If you hold onto your dreams too tightly, you'll crush their little ribs.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Path - Our Walk Is Done
Just a few steps down - they're sturdier than they look!
There's a little friend waiting at the bottom.
Well hey there, friend!
You can't blame a body for pausing a moment, enjoying the scenery, getting a little Zen by the water.
Halfway across the dam is the stone cairn. I'd tell you how Mum got them balanced, but then the fairies would figure out what happened to all their dust.
That's all for the little surprises...for now...so we're done with our tour...
...except for the whole climbing back up to the house part. Groan!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The Path, Almost There
I was looking for gnomes, but found their cafe table unoccupied.
A fairy and her bluebird steed found a lovely little garden to rest in.
Someone left their umbrella...good thing it's a sunny day.
Ah, here's a gnome after my own heart - hangin' out in the woods playin' his flute. Maybe we'll jam sometime.
Just the right amount of crinoline...Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Path, Deeper In
Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go. Umm...where's the house??
Oh, good, the house is still there. Let's move on, shall we?
More of those delightful, whimsical fungi.
A fairy house? See the floaty white thing? What is it?
Eh, probably a trick of light - nothing's home.
Nature decided to add a touch of her own to the decore.Monday, September 29, 2008
Bailout
Less than thirty seconds to go (as of this writing) and the talking heads are saying "Well the vote will probably stay open longer to give everyone a chance to make up their minds, figure out how they'll vote, talk to anyone on the fence and try to convince them..."
Umm, excuse me?? No...no, I don't think so.
My dear congresspersons - you knew damn well when this vote was coming. If you couldn't shift your ass on in to vote when it was time...too fucking bad. If it was important, you would have been there on time, ready to go.
Not that I feel strongly about this or anything.
Umm, excuse me?? No...no, I don't think so.
My dear congresspersons - you knew damn well when this vote was coming. If you couldn't shift your ass on in to vote when it was time...too fucking bad. If it was important, you would have been there on time, ready to go.
Not that I feel strongly about this or anything.
The Path, At the Trail Head
Stand with your back to the woods and you'll see Mum's cabin.
Our point of departure, the head of the path. She's not kidding about the fairies.
Just inside the treeline, we start down to the pond. See that thing in the middle of the path?
Meow!!
Please don't eat the giant, friendly, magic mushrooms- they were a birthday gift from Mum's brother and Sister-in-Law, and she adores them - the 'shrooms and the family members. Also, they are metal and would chip your teeth.
More tomorrow...
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The Path
There are many paths, many ways...
Wait. I didn't mean that kind of path!
Things have been kind of heavy around here lately, so I figured I lighten up a little and share Mum's path to the pond. It's a nice path, and it deserves a little love.
A while back (don't ask me when, I don't remember exactly), Mum decided that she wanted a path down to the pond. There was a sort of game trail through the trees, but it started at the bottom of the driveway, went through some thick growth and down a steep little drop before emerging near the dam.
She wanted something a little more human friendly that started near the cabin and ended at the dam so she and her guests, family, or imaginary friends didn't have to stumble through trees, undergrowth, and crazed poison ivy vines to get to the pond.
The overgrown, somewhat cluttered pond.
That wasn't draining as it should.
Uh-oh - what started as a path became a Project.
She hired some very nice young men to sweat, swear, grunt, groan, and play with heavy equipment, and soon she had a path through the woods that didn't require the felling of trees (important - we really don't like felling trees), a cleared pond (they did remove some trees here, but only before nature got them - they were too close to the water for their own good), and a drain pipe that actually drained (although it does require constant clearing to keep doing its job).
A couple of weeks ago, we spent a family day planting some trees and clearing weeds around the pond. T worked the weed-thingy. Mum, Bird and I were finished first, so we went on back to the house. While Mum and Bird went ahead, I lingered on the path and shot some photographs. You see, Mum has some little surprises along the way, if one cares to look about.
Over the next few days, I'll walk you down that path from the house with pictures. Wear comfortable shoes and bring some water - it's not a long walk, but coming back is up hill and the humidity makes the heat feel ten times worse than it really is.
Wait. I didn't mean that kind of path!
Things have been kind of heavy around here lately, so I figured I lighten up a little and share Mum's path to the pond. It's a nice path, and it deserves a little love.
A while back (don't ask me when, I don't remember exactly), Mum decided that she wanted a path down to the pond. There was a sort of game trail through the trees, but it started at the bottom of the driveway, went through some thick growth and down a steep little drop before emerging near the dam.
She wanted something a little more human friendly that started near the cabin and ended at the dam so she and her guests, family, or imaginary friends didn't have to stumble through trees, undergrowth, and crazed poison ivy vines to get to the pond.
The overgrown, somewhat cluttered pond.
That wasn't draining as it should.
Uh-oh - what started as a path became a Project.
She hired some very nice young men to sweat, swear, grunt, groan, and play with heavy equipment, and soon she had a path through the woods that didn't require the felling of trees (important - we really don't like felling trees), a cleared pond (they did remove some trees here, but only before nature got them - they were too close to the water for their own good), and a drain pipe that actually drained (although it does require constant clearing to keep doing its job).
A couple of weeks ago, we spent a family day planting some trees and clearing weeds around the pond. T worked the weed-thingy. Mum, Bird and I were finished first, so we went on back to the house. While Mum and Bird went ahead, I lingered on the path and shot some photographs. You see, Mum has some little surprises along the way, if one cares to look about.
Over the next few days, I'll walk you down that path from the house with pictures. Wear comfortable shoes and bring some water - it's not a long walk, but coming back is up hill and the humidity makes the heat feel ten times worse than it really is.
Petit LeMans
Starting tomorrow, I'll be working some long-arse days over at the track, so I took the liberty of pre-writing some posts about Mum's path through the woods to the pond. Yeah, they're fluff - but considering the leaden wads of shit I posted here for the last (nearly) two weeks, I figured some fluff was in order.
While my blog is being fluffy, I'll be registering the volunteer safety workers/corner marshals (and their guests) for the event, running worker hospitality, ordering, parcelling out, and delivering worker lunches, delivering water and ice to those hardworking folks, setting up the after-race socials and generally running myself ragged for twenty hours a day. In other words- I'll be having a blast.
Mum will be riding herd on the Evil Genius while I'm off playing with race cars. Thanks, Mum!!
T will be on a turn - probably turn six. If you watch any of the racing on TV, turn six is the start of the hairpin. You will not, under any circumstances, see me on the screen - ever - but you might see T. Of course, you don't know what he looks like, but that's OK...wave anyway.
For information about corner-workers, look here: Corner Workers
For information about the race, look here: Petit LeMans
For information about the best, prettiest race track anywhere (yeah, I'm biased), look here: Road Atlanta
This year, they're debuting a hybrid prototype car. Sweet!
See y'all later - I'm goin' racin'!!
While my blog is being fluffy, I'll be registering the volunteer safety workers/corner marshals (and their guests) for the event, running worker hospitality, ordering, parcelling out, and delivering worker lunches, delivering water and ice to those hardworking folks, setting up the after-race socials and generally running myself ragged for twenty hours a day. In other words- I'll be having a blast.
Mum will be riding herd on the Evil Genius while I'm off playing with race cars. Thanks, Mum!!
T will be on a turn - probably turn six. If you watch any of the racing on TV, turn six is the start of the hairpin. You will not, under any circumstances, see me on the screen - ever - but you might see T. Of course, you don't know what he looks like, but that's OK...wave anyway.
For information about corner-workers, look here: Corner Workers
For information about the race, look here: Petit LeMans
For information about the best, prettiest race track anywhere (yeah, I'm biased), look here: Road Atlanta
This year, they're debuting a hybrid prototype car. Sweet!
See y'all later - I'm goin' racin'!!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Promise, Part Five
Now I get on with life. That's what I decided. Real or not, I gave my word to her, and I always keep my word.
I went home, put the knife away, and kept quiet about my afternoon. Mum wouldn't know until decades later what I'd almost done. Until now, I've never written about it - in part because I didn't feel equal to the task, in part because I know it sounds crazy, and in part because I'm still not sure what happened...and may never be.
I've been there again, on the edge, looking over. I've felt the tug, the insistent pull. The yearning. It's always here, somewhere - maybe a gnat's whisper, maybe Niagara's roar. It's a constant.
Sometimes it's "You're not good enough."
Sometimes it's "Things will never get better."
Sometimes it's "No one loves you or wants you."
Sometimes it's all that and more.
Just because I don't pick up the gun, the pills, the blade, and give in to the want, the need, doesn't mean it isn't there and isn't strong enough. Oh, dear Gods above, sometimes it fair smothers me. Sometimes I wonder that I don't burst into flames, it burns so strong.
Doesn't matter. I promised. Whatever else I may be, I am not an oath breaker. Once given, my word is my bond. I won't be forsworn.
I'll live to the end of my days with it, like a hunger that can never quite be satisfied, but I'll live.
Ultimately, that's all that matters, isn't it?
I went home, put the knife away, and kept quiet about my afternoon. Mum wouldn't know until decades later what I'd almost done. Until now, I've never written about it - in part because I didn't feel equal to the task, in part because I know it sounds crazy, and in part because I'm still not sure what happened...and may never be.
I've been there again, on the edge, looking over. I've felt the tug, the insistent pull. The yearning. It's always here, somewhere - maybe a gnat's whisper, maybe Niagara's roar. It's a constant.
Sometimes it's "You're not good enough."
Sometimes it's "Things will never get better."
Sometimes it's "No one loves you or wants you."
Sometimes it's all that and more.
Just because I don't pick up the gun, the pills, the blade, and give in to the want, the need, doesn't mean it isn't there and isn't strong enough. Oh, dear Gods above, sometimes it fair smothers me. Sometimes I wonder that I don't burst into flames, it burns so strong.
Doesn't matter. I promised. Whatever else I may be, I am not an oath breaker. Once given, my word is my bond. I won't be forsworn.
I'll live to the end of my days with it, like a hunger that can never quite be satisfied, but I'll live.
Ultimately, that's all that matters, isn't it?
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Promise, Part Four
Or I could choose otherwise.
I had all of eternity to make up my mind.
I believe that I would still be there now, frozen in that moment, if I hadn't made my choice.
She didn't ask for a promise, really. She didn't say "Swear.." She just waited, sitting cross-legged, back to a tree, face turned up to the sun.
It didn't take long.
I made the biggest promise I've ever made in my life. I promised that I wouldn't try again. That I would not seek out death, but would wait my turn. As much as I wanted it, as much as I hated the life I was living, I wouldn't end it.
As soon as the words were spoken, the world was the world again. Birds flew and twittered, traffic hummed on distant roads. I could move again.
There was no sign of the Lady, nothing to show that she'd ever been there, ever been anything more than a figment of my desperate imagination trying to keep me from what I wanted, a creation of my survival instinct.
It was entirely possible that I had given my word to a tree, to the air, to a fat bee lazily bumbling by with no idea of the import of the moment.
Now what?
~~~~~
Part five HERE.
I had all of eternity to make up my mind.
I believe that I would still be there now, frozen in that moment, if I hadn't made my choice.
She didn't ask for a promise, really. She didn't say "Swear.." She just waited, sitting cross-legged, back to a tree, face turned up to the sun.
It didn't take long.
I made the biggest promise I've ever made in my life. I promised that I wouldn't try again. That I would not seek out death, but would wait my turn. As much as I wanted it, as much as I hated the life I was living, I wouldn't end it.
As soon as the words were spoken, the world was the world again. Birds flew and twittered, traffic hummed on distant roads. I could move again.
There was no sign of the Lady, nothing to show that she'd ever been there, ever been anything more than a figment of my desperate imagination trying to keep me from what I wanted, a creation of my survival instinct.
It was entirely possible that I had given my word to a tree, to the air, to a fat bee lazily bumbling by with no idea of the import of the moment.
Now what?
~~~~~
Part five HERE.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
He Followed Me Home, Can I Keep Him?
"Mommy, I'm can't be your little boy any more. I have to be an inchworm." He inchworms across the living room floor, down the hall, and back again.
"And why is that?"
"Because you told me to do the thing that I didn't want to do." Ah. I told him to go get out of his nappy and put on some underwear - nappies are for night time only. He's supposed to change as soon as he gets up. I will be so happy when we're done with nappies altogether.
"I see. So you have to be an inchworm?" I continue sewing.
"Yes, I do. What do inchworms eat?"
"Leaves, I suppose, or inchworm chow." I am not looking directly at him - I'm sewing patches on a jacket.
"I guess I have to say goodbye and go live outside, now. What do leaves taste like?"
"They taste leafy. Can't you be an inchworm inside?" I glance at him and he catches me looking.
"There are no leaves inside." Meanwhile, he is inching back across the living room floor and up onto my chair. He inches onto my lap and flops there, despondent. "So I guess I'll have to go away, now." He is about to cry.
"Can't you stay inside and be my pet inchworm?" I put the sewing down so he won't get poked or stitched to the jacket - it's not mine, and I don't care to return it to its owner with an added inchworm bonus.
"Oh, yes, that's a great idea!" He brightens - he had convinced himself that he was going to have to live out in the yard, but now he doesn't have to.
"Thank you, I do try."
He spies something on the little table by my chair. "And I can eat Smarties, because that's what pet inchworms eat instead of leaves!"
"Oh, do they?"
"Yes, they do!" He wriggles over and picks up the roll of Smarties, then turns and makes a face at me. "This is my inchworm face." Then he puts his face close to mine and brushes me lightly with his little nose. "That's an inchworm kiss."
I laugh.
He repeats the inchworm kiss several times, happy that he is reprieved from joining his wild brethren munching leaves outside.
Yep - I think I'll keep him.
Inchworm Face
The Promise, Part Three
"Oh, child."
If ever one could feel two words keenly, cut deep to their core, know the weight of love and sorrow they contain, I did.
"Oh, child."
I could cry today, recalling. Oh, child, indeed. If I lived to the outer limits of human endurance, I would still be a child in her eyes.
I won't write out the whole of our conversation. It doesn't matter. She spoke; I listened with the whole of my being. I spoke; she listened with the whole of existence.
Most important were those first two words..."Oh, child"...and the final part.
The part where she didn't promise me a damn thing but that she was and is and always would be there - there in the trees, in the sunlight, in the wind. The part where she didn't say everything would be alright, fine, hunky-dory, that the bullying would stop, I would have justice, and my spirit would heal and there would be peace...but she'd be with me while I worked it out, while I found my place and my balance. She didn't promise she'd give or do anything - only that she knew I had it in me to give and do.
She didn't tell me I had to. She would let me go, release me to finish what I'd started if it was what I wanted. She never promised that it would get better, only that it could. She would let me go, if I wished, and I could get on with it.
She would let me go. That I would succeed, there was no doubt. We both knew I was going about it the right way, and once begun it could not be undone. And I would be gone, done, finished. I wouldn't hate my body or my self any more, wouldn't feel broken, useless, damaged and scarred.
I could choose that, or...
Or.
Or...
~~~~~
Part four HERE.
If ever one could feel two words keenly, cut deep to their core, know the weight of love and sorrow they contain, I did.
"Oh, child."
I could cry today, recalling. Oh, child, indeed. If I lived to the outer limits of human endurance, I would still be a child in her eyes.
I won't write out the whole of our conversation. It doesn't matter. She spoke; I listened with the whole of my being. I spoke; she listened with the whole of existence.
Most important were those first two words..."Oh, child"...and the final part.
The part where she didn't promise me a damn thing but that she was and is and always would be there - there in the trees, in the sunlight, in the wind. The part where she didn't say everything would be alright, fine, hunky-dory, that the bullying would stop, I would have justice, and my spirit would heal and there would be peace...but she'd be with me while I worked it out, while I found my place and my balance. She didn't promise she'd give or do anything - only that she knew I had it in me to give and do.
She didn't tell me I had to. She would let me go, release me to finish what I'd started if it was what I wanted. She never promised that it would get better, only that it could. She would let me go, if I wished, and I could get on with it.
She would let me go. That I would succeed, there was no doubt. We both knew I was going about it the right way, and once begun it could not be undone. And I would be gone, done, finished. I wouldn't hate my body or my self any more, wouldn't feel broken, useless, damaged and scarred.
I could choose that, or...
Or.
Or...
~~~~~
Part four HERE.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
An Interlude
The Evil Genius and I had a jaunt to the hair salon today - his needed cutting (it's been three months or so since his last trim, and it was getting into his eyes) and he was in the mood for a Mohawk. I was in the mood for him to have any dang haircut he wanted, because...why not??
I needed some maintenance on my color - this blue ain't natural, ya know? I love my blue hair. It's an extravagance, it requires slightly more effort than un-colored hair, and I love it. Blue hair and tattoos, that's me.
Only...you can't see the tattoos, because I am all about keeping them in the shirt zone until I run out of room there...and I won't run out of room any time soon, because I don't have anywhere near enough ink on me, yet. Is there such thing as enough??
Don't get the wrong idea - I only have a few...but I want more. More, more, more...
Ahem.
So we went to the salon today for the regular frolics. While we were waiting our turn, we looked at a magazine from the pile on the table. A fashion/hairstyling magazine. Bird found a photo of a red-haired woman in a crazy dress and even crazier heels, and he said something about her. I responded that I would never wear something like that or get my hair to look that way.
His reply? "That's OK, you don't have to change because I love you just the way you are."
Aww!
I told him that was a good thing, since I'm pretty set in my ways. And I hugged him...because I didn't teach him to say that...he came up with it all on his own.
How sweet is that???
I needed some maintenance on my color - this blue ain't natural, ya know? I love my blue hair. It's an extravagance, it requires slightly more effort than un-colored hair, and I love it. Blue hair and tattoos, that's me.
Only...you can't see the tattoos, because I am all about keeping them in the shirt zone until I run out of room there...and I won't run out of room any time soon, because I don't have anywhere near enough ink on me, yet. Is there such thing as enough??
Don't get the wrong idea - I only have a few...but I want more. More, more, more...
Ahem.
So we went to the salon today for the regular frolics. While we were waiting our turn, we looked at a magazine from the pile on the table. A fashion/hairstyling magazine. Bird found a photo of a red-haired woman in a crazy dress and even crazier heels, and he said something about her. I responded that I would never wear something like that or get my hair to look that way.
His reply? "That's OK, you don't have to change because I love you just the way you are."
Aww!
I told him that was a good thing, since I'm pretty set in my ways. And I hugged him...because I didn't teach him to say that...he came up with it all on his own.
How sweet is that???
The Promise, Part Two
The human mind is a peculiar beast.
It can create reality when it's faced with something it doesn't like. We don't see things that are right in front of us. We see things that aren't there. Given enough stress, enough motivation, we can come right out of reality and into a world of our own making. What's left behind is an illusion, a shell - it may walk, talk, move about just as we would, but no one is home.
This state of removal is temporally elastic - it might last a moment or a lifetime. It may come and go. It may be a one-time thing. You may or may not know that what you're experiencing is your own illusion.
Under that fine old tree, knife between my knees, choice made, I was removed from reality.
If the day had been quiet before, now it was utterly still. If I looked hard enough, I would find birds mid-flight, frozen like a photograph. I could walk the world and find the whole of it like that. I knew this, so I didn't look.
I couldn't move, either. Wrists close enough to the blade to feel that first cold line of contact, I was as still as the moment before the chaos of creation. I felt as though my mind was as sharp as that blade. I could move my head. I was aware that I was not where I had been a moment ago (despite what my eyes told me), but I wasn't afraid.
I was (and still am) claustrophobic and I couldn't move, but I was not afraid.
In the last seven years I had been sexually abused, verbally abused, psychologically tortured, and bullied. I had seen some of the worst that people could do to a child. I had no reason to trust anyone, family or stranger.
I would have had every right to be frightened, but I wasn't.
I was...curious.
The world around me, although still, was the same. Before me, moving between the motes of light suspended in the ladders of sunbeams slanting through the trees, came a woman.
How do I describe her?
How do I describe the face of God? Or Goddess?
How do I put words to the face, the form? How did I put form to the concept of what I felt had to be deity...or close enough as makes no difference?
All in my mind, but as real as the keys I strike to type this telling.
She didn't look perfect, mind. She looked very human. Real enough that I could reach out and touch her, if only my hands would move. The hem of her skirt brushed low-hanging branches and fallen pine needles, and they swayed. She had a careworn face, and warm eyes that in memory have no one color but were the cosmos. Her hair was brown and hung in a braid.
While I remember what I saw down to the last tiny detail, it's pointless to try and describe it all here. Words on a screen can't possibly relate.
She was not beautiful, but she was lovely. Striking. She was every mother that ever was or ever will be. You'd know her if you saw her - she's your mother, too.
She stopped just in front of me, and the look of unutterable sorrow on her face brought tears to my eyes. I would have prostrated myself at her feet and begged forgiveness, if only I could move. I would have done anything to make her smile, this perfect imperfect stranger.
She opened her mouth, and I and the world waited to hear her.
~~~~~
Part three HERE.
It can create reality when it's faced with something it doesn't like. We don't see things that are right in front of us. We see things that aren't there. Given enough stress, enough motivation, we can come right out of reality and into a world of our own making. What's left behind is an illusion, a shell - it may walk, talk, move about just as we would, but no one is home.
This state of removal is temporally elastic - it might last a moment or a lifetime. It may come and go. It may be a one-time thing. You may or may not know that what you're experiencing is your own illusion.
Under that fine old tree, knife between my knees, choice made, I was removed from reality.
If the day had been quiet before, now it was utterly still. If I looked hard enough, I would find birds mid-flight, frozen like a photograph. I could walk the world and find the whole of it like that. I knew this, so I didn't look.
I couldn't move, either. Wrists close enough to the blade to feel that first cold line of contact, I was as still as the moment before the chaos of creation. I felt as though my mind was as sharp as that blade. I could move my head. I was aware that I was not where I had been a moment ago (despite what my eyes told me), but I wasn't afraid.
I was (and still am) claustrophobic and I couldn't move, but I was not afraid.
In the last seven years I had been sexually abused, verbally abused, psychologically tortured, and bullied. I had seen some of the worst that people could do to a child. I had no reason to trust anyone, family or stranger.
I would have had every right to be frightened, but I wasn't.
I was...curious.
The world around me, although still, was the same. Before me, moving between the motes of light suspended in the ladders of sunbeams slanting through the trees, came a woman.
How do I describe her?
How do I describe the face of God? Or Goddess?
How do I put words to the face, the form? How did I put form to the concept of what I felt had to be deity...or close enough as makes no difference?
All in my mind, but as real as the keys I strike to type this telling.
She didn't look perfect, mind. She looked very human. Real enough that I could reach out and touch her, if only my hands would move. The hem of her skirt brushed low-hanging branches and fallen pine needles, and they swayed. She had a careworn face, and warm eyes that in memory have no one color but were the cosmos. Her hair was brown and hung in a braid.
While I remember what I saw down to the last tiny detail, it's pointless to try and describe it all here. Words on a screen can't possibly relate.
She was not beautiful, but she was lovely. Striking. She was every mother that ever was or ever will be. You'd know her if you saw her - she's your mother, too.
She stopped just in front of me, and the look of unutterable sorrow on her face brought tears to my eyes. I would have prostrated myself at her feet and begged forgiveness, if only I could move. I would have done anything to make her smile, this perfect imperfect stranger.
She opened her mouth, and I and the world waited to hear her.
~~~~~
Part three HERE.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Promise
Here follows the first of several parts of the last tale of the whole "promise" saga (Can you say "awkward sentence? Sure, I knew you could!). I won't promise that this is the end of the subject, but I think it is.
I was young. I was tired. My spirit was worn, ragged, patched, worn again. I was feeling mighty thin on enthusiasm for life.
I'd endured abuse, abandonment, bullying, and being outcast in my short life - more than most people deal with in eighty years. I knew then and I know now that people have suffered far worse (go read Crystal's story and you'll see), and I have never denied that I had a bizarre, wonderful, very privileged upbringing...but I was just done with the mess.
I was sick, sick, sick of it, all of it, and I wanted out.
I didn't want to die, mind you - I just didn't want to keep living the life I knew, and I couldn't see any other way out of it.
I'd always felt like I had no control over my life - I didn't get to say no, to decide anything. I had to do what was demanded of me because that's what kids did.
I wanted to control something.
I was young.
I went into the woods with a knife and a plan.
Ah, plans. The best laid plans, and all that.
I knelt beneath a fine old tree and felt such a calm, such a peace. It was quiet, and I could smell the sunlight on the pine needles, feel the warmth on my skin, hear traffic in the distance sounding like a river flowing by. Above me, a deeply blue sky patched with bright, white clouds. Oh, the quiet was blissful - if I could make the world this peaceful, this free of the constant noise and rush...if I could make my mind quiet like this...
It was a good, sharp knife. Two edges. Sturdy handle. I knelt and held the handle between my knees, blade up. I was going to run my wrists up it in one go, lengthwise - crosswise would only result in shallow cuts and possible damaged tendons, and I wanted something more than a life full of explanations and pity.
Here, we depart reality a little. Only...we don't. You'll see.
~~~~~
Part two HERE.
I was young. I was tired. My spirit was worn, ragged, patched, worn again. I was feeling mighty thin on enthusiasm for life.
I'd endured abuse, abandonment, bullying, and being outcast in my short life - more than most people deal with in eighty years. I knew then and I know now that people have suffered far worse (go read Crystal's story and you'll see), and I have never denied that I had a bizarre, wonderful, very privileged upbringing...but I was just done with the mess.
I was sick, sick, sick of it, all of it, and I wanted out.
I didn't want to die, mind you - I just didn't want to keep living the life I knew, and I couldn't see any other way out of it.
I'd always felt like I had no control over my life - I didn't get to say no, to decide anything. I had to do what was demanded of me because that's what kids did.
I wanted to control something.
I was young.
I went into the woods with a knife and a plan.
Ah, plans. The best laid plans, and all that.
I knelt beneath a fine old tree and felt such a calm, such a peace. It was quiet, and I could smell the sunlight on the pine needles, feel the warmth on my skin, hear traffic in the distance sounding like a river flowing by. Above me, a deeply blue sky patched with bright, white clouds. Oh, the quiet was blissful - if I could make the world this peaceful, this free of the constant noise and rush...if I could make my mind quiet like this...
It was a good, sharp knife. Two edges. Sturdy handle. I knelt and held the handle between my knees, blade up. I was going to run my wrists up it in one go, lengthwise - crosswise would only result in shallow cuts and possible damaged tendons, and I wanted something more than a life full of explanations and pity.
Here, we depart reality a little. Only...we don't. You'll see.
~~~~~
Part two HERE.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Mabon
There were three men came out of the West,
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn must die...
Summer is past. The grain stood tall and golden in the field, awaiting its fate.
They let him stand till midsummer's day,
Till he looked both pale and wan,
And little Sir John's grown a long, long beard
And so become a man...
Harvest came, harvest is done. This is the last of it. After the Autumnal Equinox, whatever is left in the fields is for the gods. If the harvesters were quick and conscientious, there will only be one last shock of grain or corn, bound carefully and placed with pride for the Gods of field and farm.
They've hired men with scythes so sharp,
To cut him off at the knee,
They've rolled him and tied him by the waist
Serving him most barbarously...
There is bread in plenty, and grapes for wine. Fruits and nuts are in and preserved, and meats and cheeses, too.
The nights are chill, but we have fires to warm us.
Winter is not yet upon us; we have time to make snug our homes before true cold comes down on us.
It is Autumn, a time to rest, to look ahead and calculate our provisions - have we set aside enough? Must we look to the woods and our neighbors to make up any shortfalls? Must we call upon the sacrificial King, who will rise up again come spring and begin the cycle anew?
This is the last of the Earthen or harvest holidays, a time for reflection on what we have reaped, on what we will sow. We don't have to plant, to weed, to worry and wait. We may rest, now, until Spring spreads her greening over the land. It's not yet the hungry time, not yet the lean time - it is the time of content, of plenty, of settling in and waiting without fear - we have enough.
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl--
And he's brandy in the glass,
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.
I wish you a full larder, a full heart, and a full measure of content on this Mabon day.
Blessed Be.
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn must die...
Summer is past. The grain stood tall and golden in the field, awaiting its fate.
They let him stand till midsummer's day,
Till he looked both pale and wan,
And little Sir John's grown a long, long beard
And so become a man...
Harvest came, harvest is done. This is the last of it. After the Autumnal Equinox, whatever is left in the fields is for the gods. If the harvesters were quick and conscientious, there will only be one last shock of grain or corn, bound carefully and placed with pride for the Gods of field and farm.
They've hired men with scythes so sharp,
To cut him off at the knee,
They've rolled him and tied him by the waist
Serving him most barbarously...
There is bread in plenty, and grapes for wine. Fruits and nuts are in and preserved, and meats and cheeses, too.
The nights are chill, but we have fires to warm us.
Winter is not yet upon us; we have time to make snug our homes before true cold comes down on us.
It is Autumn, a time to rest, to look ahead and calculate our provisions - have we set aside enough? Must we look to the woods and our neighbors to make up any shortfalls? Must we call upon the sacrificial King, who will rise up again come spring and begin the cycle anew?
This is the last of the Earthen or harvest holidays, a time for reflection on what we have reaped, on what we will sow. We don't have to plant, to weed, to worry and wait. We may rest, now, until Spring spreads her greening over the land. It's not yet the hungry time, not yet the lean time - it is the time of content, of plenty, of settling in and waiting without fear - we have enough.
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl--
And he's brandy in the glass,
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.
I wish you a full larder, a full heart, and a full measure of content on this Mabon day.
Blessed Be.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Aftermath of Angst (Following up on "I Promise...")
See? I told you I'd post about it...because I know you were holding your breath, just waiting. Hey, nothing's wrong with my ego - it's the rest of me that's nuts!
~~~~~
As for that pivotal night, something good came of it. The other relief houseparent had realized the oversight that afternoon and (on her own time, with her own money) bought some strawberries just for me. Beautiful, crimson, perfect, she was careful to choose the very best ones. She didn't say anything about them, hoping that the forgetful woman would at least make a minimal effort. Vain hope, that.
When I stormed off into the woods, Heidi followed me. Yes, that was her name, the thoughtful one, Heidi. She'll never read this, and if she does, well - she should be known for her kindness. She waited a few minutes (she knew where I'd go before I did) and then she followed me, carrying that pint of strawberries, through the woods and to my destination - another teacher's lodging. I won't use his name only because I named my son for him some eighteen years later, and I won't post my son's real name online.
In his room, I cried out the bitter disappointment over this and every other broken promise - promises of being a family, of having normalcy, of love and safety. I didn't know it, but I was also sobbing for the broken promise that the adults in my life would protect me from human evils.
Heidi waited a few minutes outside the other teacher's room before knocking. He let her in with some relief - dear man that he was, he wasn't in any way prepared for a hysterical teenager babbling about rice cakes but torn by some deeper, unspoken thing.
Heidi held me and let me have my cry, told me how sorry she was that the other teacher had been so careless, and wistfully added that she wished I hadn't stormed away before she (Heidi) could show me what she'd gotten for me when she learned of the oversight. She offered me the strawberries, and I cried again - this time because of that loving, gentle woman's kindness.
She and the teacher whose rooms I'd invaded were possibly the best people I'd know, up to that point. Don't get me wrong - I loved my Mum and dad, my brother, my grandparents - but at that time, at that age, for a variety of reasons, I hadn't seen a lot of compassion, a lot of tolerance, a lot of understanding (or at least effort towards understanding) from the people to whom I was related. My whole family was (and to some extent still is) a big old tangled mess, and if I'm the only one who admits to my madness, well...that doesn't mean I'm the only one who has it (I won't say I suffer from it - I don't. I like crazy - they keep a room there for me and my face is on the currency). They also had no idea some of the things I'd experienced, because next to a promise? A secret is something I know how to keep.
That night, in that room, I felt like someone loved and cared for me despite my many glaring imperfections. I was good enough, even though I was angry and dared to act on that anger. Someone thought I deserved a little care, not because it would gain them anything (because it wouldn't...all it would mean was trouble, since they weren't punishing me and I really shouldn't be in a male teacher's rooms) or because they wanted to buy my silence or sooth their guilt - just because they were decent people.
I credit them with reattaching my humanity to the rest of me...because I really could have gone the sociopath route with very little effort. They didn't give me my soul, but they bandaged the poor tattered thing and gave freely of themselves to the healing of it.
In a dark, tiny, crowded teacher's rooms, I ate the best strawberries ever grown and tried to get a damn grip, and the two adults in the room didn't chastise, didn't lecture, didn't make me feel guilty or wrong for having an emotional self - they shared the berries (at my insistence) and reassured me that it was OK to be angry (although throwing food at a teacher's head wasn't exactly how they'd suggest I handle that anger), that it was OK to be hurt, and that the other teacher was wrong when she made it clear that a broken promise meant nothing.
I didn't evolve my attitude toward keeping promises that night - that came after, from books and stories of honor, from the two teachers and other fine people who didn't talk...they showed. They did. It was my thoughts on breaking promises that crystallized, and my attitude towards promises made.
For losing my temper, however righteously, I was punished. I understood and accepted that. I never bothered trying to like the teacher who was such a bitch - this wasn't the only time she'd been a complete cow (and not just to me - she was equally horrid to the other kids, too).
The other two teachers and I didn't mention the strawberries, or our chat. That was between us. I'd found two allies that night, though, two friends that I cherish to this day.
~~~~~
As for that pivotal night, something good came of it. The other relief houseparent had realized the oversight that afternoon and (on her own time, with her own money) bought some strawberries just for me. Beautiful, crimson, perfect, she was careful to choose the very best ones. She didn't say anything about them, hoping that the forgetful woman would at least make a minimal effort. Vain hope, that.
When I stormed off into the woods, Heidi followed me. Yes, that was her name, the thoughtful one, Heidi. She'll never read this, and if she does, well - she should be known for her kindness. She waited a few minutes (she knew where I'd go before I did) and then she followed me, carrying that pint of strawberries, through the woods and to my destination - another teacher's lodging. I won't use his name only because I named my son for him some eighteen years later, and I won't post my son's real name online.
In his room, I cried out the bitter disappointment over this and every other broken promise - promises of being a family, of having normalcy, of love and safety. I didn't know it, but I was also sobbing for the broken promise that the adults in my life would protect me from human evils.
Heidi waited a few minutes outside the other teacher's room before knocking. He let her in with some relief - dear man that he was, he wasn't in any way prepared for a hysterical teenager babbling about rice cakes but torn by some deeper, unspoken thing.
Heidi held me and let me have my cry, told me how sorry she was that the other teacher had been so careless, and wistfully added that she wished I hadn't stormed away before she (Heidi) could show me what she'd gotten for me when she learned of the oversight. She offered me the strawberries, and I cried again - this time because of that loving, gentle woman's kindness.
She and the teacher whose rooms I'd invaded were possibly the best people I'd know, up to that point. Don't get me wrong - I loved my Mum and dad, my brother, my grandparents - but at that time, at that age, for a variety of reasons, I hadn't seen a lot of compassion, a lot of tolerance, a lot of understanding (or at least effort towards understanding) from the people to whom I was related. My whole family was (and to some extent still is) a big old tangled mess, and if I'm the only one who admits to my madness, well...that doesn't mean I'm the only one who has it (I won't say I suffer from it - I don't. I like crazy - they keep a room there for me and my face is on the currency). They also had no idea some of the things I'd experienced, because next to a promise? A secret is something I know how to keep.
That night, in that room, I felt like someone loved and cared for me despite my many glaring imperfections. I was good enough, even though I was angry and dared to act on that anger. Someone thought I deserved a little care, not because it would gain them anything (because it wouldn't...all it would mean was trouble, since they weren't punishing me and I really shouldn't be in a male teacher's rooms) or because they wanted to buy my silence or sooth their guilt - just because they were decent people.
I credit them with reattaching my humanity to the rest of me...because I really could have gone the sociopath route with very little effort. They didn't give me my soul, but they bandaged the poor tattered thing and gave freely of themselves to the healing of it.
In a dark, tiny, crowded teacher's rooms, I ate the best strawberries ever grown and tried to get a damn grip, and the two adults in the room didn't chastise, didn't lecture, didn't make me feel guilty or wrong for having an emotional self - they shared the berries (at my insistence) and reassured me that it was OK to be angry (although throwing food at a teacher's head wasn't exactly how they'd suggest I handle that anger), that it was OK to be hurt, and that the other teacher was wrong when she made it clear that a broken promise meant nothing.
I didn't evolve my attitude toward keeping promises that night - that came after, from books and stories of honor, from the two teachers and other fine people who didn't talk...they showed. They did. It was my thoughts on breaking promises that crystallized, and my attitude towards promises made.
For losing my temper, however righteously, I was punished. I understood and accepted that. I never bothered trying to like the teacher who was such a bitch - this wasn't the only time she'd been a complete cow (and not just to me - she was equally horrid to the other kids, too).
The other two teachers and I didn't mention the strawberries, or our chat. That was between us. I'd found two allies that night, though, two friends that I cherish to this day.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
I promise (maybe).
I read this over at Noble Pig, and it reminded me of when I was a kid and one of my (many, many, no really, I can't count them all) quirks; I don't make promises.
Not often, anyway.
When someone does manage to wrangle a promise out of me, I'll promise to try, but not to do. I won't make a promise I am not certain of keeping - if I think weather, time, humanity, or my own perfidy will keep me from keeping my word...I won't give my word.
Promises flew through the air like popcorn from a lidless hot-air popper when I was a kid. I can't begin to tell you how many trips to Disney World were promised by my grandmother as rewards for good grades and/or behavior - but I can tell you that I went once, with someone who never promised we'd go, just showed up one day and asked Mum if he could borrow me and my brother for adventures in the home of the rodent with a side jaunt to Cape Canaveral (Thanks, GDH - that was awesome). Other than the one person who'd never promised to take us anywhere, the trips never happened. When I was six, I really believed the promises...then I cottoned on.
From my grandmother I learned that people make promises because it's more convenient than being honest, because they want something from you.
Now, I am not referring to mistakes like mixing up dates or times, or when something catastrophic happens and things can't be avoided.
Nope. I'm talking about promising your ten-year-old daughter that you are coming to visit her at boarding school this weekend and not showing up. And she refrained for going roller-skating with the rest of the dorm because she was waiting for you. So instead, she spent Saturday in a tree coming to the conclusion that she meant absolutely zero to you. That's what I mean.
If it happened only once, that would be one thing - but more than thirty times in four years? Umm...that's a pattern, a habit.
From my father, I learned that promising is easier than telling someone they mean less to you than the party, the boat, the hunting trip, the inconvenience of the effort of keeping that promise.
I was probably fourteen when the last straw hit me. It was such a stupid thing, really - my grandmother decided I wasn't fucked up in the head enough and maybe an eating disorder and an unhealthy attitude towards food were just the things I needed, so she placed me on a special diet. Easy for her to do - I lived at a boarding school where she didn't have to implement this bizarre diet - the staff did. Bless their hearts.
I was seriously limited in my dining options, since I wasn't permitted to consume anything with wheat, oats, sugars, yeast, or anything remotely resembling "tasty".
One night a week, we planned our own meals. One week, the other kids decided to have root beer floats for desert. I didn't say anything, just knew I wouldn't have any. As usual, I would probably just leave the room.
One of the relief house-parents knew about my restrictions and offered to get me some special ice cream - I couldn't have a float, but at least I'd have a special treat, too. Since I'd been living on rice cakes, tofu, and tree bark for months, I was happy to believe in her promises.
The anticipated night came, and we had our dinner (lasagna for everyone else, salad with no dressing for me)(yes, some eighteen years later I remember - that garlic bread smelled good!). I didn't mind that I couldn't have lasagna or garlic bread - I had a treat waiting for me.
Or...did I?
Yeah, umm...it seems that a certain relief house parent (I don't have room to explain this, here. maybe some other time) had forgotten.
So while the other kids were digging in to ice cream and pouring root beer, I was quietly waiting for my promised Tofutti. A plate was thrust under my nose. A plate with rice cakes on it. As an added bonus, some old, rancid, organic, no sugar added, stir the oil back in every time you open it peanut butter had been swiped across the tops. Festive.
And definitely not on par with Tofutti, ice cream, or root beer floats. I asked what had happened to the Tofutti she'd promised. She casually said "Oh, I forgot about that" and she made it clear that it meant nothing to her. I started to cry. Yes, I know, it was a stupid thing to cry over...but she'd promised. I'd looked forward to it for a week, endured meals I wouldn't feed to the worst of humanity knowing I had this one small thing in my future. I mentioned that she promised, and she basically told me to get over it, I was being childish (Umm, hello? I was a child!!), and it didn't matter.
When I declined the offered taste treat, I was called ungrateful - ungrateful for the effort this woman had made in un-bagging some stale old rice cakes and topping them with something akin to baby shit but with less appeal.
I took the plate, stared at it for a moment, and did something I'd never before done. I lost my shit. I threw the plate at the woman (I missed, but the offending cakes did stick to the wall in a most satisfying manner)(organic peanut butter apparently makes a fine stand-in for wallpaper paste, should you run out) and left the dorm. She yelled at me to stop, and I kept right on going.
I'd never rebelled against anything, never lost id like that before. It was a revelation. She stood in the doorway screaming, and I kept right on walking, over the lawn, past the big hexagonal school building, and into the woods. If I had known the word "fuck" at the time, I think I might have used it.
That was the last time I believed in a promise. Oh, sure, I'll hope that someone means it, but I don't put any faith in the vow - I don't trust promises, and (sadly) I am rarely disappointed in their breaking. I am (more sadly) usually stunned in their keeping.
I, myself, will not be forsworn. I'll die first. That's not hyperbole - I mean it. If I promise a thing, I will kill myself keeping my word. I have not broken any of the rare promises I've made in life, nor will I. I may ask to be released from a promise, but I won't break it. I won't disappoint my son the way I was disappointed - I won't wound him with that kind of carelessness. I won't do that to anyone.
Hell, I even hedged my wedding vows, promising not to love forever, but to remain as long as love lasted. No "'til death do you part" for me. Nope. It was "As long as love lasts". I won't promise forever...won't even promise next week. I'll promise the moment I'm in and no more.
I could go on about the promise that's kept me kicking through this old life, and the aftermath of my tempestuous, teen-angsty blowup over Tofutti (today, I would consider it a favor if you didn't give me any)(and doubly favored am I if you never, ever offer me anything with tofu it), but this has gone on enough.
I'll post that other stuff another time. I promise.
Oh, and? Noble Pig didn't break a promise - she made a simple mistake from which she and her child will recover and learn. I just feel the need to point out, again, that it's not the same...because she's a terrific woman, a loving Mum, and human. It was the disappointment that reminded me...that's all...
Not often, anyway.
When someone does manage to wrangle a promise out of me, I'll promise to try, but not to do. I won't make a promise I am not certain of keeping - if I think weather, time, humanity, or my own perfidy will keep me from keeping my word...I won't give my word.
Promises flew through the air like popcorn from a lidless hot-air popper when I was a kid. I can't begin to tell you how many trips to Disney World were promised by my grandmother as rewards for good grades and/or behavior - but I can tell you that I went once, with someone who never promised we'd go, just showed up one day and asked Mum if he could borrow me and my brother for adventures in the home of the rodent with a side jaunt to Cape Canaveral (Thanks, GDH - that was awesome). Other than the one person who'd never promised to take us anywhere, the trips never happened. When I was six, I really believed the promises...then I cottoned on.
From my grandmother I learned that people make promises because it's more convenient than being honest, because they want something from you.
Now, I am not referring to mistakes like mixing up dates or times, or when something catastrophic happens and things can't be avoided.
Nope. I'm talking about promising your ten-year-old daughter that you are coming to visit her at boarding school this weekend and not showing up. And she refrained for going roller-skating with the rest of the dorm because she was waiting for you. So instead, she spent Saturday in a tree coming to the conclusion that she meant absolutely zero to you. That's what I mean.
If it happened only once, that would be one thing - but more than thirty times in four years? Umm...that's a pattern, a habit.
From my father, I learned that promising is easier than telling someone they mean less to you than the party, the boat, the hunting trip, the inconvenience of the effort of keeping that promise.
I was probably fourteen when the last straw hit me. It was such a stupid thing, really - my grandmother decided I wasn't fucked up in the head enough and maybe an eating disorder and an unhealthy attitude towards food were just the things I needed, so she placed me on a special diet. Easy for her to do - I lived at a boarding school where she didn't have to implement this bizarre diet - the staff did. Bless their hearts.
I was seriously limited in my dining options, since I wasn't permitted to consume anything with wheat, oats, sugars, yeast, or anything remotely resembling "tasty".
One night a week, we planned our own meals. One week, the other kids decided to have root beer floats for desert. I didn't say anything, just knew I wouldn't have any. As usual, I would probably just leave the room.
One of the relief house-parents knew about my restrictions and offered to get me some special ice cream - I couldn't have a float, but at least I'd have a special treat, too. Since I'd been living on rice cakes, tofu, and tree bark for months, I was happy to believe in her promises.
The anticipated night came, and we had our dinner (lasagna for everyone else, salad with no dressing for me)(yes, some eighteen years later I remember - that garlic bread smelled good!). I didn't mind that I couldn't have lasagna or garlic bread - I had a treat waiting for me.
Or...did I?
Yeah, umm...it seems that a certain relief house parent (I don't have room to explain this, here. maybe some other time) had forgotten.
So while the other kids were digging in to ice cream and pouring root beer, I was quietly waiting for my promised Tofutti. A plate was thrust under my nose. A plate with rice cakes on it. As an added bonus, some old, rancid, organic, no sugar added, stir the oil back in every time you open it peanut butter had been swiped across the tops. Festive.
And definitely not on par with Tofutti, ice cream, or root beer floats. I asked what had happened to the Tofutti she'd promised. She casually said "Oh, I forgot about that" and she made it clear that it meant nothing to her. I started to cry. Yes, I know, it was a stupid thing to cry over...but she'd promised. I'd looked forward to it for a week, endured meals I wouldn't feed to the worst of humanity knowing I had this one small thing in my future. I mentioned that she promised, and she basically told me to get over it, I was being childish (Umm, hello? I was a child!!), and it didn't matter.
When I declined the offered taste treat, I was called ungrateful - ungrateful for the effort this woman had made in un-bagging some stale old rice cakes and topping them with something akin to baby shit but with less appeal.
I took the plate, stared at it for a moment, and did something I'd never before done. I lost my shit. I threw the plate at the woman (I missed, but the offending cakes did stick to the wall in a most satisfying manner)(organic peanut butter apparently makes a fine stand-in for wallpaper paste, should you run out) and left the dorm. She yelled at me to stop, and I kept right on going.
I'd never rebelled against anything, never lost id like that before. It was a revelation. She stood in the doorway screaming, and I kept right on walking, over the lawn, past the big hexagonal school building, and into the woods. If I had known the word "fuck" at the time, I think I might have used it.
That was the last time I believed in a promise. Oh, sure, I'll hope that someone means it, but I don't put any faith in the vow - I don't trust promises, and (sadly) I am rarely disappointed in their breaking. I am (more sadly) usually stunned in their keeping.
I, myself, will not be forsworn. I'll die first. That's not hyperbole - I mean it. If I promise a thing, I will kill myself keeping my word. I have not broken any of the rare promises I've made in life, nor will I. I may ask to be released from a promise, but I won't break it. I won't disappoint my son the way I was disappointed - I won't wound him with that kind of carelessness. I won't do that to anyone.
Hell, I even hedged my wedding vows, promising not to love forever, but to remain as long as love lasted. No "'til death do you part" for me. Nope. It was "As long as love lasts". I won't promise forever...won't even promise next week. I'll promise the moment I'm in and no more.
I could go on about the promise that's kept me kicking through this old life, and the aftermath of my tempestuous, teen-angsty blowup over Tofutti (today, I would consider it a favor if you didn't give me any)(and doubly favored am I if you never, ever offer me anything with tofu it), but this has gone on enough.
I'll post that other stuff another time. I promise.
Oh, and? Noble Pig didn't break a promise - she made a simple mistake from which she and her child will recover and learn. I just feel the need to point out, again, that it's not the same...because she's a terrific woman, a loving Mum, and human. It was the disappointment that reminded me...that's all...
Friday, September 19, 2008
About That Rabbit...
When I lived in New Hampshire, I had occasion to visit an old-fashioned candy shop - the kind that made their candies on the premises rather than selling mass produced fare.
Granite State Candy Shop, in Concord New Hampshire, if it's still there. It smelled heavenly, and fascinated me.
Around Easter, they would put out chocolate rabbits of all sizes. One of them was the King of all the bunnies. I don't know if it weighed fifty pounds, but I always imagined it did.
I often wished I could have one of those giant chocolate beasts.
Then I grew up, and largely forgot about them.
Until.
Until one day I was at an event with my band and found myself admiring (from afar) one of the attendees. She was (and still is) a handsome woman, with strong arms, an honest, open smile, and a free laugh. She works copper into beautiful things (I have some of her wind chimes hanging outside my front door). Yep, I was a wee smitten.
And I realized that I wouldn't know what to do with her when I got her home - kind of like that fifty-pound chocolate rabbit at the candy store. Sure, you may think you want it...you may be delighted to have it...and you may even start in on it with the best of intentions...but somewhere along the way, you will realize you can't finish things. It looks good from a distance, but really? I can't handle it.
So now, when I see someone yummy (Mike Rowe, I'm lookin' at you), I may be heard to say "fifty-pound chocolate rabbit" and laugh. I know they look good from a distance, but I also know I wouldn't know what to do with them when I got them home.
Still...it doesn't hurt to look, and dream...
Oh, and that woman? The one who works copper and laughs so beautifully? She's in my band, now. Sweet!!
Granite State Candy Shop, in Concord New Hampshire, if it's still there. It smelled heavenly, and fascinated me.
Around Easter, they would put out chocolate rabbits of all sizes. One of them was the King of all the bunnies. I don't know if it weighed fifty pounds, but I always imagined it did.
I often wished I could have one of those giant chocolate beasts.
Then I grew up, and largely forgot about them.
Until.
Until one day I was at an event with my band and found myself admiring (from afar) one of the attendees. She was (and still is) a handsome woman, with strong arms, an honest, open smile, and a free laugh. She works copper into beautiful things (I have some of her wind chimes hanging outside my front door). Yep, I was a wee smitten.
And I realized that I wouldn't know what to do with her when I got her home - kind of like that fifty-pound chocolate rabbit at the candy store. Sure, you may think you want it...you may be delighted to have it...and you may even start in on it with the best of intentions...but somewhere along the way, you will realize you can't finish things. It looks good from a distance, but really? I can't handle it.
So now, when I see someone yummy (Mike Rowe, I'm lookin' at you), I may be heard to say "fifty-pound chocolate rabbit" and laugh. I know they look good from a distance, but I also know I wouldn't know what to do with them when I got them home.
Still...it doesn't hurt to look, and dream...
Oh, and that woman? The one who works copper and laughs so beautifully? She's in my band, now. Sweet!!
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