April is Poetry Month

Happy robin trills

Outside my bedroom window

A song to the sun.

~delayne.

(...Your turn. GO!....)

Lesson One

After Monday's post about stepping sideways off the pathway I've been keeping my eyes peeled. Paying attention....

And on today's walk I watched for clues. Messages from the Universe about what it is exactly that I'm supposed to be learning.

I kept my mind open. Loose. I engaged my senses....

I noticed robins in the rowan tree.

And snowdrifts etched by the wind into the diamond skyscrapers of miniature ice cities.

I heard the over-wintered leaves of an oak tree applauding my progress, the tinkle of a windchime caught up in the breeze, the 'cheeseburger!' call of chickadees, the trickle of snowmelt as it collected at the curb and laughed its way to the storm drain.

I smelled woodsmoke, perfumed dryer sheets, someone's barbecue, spring.

I felt moisture on my cheek and tasted road salt on the air.

And I discovered these on my path: a fancy paperclip and a silk maple leaf from someone's autumnal arrangement.

The message (as I interpret it):

"Lost your place? You'll find it in Nature."

Let the learning begin.
...

Stepping Sideways Off the Path

I sense that foggy, cotton-wool feeling. The shadows on my periphery.

I expect to find my routine suddenly shaken, my mind on walkabout, the door to the rabbit hole ajar, and me about to slip inside and pull it closed over my head....

Maybe you're feeling like this, too?

At these times it helps me to write, but not necessarily to share (although I'll try to; perhaps if I do I'll even discover like-minded kindred souls Out There who can maybe identify....).

Facebook is out of the question. Facebook just annoys me when I'm like this, when I'm contemplating the rabbit hole.... It reminds me that there are folks in my world who aren't feeling lost and out of sync, folks like everyone else who are going about their normal lives watching cat videos and taking 'Which Jersey Shore Character Are You?' quizzes and posting pictures of their lunch.

Plus, I feel too exposed or something on Facebook.

But blogging might just work. I need to type; feel my fingers move. I'm safe here. It feels like a one-way connection. Like me just talking aloud to myself. And that's OK.

But, just to be on the safe side: if YOU'RE here, IF you're here, if you're reading this, please think kind thoughts, 'k? Tolerant, sensitive, open-minded thoughts. I don't mean to sound all woo-woo kookyheaded I'm-losing-my-mind (and I hope you're not taking it that way); I just need to open all three of my eyes, step sideways into the unknown, allow myself to be fairy-led, take notes, see what happens. I sense that I'm supposed to be learning something.... Something important....

And I can't do that if I'm spending all my time trying so hard to -- do what, exactly?? -- appear 'normal?' Act like a generic human bean? Not sure. All I know is that today my weird energies have reached some sort of zenith. (Could it have something to do with the Equinox?) Even my dreams have been out-there exotic, so there's no 'sleeping it off' for me.... I have to pay attention.

So, just bear with me while I do this. Or leave me, because that's OK and I'll understand.

But you just might learn something, too. In which case, we can hold hands and learn something
together.
...

A Leprechaun Tale

A couple days ago I mailed each of the beloved grandbuglets a handwritten note.

The note explained how 'Grampa James discovered a leprechaun hiding in his sock drawer and how he'd agree to free it if it gave him a gold coin for each of the grandbugs, and so it DID, but the next day when he checked on the 'gold' in his pocket, it wasn't gold any longer.' And enclosed with the note was proof: a fat plastic coin with a shamrock stamped on it.

On Saturday James and I FaceTimed with our local 'buglets, and the first thing the 4-almost-5-year-old did was muscle her little brother out of the way in order to hog the camera and demand, "Grampa, did you REALLY see a leprechaun? How big was he? Was he the size of a crayon? Did he have a little green vest? Did he look like this?" And she held a grocery store ad with a Lucky Charms character on it up to the camera lens....

I'd made up the story, but now poor Grampa had to confirm it (oops). To his credit, he winged it beautifully, describing in grand detail how he'd bargained with the leprechaun, and how it begged for its freedom, and how surprised Grampa was to discover the next day that what he thought was gold wasn't gold after all.

All the while he talked, she listened intently with eyes wide, eyebrows high, mouth turned down at the corners. Very intense. And there was a long pause afterward while we sensed the gears turning. Then, in a stage whisper: "Grampa?.... Did you fall for a leprechaun TRICK?"

(We were so delighted by her response that James and I roared with laughter; I hope we didn't embarrass her....)

I suggested we could all set a trap for the sneaky thing, but how would we do that?? And she flew off on a Rube Goldberg tangent: "We could hang a cage from the ceiling and run a wire from it over to the wall and then run the wire across the floor and then when he walked by he'd trip on the wire and the cage would come down and catch him and then I'd grab him and say, 'Give me TWO GOLD COINS -- one for Grampa, one for Gramma, one for Miss Lily, one for Boo, and one for those cute little birds that always try to snackle your fingers off.'"

(SO generous. And to those horrid piranha birds, too, bless her!)

And there you have it: a tale about my brush with the gold at the end of the rainbow and the magick it made one Saturday night. And now I hope some of it's rubbed off on you.

May all your Erin Go Bragh-ing go well today, my friend. And may 'snackle' forever be a word in your lexicon.

Slainte.

...

The Ring and I

Art by J.R.R. Tolkien (LOVE this....)

I almost hate to say this but as far as hobbits, and Tolkien, and lords, and rings, and Lords of Rings are concerned, I am lost. Completely clueless.

(Aaaaaaaaad there goes my 'friends' list.... Bummer....)

Until quite recently the only thing Tolkien-ish that I was even almost marginally vaguely fairly sort of confident about was that hobbits had something to do with hairy feet. And I took a silly Facebook quiz meant to reveal to me just what Tolkien character I'm meant to be, too -- as if that would magickally reveal all -- and I'll have you know that when I got 'Hobbit' I was a little put out about it. Hairy feet? No way. Hairy toes, maybe. (Although not anymore. And forget I even said that....)

Waaaaaay back in my high school days I tried reading Lord of the Rings per a friend's suggestion and I got as far as I-don't-know-how-many-chapters-into-it-exactly and I just caved. Couldn't go on. Couldn't read another word.... I thought I'd lost the friendship, too, when I admitted my failure. But then the friend said, "Everyone gives up at that point. You just have to burn through it until it starts getting good."

Really?? Gah....

I don't often give books second chances let alone multiple chances. But as it turns out, I've revisited Lord of the Rings often over my lifetime. And I've still managed to give up at the same point every dang time. Occasionally revealing this hasn't been the wisest thing I've ever done, either, seeing as how my Renaissance Festival credentials put me in a somewhat Tolkien-knowledgeable circle. I want to be part of the group, but this isn't helping....

Figuring I'd bypass the books by seeing the films sounded like a good idea at first. But little sad-faced Elijah Wood in suspenders and short pants immediately made me think of 'Pa Ingalls' and the whole thing just fell apart at that point. Maybe I just didn't have the Right Stuff....

But then came Martin Freeman.

I heart Martin Freeman. I like his performance style. So casting him as 'Bilbo Baggins' was THE best way to get me to revisit the whole shebang and stay awake for it this time, at least for this prelude-y, this-is-how-it-all-begins bit. And when I learned somewhere (unless I dreamt it) that Mr. Freeman was originally as unfamiliar with Tolkien's works as I, it seemed dipped-in-gold somehow. Special. Serendipitous. I imagined us both on a quest to discover Tolkien together; two of the only people left on the planet who had never heard of Middle Earth. And if awesome Martin Freeman could admit to being out of the hobbit-y loop -- at least until being cast as one -- then I didn't feel so bad. I was in wonderful company.

A while back, James and I saw the first 'Hobbit' film installment in IMAX-3D, and on a whim we chose the high frame rate version. (I know HFR makes a lot of folks crabby, but not this girl; it reminds me of the way programs on 'Masterpiece Theatre' used to feel back-in-the-day, as if they were being broadcast 'live.') It was magickal, although I'll admit I paid way more attention to the details than I did the plot. I watched it again recently in preparation for 'The Desolation of Smaug' and was a little dismayed to discover how much I'd forgotten, or perhaps just missed, as everything about it was a sensational smorgasbord for my eyes.

Revisiting Martin Freeman's 'Bilbo', however, was a delight. Here was a character I could identify with -- someone fearful of Adventure, someone reluctant to leave his comfy cottage and his books, someone who panicked upon discovering he'd forgotten a handkerchief.... Bilbo Baggins was so me.

'The Desolation of Smaug' did not disappoint me. Again, I called around to find it in HFR and was sooooo happy I had. And I left the theater with a lot of questions that my geeky James (himself not much of a Tolkien reader either, having attempted Lord of the Rings as well and given up at exactly the same point) was unable to answer.

Which brings me to last New Year's Eve and my suggestion to James that we finally stream The Trilogy, all in one go. Surprisingly (to me, anyway), he agreed. We made a party out of it and settled in for the long haul. The story was infinitely more do-able this time around. And yet....

...(*sigh*)....

Disappointingly, it was still a torturous weekend full of endless Orc battles and impossible-to-pronounce names and boatloads of odd facts that the filmmakers assumed I already knew but didn't. I was left with so many questions!....

By the dawn of January 2nd I really DID feel like I'd been on a quest. (My butt did, too.) I asked James how he felt about us dedicating our New Year's to the Trilogy instead of to our usual Twilight Zone marathon, knowing as I did how reluctant he was to it all originally. He admitted that it was enjoyable, but he was glad to have it behind him now, and he didn't think he'd ever need to see it again. I thought that was fair and I'm kind of in agreement, although part of me wonders how seeing it with a Tolkien fan wouldn't simply answer all my questions once and for all. (Weren't wizards powerful? Couldn't Gandalf just magick all the bad guys away? And what was up with that ending?)

I still know nothing about hobbits and rings and lords of rings. And I may never gain admission to the geeky planet I orbit. But I'll have you know that since Mr. Freeman's delightful performance I have purchased some baggy trousers and a tweedy vest, some totally Old School suspenders and a velveteen jacket. I've worn them, too. I've now got the 'Bilbo Baggins' LEGO character on my fridge. I've ordered more than once off the limited-time shire menu at Denny's! I've searched for 'hairy feet slippers' on Amazon.com and I wear my Tree of Gondor sweatshirt proudly and I've wondered way too often how I'd look with pointy ears (better than you'd think, actually). I've purchased a copy of The Hobbit -- on purpose! -- and it's in my stack of To Reads, because what better way to tackle the Trilogy once and for all than via its prelude?

And in future, when my friend Tony calls me a hobbit, I'll think, "I guess that does kind of describe me, doesn't it? Safely reading about Adventure here in my cozy house with my pot of tea and my shelves of books and my tweedy vest with a handkerchief in its pocket." And I'll consider it a compliment. And for that I'll thank Martin Freeman.

See?....

There may just be hope for me. :)
...

The Everything Studio

Don't be fooled. These are mostly empty....

On the neat little calendar of my imagination, January is for organizing the studio. And in my head the process is more of a cheery, relaxing lark than the Herculean task it really is.

I imagine opening the door on a spacious, sun-filled room with space to MOVE; full of cute shelves and neat cubbies and color-coordinated baskets. Like more of a Mary Engelbreit studio than what it's currently become: a dreary, dusty, catch-all room filled with unrelated crap stuffed into boxes. A place where things go when Fest (and then Halloween and then Christmas) is over and I just want my life back again.... 

So weeks ago when I realized that January was nearly over and My Mess was still there and not going anywhere, I decided to get off my butt already and get to it.

It sounded so do-able. But soon the contents of that little room were all over the house. In piles. BIG piles. Piles that were blocking the exits, the windows, the TV. Just looking at them made me want to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick.... What was I thinking??

There was the drawing pile, the resin pile, the jewelry-making pile, the polymer clay pile. There was the science pile and the collage-making pile, the painting pile and the writing pile. There were grocery bags full of sewing patterns, boxes full of colored pencils, stacks of drawing paper, a heap of canvases, and about a million little bags of crimp beads and head pins and toggles and charms....

Oh. My.

*Sigh*.... But you already know this because I've talked about it here. And early on in the process, when a friend responded to one of my many comments about this neverending overhaul with a terse "So DO it already!", I felt like I should apologize to you for all my woe-is-me-I'm-such-a-mess ravings.

I know that organizing that one tiny room would be so much easier if there was a single theme. But how do you organize an Everything Studio?.... Back when drawing was my Big Thing (I was a little boring then, but definitely neater) what I referred to as my 'studio' was nothing more than my dad's old drawing table pushed into a corner, with maybe a pile of art magazines on the side. It was all pretty portable then. And when I eventually took over an upstairs attic space, I was able to add a comfy reading chair and some bookshelves.

Then I took possession of a fabulous find -- an antique drawing table with cast-iron legs and some industrial bells and whistles. Huge, sturdy, and heavy as hell. There was room on it for multiple drawings at a time (as well as a cup of coffee, which turned out to be more of a problem than anything else....). The old thing took up the majority of any room I put it into, but I loved it! Yet, Dad's old wooden table had to come along as well, of course. It was like the 'bike I learned to ride on,' and occasionally I'd pull it out for old time's sake.

So, bottom line, drawing is what I do. It's what I've always done. And it's what I go back to over and over again. My studio has to be set up, first and foremost, for drawing. Sounds simple enough, right?

But apparently not, as over the years I've met dashing new mediums, sensed their potential, and let them run away with me for shameless, passionate flings.

I'm so dang fickle. Every new medium feels like The One until I've lost interest for the moment and have moved on to the next. And afterward all that STUFF needs STUFFING. Somewhere. And there's where the little snowball is made, all ready to roll down the hill and bury me in the avalanche.

I'll admit that one day into the current overhaul I wanted nothing more than to shovel everything into a dumpster and set it aflame. I didn't know where to start! It made me CRY.

In response to all my Overwhelm a friend wrote: "Two words: Ray Bradbury. If you ever watched his TV series and saw his "study" you have to realize you're in good company. An imagination without creative fuel is just madness." (Ray Bradbury! I can't imagine better company.)

Another friend commented: "Perhaps the gathering of materials is simply so you will create for the rest of your life. You do not see the world the way an accountant or an actuary does (thank the STARS!) and so, you live in an outward example of the creativity within. Potential is everywhere in the pencils and paints and bits of found things ... all waiting to be brought into being by your artistic brilliance. Artists with sparse surroundings kind of scare me." (Me too, actually. More brilliant thoughts to consider....)

So I've been soldiering on. What began a handful of weeks ago is still underway. It's not going as fast as I'd like, but it IS inching forward in little bits. The piles that were once filling my living room have been whittled down enough to go back into the studio from which they came. The room's not and never will be a page out of Where Women Create (gawd, I WISH!). Nor will the overhaul ever be finished (I realize this now). But the room is better than it's been in ages, and I can be proud of myself for that.

And I go in that room now and putter the day away, sorting bits-and-bobs, doodads and flotsam. Only now long hours go by and I discover I've spent them sorting less and playing more, as that almost-empty drawing table and those bouquets of colorful pencils and markers have a way of distracting me. (They have voices, did you know? Like children on a playground....)

And that's not SO bad, is it?
...

Great While it Lasted

I should've knocked on wood. I should've waited for the other shoe. I should've known better, suspected something was UP.

:(

When I wrote last I was feeling amazingly invincible. Absolutely super-hero-ish! Impossibly painfree. And it was that last part that was probably the most surreal thing about my day. It's hard to explain. Maybe it's that you don't know just how uncomfortable you've been -- for so long -- until suddenly you're not. Then the absence of pain is so monumental that you just go around all day waiting for it to find you again. Because you know it will.

That day -- the day I wrote last -- was one of those days, those 'dipped-in-gold' days. A switch had been thrown and I wanted it to stay that way forever....

I was tempted to write down every little thing I'd done, every change I'd made, just so I could hopefully recreate the circumstances and feel That Dang Good again, whenever I wanted. Was it the way I made my coffee? Was it because I had peanut butter on rice bread instead of wheat? Was it because I went straight to the shower after getting up instead of immediately feeding the Zoo? Nothing I'd done seemed out of the ordinary....

Yet the absence of pain was like being in an impossible dream. I was focused; living in the moment instead of fractured in pieces as usual, a victim of sensory overload. My joints didn't feel like rusty coat hangers. The feet didn't hurt, the side didn't burn, the wrist didn't cramp. There was a pleasant peace inside my head and a silly smile on my face. My bus ride was a joy; the sun beaming through the window onto my face felt like I'd been transported to Paradise. My lunch was sublime; my tummy was so happy for it that I literally danced in my restaurant seat, James laughing at my ridiculousness. No negativity invaded my bubble. My head was quiet, my body weightless, my thoughts serene and sparkly and one-at-a-time instead of all rapid fire.....

I'm sure I've written here before about Chronic Fatigue and Fibromyalgia and being old enough now to feel some arthritis, blahdy blah. And I'm sure I've bored you silly about what it's like to be me, feeling uncomfortable so many days/weeks/months in a row that pain is the new normal. And with that pain comes limitations, and with those limitations comes depression, and it all works together to disturb my sleep and wreck my life and pack on the pounds, etc. Poor me. (Poor YOU, more like it, reading about my aches and pains....)

So when a day dawns that's not normal, it's noticed in spades. James even noticed it. He'd laugh out loud for no reason and when I asked him what was so funny he'd say, "It's nothing. It's just that you're so happy." Was it that unusual? Apparently. All day long I felt like I was stuck in a Disney cartoon, with little bluebirds on my shoulders and everything.

But then later that night? BOOM! Serious sore throat. Sniffles, coughs, chills. Maybe it was all the pre-cold symptoms that had me dancing earlier. Maybe I was drunk with fever.... Or maybe I'd tempted Fate.... All I know is pain had found me again.

And since then it's been doing the Happydance....

:(

Granted, it all could be worse -- I've got some tricks up my sleeve now to deal with things like this that lay me low. And to my credit I've been able to continue the Neverending Studio Overhaul, allbeit in slow little bits.

But it still surprises me how hard it is, how different it is to recover from stuff now that I'm older. Now there are naps involved. Plural. And a lot of plain old shutting-down-and-taking-care-of-myself. It's not like the Old Days when I could just knock back some Dayquil and soldier on.

And just because I stop doesn't mean everything else does. Valentine's Day (one of my fave holidays) came and went and I did my best under the circumstances. And messages continue to pile up and go unanswered. Work remains undone. There are comments to acknowledge and 'belated happy birthdays' to wish. I look around and there are still boxes to unpack and sort. Cages to clean. Dishes to be put away. Olympic games to catch up on.... Bummer.

But all that will have to wait a bit longer. Because for right now it's tea and a book and a quilt and a cat.
...