H -

It's not often I am tempted to respond to somethingI read in the newspaper, especially when it is an opinion piece such as yours was this past mother's day. But in defense of single mothers everywhere i feel called upon to respond. not all of us woke up on mother's day to no recognition whatsoever - "no card, brunch or breakfast tray." Not all single mothers are mourning the loss of a less than ideal relationship. some of us are congratulating ourselves on having the guts to leave the jerk, and wondering why we didn't do it sooner. Some of us are patting ourselves on the back for creating lives of our own choosing, not shaped by anyone else's expectations or demands. And some of us celebrate the fact that we can raise our children the way we want to, without having to negotiate with any other adult over bedtimes, pastimes or mealtimes.

I'm the single mother of four children. I've been on my own for seven years, and i thank god everyday for the strength and courage i finally found to leave an abusive relationship that very nearly cost me a piece of my soul. Look back and mourn? No way, no how. Every day is Mother's Day for me. My children adore me - I am the rock at the center of their world. Not a day goes by one doesn't say thank you for something, albeit as small as a favorite snack or a pair of laundered jeans.

I understand your daughter is very young, and that sometimes it is difficult to be the only adult in a household. But the upside of being the only adult far outweights the negatives in my opinion - far better to be alone than to be in a relationship that drains and diminishes and provides an unhealthy role model for one's children.

And no, my kids didn't serve me breakfast in bed, and they didn't cook my dinner. But that's because one, i have a waterbed and it's tough to eat in a waterbed, and two, i get up at five am because i like the peace and quiet, and three, i don't want anyone ruining my steak. But each of them had a gift for me that showed their appreciation of all i do in ways that touched me and nourished me and made me more grateful than ever I had the sense to walk away from the unprintable excuse for a human being who was their biological father.

So please don't speak for all single mothers with such self--pity. Some of us don't feel sorry for ourselves - or our children - at all.

Sincerely.... annie kelleher
to all the single mothers, and others, ... happy mother's day. may you be blessed with everything you deserve. :)

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

too freaking wild

so me and laura went to a spoonbending workshop.... it was WAY cool!!!!! she bent her spoon on her FIRST try (show-off)... it took ME a while longer... until laura said... you do have to put some push into it... and i was like... yeah? and she was like... YEAH...so i did and ....

WOW... it BENT~!!!!!

then i came home and of course Beloved insisted i bend another one...

SO I DID!!!!

leaping tall buildings

- rock garden on left of drive: weeded, tilled, over a dozen new plants and bulbs planted and transplanted, fed and mulched.
- rockgardens to right of drive: weeded, raked
- pansy garden in center of hosta garden: weeded, raked
- herb gardens near party house: weeded
- chamomile bed: weeded
- zen garden: weeded (interior only, exterior will have to wait til tomorrow)
- center garden: weeded, need for mulch noted
- sage, bee balm, forget-me-nots, mother's day gifts - purchased.
- chores (meg's room, bathroom and laundry room) and shopping (for food for tomorrow) - delegated to meg
- showered, dressed and ready to go!

mother's day sneak-up

somehow, mother's day snuck up on me this year. i don't know how i missed it. in the last two weeks i've spoken to my mother at least six times and my sister twice.

Beloved is driving down to brooklyn today to see HIS mother, and mine is coming to dinner tomorrow. along with my stepfather and little brother. and my oldest daughter and my son in law. and baby jake. meg and libby will be here. my sister, her husband and two kids will be stopping in for cake and coffee after the baby shower they're all attending.

but somehow in the midst of all this it escaped me that six extra people will be showing up for dinner around five pm, and that four more will be showing up an hour later for dessert. somehow it completely escaped me that *I* am the person who will be expected to cook and provide the food for all these people - by my count, 14, including, of course, baby jake, who is the least my worries at this point.

somehow in the midst of everything, it escaped me that my mother, my grandmother, my sister and my daughter will all expect some sort of at least token recognition that they are mothers, too.

today means a few hours of scurrying and listing and planning.... but it also means me and my friend laura are going up to chicopee mass to see a guy who can bend spoons.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

fifty-five push-ups

that's how many push-ups i had to do in cardio class last night. okay, they were girl push-ups, but i am not exactly a GIRL anymore, if you catch my drift. the old gray mare had moments of feeling like she was gonna drop in her traces. but i managed to do it, and i always like having a goal.

fifty-five BOY pushups... by the end of the summer.

my body is already feeling the results of the last three weeks. along with sore and achey, i feel lighter and tighter. my muscles, on the other hand, are in what i used to call full-revolt mode - which is what i used to encounter in the years where i worked out far more assiduously than i've done recently.

in full-revolt mode, they hold on to water, fluid, or whatever it is for as long as they possibly can - so that my scale refuses to budge. it used to only last for days. now it's taken three weeks to nudge the scale down two measly pounds.

i believe my body does this as a last ditch effort to return to slothdom - if i think im not getting anything out this torment, i believe it reasons, surely i will quit and return me to the couch.

but alas... for my muscles, my sinews, my tendons and everything in between. there's more than just me driving this... there's a character involved.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

of lilacs and manure

one of the most wonderful things about my writing room is that one window overlooks the top of a lilac bush. every spring, when the lilac bursts into purple flower, my writing room is periodically infused with that most ambrosial of scents.

the lilac's blooming corresponds to the birthday of one of my old writing teachers... juilene osborne mcknight. (you can google her - she's real) so every year - since coming to live here - i think of her, round and about her birthday, and every year - since coming to live here - for perhaps two glorious weeks, i bask in the perfume of paradise. i noticed yesterday the first faint fragrance, wafting into the writing room with every passing breeze.

the other thing that happens this time of year, predictable as the rise of the pleiades, is that the farmer next door brings in dump truck loads full of manure with which to fertilize the mum fields. mum's the word, all right - talk about an SPV (silent but violent, a term my little sister taught me many years ago, usually applied to farts.)

my first clue yesterday was when i thought a dog had had an accident and went sniffing through the house for the source of the odor. that's when it hit me - figuratively, fortunately: if the lilac is just bursting into bloom... it's time for bill to bring in the shit.

i can't tell you how many times i've caught a whiff of lilac, then drawn a deeper breath and smelled not heaven, but manure. i could close the window, get an air freshner. i could smudge, burn incense, light scented candles.

but i leave the window open anyway, because that intense scent of lilac, so fleeting and so sweet, is more than worth a few lungfuls full of poop.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.

fire in the head

creative chaos is what emily - the weekend's facilitator - promised, and creative chaos is what i've got. there's a fire burning in my head, an idea sparked by a simple connection i made this morning.

another character - YES! ANOTHER CHARACTER! - has shouldered her way onto center stage - a character who steps out of the pages of mythology itself. she is a character who has appeared and reappeared repeatedly throughout my novels - a character who's first incarnation was so compelling she practically became the heroine of the third book of my first trilogy.

already, my inner editor assumes the guise of a dominatrix in black leather. of couse i know that ideas are the easy part. ideas are the joyous part. tonight, as the moon slips into gemini, i will turn a deaf ear to my demon, from the place where i know that the ability to write a novel, to turn an idea into a story, is measured not in ideas, but in sentences.

i will let the character speak. i will type what she tells me. and i will let the fire burn.

new moon in taurus

the new moon in taurus brings with it a sense of patience, of respite, even; after the fire of aries and the passion of scorpio, an opportunity to turn within and embrace the reality of all who we are at the present moment, to bask, even, in a long moment of loving-kindness, in the same way the buds are bursting into the full flower of their glory.

maybe its the fact that my venus is in taurus that makes me so acutely aware of all the places i ache. luxury-loving venus enjoys pleasure, not pain, and this new moon finds my right side so sore i feel like one person in two bodies.

my left side feels pleasantly challenged. my right side - especially my right arm - feels like it spent the day hitting bricks. the last combative sport of any kind i engaged in was fencing, and no one ever expected my right arm to do much of anything but stay out of the way and balance the rest of me. there is an unpleasant twinge in my right hip, but the backs of both of my thighs remind me of how they used to feel after a good long run.

i hope baby jake is pleasant today when he arrives. my plan is to sit him outside and let him watch while i garden. there is a part of me that doesn't understand why at the age of 49, after a near-decade of indolence, i have jumped back into this kind of regimen.

but there is another part that always whispers - it was a woman - an older woman - who taught cuchulain how to be the greatest hero in all of irish myth.

and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.