Onward, 2015

We will open the book.
Its pages are blank.
We are going to put words on them ourselves.
The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day.
~Edith Lovejoy Pierce

I don’t have any words for 2014.
One would think in a year of such struggle and intensity,
I might have some desire to speak of its misery.
But there was enough light.
Not enough to really see by,
but enough to maintain hope for a brighter year next.

Much has happened to me and around me.
My wish is for more creation, more say so,

more stories that I author for myself.


chrysalis, out of time

It is cool and crisp.
But also clear and bright.

It feels like “my time” – September or October.
But it is July. And even I am not ready for Summer to end.
Just the same this weather and the energy it brings me, are welcome.

This last year so much has been lost and gained.
Ups and downs.
A liquid brimming—and then the vessel emptied.
Over and over.
It is filled and spilled by waves of unexpected and extreme sizes—both enormous and imperceptably small.
My brain can’t decide which parts of life to “reset” or transform first,
so I force my body to STOP.
To listen.
To not receive words, but a sensation-al sign of what direction to move.

For the next brief period—and hour, maybe two—there is no to-do list.
No test message to return or call to answer.
Just a candle and an open window.


because I am so moved . . .

moved as in motivated, not emotional.
Let’s not get crazy. It’s rare enough that I feel compelled to write.
I certainly shall not be having emotions while doing so.

At any rate, I composed an essay while my head was upside down over my tiny bathtub during my miraculous hair washing. Miraculous because it is only due to an ice storm that I had time to bathe—for the first time in 3 days.
Ridiculous. But we Americans are overly concerned with hygiene anyway, so let’s call it an experiment, or water conservation. Anything other than just-plain-dirty.

That essay, now flushed from my brain, rinsed down the pipes with the grime, will not be making any sort of appearance. But I am attempting to get thoughts out of my head more often. I’m an only child and a pretty serious introvert who is obsessed with knowledge and well practiced in observation, so lots of words get stuck up there. Sometimes my brain feels like a fountain recycling its own water, or a plane cabin full of stale air. So, it is time to drain or depressurize, whichever metaphor you prefer.

I have always hesitated to call myself a writer, mostly because I feel that title relates to someone who puts words into form with some regularity. I am a composer of verbage, but nearly never put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. I put words together inside my head carefully because there was a time when I did not speak out loud anything that wasn’t properly rehearsed mentally first. I appear well spoken as an adult only because I have scripts. For every situation. And finally after 38 years on the planet I am comfortable altering or abandoning them, but they have given me a good foundation and some confidence ultimately. That said, I spent most of my time with other humans in observer mode for the better part of 20 years, so even now my talk and writing style is more reporter than poet. *shrugs*

My creative expression has always existed in other outlets—painting, acting, design, photography. And when I am not involved in an artistic pursuit my word flow gets even more clogged.

So, I haven’t taken a picture in weeks. It’s cold and wintry and I have been working so much. Even my Instagram is sadly lacking. I have had to cut back on traveling and doing theatre for awhile. I haven’t painted or collaged in so long. The house is such a mess that I can’t bear to make more messes. Especially ones I would probably only half clean up with this nutty schedule.

I am carrying a notebook. And taking a writing class online.


my 70 hour work week

Sounds thrilling, no?
I am a part time professor. 30 hours.

And in this season, I do people’s taxes.
It is my way of justifying what might otherwise be frivolous spending on trips to New York City and Disneyworld.

But in the absence of a manager at one office, I am working 40 hour weeks at my “part time” gig.

Needless to say, I am too tired and lazy to write more than one blog post in a day. So yea, visit The Mountain Spirit blog. Winking smile


before the snow came


I took this photo on the road home.

I was on holiday in Virginia at my in-laws.

I had an epiphany when the power was out and I couldn’t see to record it in any way. It flowed over my regular thoughts like a waterfall and is now six states of mind down the river of enlightenment.

At least I had a good excuse. That time.


That golden color of 2013

I am beginning now to really reflect on the year’s turning–
that color I referenced still a filter for meaning.
I collected representative images on a Pinterest board.
The color, as it turns out, was lamplight and honey.
How can next year ever compare?

Then one of my favorite poems came back to me today,
full of the colors of honey and heat
and also overflowing with connection
to the words I have walked with this year.
Purge. Savor. Manifest.

Last Night As I Was Sleeping
Antonio Machado
English version by Ivan M. Granger

      Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – blessed vision! –
that a fountain flowed
here in my heart.
I said: Why, O water, have you come
along this secret waterway,
spring of new life,
which I have never tasted?
      Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – blessed vision! –
that I had a beehive
here in my heart;
and the golden bees
were making
from all my old sorrows
white wax and sweet honey.
      Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – blessed vision! –
a blazing sun shone
here in my heart.
It was blazing because it gave heat
from a red home,
and it was sun because it gave light
and because it made me weep.
      Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – blessed vision! –
that it was God I had
here in my heart.