Crickets

El grillo is an annoying bug. But one of the better known. Here, they sneak into my house, and chirp to me from some corner. Where is it? I don’t take the time to search. For, how would I catch it? Would it matter if I put it back outside?

I’m not afraid of bugs, unless they burrow beneath skin to sip blood – ticks I’m lookin’ at you. A favorite memory is standing in the doorway, a beer in one hand. My sister was with me. Of what were we laughing? The alcohol steals that part.

But suddenly, a cicada, or June bug wants to come in. They fly right towards your face, right inside for your light. I smacked it down from the air, knocking it back into the darkness. It scared my sister, who never sees fliers quite so large in Minnesota. The beer can’t erase how hard we laughed after that.

It’s just a bug! Anyone could do that! Yes, you could. But is it just a bug? Or does it have a deeper meaning? Does that creature wish to bring you a venom, or simply need some warmth?

Damnit, there’s that cricket again, mocking and yelling at me from outside of my vision. I would not slap him away. Because, really, maybe he’s just lost.

I don’t mind the crickets. In fact, I think, they just may have something more important to say. And when there’s no one else in the kitchen, the cry of a bug can be quite reassuring.

P.S. I told y’all it would be a trip. But I think some of you aren’t quite buckled in.

The Next Morning

Did you cry after? Nah, I never do. I need nicotine, though. And the blackest coffee you can make.

The only thing that can make me really cry is writing what I’ve just been keeping. Keeping for what? For who? Because why?

You won’t like all that I have to say. So, I’ll get back on the road. All a man wants is a ‘like’ anyway. Whether you make that click or made him a sandwich.

Men have more heads to think with, but usually only listen to the one. Nah, I’m not mad. I’m just furious.

Is this about you? About him? About me? I don’t think so. Actually, I do. But does it matter? Sure as hell not – which is only a construct that’s supposedly full of fuego. Even though fire is an earthly element.

Can I be a bitch? Oh, you don’t even know. The word bitch is mine. And belongs to every feminine bulldog, woman, girl, or female runt of the litter.

You feel taken advantage of? Oh, honey, please don’t. Don’t think on those words ya dicho between the pillows.

I didn’t mislead you. And anyway, are you sure I wasn’t just thinking of flower talk?

Do I live to write? Do I write to live? Eh, that’s too philosophical. Jump out of the clouds, and come look at the real ones with me.

Alright, I’m off. To roll down the windows, to turn off the radio.

You know there’s not much of the world left. I tell you all the time.

P.S. Díos mío. Did I just challenge you? Well, are you on a different Earth? Anyone can be challenged. Only the true fighters rise to it. And only we will fix this god-damned dumpster fire of a polluted, destroyed life.

# that (Admittedly, I probably won’t. Nor really want you to. I’m just as afraid as everyone else).

Flirt or Flatter a Fan of Your Reader: A How-To

Let me entice you to come on my road trip. I’m sure you are doubting the wisdom of the driver and what direction I’m taking us in, or to (play on dirección – address). But I like a manual transmission, which means I really know how to drive. Sit back, don’t tell me how to use the clutch (do you know how?), and buckle in. We are going to a fancy restaurant. On a date, if you will. Because writing your own and/or reading the thoughts of another is an intimate occasion (sometimes more so than anything lust can dream up). And an intimate occasion deserves some flowery language, a soft light, a calm listener, at the dinner table of communication.

I’m not a bad flirt in real life, and I can definitely do it in writing. But only you decide how bold you want to go (in either realm).

Stay with me now. I’m not trying to splash rainwater from the gutter of your mind (If I want to, I’ve got the wheel and you won’t know when I’m going to veer off that curb). But writing is like seduction: you have to want to, you have to show your assets, and you must have some experience (the cliche write what you know is to be remembered here).

Okay, we’re in the car. I’m driving. We’ve just shifted into third gear. Do you look nice? Are you wearing a cologne? (Don’t wear cologne or perfume like the cloak of an aroma. Make your reader sniff it out).

If you are a writer, than you better know your damn vocabulary, sentence structure, pronunciation, spelling, and have a handle on your grammar (grammar is hard, so I won’t judge you for it. I’m not a Nazi in any of my beliefs). You’ve gotta know all of that before you take to punching the keys.

Got a date with your reader? Dress up! It’s a sign of respect!

When I’m getting ready to go out (hardly ever) I always start with my eyebrows. Mis cejas have always been thick – before anyone called them “bold” or “‘brows” – and the pain of plucking does not bother me one bit. I don’t usually fill ’em in. For what? I’m going outside to the garden to pick jalapeños. The point is this: edit. Edit as much as you can, what you know how. You will miss some (I always miss an eyebrow hair somewhere) but the effort to show your best self is what matters on a date, or in your blog posts.

To edit sucks. It’s not the fun part, I know. Editing (and eyebrows) are the bane of my existence. But, I’m not showin’ up anywhere with a uni-brow, and I don’t let my work take errors to the Reader page (if I can help it). Sometimes you can leave an intentional error – it’s exciting to the reader – just like one might decide to leave a beauty mark, or freckles, uncovered by foundation – also exciting (better be!) to the man or woman sitting next to you in this 5-speed of life (6-speeds are for luxury cars, which I have no use for).

Think it’s all about you? Not if you want a partnership. Dating, loving, marriage all require that you listen to your audience. Be it man, woman, or faceless reader.

Everyone talks about listening to their audience: it’s important – it takes two to tango. Well, then, put the damn phone down, look up at your listener, and say something. Say something for them. Say something that you want them to know about you. Just don’t say too much! No one likes a chatty Kathy, and mystery is the best genre for leading your reader on.

Set boundaries. Just as you would on a real first date.

Be funny, smart, honest on your date. Show some class. Show your wit. Just don’t make an ass of yourself. Don’t talk about your ex, or your bad habits. And please, don’t drink too much of that powerful poison that a few thousand followers can get you drunk off of. And don’t forget rule number one: use nice language and always ask for consent. (Also, a safe space requires the explicit instruction that slurs or insults are not to be used).

Not sure what consent is? Or how to give it? Then you need to go read something else. You’re pretty far behind. I’ll stop at the next Road Ranger, and you can call a different ride.

Consent in real life is a must. Consent from your reader is a bit more fluid. You won’t know if they’ve given consent until they’ve read your words, commented, or closed out of your site’s home page completely.

A rape of the mind is committed through writing in the form of propaganda. Consent is not given or asked for by propaganda. Propaganda is a genre that seeks to cheat on you, lie to you, make you feel stupid. But that’s a bit heady. Let me roll the window down for you.

Whew! I can breathe much better with that fresh air comin’ in. What were we talking about? Oh yes, dear, you.

There is a way to ask for consent in writing. It may trigger an un-follow. But guns are always goin’ off in the Wild, Wild West of the internet. So saddle up, cowboy(girl). Or, hold on to the grab-bar. I’m about to downshift.

Be upfront about some of your beliefs. Vagueness creeps into writing of any form – long, or less than 140 characters. Not being truthful will creep out your reader, and then your date. Be yourself, because you can’t be me. Or anyone else that you may admire or adore.

You have to be you, and change your opinions of yourself if it will help. Here’s a cliche I don’t like: love yourself before someone else can. Ah yes, love yourself. It’s a worthy aspiration. But how do you love yourself if no one has ever taught you how? Not all of us have been taught. And that’s why I’m teaching you.

A marriage is difficult if he voted for Trump and she voted for Hilary. A marriage is difficult if one likes la fiesta, and the other wants to stay home. A marriage is difficult if one is a lustful carnivore, when the other is a simple vegetarian. A marriage is difficult if you’re the same, let alone different. (Skin color or differences in appearance do not make a marriage difficult – just want to make that clear. Life gives all people difficulties to bear).

Set those boundaries in your blog, with as much dignity or grace as you can. Don’t get up and leave the table, spilling Merlot all over the white tablecloths. Just don’t forget to mention the things that will always divide you and your reader (or date). Some people are not our perfect match. And there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s always a “one” (shout out to MTV again and AYTO?. “This year, your perfect match could be anyone.” I love it!).

Don’t mislead people, though (See? Had to edit something that was published. But only because it was an important distinction. Updated). Don’t write something that you don’t actually know. We will be able to tell. Readers can spot red flags, and already know that red flags eventually turn vermilion. Maybe you put up a red flag on purpose. I would. To scare off a stalker or trollish commenter. You can’t sleep with everybody, no matter how much you may want to (anyone remember the Great Tunechi’s Every Girl In The World?). Look out for the flags your readers throw up, too. And don’t ignore el rojo. Red usually means stop. And so does the word “no” – one of the easiest to hear, say, write, or recognize.

Leave your reader with something to think about. Show a little skin, but leave your body to the imagination.

Decide what you want to show. Your assets? Your wit? Your views on the bittersweet world that we live in? They say not to wear short-shorts with a tank-top or a mini-skirt with a halter. Pick one, they say: arms or legs, humorous or grim outlook. Try to keep it consistent, and use some organization. I have messy hair and all, but I put it in a braid if I’m going out to eat.

Oh, the check is coming. Did you have a nice date? Was it fun? Did we learn about each other? No, no. No kisses on the first date. And no, you cannot come home with me.

Remember that reading and writing are chances for connection. I swear, it is intimate. But don’t judge a whole person by one logged blurb of their life. Take some time to read them well, look at their creation, and think about how you might answer that come-on. Only then might you ask for a kiss, to go up to their apartment. Words do affect, so be careful which ones you choose. It’s always nice to ask for that kiss, rather than lean in unannounced.

Okay, boys and girls. Before you leave this sex-ed classroom, can you tell me what you have learned?

I don’t care if you have learned or not. I’m not a real teacher. Understanding is impossible to measure, anyway.

I’ll spell it out for you, then, my poor, sweet thing. As a writer or a reader, of books or of blogs, you should always dress it up, discuss consent and boundaries, lead ’em on a little, and pay attention to bright red flags.

You just might get a second date. And then a third or fourth. One of those dates just might lead you up a flight of stairs, into a private place, to one of the best reads you’ve ever had in your life. Writing and reading are fun, just like that three-letter word is supposed to be. That one little word that I have just referenced oh, so sexily.

I’m Planning a Road Trip

I’m going to take you on a trip. To literary wonderlands of thought-provoking, question-inducing blurbs of the reality I’ve invented, and am still working on.

My philosophy comes from thoughts that roll, evolve, and rot in the metaphorical compost pile of my mind. I try to make the accidental seedlings grow. I listen to the Master Gardeners, and envy the green thumbs of others. You can always weed the garden. Or, fuck it. What’s wrong with weed(s)?

Don’t let language control you. Fuck is just a word. To be offended is your perception, and never my intention. See what I did there? #teachingmoment.

Easter Eggs

So, I’ve been looking at my writing (who doesn’t read their own stuff?) and finding that I’ve got some puns and/or plays on words that I didn’t notice upon first draft, or even final edit, which never catches all of my errors (but who can pay an editor that knows their grammar well?). I’m not here to brag; some of ’em might not make sense and I might come off as estúpida (new non-native speakers of Spanish: don’t use this word. Not one native-speaker that I know has ever used it (around me) because it’s connotation is that much stronger than ours [como me han dicho]). I’ve also missed a few witty word combinations, but I hate to edit an original work. Alas, what can be done?

Well, it got me thinkin’ on post topics. Most of which I scratched. I scrap a lot of stuff. I’m always cleaning something. Easter egg. Why do they call it that? Isn’t it mostly the Swifties? Don’t put words in my mouth; I can jam to T. Swift any day, but Drake, you’ve always had me in my feelings. Ever since Best I Ever Had. (No innuendos there, I just love that man’s music). I simply don’t understand why they applaud Taylor Swift (or anyone else they apply this reference to) for leaving “Easter eggs” when it’s something that all good writers do: leave a little to the imagination, tell a suspenseful story, create some drama.

I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I watch what the celebrities do, but they live their own lives (in the same world as mine) and theirs are not something I should judge, or worry about. I just find a lot (not all) of celebrities shallow.

Sure, celebs write catchy songs, dance like hell, act better than I ever could, or know a lot about make-up, but I just want ’em all to stop arguing. Quit engaging on Twitter (the only way to beat a troll) and focus on the big problems that are only beginning to surface (like icebergs. Because no, I don’t care where you’re flying to in your private jet, or what kind of flooring you have). We’ve got a White House full of chuckle-heads, shooters at festivals, concerts, malls, schools from Florida to California, Ohio to Texas. There are people questioning other people on their whereabouts, with skin color as the only probable cause. The LGBTQ community aren’t allowed to decide who they want to like or love, and there are others that think sticking to one language is better than knowing two (or more).

You might think but Alex, you don’t know any of the answers. I don’t know ’em all but I know how to research on Google (and what makes one source fake, and another legit). You need more sources of information if you don’t believe in climate change. You need more sources of information if you aren’t aware of patriarchy and all of it’s dangers. You need more information if you think there’s only one religion, one god.

I’m disabling comments on this one, because I’m not asking for an argument. If you want a conversation, go outside and listen to the trees. Because they’re all starting to fall.

If you really want to talk about this, don’t go trash my other posts’ comment sections (I know what the trolls do). Post a response and tag me in it. #inventmyplace. I’ll read it. I have no qualms with listening to the opinions of others. And that way, you just might contribute to the discussion that’s happening all around us, rather than be stuck at home in awe and fear, confusion or rage, like I usually am. Celebrities have much louder voices than everyone else, and those of us that don’t speak make even less sound.

That Blasted Chevrolet

So, am I the side-chick, or is she? “She” is a black Chevy Silverado, complete with a black “bull-bar” attached to the front bumper (shout out to Australians for that word. It’s a “brush bar” in America), tinted windows (gotta have ’em in the South and probably Everywhere! Coming Soon!), and loud speakers that I mostly use for NPR (I like rap, hip-hop, rapeo, regeaton, whatever has a lot of cool twists and turns of phrases – exactly what most artists of color produce and which is why there are those that try to rip ’em off. I just love to listen, but I ain’t got rhythm, so I stick to the written word. But wait, what? Turn off the damn radio for a second).

I have never asked my husband that question (Mi amor, who’s the side-chick? Me or the vehicle?) because really, it’s just a personal joke of mine (I think I’m literally the only one that gets it. Like, why would you joke that your husband’s having an affair with his truck?) Eh, why not?

That Chevy and he were ride-or-die long before I came into the picture. Now, I drive that truck, and I can tell that she don’t like me much. Jealousy. But who is the envious one, really?

My husband and I live, and communicate, over long distance. Marriage is difficult, and that difficulty is compounded by many miles. I should be accustomed, though. I’ve always had a long-distance relationship with my father (he drives the long haul). As for friends, you can probably make an educated guess.

What’s the deal with men and their cars? Or, in my case, with cars and their women? Why am I personifying a Chevy? I don’t know what this post means, and I suspect it’s the result of some miscommunications (you can speak the same language, but still misunderstand every, single word) that transpired over a very short weekend. The kids are sick, and I’m in a frenzy of writing what I’ve always wanted to say (the sickness and the writing have made for a lot of crying the last few days; on the part of everyone in my house).

Ah, well, I’m not asking for any sympathy. Sympathy doesn’t do me any good when the kitchen’s still a mess, the coffee pot’s on it’s last leg, and the baby’s teeth have a while before they finish coming in. Sympathy doesn’t help a writing woman, who’s terrified of becoming one of inspiration’s many side-chicks. Inspiration is like a toxic relationship: each of you stalk the other, and then threaten to leave forever. But alas, back to my argument with the truck.

Sometimes, I start to feel lonely. But then I think, “Nah, we’ve got the tomato plants to check, and the TV to turn on.” I refuse to hop in the Chevy to go see anyone, ‘cuz I hate to drive that truck. And that’s only because I’m pretty sure I know who the side-chick really is.

Your Reality Depends on How You Build Your Forms

There are lots of ideas out there in the world. Lots of information, lots of controversy. I have no designs on telling you how to believe. I just want to mention that you can always change your views, outlook, opinions. It takes some analysis of your thoughts, and honesty with yourself. It takes a pinch of humility and a scoop of compassion for others.

As the cliche goes (I love a good cliche. They’re around for a reason: they illustrate a truth) your world (reality) is what you make it.

What is reality? Firstly, reality is not “real.” There is no objective reality, only our subjective ones. Reality is something our brain projects onto the items, people, ideas in our lives. Reality is a contract; one we sign with our global community.

As a child, and now a young woman, I’ve seen a bit of concrete be poured. I’ve seen men build forms. Forms are important to a pour. Forms mold and hold the cement while it dries into the final product. Let me show you something, and you can do with it what you will.

The following is a metaphor, and is not intended to incite the destruction of any concrete or sidewalks. In your town/city, or mine.

Our thoughts are the cement

Our agreement as a whole society is the water

Mix the two together and you’ve got a hard reality.

At the moment, people are “mud-jacking” reality: trying to fix cracks in our ideals/morals by back-filling the old sidewalks with dirt, foam, whatever chemicals those “mud-jackers” use.

Sidewalks are breaking up in every town. And those sidewalks can’t be fixed. Concrete impedes the Earth’s breathing, and no one walks on ’em anymore.

I think a complete “tear out” would do the job; get that concrete off the grass. We will need some jackhammers. We will need some loud voices to break into our reality and dig it out, turn it back into dust, leave space for something new.

Updated to include a credit to my husband, (S.), whose thoughts on how the Earth breathe inspired this post. My husband is an expert in concrete, and it’s how we make our bread. Es mexícano, something that makes me feel persecuted for being proud of. I love my husband because of his culture, not in spite of it. Mexicans don’t steal jobs, they build foundations for them.

P.S. I have tears in my eyes as I write that update and quiero que todos los latino(a)s sepan que estoy con ustedes, y que la única cosa que puedo hacer es tratar de no vivir con miedo. Lo siento por lo que está pasando.

P.P.S. Any and/or all comments including hate speech, threats, forms of racism will be deleted (as they should be). I do not tolerate slurs or disparaging comments, as I’ve said before and will again.

Ride Your Road Trip, I’ll Be Fine at Home

How I hate a road trip. They all sound fun in theory, but I’ve been on enough adventures by automobile to know that the fun only lasts for a few miles and mostly occurs during the planning stage.

I come from the fly over states (and you can just keep on flyin’ over ’em, in my opinion) where the corn and soybeans grow and “good values” are treasured above all. Good values must be practiced, but that is another discussion that I won’t partake in for now. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Midwest.

I’ve traveled all over it; from the tippy top of Illinois to the tip-toe bottom of it. I have been to the Dells (not as lively as it once was) and lived in Minnesota for a few years (hell yes it’s cold. Why do you think I left?). We lived in Ohio for a short time when I was young but we didn’t fit in there. Indiana is a strange place where, only an hour or two from Chicago, they speak with a Southern accent. Iowans are somewhat ostracized from their neighbors, partly due to a perceived air of authority (don’t “come for me” over this, it’s really not worth arguing about).

There are huge differences in each of the states: what they believe in, what they eat, see, feel. I have traveled the South, too, where I often feel a sense of distrust and a fog of racism or racist ideology that is so thick a knife could cut it (again, don’t come for me. This is my thought process and some of my ideas that I’ve grown after my life experience and listening.) I don’t contend to know any answers. All I’m saying is, I’ve come to find that I’m always good where I’m at (Drake, are you influencing my writing?) and I don’t do road trips for fun anymore.

Illinois has its problems; I’ve read a lot about them. Indeed, I’m a hermit, so it wouldn’t really matter where I was. I try to find beauty in any land, in any people, in any word. Hopefully, this gives you an idea of what Invent a Place might mean, what it means to me anyway. I literally (there’s that white girl in me!) try to see my own place as beautiful, so that I don’t have to hop in the car and road trip to anywhere else.

Pondering on a Poem

I usually don’t dabble in poetry. I don’t understand the rhythms involved and leave it to those with more…flow or something. I don’t know what it takes to write poetry, but sometimes I stand under the impossibly blue, impossibly vast sky and the Earth hums to me, tells me what to say. This probably won’t make much sense, but I didn’t think poetry had to. If you have a much better poem (let’s stick to the theme of wilderness or the outdoors), leave it in the comments.

stay with me now,

as i jump from thought to thought

the stepping stones are covered with moss

yes, it feels quite soft

the winds are in the treetops, the sky is about to fall

and if we don’t have a tomorrow

i’ll tell ya now,

i swear i loved it all

Some Pages From Some Books

I said that I would dive into my pile of new books by reading The Green Witch. I did glance at a few pages. But other books were calling my name with much more urgency. After settling the children for a nap, I found a place to read and decided to browse a few, rather than working to finish one. Some of the books I chose were new to me, some were comfortable members of my library. These are the pages I was able to read and the bits of information I was able to skim off the top.

First, I read a page on kudzu, from Leaves in Myth, Magic & Medicine by Alice Thoms Vitale. This book has always belonged to my grandmother and, not per her death (she is very much alive), has come to reside at my house, on my coffee table. I have loved (and envied the owner of) this book almost before I was sure of what a book even was.

Kudzu caught my eye in the index. I have always been intrigued by kudzu. Mostly for its name, but also for its reputation. I am from the North, so have never seen, touched, or pondered on the leaf of the invasive, fast-growing vine of the South in person. I have heard many times of kudzu, however, and am sure I have seen it draped along fences and small trees from the passenger seat as we travel the highways of Mississippi, Tennessee, Missouri, or Arkansas.

I discovered that there are many people, throughout the world, working to use the ‘mile-a-minute’ plant in innovative ways. The leaves are interesting, calming in a way. Now that I know its leaf, I think I would be able to identify it among many others (a personal goal of mine is to be able to identify many plants and trees by the leaf or stem or bark. My great grandmother was able to do this and, though I never met her, I want to know her by learning what she knew).

After the page on kudzu, I picked up the third edition of Montessori: The Science Behind the Genius by Angeline Stoll Lillard. Maria Montessori is another idol of mine so I read anything with her name attached. I attended a private (pretty much the only kind) Montessori school ages 4 to 6 and during that time fell in love with learning and discovery. Montessori developed her own method, materials, and curricula after extensive research, observation, and work in various fields. She was a physician, a feminist, a speaker, a teacher, a writer. She was an incredible woman and I owe my outlook on learning to her hard work and brilliance.

Traditional public schools have many faults, as Lillard argues. The biggest being in their design and overarching view of children and how they learn. I do not agree with their style and have always felt pushed, roped in, or quieted in conventional American schools. My goal for the future is to teach Maria’s way, but I have much to learn. For now, I will simply gather the information that I need and prepare my casa for the bambini to learn in.

But to go to school in a summer morn,

O, it drives all joy away!

Under a cruel eye outworn,

The little ones spend the day

In sighing and dismay

Schoolboy by William Blake

On one of the first pages of Lillard’s book, I encountered this poem that embodies how I came to view school, after being introduced to the public school system in fourth grade (I skipped third grade and I make no motions to brag here. I usually forget this fact of my life and owe it to being taught to love learning, rather than an extraordinary intelligence).

Figure 1.1 The Casa dei Bambini today at the original location, at 58 Via dei Marsi near the University of Rome. Photograph by the author. (page 17 Lillard)

I also found this photo in that book, and was immediately charmed upon finding it. I would love to walk down this street and see where Montessori’s first experiment in teaching her methods took place.

Finally, when I had tired of educating myself, I pulled out a pen and circled (with many wobbly lines) some words in a book of word-finds with the theme of inspirational quotes. My second puzzle was a quote I thought I might share.

He who wishes to teach us a truth should not tell it to us,

but simply suggest it with a brief gesture,

a gesture which starts an ideal trajectory in the air

along which we glide until we find ourselves

at the feet of the new truth.

Jose Ortega Y Gasset

I believe it is important to take a break often while studying (I have kids so there’s always a reason to stop) and think about other things. I like to use my hands while I think, and puzzle books always come in handy for decompressing. How strange that the words I circled were so meaningful (at least to me, at that time).

So, I will take Ortega Y Gasset’s advice and leave you on your trajectory. May it lead you to a pile of new books and some kind of new truth.

A Haul of Books

This post contains affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn a small amount from qualifying purchases. I try to only recommend items that I personally own or have used, and hope that they serve you well also, if you do decide to buy.

This past weekend was an especially relaxing time for me. I visited with family that I have not seen in years. We talked about old memories and did a lot of Saturday Things. Before parting, we exchanged gifts that we had been saving for each other. I was given some books that were sent to me by my younger sister from Minnesota (unfortunately, she stayed behind in the land of lakes).

Everyone that knows me knows that I am a writer. As a writer, I read. I read everything, from every source, good or bad. It hones my craft and I do enjoy it. My dear sister knows just what I like.

If you would like to follow along with me (we don’t actually have to read together, but each of these books are on interesting topics and might interest you as well) try Audible or pick up a hard copy from Amazon.

The book that I am most excited to peruse is The Green Witch. It contains chapters such as “Embrace Your Own Power”, “Attune Yourself to Nature”, and “Become a Natural Healer.” Make what you will of the “Witch” part; I can’t wait to practice.

You can find this hardcover here on Amazon. It’s quite a beautiful book and includes many “exercises” and “blessings.” I hope to share what I learn from this and the other books pictured above. I will have to carve out some time. If I can get a break from playing with the kids, weeding in the garden, putting books away, serving lunch and dinner, catching a TV show, listening to stories from my mother and grandmother, writing a few thoughts….

P.S. If you read, or have read, any of the above, let me know what you think! I get tired of talking to myself. 🙂

A Storm of The Mind

Unfortunately, in my opinion, I am a writer. I was born with thoughts in my head that wanted to be written on paper. I set to work as a young girl, creating an office from upturned plastic tubs, giving myself deadlines, bringing my copies to anyone who would read them. I wrote about dogs, and birthdays, and the animals I met on the farm. What is there to write when you have yet to live a life?

As I grew older, the thoughts, wanting to be written, remained. But a pen would not fit in my hand, the cursor would not stop blinking, the sight of a notebook turned my stomach. I could not, would not write. Yes, I wrote for school, and always received good feedback. But that feedback never felt right.

I don’t write for feedback. I don’t know what I write for. Yes, I write for feedback. Of course, I want to affect with my words. But there are so many sometimes, and then there are none. How do I capture, organize, remember?

Unfortunately, I will always have to write and there will always be a storm in my mind. I am learning to capture the inspiration, to reign in the winds of words, and put something down, finally, after so much time of blank paper.