Archive of ‘musings & daydreams’ category

Little magics

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I don’t like to to dwell in the past.  That was then, and this is now.  You can never go back. All those other phrases that good writers don’t use because they know better than to employ tired cliches which mean nothing at all – but I’m a mediocre hack at best so I figure I can get away with it.

I am very happy to be where I am now.  That is to say, back in Florida, living near my family and friends and in a healthy relationship with a wonderful person. The time I spent in New Jersey was a strange, sad period in my life and I don’t wish to go back -ever- but there are some things I find myself missing.  I don’t know if this was true or not, but I do really feel as if I were utterly alone there.  And it’s funny, as I child I do remember that being my dearest wish – that people just live me alone.  In peace.  To read, to daydream, it didn’t matter…I just wanted to be left to my own devices in my own company.  And it was during my years in New Jersey that I got that wish and it was more lonely and more terrible than I could have realized.  I have never been good at making friends and the situation I was in made it even harder than it might have been otherwise.  I had nothing, and for a time, no one.  And for the time I had someone, it was the worst someone who could have happened to me.

As one could imagine, then.  I had a lot of time on my own,  And being a homebody by nature, I spent that time in or around my home.  Experimenting in the kitchen, decorating (in my small, weird way) gardening, exploring my little neighborhood. I taught myself how to knit, I made butter from scratch, I photographed lovely things on long ambling neighborhood strolls, I grew vegetables, I became comfortable with myself and what I could do.  I learned what I like away from external influences.  The unhappier I was, the harder I tried to conjure those little magics which make life bearable.

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I suppose it is the passing of the summer solstice yesterday without ceremony or ritual or so much as “how do ye do?” which causes me to realize how little time I spend in these pursuits now.  I have social engagements and obligations, I have a home which is a secondary priority to the person with whom I am living in that home with, I read and listen to music and knit, yes, I do these things, but I feel like I am almost programmed to do these things now.  I have done them so long so, I don’t feel a whole person without them.  But those little things I sought out to elevate my existence to something more than survival…I seem to have forgotten how to do these things.  Or they have lost their importance to me, buried under the responsibilities of a real person, whereas before, I suppose I felt as if I were a bit of a ghost; a being on whom no one relied or noticed.  A sad, invisible, selfish thing.

I’d like to enjoy these things again, the seeking out and practices of little daily magics.  My life is so much richer now, fuller and more exciting it ever was before. I think this is a perfect time.

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How do you keep the little magics alive in your daily goings-on?  How do you elevate your day-to-day existence to something beautiful, special, sacred, worth remembering and dreaming about?  I’d love to know your secrets, if you are up to sharing them with me.

Thirty Eight

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I don’t know why I would say such I thing, but I honestly never thought I would live to see the age of thirty-eight.  I suppose that is a funny thing to admit, isn’t it? I’ve never had a death wish or engaged in dangerous behavior…it’s not as if I wanted to shuffle off this mortal coil at an early age. And I’d be doing my imagination a great disservice if I claimed that I just couldn’t imagine myself at this age (because I’ve got a pretty crazy imagination).  I don’t know what it is.  But here we are, at this place I never quite expected to be.

I am now two years older than my mother was when she started fibbing about her age. We were pretty dumb kids, I think. We thought our mother was 36 well into her 50s.

eight of pentacles

A natal day mini read presents the eight of pentacles.  Creativity, intent, immersion and focus. Practice, practice, practice.  Patience and hard work and continually acquiring knowledge, leading to expertise. Perfection may never come, but achieving a greater understanding of a process and learning new skills along the way is immensely valuable in it’s own right.  I love the spider in The Wild Unknown’s deck.  Spinning away busily, the same web over and over. Winds blow it away, hands swat and tear it.
A focused, detail-oriented little thing,  the spider spins it’s web again and again creating a beautiful and immensely functional, and ultimately nourishing piece of work.  I am making most of this up, of course. But there’s got to be something truthful and useful and good in all of that, and perhaps this year I shall figure it out.

posies

My fella’s lovely mama stopped in today and brought me some birthday posies.  On a day when I was missing my own mother’s voice (and hot on the heels of a rather melancholy mother’s day), there were not enough words for how much I appreciated the gesture.

I don’t know that we were particularly demonstrative toward each other, my mother and I, but she would, without fail, call me up every year on this day.  Even if it was just a voice mail, she always said to me “happy birthday, baby”.  I didn’t expect to miss hearing that so much.

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It was a rather quiet day, as most birthdays are now.  Anti-climatic.  Once you have passed your tenth year aren’t all birthdays like that? I had done all of my birthday shopping & shows last week and had a stack of reading and nice smelling things which are already summarily being ignored. So what does a thirty eight year old woman do with herself, on the anniversary of her entrance into this world? Nothing that she doesn’t want to do, of course.  This includes knitting, binging on favourite teevee programs, and the hunting down and devouring of childhood treats.  Not a bad way to spend the first day of 38 – whether or not I anticipated being around for it.

Eleven Twenty Two

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For most of my adult life I have dreamed of this house.  No matter where I am or how long I have been living there, it is always this particular place where my dreams begin and end. For good or ill, this is the spot that my subconscious must believe is home.

From the ages of eight through eighteen I lived in this house. Ten years. I don’t remember very well the home I lived in before this one, and all the places after have become a blur on my timeline, but this house, this time in my life is the foundation upon which my dreams build.

I can’t say it was much better looking than in this photo from a few day ago, but I’d like to think it was, just a little.

My sister, on her way to visit me last weekend, convinced her husband to drive through our old neighborhood.  As they slowed to pass our childhood home, it became clear to them that the house had been neglected for quite some time now, and once they stopped the car and walked up for a closer look they could see that it was indeed in foreclosure. My sister skirted the side of the house, peeking in windows, running her fingers along splintered doorframes.
The sliding glass door in back was ajar and without a second thought, she slipped inside.

I don’t know if I could have done that. My childhood, though incarnations of it show up in dreams on a regular basis, is something I’d like to leave behind.  I don’t know that I could have faced whatever ghosts lingered in those halls.  Worse, then, to feel nothing looking at the handprint stained walls, the kitchen from which I stole snacks while I read Harriet the Spy?  I don’t know and I don’t think I could bear to find out.

My sister is very brave, but I would rather hear the tale secondhand, and continue to dream of a place that used to exist, rather than see it for a faded and broken and beaten thing that no one wants anymore, never to appear in another little girl’s dreams.

 

Between one and another, every day is mine

Here we are again.  This started out as a very different sort of blog, but as circumstances changed, so too must the content of this blog.  This will no longer be a home for Death Cafe Orlando; though I have archived the previous posts should you wish to peruse them, for all new updates and items of relevance please find your way over >> h e r e<<

Well, and so – what to do?  In changing direction for this blog it has become clear to me that I’ve come full circle.  It’s been quite a while since I have maintained a personal blog  – for projects, stories, etc. – and I am realizing that I miss it very much. For the past few years it’s been important to me that I branch out and embrace new and different people, places and things…but in the doing so I have yearned for the simple familiarity of some former pursuits – such as the keeping of a daily (or semi-daily, or let’s face it, weekly or monthly) accounting of the things going on in my life.

In blithely tripping along the trail of the novel and exciting, I have somehow, without quite realizing it, arrived back at the start of the same well-worn, much loved path.  And you know, that is a fine place to be.

“If after I die, people want to write my biography, there is nothing simpler. They only need two dates: the date of my birth and the date of my death. Between one and another, every day is mine.”
-Fernando Pesso

Secret Summer Flowers

There are certain things  I will truly miss about New Jersey when I am back in my alternately scorching and sweltering home state.  Cool, hidden pockets of summer greenery in this neck of the woods, for one.  Leaves so thick on the branches that the light does not pass through. Ivy coiled loosely around a neighbor’s  lamplight. Vines knotted and tangled and trailing down a rotted wooden fence. Grass cuttings strewn across the sidewalk on a Saturday morning after everyone has gotten up early to mow their lawns.  There is so much green it makes my heart hurt a little and my eyes burn a bit,  in the very best sort of way.

And the flowers, oh the flowers.  They are beautiful blooming breakers of hearts as well.

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