Conspiracy Theory # 1: The Empty Nest

It’s a conspiracy, I tell you! No one ever told me the wrenching pain that comes with your fledgling bird taking that final leap from the nest! No one told me about the stabbing grief that seizes you in the very middle of your being when you realize she is not only not coming home but calling some place you have never seen home. I was totally blindsided. Actually, maybe friends had alluded to the changes that come with your child moving out. Maybe they mentioned it would be sad. Perhaps they even said you would have to adjust but I feel like I am completely reweaving every nerve fiber, renovating my soul as her life flashes before my eyes at the most unexpected times.

I suppose the conspiracy is similar to that which happens when you are pregnant. Other mothers sigh noncommittally about the pain of childbirth. They may say it is the worst pain they have ever lived through but they say it with a smile so you don’t really get it. They play it down, I am sure, so as not to scare you. And, after all, your own experience might be different. Of course, they are right. If you knew, the whole human race might come to a screeching halt.

If I had realized the heartbreak of Marci leaving home maybe I wouldn’t have bonded with her so thoroughly. Maybe I would’ve have kept her at an arm’s length though this may have made breastfeeding a bit cumbersome. Just think of all those times happily baking cookies with her, clapping at the end of Disney movies, proudly displaying her grade cards…no, never mind, it will only make me cry.

But don’t get me wrong. There are also times of laughter. For instance, I laugh wryly at myself now for so blithely teaching her to drive, taking her numerous times to the DMV to pass her driving test and then actually helping her buy the vehicle she would later use to leave! What was I thinking!

When Marci first came home with us from the hospital there were so many firsts. There was her first ride in her car seat! Her first bath! Her first diaper change without the supervision of the nurses. Now there are different firsts. The first trip to the grocery store where I am not buying special foods she likes. The first time I sleep through the night (or not) without an ear set to hear her key in the door. The first time I come home from work without her breakfast and lunch dishes in the sink. The first time I watch what I want on TV with no one making snarky comments about why I watch such trash. The first time I buy cookies knowing I will get to eat more than one before they get spirited up to her room to reside under her bed where they will slowly turn to dust through no fault of her own.

Raising a child is a trip. The key word is raising when all along I thought the key word was child. However, from the word go we teach our babies how to grow up in the best way possible. Our main job is preparing them to be healthy, happy adults. So, in the end, I have to tell myself good job, well done. I have succeeded but who knew the reward would be so painful! It is like giving birth all over again but in reverse.

Yet, if there is any conspiracy it is the conspiracy applied to all of life. Love is too beautiful and precious to scare others from it by grousing about the down sides. And, if I could do it all over again I would do it the same, even now… knowing the outcome.

Queen of the Scorched Earth

Once there was a land that was very hot. Some called it the land of the scorched earth—well, really only one person did but that was enough as she had much influence. Her constituents trusted her with their lives and would have applauded her had they any hands. They would have sang her praises if they had mouths or vocal cords but, as it was, they appreciated her as much as insentient beings can. Her name was Princess Kate, no relation to Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cambridge, of course. Our Kate was Princess of the Prairie Remnant

Princess Kate was a Virgo and as such had a reputation for liking to have everything in its place. It is unfair to call her bossy and it is believed this rumor was started with the honeysuckle being miffed it was ripped from its roots. A startling event for the honeysuckle, this is true but as Princess Kate points out it was an invasive species. Sometimes one must be fierce when protecting their kingdom. Princess Kate would not tolerate musk thistle or tall fescue for the same reason. But most of her kingdom was left to frolic in abandon. Bearded beggar ticks and bastard toadflax, loved and adored. Mead’s Milkweed especially esteemed. Bluebirds and robins filled the sky. Brown headed cowbirds though native were not encouraged due to their deceitful habit of laying their eggs in other birds nest so that they need not be bothered with caring for them. Very rude really.

All in all it was a magical remnant where Princess Kate gamboled about joyfully, bullfrogs trumpeting her arrival at their murky herp ponds, whippoorwills serenading her repose in the cedar grove. Hedge trees tossing her apples playfully and not maliciously as it might first appear. Peace and prosperity prevailed in the prairie. Gnomes lallygagged amidst the wild blue indigo. Pixies gallivanted among the common spider wort. That is, if the latter two fantastical beings actually existed or were merely the figments of cannabis laced imagination, Hard to know. Anyway, Princess Kate sang happy tunes to her subjects who never complained even when they were occasionally crushed by her sturdy work boots at those times her dancing accelerated exuberantly.

However, one summer it came to pass greenhouse gasses expanded well beyond their bounds. One can hardly blame them, though as they were provoked unmercifully by deforestation and the mad burning of fossil fuels. As the summer wore on the gasses were more and more pressured, sinking their moods significantly (it could happen to anybody!) Depression then led to acting out so that no other weather system could find room to squeeze in. Now blue skies are nice and all if one is somewhere over the rainbow but weeks on end with no clouds results in brutal sunlight, searing heat, and as Princess Kate came to realize—scorched earth.

            Princess Kate rallied as well as she could, a wide brimmed hat ensconced flirtatiously upon her head, Ray-bans shielding her eyes, she wielded garden hoses as if they were sabers but desperate hope and garden hoses can only reach so far and in this case, not far enough. Each day the temperature rose along with the humidity. The wild hyacinth wilted. The coral berry and buck brush were about ready to give up the ghost. Princess Kate’s eyes filled with tears but tears a rainstorm do not make. In her grief she began to hum a funeral dirge which quickly evolved into other songs that might or might not inspire rain –as Princess Kate was  agnostic the jury was out on this one.

           

Cradling a dwarf larkspur, she began with Kathy’s Song:

                        “And so you see, I have come to doubt

                          All that I once held as true…

                          I stand alone without beliefs

                          The only truth I know is you-

                          And as I watch the drops of rain

                          Weave their weary paths and die

                          I know I am like the rain

                          There but for the grace of you, go I!”

And, of course, this easily segued into:

                        “I never meant to cause you any sorrow

                          I never meant to cause you any pain—

                          I only wanted one time to see you laughing,

                          Laughing in the purple rain!”

            Considerably cheered up with this snappy song the next lyrics came as if inspired:

                         “Whenever skies are gray

                           Don’t you worry or fret

                           A smile will bring sunshine (yech!)

                           And you’ll never get wet!”

            As this last song was “Let a Smile be Your Umbrella” Princess Kate was seized by brilliance. She ran to the shed which was a repository for all things necessary, unnecessary and in between. And though she was not a pack rat, some with whom she commingled were, lucky for her! She rooted among the pruning shears and bungee cords, the recyclables and all terrain bicycles. By now she was singing Rolling Stones, confident because though some do not always get what they want yet, when  they still try, they find they get what they need—in this situation both were the same. Princess Kate found what she wanted and needed marching triumphantly back into the prairie where, one by one, she planted hundreds of tiny umbrellas—one for each faltering bit of flora. Other umbrellas she placed randomly for any mole or toad who might be passing by and find sweet shade a solace to the soul.

            She couldn’t be sure if it was just her imagination or what but it seemed to her the prairie sighed a sigh of relief. In fact, it seemed to be humming! She cocked her head just so to better hear what seemed like a thousand tiny voices singing:

 “Long live our noble Queen

   Send her victorious

   Happy and glorious

   Long to reign over us!”

            And that is how she got to be Kate-Queen of the Scorched Earth! Queen Kate surveyed her land, little fires blazing up here and there but mostly native plants sitting cool and comfortable under their tiny umbrellas. With a happy tear in her eye, she sang:

                           “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain,

                              I’ve seen sunny days I thought would never end

                             “I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,

                              But I always knew, dear prairie remnant, I’d see you again!”

 Stay tuned for the next installment—Queen Kate, the Opera aka Kathy Sings Karaoke in Drexel!

Personal Fairytale

Three Times the Charm

            Once upon a time there was a girl who couldn’t see well but didn’t realize it. When others fearfully pointed out dragons flying by in the sky she would look up to see only a blurry whirl of motion against a backdrop of blue murkiness.

            Maybe this is why she didn’t notice when a dragon came to live in her attic. Having never seen a dragon nor anything else clearly she figured the crepuscular lump behind the moth eaten divan was a pile of outgrown clothing or perhaps a dress maker’s mannequin outfitted in some gothic Victorian nonsense. Except, sometimes it snorted. And her hearing was excellent.

            One day she clambered up the rickety ladder to the attic. She was on the hunt for her grandmother’s old tarot cards. She hoped to read them as a road map. Not seeing well she could also not see herself. She was lost.

            The attic was dark with only one tiny window and the afternoon was overcast. She tripped over various bricolage and bric-a-brac, whatnots and thingamajigs until she stumbled upon her grandmother’s hope chest. Her grandmother was now long gone and had presumably taken all her hopes with her to the grave. Perhaps her hopes were like seeds that sprouted a garden of marvels and bibelots among the begonias and hyacinths. The girl was lost in imagining this when suddenly she was whipped to attention by a sudden movement behind the divan. Why the mannequin seemed to be slyly scooting in her direction. Well, if it had been a mannequin it would be scooting but it actually seemed to be lumbering. She began to think it was not a mannequin at all nor a harmless heap of clothing but something quite disquieting.

            Of course, being a good Catholic girl she could only guess now that it was a demon aka an invisible embodiment of evil. Not cool. “Drat those tarot cards!” she mumbled reaching for the nearest something that could shield her which turned out to be a Ouija board. She dropped it as if it had burned her. (She had seen the Exorcist and knew no good could come from that!). The thing that wasn’t a mannequin was galumphing closer. She looked about her desperately seeking a weapon or some other defense like maybe a crucifix. But the attic was so dismally dark and with her eyesight she could see nothing.

 Except…by this time the dragon had trudged close enough that even in the miasmic shadows she could tell it must be what others called a dragon. One might think this would have filled her with dread but sometimes naming a fear tames it. But most of all she was struck with wonder as she realized that the foul stench of sulfur she was always catching a whiff of wasn’t from something rotten in her but from the dragon! As she watched licks of flame flicker from his nostrils she understood now that his fiery breath is what had caused the blood to rise to her face all those times…that it hadn’t been her blushing with shame after all! As exceptional as these epiphanies were they were not going to help her fight the dragon.

But actually they did. It was like a light was lit inside her. It startled her and she stood up abruptly, knocking over a brass coat rack which crashed into a ramshackle rocking chair setting it to rock maniacally, upsetting a hatbox where a pandemonium of gewgaws spewed forth, one of the items glinting coquettishly. She was sure it was a sign from heaven because what is the point of a mortal existence on earth unless it was filled with signs and symbols of the divine? So she leapt atop the pile of trinkets confident she would find a weapon, an amulet or anything at all that would help her because though the dragon was fatsome and slow it was bound to reach her sooner rather that later. However, the hatbox had only been stuffed with embellishments gone to rust and other such rubbish. As she was looking away to check on the dragon’s progress, from the corner of her eye she noted the glint again. Was it a fairy? A tiny Dancer? Why, it was a hand mirror, tarnished and down on its luck but she crowed in delight. “Perfect”, she thought, as if she were battling Medusa and not a noxious and conflagrant dragon. She had a pronounced predilection for mixing up mythology with fairytales with religion with science but who doesn’t?

She brandished that hand mirror, making it snicker-snack as if it were a vorpal blade. The dragon lunged, she lurched. The dragon plunged, she pitched. Her reactions were quick but there comes a time when one must not just react to dragons but confront them directly. She raised the gloomy mirror over her head then slammed it down, smashing it soundly on the creature’s snout. The fearsome blow caught the dragon unawares because no predator expects its prey to attempt to conquer. The dragon gasped, with pain? With surprise? It does not matter but that when he gasped he sucked back in his own fiery breath. In a flash of flame he incinerated before her eyes, a victim of internal combustion.

The blast of the dragon’s demise felt to her like a thousand flashbulbs exploding. She shut her eyes as she fell over. She lay still for a moment thinking herself: a.) blind b.) dead

 c.) victorious. She knew from her years of taking tests at school, where she had not been able to see the lessons scratched on the chalkboards, that when one doesn’t know the answer on a multiple choice exam the best guess is the third one. Or maybe she was mixing this up with the third time is the charm. Either way, she opened her eyes.

Not only was the dragon gone but the entire attic had been cleared of its clutter. The mementos from dear, dead grandmother- gone. The piles of shabby clothes-gone. The stacks of “maybe I’ll read them someday” books- gone. And to top it off there was now a rather gaping hole in the roof where one lone ray of sunlight shone through. Now that had to be a sign from heaven. She walked into the light singing, “I can see clearly now the rain is gone…” But she was wrong. The lone ray of sun was quickly eclipsed by a cloud and rain pelted through the hole. She laughed however, lifting her face to let the rain wash away the soot.  Soon there would be much to do: 1.) repair the roof  2.) get eye glasses 3.) be brilliant and brave over and over and over again!

Write Away

I am reading a very interesting book titled, Your Life as Story,by Tristine Rainier.http://www.amazon.com/Your-Life-Story-Tristine-Rainer/dp/0874779227 I may end up not finishing it as I thought it was about journal writing in a literary style. Now I am thinking it is more about writing memoir but nevertheless, it is interesting, She writes, "We must create and find our own stories, our own myths, with symbols that bind us to the world as we see it today." One tool to do this consists of writing a personal fairytale-not rewriting one already told but making an entirely fresh one with oneself as the main character. The rules are: to write in the third person; have a beginning, middle and end; feature a problem that will be surmounted so that the main character changes in some way. Oh, and also it needs to be short-one to two pages.
Easy enough except that it isn't. My first try  was a boring list of vignettes filled with preachy aphorisms. Yech! My second try was better as I went with the fairytale aspect and created a fictional yet true story. It is more than two pages long but then I wrote it long hand in a 9"x 6" journally book so who knows how long it is typed. I will share it in my next blog but I sprained my left hand today. It is now wrapped in an Ace bandage so typing is tiresome at best. In the meantime why not try your hand at writing your own personal fairytale? It is fun and ever so illuminating but I mustn't give anything away. Write away!
ps: Turns out it wasn't just typing it but rewriting it, of course! So that makes the third try--three times the charm!

Dog Days of Summer

The term Dog Days refers to the hottest, sultriest days of the summer. It came about  back in ancient times when the star Sirius rose with the sun in the summer. It doesn't anymore probably because of something to do with letting sleeping dogs lie. It was said that the dog days were a time "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies". Not good. And who the heck is Quinto anyway? Whatever. The Romans thought this could all be helped by appeasing Sirius which they tried to do by sacrificing a dog at the start of the Dog Days. Those Romans were crazy.

There are much better ways to deal with hot spells, air conditioning being one. However, even in AC one's mood can turn sour with the unrelenting pulsing of the the sun's brutal rays.Friends, spouses and children can become irritable and even worse they can become very irritating. So what is one to do?

I don't know and I can't really be expected to figure it out for everyone else but I stumbled upon a solution that works for me, a little and only sometimes but it is better than sacrificing a poor, hapless pup. I learned the hard way that my mood can increase measurably by just doing something. 

Anything really, other than cooking which by definition requires using a heat source. Of course, swimming or going to your brother's lake house are the best things to do but not always possible.  Most of the time my only choices are to read, watch tv, create pixie journals, write blogs, or mindlessly scan Facebook in search of something I have never actually found. 

Interestingly enough, my best poems have been borne of moods of desperation and deep ennui. Which is the point entirely- that when I create something from nothing  I always feel better. So when the Dog Days nip at your heals, remember that however fun it may seem to bitterly complain about the sweat stinging your eyes it might be even more fun to create something, anything--even dinner if it can be made without employing fire in some way!

PS. In previewing this blog I did notice that I misspelled heels as heals but as a therapist I find this Freudian slip very amusing so I am keeping it. Ha!

Magical Thinking

It is fun to see my Urban Pixie Journals evolve--this one includes a little bird charm and many specialty papers. It is also much thicker. I might not make future ones so thick but all the rest will certainly feature a charm.
My current dilemma is what to call them. I was torn between urban pixie and urban fairy. My own little pixie (Marci sporting a new haircut!) picks one up daily to just flip through it told me they didn't seem pixie at all but very fairy. Both monikers are equally magical.

I know there are many people who do not believe in the magical world. I understand this as a war between science and religion but I say can't we all be friends? Remember Shakespeare , "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy". Any moment can be marvelously miraculous...smiles between strangers, a grasshopper jumping in the door when you arrive home, a blackbird cawing good morning. I guess, in the end, it is not about what is believed but what is allowed, even encouraged to bloom in your heart... and that, dear reader, is magical.

Urban Pixie Journal # 3

This is the third Urban Pixie Journal formerly referred to as plexi glass mini journals. Each one has proved challenging in a different way. I suppose the challenge is part of the fun, though. I am so happy when I complete one because I know the intricacies of its creation and love it even more for its complications!
I got the best compliment of all when Marci noticed them lined up on the coffee table, picked one up to examine and said something to the effect that it was cool (or whatever word teens use now to express approval). Generally when others feel moved enough to comment on my art they say something about how creative I am. My first response is always to assure them they are also creative. Humans are creative by nature. Each day we create our experiences by how we respond to events or the activities we choose to engage in. We can choose kindness, patience, forgiveness or sarcasm, self pity or fear. We can choose to hang out with friends, daydream, clean or a million other things. Just the choosing of activities and attitudes is an act of creation.
However, I realize that is not what people mean when they say I am creative. They are noticing I make things that have never been made quite that way before.
I create whimsical artsy objects because it is FUN. Creating whimsy whether in art or words is how I play. Daydreaming is also play for me and generally it all mixes together in a way that makes my soul laugh. So I think that is what I feel people are validating for me when they say I am creative-they are saying they notice my soul laughing. And then my response is for their soul to also laugh. Is that too much to ask?

Bookmaking!

The mini plexi glass journal turned out fabulous! It was a bit tricky because I had to figure out how to make the binding. I wanted to add pictures to show the various steps but it looks like I am going to have to consult with Natalie for that.
First I had to cut out the pages which took several trims to get right. Then four sheets are stapled together to make a signature. All the signatures are pressed together and their end sections glotted with glue and the endpiece attached. I then cut out the cloth binding, glued it on, added a ribbon to hide the ragged edges, clamping the whole shebang at each stage.Finally I cleaned it all up and a beautiful little book is created.

Speaking of Books...

Today I spent the day with my niece, Natalie. Niece is an odd word as it conjures up the image of a person much younger than one's self. It is true she is almost half my age but that does not seem to matter now that she is a young woman. She is mostly a great friend. I can talk to her about anything and do!
Today we mostly swam back and forth in her pool talking about books and such after she helped me spice up this blog. We talked about how if one is forced to read a classic it can ruin the book yet at other times not. If I had not been forced to read a book such as Tale of Two Cities I might have missed out on a truly great book. My daughter, Marci, however hates To Kill a Mockingbird which she was coerced into reading several different times. This is very sad. There have been several books that I did not particularly enjoy in the reading but I am glad to have read anyways. The ones that come to mind are Crime and Punishment, Lord of the Flies, Brave New World, and the autobiography of Saint Therese. Do not look for a pattern here!
Lastly, Nat and I went shopping where at Marshall's I commented I do not like boxes that are shaped like books because I feel they are a trick. You think it is a book and open it up to find it empty. What I would like is a box that you open only to joyously discover it is really a book!I was also attracted by the pocketbooks because, well, they look like books!
Hopefully, Natalie will come to my place next time and I will teach her how to re-purpose an existing book into a journal. In fact, my current project is to make a mini book with plexi glass samples. It is in its early stages and if I can figure out how to upload the picture you will see it now and later you will see the finished project. (I did get it to post! Yay!)
So whether it is reading books, creating your own book or learning the intricacies of notebook computers it always about books in the end. I once had a dream where angels were showing me a holographic book of my life. They seemed to find it very interesting but had some editing comments they felt compelled to share with me! Oh, well. I am glad I am the heroine of my life as a book. I am also so happy to have such a colorful and delightful cast of characters sharing my book with me and am honored that I am in their books. My hope is that we all live our lives so that they make a fun read in heaven. Live your life like a book that no one will feel forced to read-what a novel idea!

My Soul to Keep

Okay, okay, okay--I keep writing about Trans versity without giving any examples but really it has been so personal. However, I have decided wtf and here is the fourth in the series. It sums up all the rest really but maybe someday I will share the others.

My Soul to Keep

What happens when we journey deep into the depths of our misshapen soul?

Is it a place we shouldn’t really go?

Mine is full of tarry pits, dark corridors that turn and twist

Quicksand and slippery slopes

Phantoms ,demons and poisonous toads.

Most people think souls are white and clean

But mine is full of holes and cobwebs that cling

There are piles of bile and hateful gnats

That sting and bite like rabid bats.

It is really a scary place to be…

How did it get this way? It wasn’t me

It wasn’t me who called me names

Who swathed me in ugly shame

It wasn’t me who slapped my face

Or made fun of me for saying grace

I wasn’t the sadist that betrayed my love

Or tormented my trust like they were salting a slug.

No, it wasn’t me that made the mess

It isn’t me that needs to confess.

It wasn’t me that caused the tarnish

But it’s up to me to clean and varnish

But to refute the evil is a quirky trick

As if I were the witch that has to be pricked

There is no evil in me, that’s part of the charade

I m the earth, not the road they paved

My soul is really pure and whole

The scene above is a tale of trolls

God forgives me for sins I did not do

But this forgiveness means everything so I believe its true

It’s been a valiant expedition into my soul

Not a place for the timid to go

And I can’t say its suddenly shiny and bright

But at least I know now how to better focus the light

I wouldn’t be me without the life I’ve had

And truthfully, good has outweighed the bad

But when one goes deep inside

Where all the fears slither and hide

then ghastly scenes are what you find

that you then excavate and mine

to make room for the love that you might otherwise miss

if not for renovating the secret abyss

And now I’m tired and just want to sleep

I pray to God my soul to keep.

Trans Verse

Trans Verse is my new name for therapeutic poems that lead to insight and/or relief. Well, a trans verse is one poem but as a group or concept they would be transversity. Don't you just love it! The word transverse means to extend across. Transvert means to cause to extend across but to me trans verse is using verse to transform one's perceptions and feelings.
The problem with my own trans verse is that it has led to some personal trauma. When we dive deep into the psyche and start mucking with ancient scripts and progroms we may stir up more than what we anticipated. Here I am saying we when of course, I mean me.
I have been struggling with an existential crisis which I do from time to time much to my own chagrin. So this last week I have been dealing with ancient fears which then causes me great anxiety but this is why I am therapist. I am able to journey deep into the machinations of the mind, into those chasms peopled with specters and phantoms that terrorize. I learn much in these journeys that is then helpful with the people I treat. It is also helpful to me, once I am on solid ground again. I better understand why I do what I do. I am then better able to proceed with my own creative goals with greater clarity and purpose. It all wears me out though. My little brain feels like it has been through the wringer so I am being extra kind to my soul.
Trans verse leads one to cross from the conscious mind into the arroyo of the subconscious and sometimes all the way into the unconscious which might sound more fun than it really is.
I think an interesting next step would be to come up with ways to teach others how to use trans verse. I have already begun with some of my clients because I know I will be there to help them fight any monsters that might emerge but I am thinking that there might be a tamer, less intense way to use trans verse, too. I say this because I do not think everyone wants to confront the ghosts of the nursery. I think most people just want to be happier. Actually, that is all I wanted, too. Oh, well, that is why I am a therapist.

Where to Begin When we Begin Again

I say we but it is really only me beginning again-nothing momentous but just returning to a blog state of mind. Writing a blog is thinking out loud with mindfulness. Today I am mainly thinking of being tired.
I only slept six hours last night because as I was trying to slip into dreamland, pondering my mood, the words "I m under a blue moon" came to me. Certainly sounded like the beginning of poem but my rule is, I don't actually reach for pen and paper until at least 4-6 lines fall into place. Well, they fell into place easily enough but the next 30 lines took more work. It wasn't until midnight that the last line finally gelled.
I am very sorry to tell you, though, that this is not a poem I will share on here as it is not a good poem strictly speaking. It wasn't created to be. It was created, instead as a way for me to process my mood and to sort through the life circumstances that led to my mood. This was the second poem of this sort I have written. Both are phenomenal in that both were transformational in a way I never knew a poem to be. Both resulted in insights that I do not think I would have come to otherwise.
In future blogs I will tell you more about these poems but right now I want to give them a name to set them apart from non-therapy poems, though all poems have some therapeutic value. Any ideas re welcome...therapoetry? Yawn! Maybe I will sleep on it.

Lest We Forget Heaven

The great news is that my poem, Betwixt and Between has just been published at Salomemagazine.com Yea! It is one of the poems I submitted just last week. Isn't that incredible? So shall I send out more poems? Yes!
I wrote a beautiful poem today. It actually made me cry. Never before has something I wrote myself made me cry. Maybe the poem didn't come from me but was inspired from -well, who can say? I began this poem at the funeral of a good friend's father but only liked the first stanza. Today, thinking of a friend who just lost her son I rewrote the rest of it. I hope you like it:

Lest we forget Heaven while on earth,
God brings us death to shorten the path.

Sorrow and grief spilling crazy like weeds,
Tears falling with no rainbow's relief.
It is times like these we look to Heaven,
Calling our love out loud...
Where is he...where is she?
And the only answer received is
Faith in God.

Is faith enough? Will faith laugh with us over dinner
Or give us a goodnight hug?
Will faith tell us secrets so that we relax well loved?
Only time will tell and it will tell it best
Remembering Heaven instead of death.


I suppose that is all I have to say today. I trust it is enough.

Giddy uP and Away we go!

Today I mailed off A Horse of Another Color to a possible publisher! Here is part of the cover letter-

Picture a blue horse on the Kansas prairie in the 1930’s. Can you imagine the colorful adventures he would have? Envision Cecil. He joins a traveling circus with characters named Starlit, Wanderfool, and Lanky Hank. He suffers cruelty at the hands of the ruddy-faced man but escapes in the most ingenious way. He joins an earth colored rainbow band of horses and valiantly leads them out of a dust storm.
A Horse of Another Color (approx. 12,00 words) deals with the developmental, social issues relevant to 7 to 12 year olds in a fun and imaginative way. Cecil learns about prejudice, exploitation, the many faces of love, and what freedom/independence really means. It is the story of a horse who leaves home wanting nothing more than a return to family but finds that life experiences change his vision of what home is.

I do think this book is good and will soon be published. See, this is me practicing the Secret, visualizing success! Yes? And to be most honest I do think Cecil, as I call the ms. will sell. I am not sure when but it is exciting, tight, and well, colorful. It has to become a real book because I know in the deepest, most pointed parts of my soul that it is meant to be read by many.

So to Cecil, giddy up and away we go across the prairie and into the homes of a million good boy and girls. Bad ones, too, I don't care. Nor does Cecil, he is not prejudiced, you see.

Mini Heroines

My Book!

Walk Like a Goddess

The Rabbits are Chortling Again!

Guess what! Today I met with the Market Master at City Market in downtown Kansas City. She looked at all the things I want to sell at the market and okayed them all, even my book, Fantastical tales for the Heroine's Quest. I am so excited!
I plan to set up shop there once or twice a month so that I can stay true to my mission statement of keeping the business fun and organic with the rest of my life. I can hardly wait! I m now inspired to make more things to sell. She loved my mini heroine's. They are adorable. I suppose I should put them on Etsy, too. I have the Heroine of Frightening Beauty, the Heroine of Strange but Likeable Things, and many more. I think I shall make more articulated paper dolls, too. They are much fun. The Market Master also liked my Magic Mushroom bags and Cupcake bags. She seemed impressed by my coloring book Herspectives and Walk Like a Goddess. I am very optimistic about the future.
Today, after the most excellent meeting I went to the Johnson County Library Sale and got this fun book on making puppets for only one dollar! Puppets Around the World (Discover Other Cultures) by Meryl DoneyCan't beat that. I also got
The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain by Alice Weaver Flaherty which focuses on compulsive creativity. I read it long ago, borrowed from the library and though I loved it , it was too expensive to buy. I promised myself if I ever saw it on super sale I would get it and here it was for, you guessed it, a dollar!
You, my faithful reader, will also be glad to know I have sent out one short story submission and four poems. The Velvetine rabbits are chortling with delight.

Where Are the Velveteen Rabbits?

"To be creative and magical and to have fun in all parts of my life and especially in giving life to velveteen rabbits (the metaphor I give to my creations). To do this is to brighten my soul's light, growing my soul on earth to more glorify and know God"My new story is to have fun as I take steps, to enjoy the steps and not to be afraid of them. For the steps to be fun they have to grow organically out of the rest of my life. They need to mostly reflect the creative and magical qualities I value. In this way I will create my small business creatively and magically."

Remember this declaration when I first began this blog? I do and that is why that even though this blog is called Creativity Run Amok it may seem to be about everything except for creativity- that is because I have been working in the garden of my life, mucking around in the compost because as I say above- for the steps to be fun they have to grow organically out of the rest of my life. But the garden has grown too quiet with all the velveteen rabbits hiding? Where are they?

Sometimes I have to go find the velveteen rabbits. Other times they clamor to be fed or run around riotously. But lately they have been hiding. I have been worried about them. Are they dead? Do they not like me anymore? Or have I been so neglectful they do not trust me?

I looked last night and found a rabbit cowering in my Word Document file. This rabbit is called Turtle Bones and is a short story that has its good points but is too removed and abstract to be as entertaining as it has potential to be. So I cuddled it, fed it and plan to continue doing so today. I am hopeful we will be good friends again soon.

I have found that I am at times compulsive about creating- that I have made things and written stories and poems out of some desperate attempt to validate my life. That place as it is full of pressure and recriminations yet productive. I want to have the joy I had as a child taking my stenographer's notebook to Central Park in Chanute, Kansas. I think when velveteen rabbits are asked to join me in joy they may not be so hesitant. However, this takes jump starting. I can't wait for the joy but begin creating and the joy will come. Yes?

The Mystery

This weekend The Siblings met to talk about how to proceed with my mother. The plan is for Cheryl and Carl to move in, Mom to sell them the house and use this money to pay for home health care when needed. My oldest brother and I plan to tour Carondolet Manor soon to see if it would be a good place for her way, way down the line. We are excited about Carondolet because when she was a nun she belonged to the Sisters of St. Joseph Carondelet.
She talked of this this weekend. She entered the convent in 1947 right after graduation. She was 17 years old. She wore a red dress with white trim and three white buttons. The style then was above the knees . She wore three inch black heels . She and a couple of other girls who were entering sat on the wall outside the convent each smoking a pack of cigarettes because they knew there would be no smoking once they entered. She hasn't had a cigarette since.
She left the convent several years later when she got in trouble for something that she only vaguely refers to- it is The Mystery. Mother Vivianne asked her what she was going to do about it and Mom answered, "I tell you what I am going to do about it, I'm leaving. Go call my mother to get me." Her mother was overjoyed as she hadn't wanted her to join the Sisters of St. Joseph anyway, throwing herself on the floor of Union station (the train depot) when she left for the convent originally.
Grandma didn't come to get her but sent her a train ticket. Mom had to come home in the same dress she entered in but now the dress styles were the Gibson Girl, hems to the ankle, so here Mom was in a red dress, her head shaved and wearing a coat borrowed from Sister Karen Joseph that was several sizes too small, tottering in her three inch black heels that by this time she was not used to.She was befriended by a soldier on the train who gave her his seat and bought her food to eat. She was very nervous because she hadn't talked to a man for a very long time. She was also very sad because by this time she regretted leaving the convent but she also strongly trusted in the will of God.
But that was all long ago. Long before she met my father and had six kids. Long before she got her nursing degree. Long before she went to Europe or divorced my father.Long before she began to forget.
I hope we like Carondelet because it would be like coming full circle. She said today (and every time I see her at least a dozen times) that she is very frightened she is losing her memories, that she is losing her mind. Today I reminded her that it means just living in the present and that she can trust God. She smiled, nodded her head and agreed this is true.
There may come a day she will forget the convent. There may come a day she forgets me. There may come a day she forgets God. But this does not mean that we weren't all there, are there now and at least one of Us will be there forever.