Piano. French Horn. Viola.
Ballet. Meditation. writing. anything that requires me to just do it, daily, over and over. I fell off every wagon I ever got on; thank goodness I never took up drinking or drugs, but chances are, I wouldn't have been able to stick with them, either. Waldorf teachers are supposed to work through a series of developmental exercises called the Six Basic Exercises. It's supposed to be something that makes possible further development of one's cognitive, observational, and contempletive powers. You start with contemplating an everyday object for a set amount of time, daily. I never once made it through. But look! I am writing! Every single day, so far. I don't want to break the chain! I want a check in every box. See what I'm doing here? I am changing the story. It will be a story of success, of perseverance, of devotion. Triumph. eta: Weebly, why are you cutting off the last line of my post?
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giving myself the time to write something long and considered and real, something I think my readers would want to read, kind of misses the point for me. I want to get through the excuses around writing, the myriad very good reasons I have not to write, and just write. Just write something, anything, because everything I say is telling the story of this day, this moment, this year. This life.
I have a growing feeling that storytelling is not going to let me go. It's been almost a year since I left my former position, and so much has changed. I have had to learn things I wish I hadn't, and it has made me more human, more understanding. I know myself better, and I know how little I know. I know very little. Teaching and storytelling keep coming back, no matter how I try to find a Real Job. This is what I do, and what I know to do. There is not much I get asked for advice on these days. Not much I get asked about by people, outside of the questions inherent to the work I am doing. This means something. I have a cold! I am losing my voice! I keep coughing.
bah. to do list: wash hands a lot eat fruit sleep keep listening to Martin Shaw's awesome SoundCloud finish application for fellowship sleep more but I have a COLD! Bah. Or, why this post is shortThis post is short because I was working on a fellowship application.
because I baked bread and made applesauce and soup today. because the laundry still doesn't fold itself. because writing is the first thing to get the boot when life gets busy. because we are going to bed at 9. and it's 8:45. and somehow, I am not yet ready for bed. so this post is short. go tell a story to someone you love. read a poem. learn one by heart. have a cookie. or a cup of tea. consider a career as a timekeeper, and wonder what that really means... My phone hates Nablopomo. It keeps erasing my posts. This is a lesson. I think. i listened to an amazing and poetic and elegaeic piece this morning by Martin Shaw, a Merlin tale, but tonight it's gone from SoundCloud. So tomorrow I have new stuff to hear! Hurrah! He's Mjp Shaw on SoundCloud. He carries the stories and lets them live. I kept noticing the gold and orange on the trees today. Striking against the wool-gray sky, they shone out like a circus tent in an industrial park. I caught my breath over and over, knowing that the sky was whispering threats against my beloved Fall. "Snow."
And now the fat, heavy, rain-wet flakes are falling and congregating in bewildered heaps on the grass, saying, "Gosh, I feel like we just left..." Winter is too quiet, yet. I am still learning to tend the fire of summer in my heart, so I can be warm all through the darkness. I'm not ready. I made a mason jar cozy today. I've always wanted to be someone who knows how to make things, so I have somehow arranged for this to happen. See, I needed work, and there were hours available at Heartfelt, where I love to tell stories and make things with small son, so here I am. I also looked at a lot of lovely poetry on poets.org, which is what happens mid-afternoon when one cannot get the store website to let one update it, and so one Googles "O Wild West wind!" You should do that. If winter comes, can Spring be far behind? There never will be enough. I am jealous of time, wanting more and more of it. I cannot be at peace with my own mortality; I love this life so fiercely, even when wracked with dissatisfaction, that the idea of ever parting with it makes me gasp and shudder. And yet, I know when the time comes, I will have no choice.
It's a good time of year for All Saints, for Halloween. Golden light has turned to gray, as the song goes. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. And now, loudly and again, O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being... Fall is time for poetry and deep, tragic love for the fragile, fleeting summer sun. and there is never enough time for poetry. The light today was so perfectly November-ish, I wanted to kiss it. Grr. Weebly app and iOs7 are not playing nicely together. They ate my post. But I am posting anyway. Note for the day: do not stab your knuckle with a felting needle. That is all. It's not a typo. You probably already know about NaNoWriMo, where people write a novel in November. I am not so ambitious. You get a post. Every day. I've tried it before, and I flaked out around day 3. Keep me honest, folks. Help me. Comment, respond, question. If I just wanted to write for myself, I'd do so. I have a pretty journal with an owl on it for just that purpose. This is for you. Today, small son and I went for a little walk in the woods. It's a small woods, between the big cemetery and a lake. It's a wildlife refuge, but our only animal sightings were of some annoyed blue jays and an industrious squirrel. I was amazed by the effect of being quietly in nature. Small son was silent, watchful, at peace as we made our way to the car afterwards. It was only 15 minutes, but it brought us back to ourselves. We needed that --I needed it-- after the wildness of Halloween last night. We're heading into a quiet season. This was the right way to start. |
AuthorHi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories. Categories
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