Honey A. Hutson's Blog

June 5, 2012

I have kept journals for many, many years. Decades in fact. It was not so long ago I read through several different time periods, wondering what was in those journals. Anything significant or just my mental wanderings. Were they something I might someday regret writing down? I spurred many questions that will likely make future blogs, essays and even short stories. Who knows, maybe even a novel. I’m sure they will find their way into the story of my adult life, should I ever find the time to put it to the page.
I reflected for a long while on what I found there. Each separate period felt like I was reading the thoughts of a different person. Each one had differing opinions, differing feelings, differing reactions to the things around her. Then I realized my journals are all the people I have been and there have been many. Each a lifetime removed from the other.
While they may have had the same goals, the same dreams in some cases, they were very different in what held priority and sway. What would get in ones way would not get in another’s. Even the personalities were different. There was a point in my life when I had no personality of my own, but seemed to bend to those I was most in contact with. This I understand all too well. It came from a need to belong, to fit in somewhere, anywhere. For such a huge part of my life I wanted more than anything to belong in some way to the world around me, to the people around me.
It took decades for me to understand that some people just aren’t meant to belong anywhere. Some are born wanders whose place it is to float about observing. Different wanders have different purposes. Mine is to record the world as I find it, then translate it into understandable, usable information for absorption by others. To give a view of things that are not readily available to the reader I reach. I never belonged to one particular place, but was a transient being trying to find an anchor that was not intended for my possession.
I would watch and mimic, trying to find an open spot meant for me, or maybe just take a spot left open by someone else’s twist of raw fate. I was trying to fit in places I did not belong, to people who did not know what I was or how to associate with my strange otherness.
When the pain of trying to fit into places I did not belong grew to be too much, I let go, let myself drift and found peace there in the current. The struggle is past, the wayward anchor sent to the scrap heap and I drift, quite content to observe and record as I float through places I could never belong.
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Published on June 05, 2012 18:59 • 129 views • Tags: blog, drift, fate, journal, journaling, reflection, wandering

May 29, 2012

The forest to my left looks like a winter landscape. No undergrowth, no foliage, the trees visible further through the forest than ever I can remember. The small pine needles are the sickening color of death as the heat left them brittle and dead. The ground beneath is bare, but for rocks. Fallen trees lay charred, warriors lost to battle with the quick moving flames. The rest are scared, but if you look to the canopy a sparse layer of green is reaching for the sun. Most of them will survive but will bear the scars of their battle for life. They stood tall, held what they could out of reach and did not give to the fire. Its short attention span carried it past them after a short mauling and they will live to see many more springs.
On the other side of the grey ribbon of hardtop the forest is lush and green, the undergrowth thick, small seedling pines visible springing from the ground in small clearings where there is enough light. This forest has a green florescence to it during the day, no matter the weather. Even sunny days can be dark in places. It is a forest that bears some age. One can’t help but feel the wisdom in the trees, in the rushing water of the creek I listen to as I write this. There are trees in this forest that can boast centuries of knowledge and history if you know where to find them. The younger trees almost seem to crowd around, keeping them hidden in the forest folds.
It is a place I am at home, a place where I find peace. I have considered more than once not leaving, just disappearing into those woods and never coming back. It is such an intense feeling that it has even spurred a novel about a gifted woman who does just that. Those are my desires laid on the page, she is doing what I only long to do, a fantasy by all measures, but if only it were possible. Here I would find peace like I can find nowhere else. The kind of peace that has eluded me for forty years.
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Published on May 29, 2012 17:22 • 47 views • Tags: death, forest, forest-fire, growth, life, rebirth, reborn, regrowth

April 27, 2012

Someone had asked me recently if I believe in ghosts. As someone who started out life in a haunted house and who has lived in several since, I was not hesitant to say that I do. Being a writer whose subject is often along paranormal lines I have often tapped into that belief in some very unique ways.
After all, what is a ghost? It is my feeling that the word itself is a general term, for the definition of a ghost can vary from one belief to another. I lost two brothers when I was a young child. One before I was even born. While I didn’t know him, he still haunted my life. Not in form, but in memory, essence and in the empty space he left behind. Though I’d never known the space when it was filled with his presence before he died, it was a very real and hollow place in our household. It had the resonance of a huge bell, doubled by the matching space on the other side of it by the second brother. He died when I was four, just long enough to know his presence in my daily life, just long enough to feel the empty space for the rest of mine.
This effect was multiplied for my sister, who was sandwiched in between the boys in age and thus suffered not only the hollows on either side of her, but the repercussions throughout the family itself, being intimately tied to all their memories.
So they haunted us all, for some of us stronger ghosts than others. There were occasions when it was their spirit in the corporeal, but more often and intently it was what was not there. An indefinable memory of what had been kept alive by those who cherished their memory to the point of their own determent, not to mention the other members trapped in that household of hollow places.
There are many kinds of hauntings. The filmy spirituous kind are the least harmful and often the most feared, which is ironic considering the nature of the others is far more destructive. Memories and anxieties slip quietly in and do their dirty work while we aren’t looking, eroding away relationships and courage, drive and ambition, all the things that allow us to move beyond the past and thrive in the future.
Just as we are haunted by the bad, we can be haunted by the good. It is how we take this haunting that determines whether or not it is beneficial. The good things than have come and gone can drive us to seek more of the same, or it can drive us to mourn for what is lost. Our own outlook will determine which path we choose to follow.
We are all haunted in some way, on some level. It is up to us to decide if our ghosts are to be tolerated, embraced or expelled. Choose carefully and with a clear view of what you want the future to hold.
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Published on April 27, 2012 16:33 • 52 views • Tags: death, ghosts, haunted, hauntings, memories, psychological, spirits

April 7, 2012

What do you like to read in a blog? What is your idea of what a blog should/shouldn't be about?
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Published on April 07, 2012 09:27 • 65 views • Tags: blog, blog-content, content, idea

April 1, 2012

There is nowhere quite like where we live. Most especially if we love the place in which we dwell. Whether that love is a space within a house, the home itself, the location or a region.

I know when I reach home. I drive in by way of a two lane highway that climbs, levels off, climbs some more. At one point there's a gentle rise that is a steeper climb than you might suspect. Suddenly you pass from banks and woods on either side as you come up a rise and the mountains emerge in great panoramas on to the right, another rising off to the left. They roll gently off into the distance until they disappear behind the far off forest.

It's a breathtaking sight. Late evenings, just after the sun has set, but before it gets dark, they bear a blueish green tint. As the moon rises it seems to set upon the mountain as if resting before continuing it's journey into the darkening sky.

As I drive on, I turn toward these mountains and start downhill, where I wind my way around their feet, along the creek to home in a hollow at the bottom of one of these majestic creatures. For they are not inanimate things, my mountains. They breathe and move, shift and change, hibernate in the winter and bloom in the spring, thrive through the summer and lay themselves to rest in the fall to sleep again.

With or without us they have and will continue to go on for eons. There is something comforting to be embraced in a place so much older and wiser than myself. The mountains are more than where I live, they are a part of me to the very depths of my soul.
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Published on April 01, 2012 16:36 • 47 views • Tags: ancestory, creek, home, homeland, mountains, stream, woods

March 27, 2012

Blogging has always seemed this very mysterious thing to me. What do you say? Who would care what I have to say? Yet we have conversations everyday about everything imaginable. Why does writing it down become intimidating? Maybe it's because it's a record of what you said. It's one thing to insert foot into mouth, but to insert foot into mouth on paper, or worse, in a public forum is just hideously scary. I'm looking forward to chatting with readers, getting feedback about what makes a good read and what really gets you going. Feel free to give feedback if you've read anything I've written or on anything posted in the future.
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Published on March 27, 2012 17:49 • 48 views • Tags: feedback, good-reads, honey-hutson, new-blog, on-blogging, soul-inheritance, start