the lost girl diaries

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 01:02:00 +0000

and so it begins again. the reunion and the moving onward. or backward, as sometimes the case may be.

i love this space -- even though it isn't much of anything. i think i've said before that i like it best because not many people come here. i think it's the equivalent of sitting in the corner at a party -- the ones who matter will drift toward you for the conversation that needs to be had.

or something like that.

the work has begun again in earnest. i'm finding my writing legs again -- sorting out the best times of day -- which is a bit of a challenge seeing as how myself and the children are sharing a computer. that's actually a good thing -- it means i piss about less when i do have computer time and can fiddle away in my notebooks in the other time...which is a lot of what i like best anyway. i've chosen to work on what began as my NaNoWriMo 2010 project -- it won out for a secondary character that i suddenly became fond of. then today, someone stepped out from the edge of a clearing that i hadn't intended to matter but suddenly does. very much. i love when that happens.

i watched the third Narnia movie this weekend...and the Railway Children. there's nothing quite like beautiful old stories to make you want to get back to writing.

i've written a few poems as well.

it's good to be back and even better to realize how this is exactly what i want to be doing.

whale songs

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 17:56:00 +0000

when the words take me -- and i mean when i really step over the threshold and into the river -- i am unreachable.

what frightens me more than not being able to come back, is perhaps not wanting to.

i need to remember that love anchors more securely than any knots i might tie with my own ink-stained fingers.

a poem

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 22:53:00 +0000

written in response to Mr.O'Donohue and prompt #5 at the aeolian harp.....

the fog

i wrap myself in layers of bravery,

woven of ink and moonlight.

i walk the mists of unknown journeys;

the wending, pot-holed footpaths in the

midnight forest of my soul.

but despite how well i cloak my heart against

the doubtful night and seeping dark,

still, the cruel tendril'd fingers grope

and creep

through the cracks and folds

of paper courage

and leave me

shivering,

small,

and alone.

the secret of crossthwaite boggle (excerpt #3)

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 12:11:00 +0000

written, slightly tardily, for the fourth prompt over at The Aeolian Harp. i LOVE these sorts of prompts...the girl-child and i often make up silly sentences and stories using random words.

naturally, i'm using the prompts to summon bits of the story started here...with the vague intention of cobbling it all together eventually.

owl, bucket, letter, curtain

Pippa stifled a shriek as the silent breath of flight brushed her face.

"Sssshhhhhh!" hissed Dorrie and Tristan in unison.

"It's only an owl, Pip," whispered Dorrie more kindly, seeing the fear in her sister's eyes. It was strange to think of brash, confident Pippa as frightened. It did nothing to calm her own worries about the whole adventure. Shivering in the summer night, she pulled the edges of the drawing room curtain tightly around her.

Tristan shifted his weight against the oak tree. The handle on the bucket of pony-nuts clinked gently, although the heavy silence of the forest made it sound ten times louder.

"Sorry," he mouthed in answer to Pippa's glare, smiling beatifically.

Leaning closer to Dorrie, he whispered, "Are you sure you got this right? We've been sitting here for ages and nothing's come."

"Yes," said Dorrie firmly, "I read the letters a hundred times each. I'm certain this is the place. The letters said that she comes to this glade every solstice. It's the only time you can be sure of where she is, you see."

"And do you think she'll really fancy these?" he nodded his head toward the pony-nuts. They were Pippa's idea.

"Of course, she will. She has a pony, hasn't she?" Pippa retorted. "They're like a...a peace offering or something."

Dorrie was doubtful.

"I'm not certain she's the sort of.....well, person that would recognize..."

She broke off as Tristan grabbed her arm. She followed his gaze to the far edge of the clearing and tried to calm her rising panic at what she saw there.

"I hope this wasn't a terrible mistake," croaked Pippa, belatedly.

the secret of crossthwaite boggle - excerpt #2

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 13:16:00 +0000

as has been my habit from time to time -- i think i have three patchwork stories built from excerpts and prompts -- i'm going to carry on with this one for a while. if it wants finishing, there's no guarantee that the bits i write here will end up in the final draft. i like to think of these as the bones of the thing...where i get to know a bit about the characters and find out where the story wants to go.

as such, it felt a bit like cheating to use this piece as my 'official' submission but i've left it here anyway. something about it doesn't fancy just staying scribbled messily in my notebook.

{Rose - you'll be pleased to know that i scribbled it whilst sitting outside in the darkening twilight, a cup of tea and a chorus of crickets to accompany me. oh, and a dog or two.}

you can find the actual prompt here. as also is my habit, i tend to take great license with these prompt-thingies.

~*~

excerpt #2 - Dr. Hall and Elsa Fintan

Dr. Hall was in no frame of mind to suffer another visit to the Fintan farm. In his own esteemed opinion, Donal Fintan was two bacon sandwiches away from a heart attack but no amount of telling Donal that would shift a lifetime of habit.

Dr. Hall was increasingly weary of his patients. More and more his mind wandered to his fishing pole and leaving the Moor-folk to their stubborn selves. The trouble with them, grumbled the dour old physician to himself, was that they’d been weaned on fresh air and lard sandwiches and had generations of longevity to argue any medical text. It didn’t help that Donal’s sharp-tongued sister was feeding him cordials and potions and prescriptions of vigorous exercise and mustard plaster. The most frustrating part of it all was that Donal was making a marvelous recovery, against all of Dr. Hall’s gloomy predictions and recitations of laboratory results.

The doctor’s elderly car rattled along the track and came to a shuddering stop at the back gate of the kitchen garden, where Elsa Fintan stood waiting for him. She had a basket of flowers over one arm and a bottle of deep red liquid in the other hand.

“A blessed good morning to you, Dr.Hall,” her voice was strong and clear, a mismatch to her tiny frame. “Donal is grand this morning, you’ll be delighted to know. He even took a walk to the west pasture to check on the sheep.” Her smile was triumphant and she held up the ruby-filled bottle in a sort of salute.

Dr.Hall grimaced as he got out of his car.

“You may be surprised to know that I am not, in fact, delighted in the slightest to hear that. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times; Donal must not exert himself yet. He needs rest and a low-fat diet.”

Dr. Hall scowled down at the speckled brown shells of the eggs nestled amongst the nasturtiums in Elsa’s basket.

“How many of those did he have for breakfast?” he asked sharply.

“Three. Just like always,” Elsa retorted just as sharply. “I wonder, Dr.Hall, have you ever been delighted about anything in your life? Or is it always dire and desperate with you?”

Hector Hall had spent his life doctoring the Moor-folk, as had his father before him. Life on this side of the Great Moor could be hard and unforgiving and it bred strength of character in its people and a singularity of mind that was a force to be reckoned with. He knew at once that he’d not get around Elsa Fintan.

He sighed wearily. “What is it that you’re wanting me to tell him, then?”

“Just what’s true. You know yourself he’s got the constitution of a bull. This was just a simple chill let go on too long. He’s finished up with your blasted pills and I’ve just made him a fresh bottle of cordial. That will see him the rest of the way.”

Elsa’s blue eyes were flinty and her mouth set in a firm line.

“You can’t go on with your doom and gloom and waving sheets of paper at him and telling him to stop eating his breakfast the way he has for the last seventy years. For some reason he thinks you know what you’re on about so he needs to hear it from you.”

“And I suppose as his medical doctor, I don’t know what’s best?” Dr. Hall was finding it difficult to curb his impatience. “Elsa, it’s not his chest cold I’m worried about. The tests showed that his heart isn’t faring well….”

Something in Elsa’s expression stopped him. She looked tired, suddenly. As if all the fight had seeped out of her. The piercing gaze softened.

“Please, Dr. Hall. I’m not asking more than what you can honestly give. I need to get home. Donal will rest easy if you just tell him to go on with things.”

She gazed into his face, as if looking for something.

“And I can tell you that I don’t think what’s troubling his heart has anything to do with how many eggs he eats for breakfast. Please, can you find it in yourself to trust me on this? I have to get back to the children.”

Hector stared at the small, wiry woman. He knew she was right and that Donal would likely be fine – he defied explanation as it was. He wondered, though, at her anxiousness to be home. He knew a little of her life on the coast-side of the Moor, how she’d taken in her son’s children after he and his wife had mysteriously vanished some years ago. The pony-mad twins and their small, serious sister – the four of them rattling about in that draft, crumbling old farmhouse. He stifled a scowl. In his educated opinion, the wild coast and wind-ravaged western Moor was no place to raise children.

“Are the children well, Elsa?”

Elsa stared off to the west, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of them in the distance.

“I don’t know, Hector. I truly don’t.”

Her gaze seemed to turn inward, to a place Hector couldn’t see.

“I just need to get home,” she whispered.

the aeolian harp - #3

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 13:00:00 +0000

one of the Somethings i wrote for the current prompt over here.

~*~

memoria

they drift through

the waking death

of half-places.

sorrow and laughter

mingle in remembrance

of a life in chains

and a soul set free.

aeolian harp - prompt #2

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 00:38:00 +0000

written in response to the prompt over here...

The Secret of Crossthwaite Boggle {chapter one?}

Dorrie heard their voices first.

Not long after came the clattering of boots on the wooden floor.

She smiled grimly, knowing that Aunt Cliona would feel the need to lecture them all at supper about the desperate difficulty of preserving three-hundred year old floors when young people insisted on trekking mud and manure across them.

‘If only Aunt Cliona knew the real reason for the old farmhouse crumbling,’ thought Dorrie, ‘she wouldn’t spare a thought for the muck on the floors,’

Still, Dorrie wished the twins wouldn’t give their Aunt any more reasons to find fault. Every day that Gran was gone, their overbearing Aunt added to her list of how Things Ought To Be.

The children’s great-uncle had fallen ill earlier that spring and Gran had gone to help with the running of his farm while he convalesced. Every time she phoned, Dorrie hoped to hear the words, “I’ll be home on the next train, my Dorrie-love.” The twins didn’t mind Aunt Cliona as much, busy as they were with looking after the ponies and planning adventures across the Moor.

Sighing, Dorrie got up from the tapestry armchair, spilling the one-eyed cat, Maugrim, and crumbs from a clandestine chocolate biscuit to the floor. Ignoring the petulant glare of the old orange tabby, she put her book and a sheaf of notes on the worn desk. She opened the tiny door and stooped through, bracing herself for the onslaught.

“Dorrie! There you are!” squealed Pippa. The oldest of the twins by three and a half minutes, her loud, abrasive exterior hid a heart of pure gold. Her sharp green eyes scanned her younger sister’s pale, drawn features worriedly. “Have you been locked up in that stuffy little room all morning? I thought we’d find you here. We’ve come to fetch you for a ride, haven’t we Tris?”

Her younger brother nodded his blonde head and smiled gently at Dorrie. “I got Tamsin ready for you, Dor. She’s lovely and gentle you know. She’ll look after you.”

“Yes, you really need to get out into the air, Dorrie. You know what Gran says about the air on the Moor – it’s great for what ails you!”

“We can take the coast path down to the sea, if you like, Dor. You know how much you love the shore,”

Tristan’s eyes were the blue of a rain-washed sky and his blonde curls the envy of every girl in the village. What his twin lacked in decorum, he made up for with his quiet, retiring nature. Besides Gran, Dorrie thought that Tristan understood her best.

Dorrie sighed again, not wanting to go, but not wanting to disappoint her brother. That was the trouble with the twins, they thought a mad ride across the moor on a wild smelly pony was the answer to every difficulty. It was as if they thought they could outrun the very thing that was staring them all savagely in the face. And they knew Dorrie wasn’t keen on riding, in fact it terrified her, but she knew they were just as worried as she and were coping in the way they knew best.

Still, she doubted very much that careening across the sand on one of their shaggy ponies would fix anything.

Glancing back at the dusty book and her stack of papers, she ran her fingers through her hair. 'So much left to do,' she thought anxiously, 'if she was to find the answers they needed to save the old farmhouse.'

“Oh never mind your smelly old books for an hour,” said Pippa, linking her arm in Dorrie’s and gesturing to Tristan with a jerk of her head. “Won’t they be here when we get back?”

She drew Dorrie further into the parlour as Tristan closed the door to the secret library. “You’ve plenty of time to bury your nose in silly old faery stories when it’s too cold to ride out.”

‘No, thought Dorrie as she allowed herself to be led away, ‘time is something we really don’t have a lot of.’

~*~

...from the Anthology of Beginnings :D}

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 16:06:00 +0000

i was cleaning my writing desk today -- high days and holidays, you know -- falling in love with this space i've burrowed out here in the corner of the bedroom.

i think i'm supposed to wish for my own writing room -- and indeed, i have visions of a garden studio -- one half set up for painting and whatnot and the other half devoted entirely to the weaving of words. i've imagined old, white-painted wooden tables and mismatched chairs. i think there's a wood-stove there too, for when the autumn days turn chilly. of course it will have to be insulated so i can go there in winter as well.

but for now, i need to be in amongst my family. my art table is in a corner of the living room -- which means i'm with the children as they're going about their little bits and pieces.

my writing desk though...that needs to be separate. i need the illusion of solitariness -- of isolation -- so that i can sink deep into the rushing waters of inspiration.

although i don't enjoy clutter in the slightest, one might accuse my writing desk of being rather so. it's certainly a pain in the backside to dust all the bits of things and i'm constantly threatening to shave the cats bald for all the hair they leave behind as they blithely tread upon sacred ground.

i wonder, then, why i spend so little time here. it's quite perfect, really and i do adore it very much. i make the excuse that my chair is the wrong height. it's just a crappy old wooden kitchen chair that i scavenged from the rubbish heap. my desk is an old secretary's desk that was designed for the height of ancient typewriters -- so my skinny laptop rests too low on the surface.

i don't want to buy an adjustable chair because i'm rather fond of my old wooden one - hideously uncomfortable though it is.

i had carpal tunnel syndrome in years gone by -- all that shoveling of horse manure -- and my wrists are easily aggravated if things are at the wrong height.

so those are my excuses for not writing.

but i just had the brain-wave to put my computer up on something -- to make it higher.

it's now resting on a rather disappointing volume called "The Element Encyclopaedia of Magical Creatures". it's disappointing because it has no illustrations. i had ordered it because it was only $5.

but i'm wondering if a bit of osmosis might seep upwards into the brain of my computer and enchant my fingers so they'll write the stories that are itching to escape.

for now, though, i need to get back to my housework. i just wanted to test the height of the computer. i think it's okay...although my left wrist is starting to ache a bit.

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 11:56:00 +0000

the bones of a poem rattle noisily -- like the efforts of a shaman summoning wisdom from beyond the veil.

i find myself wanting to retreat further into the depths of my soul-cave...craving the solace of a flickering fire and the wind howling through cracks in the granite.

i'm too long on the Outside.

i'm too long threading a needle to mend a friendship in tatters....one that doesn't want mending after all.

but there are appointments to keep and words yet to weave. the whisper of truth grows louder and i feel the shift of the earth beneath my feet as a different trail shimmers on the horizon.

the bones rattle louder and i keep walking.

forgotten

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 00:39:00 +0000

i set this place aside for a while. perhaps not consciously at first, but then it went under a dust sheet and i quietly imagined it didn't exist.

which is how it's been for me and my words this last few months. something about this space was connected to my writing.....it felt like the place where it belonged. i'd like it to be somewhere quiet that i can come and let the thoughts drift out of my fingertips.

beautiful adie tells it well...this push-pull for those of us who can write....who are drawn to write...who, by whatever means, must write; and how it's not altogether voluntary and not always invited. there are more people who don't understand this than those who do.

i sometimes get anxious about not writing. i berate myself for 'wasting' this ability -- for squandering what i've been given. i get caught up in the 'ought-to'. i didn't always feel this way. there was a time when i wrote because i had a story to tell.

i think the worst thing i ever did was take a creative writing class. truly, it ruined me.

i've written a novel. it's written for the tween/YA market {i've a whole other post about these arbitrary categories and the bollocks that is traditional publishing}. it's well-written, follows all the rules, has a good story and some interesting characters. by all accounts, after a few trips around the appropriate circles, i imagine it would likely be published.

and yet there it sits. waiting. one rejection down and me not arsed to send it out again. {which has nothing at all to do with the rejection, that doesn't bother me at all}

what i really want to do is write stories without ever intending them to be formally published. i would like to reclaim the freedom of that. if i could, i'd step into my way-back machine and never take that first class. i would have found something else to do in the evenings while i was gestating Savannah. because i think that the stories of my heart aren't necessarily the kind that most editors would want to invest in. oddly, this pleases me.

i get tired of hearing myself bemoan this point though -- i've gone up and down and around the issue so many times i'm sick of myself.

so i've decided just to get on with it.

some of it might turn up here. most of it probably won't. either way, it's a step in the right direction.

thank you, adie -- and you, tibbie...for reminding me of the magic.

divinity in decluttering

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sun, 01 May 2011 16:36:00 +0000

there really is something of a reverent feel to space once it has been stripped of it's extraneous *stuff*. and as i carted bags to the car for donation and armloads to the curb for Goods Exchange Day, i felt a lightness descending. which is both literal and metaphorical.

lessons in non-attachment are hard ones for me - i am, by nature, rather nostalgic and having a mother who was occasionally ruthless in her disposal of my childhood treasures - i tend to hang onto stuff that is just that, 'stuff' - forgetting that the memories are in my heart and don't need the physical object to remain....

~*~

a memory....

I had a ride-on dog that I'd named Clive. He was a bloodhound, i think...and had lovely spongy droopy ears and I would trundle about the neighbourhood on him, scuffing my shoes and wearing holes in the legs of my trousers by getting them stuck in his wheels. (this was the 70's after all...I'm sure if I hadn't been wearing bell-bottoms it wouldn't have been an issue.). And as much-loved toys often do, he became really quite worn. I don't remember him as such, but this is what I've been told. His tail had fallen away...the sponge becoming disengaged from the spring inside and the tread on his wheels were worn making him rattle and bounce. So it was decided that he was too tired and he was place unceremoniously on the rubbish heap -- from which I repeatedly removed him. I vaguely recall plotting to run away and hide him. But, being the child I was, I gave him up...despite the grief being as real as if he'd been alive. Which, in most ways, he was to a small, imaginative girl who always wanted a dog of her own but wasn't allowed one.

I've never forgotten Clive -- and because of him, very little that has been donated or sent to the recyle/reuse pile belongs to my children -- and of the things that did, all were given freely and with their blessing. It's a small thing -- and it means we still probably have more *stuff* than we need -- but at least they know that their treasures matter.

~*~

a few years ago, the story of Clive came up at a family gathering. enough time has passed that we can joke about it and my mom even apologized for throwing him out and so all is forgiven. but it's interesting to me to see how our experiences frame the way we parent our own children and how, despite (for all intents and purposes) having a wonderful childhood, i want my own kids to have a much different one.

i think that's why the space left by the removing of the *stuff* today, contains a crisp, white energy and not one filled with the tears of loss. indeed, there is a touch of the divine in this.

memory

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 23:14:00 +0000

in the fog of recent disconnect i have tiny flashbacks...memories of times gone by- they're filtering in to remind me of who i've been and therefore who i am.

i remember my beloved red horse - his real name was Muntej but i called him Monty...as in, The Full -- he was just naughty like that. he would roar out of the barn rearing and we'd careen our way to the racetrack amid my laughter and other people's shaking heads. when we were down in Florida at the training center, a senior's group had come to watch the horses train - we were jogging around past the grandstand and when he saw all the white-haired old ladies he stopped dead and reared straight up, pawing the air in fine dramatic style. i berated him, half-heartedly, and off we went again. the ladies were delightedly horrified. he went on to win multiple stake races and was champion turf male for that year. a year or so later he broke his foreleg while out playing in the round pen - monkeying about, as always. it was better that way -- he wasn't meant to get old and weary.

and then there was Poetically who would buck her way around the track, squealing with glee, until it was time to gallop. she was champion 2-year-old filly that year and was never in doubt of how special she was.

and so many more - dozens of them - Caught Out, Sea Run, Forest Princess, Cassia, Galadriel,Taos... not all of them superstars and some of them not even very nice, but all of them had a part in rebuilding a young girl's battered soul.

so Rose was right - it is hard to imagine myself being happy trundling around a school working on where my elbows ought to be and if my heels are down far enough. and Sarah is right too -- there's a someWhen where i'm still riding those fast horses. so perhaps i ought to be able to be happy with a quiet life.

but i'm not. i know now that my heart would be happiest on some tangle-maned creature trekking through the woods; maybe an occasional, clandestine gallop across a fallow field. and so i'll wait for that, because i've come to realize what it is that binds my soul to them. and it isn't necessarily having them do what i want in a precise and orderly fashion - it's them allowing me to touch their soul and feel their joy of being alive. perhaps eventually i'll find a retired racehorse and we can meander into our dotage together.

all that aside, i do fancy learning to joust. ;)

on finding Truth

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 16:59:00 +0000

i'm in the habit of consulting the cards, in times of ponderence {new word} -- i tend to draw anyway when the moon is full as well as dark -- always on the dark moon....it's my birth moon and when i'm at my deepest submersion. anyhoo -- whatever your woo, sometimes you just want a bit of clarification, right? i rarely use my tarot deck anymore, finding more juice in either one of my meditation/oracle decks. but that's just back-story...

last night, one of the cards that came to me was concerning Truth -- and in this particular instance, i've come to learn that it concerned one of my own, rather than that of another.

without going into the long and convoluted story, it seems that a particular chapter of my life may be over. or at least on indefinite hold. and that's rather sad -- as it's not something i ever would have expected. i spent years living and breathing horses -- and to think that the desire to ride would ever be usurped would have been utterly laughable. but faced with a choice -- it seems my heart lies in other places now. oh, i will still reap the healing benefits of being around them...Savannah has taken up the reins now {egads, a frightful pun and i would have avoided it, really...} and perhaps that's part of my truth...that it's her turn now.

you see, given the choice of spending available income on riding or my current indulgences of books and art supplies - my heart has chosen art. perhaps it's because art enriches my life daily, whereas the riding would be once-weekly or so; perhaps it's because riding a quiet horse isn't the same as riding a racehorse -- and all those years of fast horses has spoiled me for the finer points of instruction, no matter how high the quality and deep the challenge. or perhaps it's more fiscal than that and, after having Saturn kick my ass around the universe all last year, my sense of financial responsibility has reached all new levels.

but what this has really done for me, is wake me up to the reality that it's time to get on with things; that the ideas i've had simmering under the surface are ready to emerge. or rather, i'm ready to commit to them. i've realized what i want and have the skeleton of a plan to get exactly that.

so i wasn't wrong -- that returning to my horsey roots was the missing piece of the puzzle. although certainly not in a way that i expected.

more importantly, i've been shown a way home and it's time to start walking.

clearing space

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sun, 10 Apr 2011 22:00:00 +0000

the view from my kitchen - NOT (i wish)

i'm on a (seemingly neverending) mission of cleanse and declutter. i've come to the conclusion that if my 'outer space' is awry, then heaven help my inner space. it never ceases to amaze me how much crap a family of four can accumulate in the span of four years. we moved here from an even smaller space and had the correspondingly small amount of stuff.....inexplicably, we have expanded. which is to say, we have far too much crap.

i think it has something to do with the burgeoning spring -- the ability to throw wide open the windows and let the air flow that makes me want to redecorate as well. except i hate the upheaval so i'm on an additional mission to de-beige-ify our space. everything...and i mean everything, is painted the same shade of Industrial Beige -- we came from a more colourful home and my earth-tones phase in furniture so i'm about to throw myself in the moat over the blandness of it all.

i'm rather enamoured of bright apple green and am currently trying to decide which unsuspecting piece of furniture is going to get a paint job....

{swoon}

ps. exercising my prerogative of being chronically changeable....i've enabled comments again, for those who are so moved....;)

pps. images courtesy of Google

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 12:59:00 +0000

Wednesdays and Thursdays have become non-days -- my shifts have changed and now i have two full days of work instead of one full and two halves. ironically, it's to my financial advantage -- just as everyone else is feeling the pinch of their schedule. which also makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, despite it being a decision beyond my control.

they've become days of utter disconnection -- i feel all adrift, out of my daily rhythms which makes me realize how important they've become. those simple rituals that mark the passing of our day. instead, i get home from work and the kitchen is in various states of disarray, the cats need feeding, the dogs want walking and everyone is clamoring to tell me of their day. i feel like there's not enough of me to go around. which makes me anxious and grumpy.

i wonder if this is my fear of maternal failure being poked, my low tolerance for "overwhelmedness", or simply the fact that it didn't occur to anyone to wash the fucking dishes.

ps. i've turned off the comments...it's just better that way. xo

full circle

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 22:15:00 +0000

my hands still smell faintly of the small chestnut pony. i didn't try to wash them too much, just so that i can breathe deeply of that familiar scent for a while longer.

i was in a foul mood before we left for Savannah's lesson -- but an hour or so just being in the barn, and i come home happy and calm and clear of mind.

more and more it feels like riding again is the next step...the thing i need to do to propel everything else forward. which is really difficult to explain, it's just something i'm beginning to Know on a cellular level.

i gave up riding when i was pregnant with Savannah and it was a choice made with a full heart. i also knew, being as i am, that it was going to be for the long haul. my soul is woven from strands of a wild pony's tail, i knew i couldn't do either thing in half-measures - Motherhood, or life with horses. and so i walked away.

a few trips up and down the Spiral and i feel like it's time to revisit all that...that perhaps it isn't a matter of half-measures; perhaps, like one's love for subsequent children, the heart expands.

i bought myself a pair of secondhand boots and will dig my helmet out of the trunk where it was stuffed all those years ago. and next Monday, we'll see how things go.

technicalities

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 21:16:00 +0000

clearly the comments are still not working...odd, they were this morning. ah well, i suppose that's a hint, then.

and now, to try and fix the story link...

then again, i just previewed this post and the comment option was there....*sigh*

mission statement

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 16:15:00 +0000

i want to write the books that fill an entire afternoon...and a little bit into the evening. or maybe they'd keep you up all night, leaving you bleary-eyed but happy on your way to something less inspiring.

i want to create a world that people want to escape to...to create characters that they'd like to invite over to dinner. i want to write so that people will look forward to that long train ride to work, just so they can crack open the pages.

i don't want to write clever, accomplished, esteemed and lauded books -- i want to write the books that will make people love to read.

time

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 10:48:00 +0000

i see my younger self in those girls -- the ones with cold hands clutching pens in the dark and quiet. i read my own thoughts in their fervent wishings of lamp-posts and the magic that is real between the pages. i wonder what i would have written here, if i had been able to do that then, and what sort of pictures i would have posted on my Tumblr.

i think there would have been the same petticoats and haunted eyes but my girls would have ridden wild ponies with tangled manes.

still, i wouldn't swap my exercise books and ball-point pens or the days spent in forgotten places with myself.

misfit

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 23:56:00 +0000

we drove out to get coffee and i listened to them wishing they didn't have so much to do -- that their lives were simpler, that there was more time. i told them ours was and that we had plenty.

but then again, we don't own a pony and our car is rusty.

stars on my umbrella

noreply@blogger.com (mel) — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 01:54:00 +0000

i was standing at the bus stop on Thursday morning. it was sleeting then and i felt a bit like a git with my umbrella but i knew that it was going to turn to rain. it was too cold for my hooded raincoat, so using the umbrella was an attempt to avoid looking like i'd been dragged through a hedge backwards by the time i got to work.

i didn't stand in the shelter because there was already someone in there and that's just weird and terribly uncomfortable.

i was mulling over the looming work-day and how dire the situation was and how on earth were we going to salvage it. soon, the sleet began to turn to rain. and that's when i saw it out of the corner of my eye. a perfect five-pointed star made of crystal clear ice, hanging off a thread on my umbrella. and then i saw another, and another. i'm quite sure i gasped and almost certain i let out a little "ooooh!" of joy.

i wanted to show the burly man who was standing in the shelter, but he was wearing headphones and a scowl. i wanted to tell someone. sometimes i wish i was braver. but i filed it away to share later and smiled the rest of the way to work. even on the bus, which isn't always a clever thing to do.

still, a funny thing happens when you walk along a street smiling -- people look at you strangely at first, but then they smile back.

magic, it was.