The moments I cherish most aren’t all sunsets and crickets on a summer evening, the silence of a winter forest or mornings in the kayak because there are nothing but cherishable moments then. It’s this moment I cherish most, the one I might so easily have overlooked, me leaning against a blue pillow, writing in green ink, my cat nearby on a brown blanket, looking at me with increasingly sleepysmilingeyes; the contentment of ginger tea in a rooster mug, Anam Cara waiting to be opened at random for a sliver of random magic, of inspiration…
…as if the ginger tea and cat’s eyes weren’t enough.
Blog challenge: shadows
Laundry year round and so grateful now that the sheets no longer come in as planks.
Bought this obelisk for 50 cents or two dollars or whatever from a guy at a rather make-shift garage sale outside an apartment building who said he was leaving town to go live with his mother in Florida. He was in his fifties at least and there was something sad not jubilant about his plans and he seemed to put a great deal of weight on the sale of these bits and pieces as if it was going to help his cause and every time I walk past this thing (which I love) in the garden I think of him and hope he is well. Whoever he is.
My parents gave us the gift of a wheelbarrow when we moved into this house. After a couple decades of hard use it finally rusted out and has since been put out to pasture near the blackberry bushes. I would like to grow cucumbers in it this year.
Chairs for tea and sunrise watching. Fairies live in this vicinity.
Unfortunately the picture doesn’t show my beloved cat socks.
This candle, never used, smells exactly like everybody’s dad’s aftershave. It’s lived on our patio table for at least two years and sometimes when I’m sitting outside and want to conjure up a certain memory, I lift the lid, close my eyes and inhale… and it’s nineteen seventy something again.
& a poem.
Taking a page from something started who knows when by who knows who and apparently a ‘thing’ but only recently appearing on my radar, I grab an armful of books from the shelf nearest to me and make the first of a series of book title poems and the making delights me, this new favourite thing in this time of finding new favourite things.
a manual for cleaning women
how to be both
lives of girls and women
moving targets, culverts
beneath the narrow road
the alpine path
across the bridge
a room of one’s own
our lady of the lost and found
to the lighthouse
—in this house are many women
Once upon a time there was a girl who grew up believing in bravery, truth, equality and heart. She thought everyone was the same.
She grew up.
She saw there was a difference.
And then one day so many voices sang a song she longed to hear… “same, different, what does it matter? !” What matters is brains and heart and truth sang the voices and the girl was happy to hear this happy song and packed up her brains and her bravery and her truth and arranged them on her new desk and on her shelves and she opened books that said this is allowed and this is allowed and this and this and she memorized it all and took it to heart and she was very good at keeping things true and there were pots of tea, and fresh cupcakes everywhere and they were marvellous and all was well.
Tra la, tra la, things went (or so it seemed) until out of the blue (or so it seemed) the people who said same different doesn’t matter said what are you doing? And the girl said keeping things true. And the same different people said why? And the girl looked up from her books, looked up into their faces, and she was confused, didn’t understand the word why.
There is no same they said (or maybe they implied it), everything is different. We thought you knew that. We thought you knew this was just a desk and those were just shelves (who cares that you line them with truth?) and you are just a girl and stop eating the good cupcakes… the stale ones are for you. We thought you knew that.
Once upon a time there was a girl.