Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 15

Prompt 13 – The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life, A Practical Guide

Book: The Creative Habit: Learn it and use it for Life, A Practical Guide
Author: Twyla Tharp
Genre: Non-fiction – creativity
Page: 133
Prompt chosen by me for the Yin Writing session this morning.

“Creativity is an act of defiance…You’re challenging the status quo. You’re questioning accepted truths and principles. You’re asking three universal questions that mock conventional wisdom: Why do I have to obey the rules? Why can’t I be different? Why can’t I do it my way?”

When I wake up at 5:15am to write, creativity feels like an assault on my body. I sweat. My heart beats in startled spurts. My stomach begins to growl like a playful puppy. I don’t feel playful or hungry though. I feel bruised and hungover from a night of spinning in my bed, from a night of rapid dreams that won’t let my brain rest.
I definitely don’t feel defiant.
Unless I am defying sleep. Defying a need for more sleep.
The thing is…how creativity ‘acts’, well, it changes. I remember being fuelled by the deep blue bear of anger, by the fury of red jealousy, by the haggard orange of frustration…by the supple light rose of flow and the delicate yellow of purpose.
But defiance takes an energy my body can handle less and less.
Could this be a side-effect of pandemic living? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get angry when I watch the news, I get frustrated when I read stats, I get jealous when I get a rejection letter. But I don’t write it. I don’t write about these daily emotions, at least not outwardly. And I used to. I used to blog and poetry about the things that pissed me off, that felt unfair to ‘my way’ of believing, that felt incongruous to my rules…
I know I’m different. I’ve known this since I was a toddler. But even this…difference…this inside-ness of awareness of difference..it’s shifting. It’s revealing a foundation of radical intuition. It’s extending into prayer and a deep spiritual need to trust myself, no matter what I’m feeling.
So what does that say about my creativity? Does it change over time? It does, I’m writing proof of it.
How and why do the questions, the universal questions, shift over time? And how much does the body, the vessel capable of creative fury, affect these truths and principles?
My questions now play in fields of peace and calm. I’m chasing flittering butterflies because it’s fun and pleasurable. I’m smelling the air like a wolf, howling at the moon…and I can hear her answering. What the heck is that? Communications shift with seasons, that’s what’s happening.
Does defiance need a break? A nap? A hiatus to recharge? Or is being a creative the act itself? Is waking up at a gross hour to write – just that act – defiance to the day in its action to include my passion no matter what?

Prompt 12 – All The Bright Places & Yin Writing Link

Book: All the Bright Places
Author: Jennifer Niven
Genre: YA
Page 12, line 12

Prompt book chosen by my daughter, Miller.

(For the record, replacing a chalk board is more expensive than you might think.)

(But I wasn’t going to tell Bernice that.) (And neither was Viv.) (It had to be our secret.) (You should know that none of us were good at keeping secrets.)
“We can’t just leave it like this,” Bernice said, putting her hand on her full hip. “It literally has the word ‘A SUICIDE IS COMING’ carved into it.”
I bit my lower lip till it bled. (It’s a thing I do. You know, to remind me I’m alive; that things inside me, like blood, flow even though my outsides feel like cement blocks. Mostly immoveable.)
“Mr. L’s gonna call a mental health day for the entire school,” Viv said, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t he know that a mental health issue cannot be solved by a day of pyjama wearing and reading paper books.
She was right. (But I liked wearing my pjs to school, and I really, really liked reading paper books.) I shrugged my shoulders.
“Look, we should just tell Mr. Brogen that the chalkboard was like this when we came in to clean it,” Bernice said. “It’s not a lie. And, we don’t know who did it, so we can tell him that too. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
(The Big Deal, Bernice, is that someone in our school is contemplating suicide. That is a Big Deal. Someone is reaching out for help, Bernice.) (I didn’t say.)
“You’re right about telling Mr Brogen. And you’re right that Mr. L will likely call a mental health day. But you’re wrong about it not being a big deal,” I finally said.
Viv looked at the clock above the chalkboard. “Shit, we better go now before the bell rings.”
I tilted my head to the side. There was something familiar about the way the letters were carved. (I wasn’t sure what, but there was something. I didn’t mention it.)
“We can’t leave it like this,” I said. “I mean, it’ll cause…you know, a ruckus.”
“A ruckus?” Bernice blew a laugh out her nose. “Nice word, nerd.”
(It was a nice word. I am a nerd. Hashtag proud.)
Viv walked to the back of the classroom, and started rummaging through a stack of bins. “We’re in the drama room, peeps, there’s gotta be a costume or blanket or something we can throw over the board to cover it.”
“Smart, very smart,” Bernice said, walking to the back of the class to help look through the bins.
I looked at the chalkboard. “It’s on wheels.”
“What’s on wheels?” Viv said, her face in a bin.
“The chalkboard. It’s on wheels. We can just turn it around,” I said, staring at the wheels. “This thing is ancient.” I started to turn the board around. “It’s a quick band-aid, but with whatever you find to cover it, I think we’ll be good for today’s class.”
(Turning the words away was not solving anything but enough to postpone a ruckus which would most-likely be followed by a wave of

Link for Tomorrow’s Yin

Vanessa Shields is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Topic: JANUARY YIN WRITING TUESDAYS & THURSDAYS
Time: 6am

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/81105983303?pwd=OWdPdFVuYWRLdEROdVFEc2ZnN0IyQT09

Meeting ID: 811 0598 3303
Passcode: 489628
One tap mobile
+14388097799,,81105983303#,,,,489628# Canada +15873281099,,81105983303#,,,,489628# Canada

Prompt 11 – The Mysterious Benedict Society & The Perilous Journey

Book: The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey
Author: Trenton Lee Stewart, Illustrations by Diana Sudyka
Page 11, line 11
Genre: Middle-grade

“She urged Reynie to stroke the bird’s feathers (Reynie nervously obliged) and then sent her off again.”

“See, feathers are fiercely fabulous,” Trinny said as they watched her pet parrot scoot across the resting bar in her open cage.

Reynie looked at his palm, furrowed his brows, pulled out his hand sanitizer and squirted a generous amount onto his palm. When the sanitizer came out, it made a farting sound. Trinny giggled. Of course she did. Reynie tucked the sanitizer into his fanny pack then furiously rubbed his hands together.

“You always do that?” Trinny asked.

“I’m a hyper-hygienist,” Reynie said. “Self-diagnosed.” He pulled his shoulders back, zipped up his fanny pack and clapped his (clean) hands together. “Right. So, shall we get a move on then?”

Trinny rolled her eyes. “It’s not time yet. I want to stay here and talk with Reeba,” she nodded toward her parrot.

Reynie looked at the very old, but very expensive watch on his wrist, tapped it twice.

“Nope, we need to go now. The bus will arrive at the stop at precisely 4:37pm,” he looked around the bright kitchen. “Got any snacks? It’s possible we’ll be traveling through the dinner hour. I need to keep hydrated and nourished if I’m to continue my work with efficiency and ease.”

Trinny walked to the counter, opened a cupboard door above the sink. “Ta-da! The snack shack. Take your pick. Grab doubles so I can eat too. I’m sure I’ll get hungry at some point.”

Reynie walked to the cupboard and began pulling snacks out and lining them up on the counter.

“What do you mean, you’ll get hungry at some point? Don’t you eat three square meals a day?”

Trinny smiled as she pulled herself to sit up on the counter. “I eat circle meals, if you please. And I eat them when I’m hungry. When my body wants food, it tells me, then I eat.”
Reynie turned and grabbed his back pack that was on the back of a chair around the kitchen table. He put it on the counter beside the snacks, counted the snacks twice, then started putting them in the bag.

“What is a circle meal? Is that, like, a pizza?” he asked.

Trinny tilted her head. “For real?”

Reynie looked at Trinny, there was a sparkle in her eye that he felt was trying to escape and jump onto him. He didn’t want her sparkle. Too many germs.

“Pizza is round, is it not?”

“It’s a joke, Rey,” Trinny said. She reached over and grabbed a granola bar before he put it into his pack.

“No!” he yelled, trying to take the bar from her. “It needs to be even. Two of each.”

“Get another one,” she said, already unwrapping the snack.

Reynie took another bar from the cupboard, tapped it twice, and put it in the bag.
“So, is your body telling you it’s hungry now? What is it saying? Is it your stomach that can communicate?” Reynie put his backpack on and looked curiously at Trinny.

She chewed. Swallowed. “You’re a weirdo,” she said. “That’s why I love ya. And yes, my stomach gave me a little rolling salute, and that’s how it knows it needs some food.”
She shoved the rest of the bar into her mouth, hopped off the counter and let out a sigh.

*I chose this book…walked up to the bookshelf…in the dark…ran my fingers over spines…and the MBS jumped out!

Tickets For Sale! Join us!

Here’s a better link…I think I may have posted something incorrectly yesterday!

Detroit Writing Room Awards! Info & Ticket Sales here!

See you on the zoom, friends!

Prompt 10 – All About House Plants & Yin Link

Book: All About House Plants – Their Selection, Culture and Propagation, and How Best To Use Them for Decorative Effect © 1952
Author: Montague Free, staff horticulturist of the Home Garden
Page 10, line 10
Genre: Non-fiction

“Vines will be desirable to frame the window.”

Vines are easy to grow and hard to kill. At least, that’s been my experience. I’ve checked, and there are no green thumbs on my hands. No green fingers at all. And I’ve gotten good at growing vines. In fact, I’ve been growing the same vines for over ten years. Their shoots crawl over my walls, across the arch in our dining room and around the window over the sink in the kitchen. Some of the vines have small brown suckers that stick to the wall with a clear liquid. I admire the way the vine holds on.

The orchid on the window sill is experiencing a different fate. Gifted for a birthday, her white, vagina-esque flowers, once open and inviting, have withered and fallen to mingle with the dog hair and dead flies. It seems I can remember to water a vine once a week, but not drop two ice cubes in the witchy roots of an orchid. It’s possible that the green in the vines and the sheer space they inhabit are stronger reminders of life than a pretty flower.

Plants are a necessary family member. It is important to have living things in the family home besides the humans and animals (arachnids are acceptable depending on the size, but insects and rodents are typically unwelcome). Plants remind us that our relationship with nature is vital. A room with a plant in it, especially a vine, draws the eye and calls the brain to pause for a moment of appreciation. A flower will do the same, provided you can keep this type of plant alive. Having said this, a vase of fresh flowers as a centrepiece on the dining room table or a few blooms of lavender in a jar on the bedside table offer another kind of mental pause that brings joy and consideration to scent and colour, as well as an overall feeling of comfort.

Plants have long since been a part of the human experience. Our histories weave in and out of direct contact with nature, as some of our ‘where-did-we-come-from’ stories begin in lush gardens and frozen tundra – both offering its own kind of special plant life. The vine is a powerful metaphor for connection, longevity, resilience and dedicated growth.

I tried to find information on the author, Montague Free. This is all I could find:

Free, Montague was born on December 12, 1885 in Cambridge, England. Son of Samuel and Agnes (Day) Free. Education. Certificate Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, 1912 …
Education: Certificate Royal Botanic Gardens

Thank you, Emmy, for today’s prompt!

Link for tomorrow’s Yin!

Vanessa Shields is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Topic: JANUARY YIN WRITING TUESDAYS & THURSDAYS
Time: 6am

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/81105983303?pwd=OWdPdFVuYWRLdEROdVFEc2ZnN0IyQT09

Meeting ID: 811 0598 3303
Passcode: 489628
One tap mobile
+14388097799,,81105983303#,,,,489628# Canada +15873281099,,81105983303#,,,,489628# Canada

Prompt 9 – Motorcycles, Moose & Magic & The First Annual DWR Writing Awards

Book: Motorcycles, Moose & Magic – The Ride to Self-Love
Author: Tracey Rogers
Page 27, line 9
Genre: memoir, self-help/guidance
Local author!
Note: I went to the part of the book where the story begins, which is actually page 19, and counted 9 pages from there (skipping the blank page). That brought me to page 27. I counted 9 sentences in…

“As the music began to play, a deep self-reflection was triggered, and would continue for the rest of my journey.”

Music is an essential part of being alive. When I reach back into my past, many of my life’s most critical and extraordinary moments are bathed in a song. Music is woven consciously into humanity’s coveted experiences: births, marriages, deaths – from the start of life to the end, music plays an integral role in joining us in and enhancing our experiences.

When I was pregnant with both of my children, I sang to them. When they were hours old, sticky with new life, those songs I sang when they were in my belly, I sang into their sweet little ears. Music is a vital way we communicate, and even if our hearing is impaired, there is always the deep, vibrational connection to sounds that give music a voice to our fingertips or naked soles.

Do you ever find yourself humming? Wailing your favourite song in the shower? Perking your ears in the early morning, searching for the song of our winged friends perching on the branches of trees? Is there a more Canadian song than the deep-throttle buzz of a mid-flight goose or the chest-heavy wallow of a yearning loon?

I cannot listen to a symphony without crying. I feel the history of my ancestors in the belly of a drum, and that moves me to tears as well. Driving in my car alone, there have been pivotal life moments between me and the artist singing to me from the radio. When the words and the voice and the melody lift the magic out of my body into reality, letting me know I’m exactly where I need to be.

Singing is a big part of our family sharing. So is dancing. Neither could we do without music. My son sings when he works or plays video games, and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it – it’s that beautifully intrinsic to his expressions. When we experience any feeling, we go to music to support our emotional journey. It is just what’s so.

What does music mean to you? Could you write your memoir by creating your ultimate mix-tape list? Are you a vinyl junkie or do earbuds do the trick? When you exercise, do you listen to music to pump you up or do you listen to the music of the wind as you run through it? There is no denying that since forever, music has existed as a key ingredient in the recipe of living.

Detroit Writing Room Writing Awards 2022!

Join me this Thursday, January 13 at 7pm via Zoom as we celebrate the winners of the first annual Detroit Writing Room Awards! I had the honour of being part of two of the juries for this amazing inaugural event!

Get your tickets here:

Register

Prompt 8 – Our Man in Havana

Book: Our Man in Havana
Author: Graham Greene
Page: 210
Genre: Spy novel
Line chosen by the Hubby

“A romantic is usually afraid, isn’t he, in case reality doesn’t come up to expectations.”

Detective Harjo sipped cold coffee out of his paper cup, winced as the bitter black liquid slithered down his throat. The night was a maze of misdirection and misery, and it was only 8pm. He cleared his throat of the coffee gunk.

“There’s nothing romantic about being a spy,” he said, putting the cup on the dashboard of the unmarked white van. He and Buchanan were parked just south of a broken-windowed warehouse in the core of the seediest part of town. This was the land of the most hardened criminals. The whole situation was just too predictable. They both knew it, from their van to their hope to their crappy cup of joe. Harjo shrugged off another chill trying to take hold of the back of his neck. They were meant to be watching, but he knew they were being watched too.

Harjo enjoyed doing the stake with Buchanan. He was a philosophy scholar turned officer turned detective via a very unpredictable path that put him in the top spot for spy hunting in the department. His instincts were slathered in poetry and metaphysics.

Buchanan let out a sigh, and smiled. “You’re a romantic, ain’t ya, Harj?” His green eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“Me? Nah,” Harjo said, visions of his devoted wife likely tidying up the kitchen, closing blinds and locking doors before she headed up to bed to read, streaming in his mind. He and his wife, Naomi, would soon celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Their life was a partnership in support, laughter, and a steady kind of love that helped him keep his head on straight, in reality, in fact, on the job searching for spies. He knocked his right temple with his pointer finger. “Gotta keep the old noggin’ in reality for the wife and kids.”

“That’s commendable,” Buchanan said. “But surely romance helped make the family?”

“Sure, sure,” Harjo said, pressing out the wrinkles in his beige slacks. “But our baby-makin’ years are somewhere back there.” He threw his head toward the back of the van.

“What were you afraid of back then?” Buchanan asked, “If I may.” He added.

Harjo let out a sigh. Took a beat to consider his answer while he stared ahead at the warehouse. There was no action. Not even a piece of garbage being dragged by a wind.

*Note: Okay, so it’s really, really hard for me to not go over what I’ve written at least once and do minor edits. In all transparency, I will be doing minor edits moving forward…to calm my inner critic, in the least!

Prompt 7 – The Stolen Kingdom

Book: The Stolen Kingdom
Author: Jillian Boehme
Page 7, line 7
Genre: Fantasy

“Torn between ignoring Swish and insisting that he return to his meal, I stood rooted like a tree, watching Nelgareth men approach and trying to read the expression on Poppa’s face.”

I walked around the long wooden table to reach my father’s side.

“What’s happening, Poppa?” I asked him quietly.

He pulled his shoulders back, cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, puppet, but rest you assured, I’ll take care of it. Stay behind me, lass.” he said, putting out his arm to shield me.

A surge of adrenaline made the blood dance in my veins. Poppa was nearing his eightieth year. His knees were rickety, his back curling from decades of harvesting and cultivating his land and animals. The land and animals that for eighty years he was unable to call his own by decree of Nelgareth ownership laws that were outdated, demeaning and, just plain wrong. Every cell in my body raged against Nelgareth rule – the Human King was a bloodsucker of a man, and his wife, a muddy bog to support him. Since his rule began ten years prior, at the surprise death of his father, Gavin Rainswater took the throne and his bratty, selfish, careless actions with him.

“I’m here,” I whispered to Poppa as two uniformed Nelgareth soldiers trotted up to our outdoor gazebo, their horses neighing at the humble smells of my homemade bread and vegetable stew.

“Hortensis Blythe,” the pointy-chinned soldier cooed at my father. “Your last yields were low and we’ve come to take what’s rightfully and lawfully ours.”

“My yields were not low, in fact,” Poppa replied, “They were measured and packaged as they always are to the milligram. You are mistaken.”

A high-pitched laugh escaped the other soldier’s fat face.

“Listen, old man, you owe the King more,” he pulled a slip of torn paper from a small pocket on his uniform. He brought the paper closer to his eyes and squinted. I couldn’t hold in a chuckle. This flatulence of a man couldn’t read!

His head snapped up and tilted. “Who stands behind you?”

My father put his hand up. “No one. A lowly servant peasant cook.” He was protecting me, and I didn’t want his protection.
“Show your face, peasant,” the soldier said.

I stepped forward from behind my father.

*Thank you to Jill S for this line prompt. And thank you Jillian for writing this stellar story!

Prompt 6 – All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

Book: All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, 25th Anniversary
Author: Robert Fulghum
Page 6, Line 6
Genre: Personal Essay/Humour

“I was tempted to shout, “What?”

But I didn’t shout. I didn’t let on that my insides were raging with surprise. This is me on most days, scooting in and out of internal reactions that mostly come from me feeling either confused, scared, surprised, awed or different. By different I mean: like I don’t belong. Like I’m not from around here. Like there’s something wrong with me for not having the reaction that everyone around me seems to be having.

I remember feeling this way in kindergarten. My mother brought me to my first day, which in itself was something to be awed by (she very rarely was able to attend any school events). I remember that we took a cab to get to the school. Cabs both scared me and comforted me. The smell of old cigarettes mingled with body odour and leather and an air freshener I could (and still can’t) name. Taking a cab was always better and less scary than taking the city bus. That morning, I was with my mother in a cab, then with my mother walking into the school. She was holding my hand, and I liked that very much.

We walked in the huge hallways, more churchy cavernous to me than anything, then down two sets of seventys-style steps with gaps in between them (I think the house in the Brady Bunch has this type of stair) into a library. I did gasp quietly upon hitting the plush burnt orange carpet (every piece of decor was either orange or brown or yellow) with my squeaky new sneakers (they were slip-ons, white with some characters on the front and rubber in glossy colours). The library was gushing with hot air. I felt like I was in a sanctuary, safe and protected by the columns of book spines.

We stood in line behind the group of other parent/guardians and little kids. At a table ahead of us, sat people – maybe students or other teachers, I can’t remember, but they were handing out pins, round about the size of a cookie, with photos and names on them. I have no idea how they got my photo. When they handed my mother the pin, she leaned down to poke it through my first-day-of-kindergarten white shirt with a jean ruffle around the neck. This was me, officially: Vanessa – because that’s what the photo said. I was named and shuffled to a spot to sit on the floor with a bunch of other humans who looked like me: eyes bulging, tummies rolling, clothes crispy; pinned and named.

My mother left when I wasn’t paying attention to her. But I felt the absence of her presence in a small waft of air that lifted the skin on the back of my neck. I looked back

Prompt 5 – Misery by Stephen King & Yin Link

Book: Misery
Author: Stephen King
Page five, line five
Genre: Horror
Book chosen by Miller

“Blew down on it like the dank suck of wind which follows a fast subway train, pulling sheets of newspaper and candy-wrappers after it, and the lips were withdrawn, and he thought For Christ’s sake don’t let any of it out through your nose but he couldn’t help it and oh that stink, that fucking STINK.”

Lukaz kept his body still as the Litosis straddled him, spit shining over its jagged teeth, tongue flicking in anticipation. This was the only way to get the Treatment, and he was long overdue for an Intake. He felt his pho soup streaming back up his esophagus, hot and spicy, but he couldn’t let the vomit rise or the Litosis would know. He’d forgotten how disgusting the breath was, its suffocating stench unearthly, ungodly, unfathomably death-driven. The irony is too easy, Lukaz thought. He swallowed, forcing back his dinner, as slowly, as subtly as he could. It was working.

The Litosis used its bony claws to pry open Lukaz’s mouth even wider. Its eyeballs rolled to their darkest shades, stopping to lock with Lukaz’ beer-bottle browns.

This was it. The mouth widening. The eye lock. The next step was the Intake. All Lukaz had to do was stay still, not blink, not barf and take in the breath of the Litosis for a Treatment that would tack an extra ten years on his lifespan.

“Over there!” A rough-edged voice called somewhere to the left of Lukaz.

No! Lukaz screamed in his head.
The Litosis twitched, but didn’t break eye contact. The blacks of its eyes shone deep into Lukaz’. Distractions were life-altering and the Litosis was easily distracted.
I can’t let Lily down, Lukaz thought.

“Hey, shut your eyes! You’re under arrest!” The throaty voice yelled out.

The Litosis inhaled, emitting a high-pitch whistle sound. The sweet sound of life extension preparing to express.
There were rules. And Lukaz knew he had to break the most important one in order to make this Treatment complete.
As he felt the slobbering lips of the Litosis connect with his, the sound of the Colt Army revolver cocking echoed off the hallway walls.
For Lily, he told himself

*I had to do a bit of research outside of the fifteen minute timer to find out the sound a gun actually makes. Turns out the sound we hear in the movies of guns being cocked dates back to the 1950s, specifically in a Colt Army Revolver (otherwise, guns don’t make sounds when before the trigger is pulled in most guns! #trickymovies #folly #fun). So, I added this specific detail in.

Also, the Litosis are not real.

Link for Thursday Yin

Vanessa Shields is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Topic: JANUARY YIN WRITING TUESDAYS & THURSDAYS
Time: 6:00am

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/81105983303?pwd=OWdPdFVuYWRLdEROdVFEc2ZnN0IyQT09

Meeting ID: 811 0598 3303
Passcode: 489628
One tap mobile
+14388097799,,81105983303#,,,,489628# Canada +15873281099,,81105983303#,,,,489628# Canada

Prompt 4 – The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume I, 1915-1917

Book: The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume I, 1915-1919
Author: Virginia Woolf
Page 46, Tuesday 28 August, 1917
Genre: Diary
Prompt from Charis Cotter

“Leaves and swallows blown about in the field; garden dishevelled.”

I believe I will forever marvel at the way the on-goings outside my window delight me with theatrical nature shows. The birds alone are spectacular players against the ever-shifting sky-stage. Also, it is as if the weather knows my most intimate yearnings, her intuition regarding what I need is scarily accurate. Why as I woke this morning as the sun was splaying her crown on the horizon, my body was a stone in a sticky mud marsh, completely unable to twitch out of its desire for more sleep. Then the swallows flew amidst the leaves and I couldn’t tell them apart for all their playing and swooping. The vision was enough to lift my elbows so I could get a better view of the unfolding morning before me. Nature knows how to wake my marrow. My marrow in the mornings…

Indeed, the garden is dishevelled, and that is the way I like it best. The garden is my mirror and I am anything but neat and tidy, organized sometimes, yes, but at heart bunches of tangled roots and seeds strewn about…ripe for growth and digging into the soft earth, but in a wild display of choice at the moment. From my window, (bless this window!) all of this living and dying and growing and stretching and displaying colours for the sun to dance with, well, it is what keeps me breathing. That is, besides the page. This page…you, dear friend, who (whom?) I crawl into for guidance, solace, validation…for the daily unloading of the bits of me that have fallen off, that I’ve held as tenderly as possible in the folds of my writing dress to give to you as the gifts of my undoing. For I know it is so. This vessel, plagued with sadness and itching with expression I can’t deny, in a time when this body is ‘meant for child-birthing, rearing’ for ‘cooking and cleaning’, well that is not the life of a wild garden, is it? I am witness, instead, to those around me who are able to vibrate this living…but I, oh, I, I am a stone in the mud – moved only by a seed’s frolicking in a kiss of morning dew.

Nature understands me, but most do not understand my nature, and therein is the challenge. I sigh out the desires I am forbidden…and put my soul onto your pages for sanity, though sanity is also part of the sky…my moon waxing and waning, that even in its fullest, even in my fullest…I can barely bare my light for it hurts my eyes to see what slithers in the darkness, which is my true mother.