+ Her Barefoot Heart

Tag: life (Page 4 of 13)

my phoemiliar

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as phoebe is to walking, i am to writing . . .

sometimes she skips
sometimes she gallops
sometimes she ambles.

sometimes she sticks to the prescribed path
sometimes
she veers to the right
or to the left
chasing something
that captures her attention or imagination.

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sometimes
she is so totally captivated
that she just stops
and sits for a spell
to reflect and
take it all in.

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sometimes
she ventures so far out into
the ten acre wood
to investigate
that she’s a mere
butterscotch dot.

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sometimes it’s good enough
to celebrate;

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other times, it’s best
to nap and dream of a better tomorrow.

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but always, always, always
it’s better
with somebody riding shotgun.

galoshing

these boots

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are made for walking, (and splashing and skipping and sauntering)
and that’s just what they’ll do,
one of these days these boots
are gonna’ walk right down to
you:

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and you:

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and you:

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with inspiration like this

here’s yesterday’s photo:

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and here’s today’s photo:

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notice anything different?

the flowers – the ones i specially selected for their bright color and various stages of bloom (thanks, angela. nothing gets past you, does it?) – well it seems the cats used them as hors d’oeuvres for last night’s frivolity. yep, they turned over the vase, nibbled on the flowers (something new? let’s eat it!), and consequently threw up. as luck will have it, either the floor or my desk isn’t level (i don’t think i’ve ever lived in a house that’s level or has square corners – is it even possible to create such a space? and really, who would want to, anyway?), so the water from the vase ran down and to the righthand side of my desk. you know: the place where my computer, my ipad, my camera, and my trusty little recorder reside.

because we all know that cats don’t like water, the cat who tasted (not gilded, of course, where’s the fun in that?) the lilies, went to the lefthand side of my desk to throw up. that’s where my journal lives.

now in my approaching-pollyanna mode, i can tell you that the vase didn’t break. neither did the glass nib and its holder. (i’m hearing the collective sigh of relief. thank you.) my camera happened to be laying on top of my little decorative notepad – the one i use to jot down special requests before dropping them into my special pewter bird vessel, so while my prayers might be soggy, there will still be photos. the computer always sits raised on a little thingie that allows air to circulate and keep it from overheating, and the ipad and recorder are in sturdy plastic cases – let’s call them electronic life preservers, shall we.

my journal? well, almost-pollyanna had to struggle a little bit with that one, but here’s what i’ve come up with: i throw up my thoughts, feelings, and words in there every single day, so, shoot, it can take a little cat vomit. or, put more succinctly: copy cat.

okay, here’s the truth: i didn’t really light the candle yesterday. i meant to, but i spent so much time deciding what and who i wanted as companions on this writing trek, that by the time i was settled, it was almost time to cook supper, and well, i just completely forgot to actually light the candle. so this morning after i tossed what was left of the flowers, dried everything off, and cleaned up my desk, i lit the candle and prepared to write.

but the candle wouldn’t stay lit.

i tried about forty-eleven times, and every single time, it looked like a little glowing ember then poof – it was gone, leaving nothing but an equally short-lived trail of smoke.

determined i would not lose every single writing companion, i used one of the creativity stones to scoop out a little well around the wick. (say it with me: resourcefulness is a type of creativity.) downright smug with my resourcefulness, i flicked the long-neck bic and lit the new-improvedly-exposed wick. this time it held a flame, oh, say 42 seconds. now i can write 750 words in 10 minutes, but that’s more of a brain dump. in other words, they aren’t quality words. i need time for that. time and a flame that sticks.

on the front, the label on the candle says it’ll burn for 50 hours (would that be 42 seconds divided into 50 hours? no wait, there has to be some multiplication first, right?). on the back, it says “because sometimes journeys to faraway places bring you that much closer to yourself”. under the circumstances, i find that downright disturbing.

~~~

ps: but hey, here’s a question for you: if the water from the vase prematurely seals the envelope, does that mean you still have to write the check and pay the bill?

ps2: now that i think about it, the right side of my desk could be called e for the electronics area, right? and let’s call the left side w for writing. i sit on the lower side, so we’ll call that s. (are you with me yet?) in the great geography of things, that leaves the upper edge of my desk, and to make this whole map metaphor complete, what say we call it n for nibble?

finally

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a vase i gave myself
years and years ago
sits next to
the glass nib
that my son gave me
years and years ago.

my daughter gave me
the inspiration candle
years and years ago.
it rests on a plate
that asks
“why not take responsibility or your greatness?”
a gift my friend laura gave me
years and years ago.

i found the two stones
said to enkindle creativity
on a nature walk i took
years and years ago.

my constant companion phoebe,
a gift our children gave us
years and years ago,
stations herself at the windows
to keep
trespassers and intruders
at bay.

the painting in the background
that makes me smile and remember
important things
is something my husband gave me
years and years ago.

today i started writing a book
i first imagined
years and years ago.

sometimes it just takes a while
for everything to come together.

or maybe i’m just a
late bloomer.

for the eve: a tale

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friday night, mother decided she wanted to come home 4 days early. she said it was so i could spend time with my husband – and i’m sure that’s part of it – but i also think she was ready to come home.

there’s a whole lot more i want to say about that and about our time together, but i’m a little distracted cause, well, see, here’s the thing: after three years of tire-kicking, i officially signed up for nanowrimo this year.

which starts in less than 4 hours.

i’m actively researching a non-fiction book, but since that could wind up taking 3 years or more on the research alone, i decided nano would be a fine opportunity to bring that story idea out – the one that’s been lurking around in my imagination for 8 years or more – the fiction piece.

yes, 8-year-old fiction.

but with nano’s clock ticking loudly, i am visited by the ultimate writer’s block: i can’t even remember the idea.

i’m breathing deeply and revisiting the notes i’ve scribbled out over the years (i thought there was more!)

sometimes accomplishment moves me into a new place, so i made a to do list. i still need to:
clear my desk
file all those papers
decide on a writing sweater
flesh out a writing writual
decide which candle
make out menus for the next 4 weeks
and grocery lists
finish christmas shopping
pluck my eyebrows
clear out and reorganize the pantry
change the answering machine message to say “not now dearie”

well shoot, as you can see, i’m suffering from a bad case of writer’s procrastination and paralysis.

so to hell with the notes and to hell with the list. i’m off get my daughter to don her costume again and canvas the neighborhood. i’m telling her to go as far as necessary, to stay out as late as needed, that i don’t want to see her back here until she has a bag FULL of chocolate.

early out

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we came home 4 days early – probably because i’m just not that much fun.
or maybe she’d had all the fun she could stand.
nah, i’m going with what’s behind door number one.
anyway, i’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

sign of the times

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with no men around,
the girls are in charge of the scepter tonight,
and we’re watching legally blonde 1
followed immediately by legally blonde 2.

i love these movies.

love the messages they send – the very important messages they send.

and i wonder how my mother’s life would’ve been different
if she’d had someone who believed in her
and kept telling her to listen to her self,
to use her own voice,
to do it her way.

she wanted to go to college,
and the high school guidance counselor
once asked her about going to college,
but she’d always been told that
there was only enough money to send
her little brother to college,
so she told him no, she wasn’t going
and he (the guidance counselor) didn’t pursue it further.

she did run for office once,
but my dad,
who’d held many political offices,
didn’t support her,
so she was the only candidate
with a teenage campaign manager.

i wonder what else she would like to have done
in her life.
last time i asked, she said
it was more than enough being
mother to her three j’s.

and i don’t doubt that she’s telling the truth.
but i still can’t help but wonder
how her life
would be different
had she been born
in a decade
when it was okay
for women to start sentences with
“i want,”
when women had a voice
to call their own.

pretty

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personal appearance is important to mother and alison.
both know how to throw an outfit together.
both know what looks good on them.
both know how to talk to hair dressers
and know their way around a makeup counter.
both are beautiful, beautiful women.

did it skip a generation?
that would be the easiest explanation.

but actually, there was a time when
i was pretty
when i threw together
strikingly novel
and interesting outfits
effortlessly.

but then responsibilities grew
while finances shrunk,
so i learned to
focus
on things other than my appearance.

i told myself
that being pretty was
superficial
and unimportant.

and that’s true

but

i still want to
lose weight
and feel
comfortable in the
beauty parlor
instead of feeling like
i should apologize
and explain my presence
and be grateful that the
hair dresser doesn’t
see my name on the book
and put a bag over her head.

i want to feel
pretty.

but there’s an important difference:

before,
i cared most
about what other people
thought about me,
felt like my appearance
defined me
and was the sum total
of what i had to offer.

now, though,
it’s, well,
it’s all about me.
i want to feel comfortable.
and confident.
i want to feel pretty –
not because of what others think,
but because i want to smile
when i see me.

and i’m finding that as i
make time to write,
as i dare to speak what’s
true to me,
the weight slowly
slides away
and regardless
of how my hair looks
or what i’m wearing
or whether i’m wearing makeup or not,
i begin to feel pretty
again.

taking 10

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okay, folks. i’m taking the night off cause honestly, i’m getting tired of hearing myself talk.

plus i need time to immerse myself in my everything-you-need-to-know-about-how-to-write-fiction magazine cause i signed up for the nanowrimo challenge (it starts in 4 days) and plan to try my hand at fiction.

not that i don’t indulge in a little fiction every now ‘n then, memory being what it is and all. and of course now that i’ve put my name on the official dotted line, i’m wondering if my idea is more like a short story than a book (i can’t bring myself to say “novel”) – shoot, it may be little more than a blog post – but i have committed to penning some 2000 words every. single. day. in november . . . okay, that’s enough. i’m starting to glisten with the enormity of it all.

tomorrow, though, tomorrow i feel another story time coming on.

how can i love you better? (day 22)

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despite my loud and plentiful protestations,
she held my hand
tightly
and dragged me into
in the moon-lit ocean
at the bewitching hour
of 3 a.m.
standing knee-deep
in the frothy waters,
the red flag
warning us of riptides
that just might
pull us under
and tumble us into a
place we’ve never been before.

we talked in
mirrored likeness
of the waves
that broke on top of each other
and crossed at angles to each other
until
i was no longer her mother
and
she was no longer my daughter,
until we were, instead, simply
two women
who cherish,
cheer,
and console
each other,
alone on the beach,
holding hands while
standing knee-deep in the ocean
basking in the moonlight
and
magic of this
wondrously beautiful moment.

(this is what my daughter and i did last night while my mother/her grandmother slept.)

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