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I entered the world during a baby shower for my mother. The women had purposely picked a Thursday evening for the shower, since that was my father’s bowling night, but to no avail. Paging a man in a noisy bowling alley wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but when my Dad finally got the message he finished the third game–there were only three frames left– and then rushed to the hospital. And there I was. A girl baby. My father claimed he didn’t care, although that wasn’t quite true. Silently, he gave up daydreams of fishing and golfing with a son, and he put up with me. On the other hand, my mother had desperately wanted a girl, so her joy was indescribable. Inspiration # 1. Nothing like a mother’s love.
After I am born we come to the first obstacle. My mother was a devout Baptist and my father was a practicing Catholic. (Those Catholics always practicing like they hadn’t quite got it right.) There was a rather heated discussion on whether I would be a Catholic or a Baptist. Catholic won out and so I was raised in Catholic schools by nuns. Inspiration #2. This may be hard to believe, but I was taught by the most liberal women I’ve ever known, who just happened to be nuns. I got a great education and l was taught to think for myself. They were also great proponents of the arts, and started me on my voyage of loving to create.
Once I was old enough to walk down the stairs to my grandmas’ home, I went there often. I played underneath my grandmother’s dining room table, a large table that she used where she made draperies for the store down the street. The cloth would cascade down to the floor, making walls for my house. My dolls and I occupied the under table world for quite a few years. Inspiration #3. My grandmas’ gave me permission to play, a gift I have managed to carry with me throughout my entire life.
As I got older, I was given little tasks in the sewing room–winding thread or skeins of yarn, or learning how to sew a straight line on the old Singer sewing machine. And eventually when I was much, much older, I was allowed to dust my grandmother’s set of miniature shoes which were carefully ensconced in a large glass cabinet. The china cabinet in the hall held more than 600 shoes from around the world and the United States, and it was quite a job to unload the shelves, dust the shoes and shelves and reload. I loved doing it, handling each shoe, looking to see if I could tell where it was from. Some had tiny tags on them telling the giver’s names. Those were my favorite. Inspiration #4 also belongs to my grandmas’. They taught me that work is necessary, but one can make work fun. (Many years later I would inherit that shoe collection. My grandmother astutely knew I was the only true lover of the shoes, and everyone else only loved the money the auctioneer could get for them.)
In elementary school, my first grade teacher was Sister Rebecca, one of the most caring people I have ever known. She taught me how to read and write, and I learned quickly how to devour books and make them my friends (when I was poorly needing friends.) Inspiration #5
I remember the last day of school in 8th grade. I remember that especially. My grandfather went to check on my great-grandmother and found her dead in bed. That was my first experience with death, and I mourned her silently but deeply. She had been my confidante over the years as I grew up in the big house, and I always knew her as my beacon of safety. I now felt adrift in a big sea. I loved my great-grandma the most of all the people I knew. She taught me (in absentia) how to mourn and how to come out to see the rainbow at the end of a long storm. Already listed as inspiration #3.
My first year of college was spent in my hometown’s college, living at home. I hated living at home. In desperation, I spoke with my advisor, Father Eugene Middendorf, and asked him what I should do. He suggested I go to the library and look up the colleges and universities that had physical therapy programs to see what was out there. I researched catalog after catalog and found a state school that had a PT program. Father Middendorf and I spoke with my parents and they hesitantly agreed that I could matriculate at an away college for my sophomore year. Inspiration # 6. He trusted me and gave me permission to spread my wings and fly.
After 2 years at the state college, I was admitted to Northwestern University for my final 16 months of study in their physical therapy school. I also worked in the kitchen, feeding the students of Northwestern, to earn my spending money. It happened that I met a guy who worked as the cook named Bob. He was a first year law student, and we became friends.
One weekend the dorm cleared out since many students took a road trip to see the Kentucky Derby. When Friday evening came, and my work shift was over, I asked Bob if he’d like to go for a pizza and to see a movie. We must have hit it off well, because I kept dating him and the next June we were married. Inspiration # 7. Bob has taught me how to share a whole life together while loving each other. He has taught me that family can go through unbelievable trials and survive.
When we decided to start our family, I had little trouble getting pregnant, but a harder time making the pregnancies stick. I had two emotionally painful miscarriages before we finally struck gold. Gold came in the way of Jeanne. Three years later, after two more miscarriages, I had my second baby, Jeffrey. Then Bob took a new job and we moved across the state. There we completed our family with Amanda’s birth. My inspirations #8, #9, #10. They taught me everything else I had yet to learn, and they still continue to inspire me to be my very best. They encourage me when I am in a slump and proclaim my victories when success comes around.
Oh, excuse me. See that table in front of the fireplace. All of the people who have inspired me are sitting there. Look. They’re waving at me to come. There’s one chair still empty. I must go. I need to give everyone there a big hug of thanks.
Barbara Fahrenbach
Night sky glitters with flaming stars
While Eros drinks his purple wine,
Golden tongued poets murmur in memory
On the parting Muses for whom they pine.
Bittersweet desire lies on the altar,
Tokens of moist lotus trail in the dawn,
To sing and dance in the sea as they bathe
And caress the desire for She whom they yearn.
Wild girls heard singing in ecstatic tongue
Daughters of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love,
Who drink the bee’s nectar from the heavenly urn,
Then lie on the earth with the red-fingered dove.
Heart broken poets burn incense at twilight
Walk down from the mountains in procession and song,
Find sweet ambrosia to quench dry, parched lips,
Then dance in Her grove a-cloaked all night long.
Soulsister
When the subject for this post came up, I grabbed an index card and pencil and made a list of creative influences. By the time the index card stack was up to the height of the desk, I knew I couldn’t pick just one “most” influential person. And one I couldn’t leave out–this group. From the day I arrived, I knew I’d found my tribe. But we all feel that, so I’ll give props to all of you and not natter on.
One of the influences that makes the most differences in my creativity is finding someone who thinks completely differently from the way I do. When I see how they tackle problems and solve them, I’m amazed. When this new kind of problem solving makes sense to me, I’m intrigued and push myself forward. When it is amusing, clever, and simple, I begin to drool.
Jessica Hagy is a person who explores and explains life with charts and Venn Diagrams. That explanation would make doors slam in my head. Luckily I stumbled upon her site, and saw what she was doing before I had to explain it. So I’m adding two of her images here for an appetizer. For a full meal, visit Jessica’s blog, Indexed.
The first one is called “Not Rocket Science” and the second one “You can buy friends! With T-bonds!” For our international readers, T-bonds are treasury bonds in the U.S. which are actually a promise to repay the nation’s debt. So people who own T-bonds own part of our nation’s debt. If you own only a few, no problem, but China holds about one quarter of America’s debt, and that gives them power over the economy. 
Quinn
Hmm. Influential people, effecting my writing… Where to start! There have been quite a few. Anyway, one of my favorites… This needs a little background info, so have patience. It’s a combination of two different pieces of my life–the Intensive Journal and the theater. Back in my college years, I was part of a theater production of 1776, a Broadway musical about the Continental Congress and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. (By the same person who brought you the musical about the Titanic!) For an excellent overview of 1776 go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1776_(musical) I loved doing the play and I go to any production I can. The character which I most admired was the main character (John Adams). Over the years, lines from the play appeared in my journal writings. Also, over the years I attended Ira Progoff’s Intensive Journal workshops. One of the main journal techniques Progoff uses is dialogues: dialogues with people, events in our lives, our bodies, etc. One section is Dialogues with Inner Wisdom Figures (real/fictional, famous or not). See www.intensivejournal.org for more info. When I began writing Inner Wisdom dialogues, Mr Adams started showing up. And what follows is one of those dialogues. The characters in this dialogue include myself as the writer; Mr Adams; Andrew, the Intensive Journal workshop facilitator; and RB/LB, alter-egos of the writer. The primary dialogue is in quotation marks.
Cheshire
11/19/95 (Intensive Journal Workshop Dialogue)
”How Quiet The Chamber Is. How Silent, How Silent The Chamber Is. Is Anybody There?”
”DOES ANYBODY CARE?”
”Mr Adams!”
”Yes.”
”I was hoping you’d come. I need to talk to you.”
”Ever, your obedient listener.”
”Old Gloom & Doom is back. I received some very disappointing news yesterday. Sending me back into my fears and uncertainties. I need your support.”
”Now and always. How can I help?”
”Just talk to me, John. About commitment to goals.”
”What commitment is faltering, Miss J?”
”My sense of things-of life working out in a positive way.”
”Positive meaning without mistakes or pain?”
”No. That’s wishful thinking. Positive as in meaningful. Also in being able to take care of myself. In being an adult.”
”You don’t feel-adult-when things are difficult?”
”Sometimes. Sometimes not. It depends on the issue.”
”How are you feeling now?”
”Small, John. Foolish and-damn-here come the tears. I’m sorry-”
”Do not apologize. Honest tears are not a weakness.”
”Right. And I won’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West, from crying.”
”The Wicked Witch of the West?”
”I’ll tell you the Wizard of Oz story another time.”
”Maybe you should tell me now. Here. Sit beside me. Tell me about the wizard and the witch.”
”On second thought, it is a musical. Singing and dancing.”
”I like it already! Tell me.”
”Well, a girl named Dorothy and her dog, Toto, are swept up and away by a tornado to another place–the land of Oz. Over the rainbow. The story is about her journey to return to Kansas. She meets dangers, witches, etc. No story without dangers, I suppose.”
”Or a life.”
”Or a life. Along the way she meets first, a scarecrow. Who wants a brain. Secondly, a tin man who wants a heart. Then a cowardly lion who wants courage, of course.”
”Of course.”
”And a horse of a different color in the Emerald City. But the horse isn’t a major character—”
Just a bit player!
RB!
Sorry. Couldn’t resist!
”Anyway. Dorothy, the scarecrow, tin man, and lion go to the Emerald City because that is where the great & powerful Wizard of Oz is-er-resides.”
With the horse of a different color!
Right Brain!
That tone of voice. She means business. No more horsing around.
RB
Yes, I know where I can go.
NO!
OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD!
WE MAY SEE MURDER YET!
Which brings us back to John Adams. To return to your story, Miss J, the great and powerful Oz…
”The great and powerful Oz will help our heroes if they do one dangerous task–get the broom of the Wicked Witch of the West.”
Who’s the sister of the Wicked Witch of the East.
Please
Who died when the house from Kansas fell on her!
RB!
DING, DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD!
A certain redhead will be dead soon.
The Witch of the North didn’t die.
I’m not talking about Glenda!
I know. Okay, I’ve done my duty as irritant. Let’s go on with the story. Mr Adams must be in unbearable suspense. Our heroes are off to the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West to get her broomstick.
”They get it and return to the Emerald City.”
Whoa! This is a point you can’t skip over. Otherwise your earlier comment to John about not melting like the witch won’t be understandable. Tell him how they got the broomstick.
”One of our heroes–the scarecrow, I think, since he was made of straw–is on fire and Dorothy throws water at him. Some of it splashes on the witch and she melts.”
Now you can go back to the Emerald City.
Thank you.
Where the horse of a different color is!
Yes.
That tone of voice again. I’m good at my job, aren’t I?
I will not say what I am thinking in front of Mr Adams. I want to keep his good opinion of me. Later, we will talk.
I’m in trouble now!
”They return with the broomstick and the whole point of the story is revealed. The great & powerful Oz is not so great & powerful. He’s a man not a real wizard. And he can’t give our heroes what they want because they already have it! Scarecrow is intelligent, the tin man has a heart full of feelings, and the lion is brave indeed. They didn’t recognize it or have external validation of it. So the wizard gives the lion a medal, the scarecrow gets a diploma, etc.”
”And Dorothy?”
”Dorothy has the ability to return herself to Kansas. End of the story.”
”It’s a wonderful tale.”
”They show it every year. It’s over 50 years old now. I watched it many times during my childhood.”
”It’s not just a story for children.”
”Yes… And there’s probably a reason it appeared in the middle of our dialogue.”
”Indeed. Like Dorothy at the beginning of the story, you have been feeling lost and uncertain. About events and your goals.”
”Yes. So I thought of you. You represent my sense of commitment. Despite great obstacles/dangers, etc.”
”I must confess, I am like the wizard. Only a man. And I can’t say more to you than what he said to them. You have what you need, Miss J. Recognize it.”
”On one level I do. Otherwise we could not be speaking like this. But I’m not feeling it.”
”The feeling will come and go. Rely instead upon the values you hold so dear, the goals you choose, and the commitment needed to continue.”
”You underestimate yourself, John. You’re not like the wizard at all. Those were wise and good words. Said from your heart.”
HEY, LB! Brainstorm!
Oh, God!
A cast exchange. Franklin as the cowardly lion, Jefferson as the scarecrow, and Mr Adams as the tin man.
Not now, RB.
You’re smiling though! I’m half way out of trouble.
”Then I should say such words more often.”
We got her, Mr Adams. She’s blushing.
”The bloom on your cheeks is most becoming.”
What a remarkable felicity with words.
”I see old Gloom & Doom has been vanquished. A penny for your thoughts.”
”Just a very silly thought, John.”
”Tell me.”
Tell him, Dawn.
”I insist.”
The Great & Powerful Adams has spoken!
”John, it’s really not…”
She’s laughing now! I’m almost out of trouble.
”I must know.”
”No.”
”Yes.”
”You won’t give up, will you?”
”I am a stubborn man.”
”I know.”
Stubborn. Another word for committed? Hmm. “One of the things I admire in you.”
”Flattery will not divert me, Miss J.”
LB, question
Footnote it. I am talking to Mr Adams.
Really? I agree with John. You’re stalling.
Yes. Hasn’t there been enough embarrassment today?
I think he would appreciate the humor.
Perhaps.
I’ll tell him if you don’t.
I knew that line was coming.
Mr Adam’s not the only stubborn one around here.
I’m well aware of that.
He’s waiting, Dawn.
You enjoy this too damn much.
There’s not been enough enjoyment lately. And you’re–
Ahem.
”Oh, John. I really don’t think it will be as amusing to you. You haven’t seen–”
”So, I am an unsophisticated 18th century man and therefore incapable of comprehending the comedy of the 20th century?”
”No–”
”I am a Harvard graduate and well-versed in–”
”John! I-I’m not thinking that at all. But I see I’ve offended you. My apologies.”
”What so amused you?”
”It was only the thought of–the vision of Dr Franklin as the cowardly lion, Jefferson as the scarecrow, and you as the tin man. I’m sorry, but it fits–visually. The lion was portly, with long-um-a mane and the scarecrow was tall–”
Dawn, stop babbling. Look at John–he’s smiling. I told you he’d–hey, we can show him the video next week!
WE?
You expect to go to Boston without me? Silly you. But I agree to give you and John some privacy. I’ll find–
How about some privacy right now?
All right. Mr Adams has forgiven you, so I’ll bow out at this point.
Thank you.
Bow out
That means good-bye, RB. We’ll talk later.
I’m still in trouble.
”John–”
”You must tell me more.”
”Yes, but not today please. Enough energy has been stirred up already.”
”I beg your pardon?”
”Nevermind. I want to thank you for helping me cope with old Gloom & Doom again.”
”I am glad to be–”
Oh
”Someone is playing the violin.”
That devious little–bow out indeed.
”I am unfamiliar with the melody. Do you recognize it?”
”Yes, Mr Adams. It’s from the Wizard of Oz musical.”
”Shall we dance?”
”In the middle of the afternoon, John?”
”We’re not in Boston!”
”True.”
”One, two, three, one, two, three!”
”Yes, we can waltz to it. Amazing!”
”What are the words?”
”SOMEWHERE, OVER THE RAINBOW, SKIES ARE BLUE! BIRDS FLY OVER THE RAIN–Oh!” Andrew is calling time. The next journal exercise. To hell with it! I need to do this kind of exercise! “One, two, three, one, two, three!”
I would invite Vincent & Theo van Gogh, and would buy them both absinthes, and I would tell Vincent of the tremendous impact he’s had on art and artists (including myself), a lasting impact of the kind that he would never believe, not in his time or this time or the next. I would tell him that the fires he saw in the sky and the voices he heard in his ears and the force that drove him to paint and paint and paint as if there weren’t enough time to paint it all were the fires and voices not of mental insanity but of creative insanity. I would tell Theo that his devotion to his brother and his willingness to support him (despite their differences) allowed the receiver of one of the greatest gifts of divine artistic fire to create some of the world’s finest masterpieces before he burned out. And that Theo’s devotion gives us a model for giving and acceptance and selflessness that we can but stand in awe of and desire for.
The lights of the Taverna are burning low and Vincent and Theo prepare to leave us. But Vincent’s final words to us are the words he wrote in a letter to Theo in June of 1877: “Not a day without a line*”; by writing, reading, working and practicing daily, perserverance will lead me to a good end.” These are words that Vincent lived by, and believed in, and proved true in the course of time. While we may not all burn with the same fire, we can warm our hands and our hearts with those words of advice and our own daily manifestations of it. And one more glass of absinthe.
(*The quote is by Gavarni, an illustrator and artist)
Visit me at http://marimann.wordpress.com or www.madeleinemoments.com.
Albert
Many prominent people stop by the Taverna for a bite to eat and to swap stories and songs. If you could invite to the Taverna a person who has significantly influenced your creative work, whose voice may be heard coming from your writing, whose vision emanates from your artwork, who would that person be?
The individual(s) can be anyone– a writer, artist, philosopher, scientist, theologian, politician, teacher, friend, family member, sinner or saint. The person can be famous or not, alive or dead, a real person or a character in a book.
Just tell us why and how your creativity has been touched by this person. Comment below or post to category “BS 23.02.07 Influential People.
If you need to be signed into the Taverna, just let me know.
Lori
Poet
aged and lonely
riding gently over the sea
The ferry woman dips
her paddle
singing the song
the song of her fathers
westerly, westerly
we go to the Island
where your beloved
is waiting for thee
Fran
Inspired by the prompt, The Black Madonna
When the foreshock hit, Marilyn barely noticed. She felt a brief rolling sensation and for a moment she had the recollection of being on a gently rocking boat. She steadied herself by reaching for the elevator’s railing, and she gave it no further thought. Her attention was focused on the illuminated numbers as she sped downward to the P-3 parking level deep beneath her office complex.
It’s been too cold to walk for more than a week. Today it was above freezing, and right around sunset, I headed out. The moon was two days past new, and tilted in that winter’s way. Venus was below, bright and big, as if it had rolled out of the moon cup. (c) Quinn McDonald , 2007 
Silver moonlight falls
upon ink darkened water
boats drift out to sea
breeze carries a memory;
clinging together as one.
Soulsister
Metaphor Seeds Imagination
From the formless void
Motes, particles, miniscule molecules of matter
Slowly began to stir
Drawn by an invisible procreative,
Primordial force
They gravitated
Clinging together tenaciously
Swelling into a giant cluster
A sensual shape with
Dark raven wings
Inflaming, arousing desire, Raven
Spread her wings
Dancing, gyrating provocatively
Upon Wind’s fingertips
Wind and raven’s coming together
Borne of frenzied passion
Was a union, an act of love?
From which was birthed
An exquisite silver, moon egg
Swollen with life.
Curled within the silver womb
Amid deep silence
Lay the Goddess of Love,
Goddess of erotic love, fertility
Wrapped in the very wings
Upon which would ride, ravenous
Procreative inspiration
The all powerful
Creative energy
That fuels the universe
Heather Blakey
image courtesy of Susan Seddon-Boulet Trustees.
In the beginning the world was a great shapeless mass.
First there was nothing, just wind and the dark abyss. In the immense clefts of nothing, the deeper Abyss, Raven formed and with her dark raven wings, she flew to wind’s arms and their passion, this procreative force, became known as Chaos.
Raven gave birth to wind’s egg. From this egg rose the Goddess of Love, the one who arouses desire and fuels creation. This Goddess who represent the spirit of love,fertility and creation, was the oldest and at the same time the youngest of the Goddesses. It was the Goddess, the matchmaker, who agitated(libido) and paired heaven and earth, ocean and and the land. Before Her no immortal beings existed. From the Goddess of Love came libido which in turn birthed the immortals who sprang to life on the wings of ravenous love.
It is the Goddess of Love, the procreative principle(libido) that permits the work of creation to continue. The ability to bring something new into existence is fundamental to the creative process. Reference is often made to somebody’s ‘fertile mind’, or to an inhibition of this creativity as ‘creative sterility’.
Many successfully creative people use procreative metaphors in saying something about their experience because, as artist’s know too well, when a person’s performance, work output or art doesn’t have soul it lacks passion or libido. Without passion or libido, without the inevitable tension of opposites, the artist lies, wretched, impotent, sterile.
by Heather Blakey
I am just beginning to exhale
The breath that has been held in a
Life stifled by responsibilties and must-dos.
A new voice calls through the wind
Flying through my mouth and down my throat
Before I can close the shutters of my soul.
The crystal castle shakes and rattles,
Its foundations crumbling.
There is a mad woman in the attic
Screaming ”Let me begin”.
And so I let the stale air out,
The breath that I have been sucking in
For years, until it finally feels
As if my lungs should burst
Leaving my life scattered in bits and pieces
All over the front porch.
Someone else would have to clean it up.
Satin Flower ferry woman
hastens to the jetty
fearing lest the whirlwind
damage her vessel
A fragile word maker
awaits her coming
Fran
A different sort of love story.
My Mama: Manda’s Story
My mama. She sits on her bed with her legs crossed, hugging herself hard, rocking back and forth, never stopping, never hardly talking. Sometimes she slows her rocking and glances at Dad’s face when he talks. I don’t know if that’s really listening or not. I think she doesn’t know how to listen much. Sometimes she looks at our mouths moving and then she moves her mouth. But there’s still quiet. I hate her quiet. I hate her. I hate everybody who has a real mom.
She didn’t even flinch when I yelled those words in her ear. Her eyes just glazed over and she looked like an ancient blind woman, but she’s only 43. She’s not an old woman at all.
Dad’s gonna get her a rocking chair. He’s gonna put it in their bedroom where she can look out the window and where she can rock herself and not look so crazy. I feel bad thinking my mama’s crazy, but what am I s’posed to think. I can’t even let anyone into the house for fear someone will see Mama. Maybe start to wondering how our Mama takes care of Jeff and me.
But no one need wonder or worry ’cause we’re not little kids anymore. I’m 10 and Jeff, why he’s almost 15. And anyway, our Dad takes care of us when he’s home. And Martha who’s Mama’s day worker, she watches us a little. And you might be surprised at this, but when we’re doing something wrong, why Mama will start rocking her body so hard, I’m afraid she’s gonna fall over. I think that’s her way of telling us she knows we’re being naughty.
So don’t worry none about us. We’re used to Mama’s rocking. We don’t hardly notice it. Most of the time, I’m sorry to say, we don’t hardly notice her. What we do notice, though, is when Mama stops rocking. Then there’s trouble. One day I was sitting next to Mama on her bed, and I started rocking. I didn’t even know I was rocking, but Mama went ballistic. Fire in her eyes and she turned red all over her flesh and she couldn’t breathe. She stopped rocking. “Stop,” she said to me in a raw, edgy-sharp voice I never, ever want to hear again.
When I told Martha, she yelled at me. “You rock like that, they’ll think you’re going on like her. They’ll come take both of you away, and I won’t be doing nothing to stop it. You want that?”
“No, m’am,” I whispered, and went and sat on the stoop ’til Jeff came home from baseball practice. Jeff’s about the only person in the whole world who understands what goes on in our house.
But there is one more thing I want to tell you about Mama. Kind of a normal thing. Pa put a swing in the back yard. It’s all fenced in, so no one can see in. He walks Mama outside and sits her in the swing. He pushes her, back and forth, and sometimes she laughs in a funny sort of way.
See. She’s just our Mama with a sickness in her brain. A mess of garbage in her brain that causes me to get a sickness in my heart. I just don’t know what to do to make her get better. Jeff says there isn’t a thing we can do, but I don’t believe him.
My Ma: by Jeffrey A. Bachmann
Manda’s right about one thing. None of us get exactly what’s the reason Ma’s so sick. But there sure is something sick about her, even if I don’t know the name of what she’s got. Dad talks about chemicals in Ma’s brain. How she doesn’t have enough chemicals in her brain.
Maybe that’s why she rocks so much. So she can spread the chemicals all around in her brain. Nah. I know that’s not the way it is, but I sure wish something would work on those chemicals. She even gets extra in those little pills her doctor gives her. Personally, I can’t tell the difference, whether she takes those pills or whether she doesn’t. Maybe I could give her some of my chemicals in a transplant, or whatever.
Dad drives Ma to the clinic every month. We all went in to meet Ma’s doctor once. Her doc seems okay. She’s pretty old, but I know for sure she was one foxy lady when she was younger. Doctor B. has a picture of herself on her desk –one of her doing some mighty fine dancing in a mighty fine dress. Her hair’s flaming red and piled on top of her head. Her eyes were so green they made me feel all funny inside. Now that’s how a mother ought to look.
Ma never misses her appointment with Doctor B. I think she likes her. We all drop her off at the clinic and then we hurry and go grocery shopping or buy other stuff like baseball shoes for me. That seems like the only time we act like we’re a family.
Ma’s been going to see Doctor B. for nearly 10 years. Dad says Ma’s a lot better than she used to be, but I can’t figure that out. She must have been mostly dead to be worse than she is now.
In fact, she acts pretty dead right now. Well, not always. There is a time when Ma seems to listen. That’s when Manda starts talking weather talk. I probably haven’t told you all, but Manda’s an honest to goodness weather girl. She loves all the weathermen on TV, but she especially likes this guy called Kevin. Manda’s always going on, “Kevin this” or “Kevin that.”
Dad called the weather station once, right before Christmas, to see if they had any promo stuff on this guy. He was gonna give it to Manda, but they laughed at Dad. See. Just shows you how crazy normal people can be.
Anyway, Ma listens to Manda speak her weather words. She looks spellbound when Manda throws her weather words around — cold fronts, dew points, record rain falls. Manda’s always telling Ma what city had the highest temperature or the lowest temperature. All those words most people don’t care about, but Manda goes on and on. I know Ma listens some, because once in a while she’ll answer. Ma likes those high and low temperatures something fierce.
Amanda says “Now I’m in Billington, Montana where the lowest temperature is -14 degrees.” And sometimes Ma repeats her. “Low,” she says. I don’t know why she says that. She barely talks when Dad or I am there. We have to stand at the doorway to hear her talk. Personally, I think it wastes the words Ma can say. I want Ma to save some of her words for me. I’ve got important conversations to talk to her about. But no, Manda uses them all on the weather.
Listen to this, if you don’t think Ma’s got stuff working in her brain. On Easter Day, Ma sat by the window, and stared at the sky something fierce. She looked and looked and she said “snow” clear as clear can be. Everyone heard her say it, so I’m not making this up. Now the sky was a blue blue color and white clouds floated right along. But Ma watched out that window all day long. Wouldn’t even have dinner with us and Dad cooked ham and sweet potatoes and chocolate cake for desert. She just rocked and waited.
Then evening came and the sky turned thick with gray clouds. The wind picked up and it started snowing. And how did Ma know about that snow. Why, a couple weeks ago Manda was reading the Farmer’s Almanac. Mind you, a couple weeks ago. And Manda told everyone, “It’s going to snow on Easter.” Now, who would believe that. Snow in the middle of March! But darned if it didn’t happen just the way Manda said.
So then Manda turned right around, right around where Ma was sitting and she said, “You’re right, Mama. I told you that, didn’t I?” And Ma looked right at Manda and she waited a bit. “Yes.” That’s what she said.
Then Ma stopped rocking and leaned forward and patted Manda on the head. Manda grabbed Ma’s hand and plopped a big kiss on the backside. Ma laughed and laughed, and Dad and Manda laughed. But not me. I felt like crying inside.
Ma looked at Manda, all satisfied like. Ma’s brain is definitely there. I’m not exactly sure where, but that’s proof Ma’s got brains working. Maybe she needs more practice at thinking and talking and paying attention. Maybe at paying more attention to me.
I try to talk to her when Manda’s not going on and on about the damn weather. She gets that blank look on her face and rocks herself. Sometimes Manda and Ma make me sick with all their talking special weather crap.
But I keep on trying. I really do. “Ma,” I say. “Listen to me. You don’t really drive me crazy. No, you don’t.” I talk louder and louder to get her to look at me and listen, but she just ignores me.
Ma always listens to Manda, but she never listens to me, and I’ve got important things to tell her. I want to tell her about my baseball team. I made Varsity and I’m only a sophomore.
“Do you hear me Ma? I made Varsity. I’ll get my baseball letter to put on my jacket. I might go to the University and play ball on scholarship. Maybe play on a Big 10 team. Ma. Ma. Listen to me!” But she won’t give me a smile. She won’t even look at me. I love my Ma and she won’t even look at me.
Finally I got an idea. “Ma.” My voice felt strangled, stuck right in my throat. “Ma. You want me to read to you about the weather? Here. Here’s the paper. The high temperature was 74 in Fort Myers, Florida. You hear, Ma? 74. That sure is pretty hot for it being March.”
And my Ma, well, she looked at me. Looked right at me and then she smiled. Do you hear that? She smiled at me! And so I kept on going, on and on about the weather. When I finally stopped, she stopped rocking and she leaned over and she patted my head!
I guess I’ll take those smiles and pats, no matter how I get them. I’ll wait on baseball for the time being, ’cause I’m reading the weather reports right now.
Barbara Farenbach
The ferry woman waits
aboard her ladyslipper boat
“Please step with care
and don’t forget to bring your silver pen
for the Muse of the Island
has lost hers.”
On Dream Island where the muse
rests silent
the parrot watches over her
waiting for dawn
and the coming of the poet
but the ferry sits unused upon the further shore
She lives in the south of Africa. She has the same name as a well-known Australian artist. She’s mistaken for her, but, she says humbly, “I’m just another Robyn Gordon.” She wrote me about a month ago, another victim of insomnia. She was lying awake and got up to drift across the Internet, hoping to find something inspiring.
She found my blog. She read an entry about creativity, another about failure. Her own life has its burdens, and they seem bigger at night.
She read an entry about meaning-making and decided to give art another try. Then she wrote me. I wrote back. It was a short exchange. I didn’t want to frighten her, and after sending a few emails she didn’t answer, I thought I might have scared her off. Damn. I hate it when I do that.
Tonight, I got another email from her. She has returned to her art. Each time we leave the studio, there is the risk we will not return. It’s a decision each artist makes every day. Robyn has chosen to return to her art. Make meaning with it. It’s a huge step. I asked if I could see her work. Sure, she said, and sent the photo here.
My life isn’t about me. It’s about connecting with other people, people I don’t know, and finding out that creativity helped them make meaning of their lives. How wonderful that the world does not have to exist without this incredible art in it. No, I had nothing to do with it. Robyn Gordon made all the decisions and did all the work. But I am so glad it was my blog she read because I got to see this wonderful art.
She’s given me permission to publish it on my blog, and I’m putting it here as well. Thank you Robyn, for your art and for showing up in the world. (c) 2007 Images, Robyn Gordon. Text, Quinn McDonald.
Darryl and I often said that our life, over the past seventeen years, had taken on the quality of being on a roller coaster. There were so many adjustments we made, changes that were necessary as we faced one crisis after another. Our trip to Europe in 2001 was the ultimate roller coaster ride. We hired a car and 45,000 kilometres and six months later arrived back in Paris. We never had one forward booking because we said that if we did not know where we were going we could not get lost.
During those last days in Paris we caught the train and visited Paris Disneyland. Over the years I had steadfastly refused to go on roller coasters and I can have panic attacks if I am so much as ten feet above the ground. I recall crying because I did not want to ride the cable car up to the famous Ice Caves in Austria but Darryl coaxed me and I am so glad that I saw that wonder of the world.
So it took Darryl totally by surprise when, like a crazed woman, I insisted we go on all the rides at Disneyworld. I was not overly impressed with the place and it was simply a matter of extracting value for money.
The ride was spectacular to say the least. Happily we were in the dark but the camera caught it all, captured so perfectly our life, our roller coaster ride.
Needless to say this photograph took pride of place on the alter in the room on the day of Darryl’s funeral.
Heather Blakey
My yen for sewing waffles with the number of yen in my piggy bank.
This particular April 16th (D+1 Income Tax Day), I was motivated.
Since a pricey, dressmaker’s form was not in reach,
an internet how-to had to do,
for making and draping my very own dummy.
(I know what you’re thinking)
Nothing more than an old sweat suit, duct tape and a few cans of aerosol, foam insulation, it seemed a snap. Here in hangs the tale….
I slipped on the sweats, sat down on the bed, extended my legs and winded the tape from ankles clear up to my thighs.
Once past the knees, I realized that standing-up with ease needed help,
so I called “please” to my husband near-by.
His facial expression as he entered the room should have certainly given me pause.
But, I had a vision and was off on a mission that good sense could not deter.
Once pulled to my feet I began to entreat ‘till he gave in and wrapped me up tight.
Butt to waist then chest and down arms, a prisoner I teetered and swayed.
Extrication came next, the directions declared by wending a line down one side to be snipped along carefully with scissors,
under one arm, down the body, and length of one leg.
Like some giant clamshell the contraption would then bend open
allowing me to be shucked out.
Well, he tried to be careful, gentle and kind, but the tape was very tightly wound, and each time the scissor points dipped to gain new purchase
they would prick my skin and I’d scream.
He pushed me back upon the bed in utter consternation, trying to redistribute the pulp from the shell, but it did nothing to quell the pain.
Inch by inch my tender flesh was pricked, and louder became my cries.
The poor man was trembling and ready to faint when at last the deed was done.
And I popped from my shell with one final yell, as he swore-off this hair-brained scheme.
Tho’ bloodied and battered, I persevered to tape the thing back whole and hollow, and squirted the foam within.
For many a day, this headless specter leered back at me
from its prop in a far dark corner.
I had lost the will to make it work and my sewing career to boot.
Then one fine day a friend would jokingly say.
“My, what a fine practice target you have.”
So now, with revenge ever so sweet, it sits outside in the woodpile,
and serves me well with a target on its chest,
or a can on its shoulders as we practice our archery skills.
Each arrow prick is a Bull’s Eye for my psyche.
~PollyGraph
>>>>>>>>>>>>
[” If it's supposed to move and it doesn't use WD40, if it's not supposed to move and it does, use duct tape.”
If it's more complicated, use your Swiss army knife.
~ Anonymous]
It is strangely quiet
Here in the shadows
A solitary figure
Now
watching
observing
wondering
Who to be
by what name?
Heather Blakey February 2007
My impatient muse waved farewell and sailed to her island retreat where she plays and waits for the ferry women to bring any candidates for her services. That lazy lady swings in a hammock quite unsympathetic to my distant messages, refuses to read emails, won’t answer thought waving, and, as for snail mail, refuses to give out her address. I’ll have to call in the chief ferry woman and make my way over the sea.
cronelogical
Gail, your piece made me think of this story I wrote a few years back about a trip from hell. We laugh about it now. I hope you all will find it amusing, or at least cautionary! karen
It was Labor Day weekend, and we were determined to go camping. We had three whole days, and were desperate to use them. Ignoring everything we knew about summer camping the
Midwest, we headed two hours North to
Indian
Cave
Park in
Nebraska. As we set up our tent in the oppressive atmosphere, we saw other intrepid souls gathered around campfires. The fires, we later realized, were to combat the hordes of mosquitoes infesting the hollow. We didn’t notice the vacant, dazed expressions–the absolute torpor of our fellow campers. We did notice that many of them were drinking rather heavily. The only sounds were the repetitive, industrial song of locusts and calls for more beer. Excited to get on the trail, we loaded up and consulted our map. Sketchy and primitive, it primarily showcases the cave for which the park is named. Trails are indicated rather loosely, and locating the trailhead took several hours. We eventually found ourselves on a trail much like a maintenance road, a trough cut into the landscape with some sort of earthmover. It was not particularly scenic, and was built recently enough that the cut sides of the trough, up to four or five feet tall in some sections of the trail, were moist and steaming, the perfect breeding ground for every type of insect and larvae. Most of the trail was a steep incline, with very little descent, and I was panting heavily in the heat. We were later to discover that the temperature that afternoon was 102 degrees, the heat index near 110. There was no breeze, and therefore little evaporation. I started to feel a slight headache at the base of my skull. After several hours of silent climbing, grimly endured except for breaks for water and application of insect repellent, we emerged from the trees. The best thing about
Indian
Cave
State Park on such a day is surely the bathhouse. We gratefully stood under the shower, cooling down a bit, and then attempted to towel ourselves dry, an exercise in futility in the 86% humidity. We reapplied insect repellent immediately, to preserve some small amount of our blood which was being siphoned off in mass quantities. Slick with sweat and Deep Woods OFF, it was tacitly understood that there would be no romance in the tent that evening.I was still feeling somewhat sick in the head, so I took a couple of Excedrin. We settled down around our campfire, which was hot and miserable, but slightly decreased the insects. Occasionally a breeze would pass through the campground, and we heard a collective “aah!” as people stretched their bodies up to meet it. For a while we enjoyed ourselves in spite of the heat, stretching out to read on the ground, and cracking open a bottle of wine we brought from home. My headache started to return, this time with a pounding intensity. I took a prescription painkiller, hoping to salvage the evening. By dusk, the breeze had disappeared completely, leaving us to swelter, dry, in the sauna-like environment of the park. Lethargy overcame us. Other campers sat listlessly slapping away bugs, occasionally talking quietly. Newcomers arrived in a flurry of activity, set up camp, and then quickly succumbed to the heat. They sat, like the rest of us, in stupefying silence. We were comforted by the fact that we were not the only idiots out in this heat. I felt worse by the minute, and was sitting in a camp chair, face between my knees, hands dangling down by my ankles, with an ice bag on my head. “Are you all right?” My husband asked anxiously.“Fine,” I responded faintly. “I just need to lie down for a while.”I went to the oven-like tent and enjoyed a respite from all but three mosquitoes that whined around my ears, keeping me awake. I roasted there for a while, and when I could take no more, I went back out to the campfire. By this time, I was in a haze of alcohol and drugs, a danger one would think I had enough sense to avoid. I stared dully into the flames, and tried to ignore my headache.Finally I went back to bed. I lay on top of my sleeping bag, sticking to the flannel lining, sweating out alcohol and DEET, which had probably reached neurotoxic levels by this point. I called my husband. “I think I need to go to the hospital.” It was quite late by this time, and a few people had started to become more active, i.e, loud and drunken. A whippoorwill had been crazily screeching its refrain, over and over, just outside our tent. Obviously we were both still awake.I dressed and got in the car, turning the air conditioner on my face full force. The temperature change was too much; my stomach started to roll. My husband ran into the ranger station and frantically searched for a ranger to provide directions to the closest emergency room. Meanwhile, I threw up in the bushes. Several people stared in concerned fascination. I was unable to speak, and crawled back to the car.Mark drove as fast as he could on the bumpy back roads, my stomach heaving with every impact. He patted me nervously while I writhed and muttered, holding my head. We pulled over for me to be sick, and I leaned out the door. We were in front of a farmhouse, and a pack of snarling dogs came running toward me in the dark. I screamed, barely managing to pull my head back in the car and slam the door.By the time we got to the hospital, I could neither speak nor walk, and Mark was convinced I was having a stroke. I was wheeled into the ER, puking and mumbling incoherently. The doctor on call eventually gave me a shot for migraine headache, and in twenty minutes, this miracle of modern science completely obliterated the pain. I sat up in wonderment. I was drained, but felt great otherwise. After a severe migraine, the absence of pain is like a gift. All is right with the world. The temperature was still well in the upper eighties. I was dehydrated and weak. The hospital wouldn’t keep me after my miracle cure. We were sent back out into the heat of the night. I couldn’t face the campsite again. I suddenly recalled that my parents lived about an hour away, and I called them from a parking lot. It was 2 a.m. Mom, who thought that her job as late night chauffeur had ended fifteen years ago, was less than thrilled. I think she was having a flashback to my teen years. “Are you at a bar?” she asked, over and over. Eventually, she agreed to come pick me up, and so we waited in the car. A police officer stopped to question us. We convinced him that our motives were pure, and he waited with us. My mom arrived and took me home. I washed off the sweat and insect repellent and slept blissfully the rest of the night in clean sheets, dry and comfortable. Mark went back to the campground to get our things, and spent the night there. He is a much hardier specimen than I, and tolerated the evening with only a minor panic attack. He was kept awake by some beer-drinking rednecks, but otherwise passed the night in relative comfort. He picked me up Sunday morning and we headed home.You would think that after this trip we would have given up on camping. In fact, just the opposite. We continue to camp, learning a bit more on each trip, accumulating better gear, and surviving many disasters. This particular trip helped us formulate a cardinal rule— thou shalt not camp in the midwest in the summertime. The heat, humidity, and insects will offset any possible enjoyment. I also learned a hard lesson about mixing alcohol and painkillers. Admittedly, most people learn this by watching “Behind the Music,” but in my defense, the heat was a major factor, and my judgement was clouded by DEET intoxication. Over the years, many lessons have been learned. Some concern the real cost of a cheap tent, discovered only during what New Mexicans like to call “a gully-washer;” the wisdom of canoeing on the high water that follows a major tornadic storm; what constitutes “adequate” food and water, the difference between water-resistant and water-proof—you get the picture. Through these slightly tortuous lessons, we have grown. We are now more skilled and sensible campers. We own a closet full of top-notch gear, a bookshelf full of well-thumbed outdoor guides. Most importantly—and, might I add most critical—to our success, we locate the ER before we set up camp.
Laughing at oneself is a deep and satisfying joy: to NOT know perfection, to accept ourselves as we are anyway–a rare gift.
One of my favorite explorations is to discover the tricks our brain does for us–for good or not. Whenever I explain the blind spot in our eyes, the class of adults marvel–they’ve never heard of it.
For everyone in the Taverna tonight–put down your drinks, have a seat if you are standing, and try this:
Lift your right foot about six inches (15 cm. for the smarter, metric set) and rotate it clockwise. No hurry. Got it? Great! Now use your RIGHT hand (lefties–put that one down, use the right hand here) and draw the number Six in the air.Hah! Your foot started going anti-clockwise, didn’t it? Try it again. And again. Same all the time. That’s your brain, being stubborn. You are not nearly in as much control as you think!
Life’s sweetness is pervasive.
Our focus is essential in connecting with this zing. And gratitude –
recognition and celebration of the brilliance of the color green,
the passion of a puppy’s love,
the magnificence of a child’s laughter and
the peace within our breath.
Taste the sweetness,
savor it and then take another nibble.
You are being gifted with something precious each moment.
Be in this moment – purely and completely.
Allow the wholeness of this moment’s sensations envelop you.
There’s no mystery in finding the nectar. Simply tune into
your senses and then, like the bee, share what you’ve discovered.
Do your dance to summon others this way.
And know that this place is always available to you;
return often and experience the expanse of lusciousness.
Anne
From The Wintered Womb
Underneath the thrice ploughed, fertile, fallow field
Impregnated within a wintered, woven, womb
Of richly composted humus
I lay seeking sustenance, nourishment from
The oxygen filled wintered mist that
Drizzles, seeping, replenishing the amniotic fluids
That trickles through the membranous umbilical cord
Fertilizing, greening,
Ensuring a bountiful spring harvest.
Heather Blakey
image from Van Gogh
Digital Collage
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
It’s that time in Australia when we always used to go camping with our kids. We’d roast sausages over a campfire, go bush walking, and watch the stars come out before all piling higgledy piggledy into the tent. Now out kids take their kids camping (our old bones just can’t take sleeping out any more) but it’s still just as much fun as ever, and they still burst out laughing when regaling us with the latest camping adventures. Years ago I wrote this little poem about family camping trips:
“Get your foot off my neck – your knee’s in my ear –
I’m trying to sleep – get that frog out of here!
Mum, Chris won’t shut up – your feet aren’t washed! –
Move over, someone, my hand’s getting squashed.”
They say they love camping, they swear that it’s true,
When the weekend comes, and there’s nothing to do.
So we pack up the kids, the dog and the tent,
And head for the lakes, where good times are spent
Sunning and swimming and just having fun –
“I’m hungry, I’m starving, are the sausages done?
I won’t use that toilet, there’s spiders and bugs –
I’d love a good cuppa, did you bring the mugs? “
The mosquitos are biting, the repellant’s at home.
Oh what is this urge that drives us to roam
Far from the comforts of bedroom and bath?
There’s only one reason – it’s such a good laugh!
Gail Kavanagh
My son has the cutest laugh.
It’s so accessible,
so readily available and contagious.
When he laughs,
he laughs until he can’t breathe!
His face turns bright red and his eyes sparkle
as if the greatest joy in the world is his.
It’s music
–echoed only vaguely by angel’s song.
Literary Bohemian
The subject for next meeting is laughter: Laughter is listening to the babe’s first words, finding an answer in a twisted pun, touch and remember a moment when the song was new. We laugh when given the circumstance it would seem suitable to cry or rail against the fate that brings us to the spot. To laugh at ourselves is the real test.
cronelogical
This is my contribution to “a suitcase for hope”. It is the inside of the lid of a camphor wood-lined travelling trunk whose scented wood would keep clothes safe from moths.
I do not know if the picture is of the owner of the trunk or is merely for decoration (note the raven). I like to think that the trunk may have contained the start of a new life somewhere for someone.
Traveller
Carl Sagan was a strong proponent of the Fermi paradox,
a theory suggesting that technological civilizations
tend to destroy themselves rather quickly
upon reaching a certain level of sophistication.
The defining ‘advancement’ so the story goes
is the splitting of the atom.
This brings us to headline news
from the great ‘Down Under’….
The discovery of a slimy green organism
thriving splendidly within the radioactive hot springs
of the North Flinders Ranges at Arkaroola.
Imagine the possibilities of a wholly new
evolutionary line springing forth from this source,
not only radiation resistant,
but also capable of photosynthesis,
therefore self-sustaining.
The appearance of ‘Little Green Men’
may not be so alien after all.
~Pollygraph
It was January 6, 2004 and after 10 years of pain and having just birthed my second child, I was ready to claim my strength. I understood from my studies over the past several years that our thoughts and what we focus on creates our reality.
So, on this wintry afternoon in my quiet living room, I stood with conviction and claimed this year my year of strength. That same afternoon, I took my children for a walk at the park and my body responded harshly. My body was my barometer; I knew it was telling me a shift was happening. Two days later, I received the phone call from Detective Newsome with news that they had, after 14 years, positively identified my rapist.
This was the ending and another beginning — a beginning I had strongly intended for myself just 2 days earlier. This strong intention set in motion a series of events that I never could have predicted, but which touched me in many healing ways and today, I stand in strength knowing the truth of who I am, knowing with conviction the gifts I have to give, knowing the power I have to create what I desire.
In gratitude for this gift and as a statement for the courts, I wrote the following. Click here to read more.
Anne
.
Jungle fever
Dulls the brain
Weakened by exhaustion
I lie, wracked
Pale, emaciated
Red blood cells infected
By the protozoans of
dappled winged parasites.
Blood-letting
Medieval catch all mercury
swallowed
Leeching, purging
The horrid malevolent spirit remains
Resistant
against
The blood-sucking parasite
Dressed in Cinchona’s laurel like leaves
Wearing a crimson gown
The fairest of Peruvian hand maidens
Harvests the Jesuit bark
Methodically grinding seeds
Into a bitter, colourless, amorphous powder
Amounting to the weight
Of two small silver coins
The fine bitter tasting
Popish powder
A powerful antipyretic
Given as a beverage
Mixed with lemon and lime
Soothes the blood-sucking parasite
And words flow
seamlessly
In Melbourne as in Lima
Heather Blakey
A warm welcoming fire was burning in the fireplace in the study of Riversleigh Manor. Outside the wind moaned and grated through the bare tree branches and somewhere a strain of a Little Night Music floated on the air. Siena, warrior maiden, drew her feet underneath her in the fireside chair and sighed deeply…….
Djanne
We spoke of blue stockings
and I trust that I knew
that a blue stocking woman
would write what was true
but I found in my search
there were only a few
who had been preserved
however well deserved
their efforts had been. (in the 18th century, that is)
And then I found an interview with Iris Murdoch in which she said, in differentiating between philosophy and literature: ” Literature has no continuous task, it is not in that sense a kind of ‘work’. It is indeed something in which we all indulge spontaneously, and so might seem nearer to play. Literary modes are natural to us, very close to ordinary life and to the way we live as reflective beings. Not all literature is fiction but the greater part of it is or involves fiction,invention, masks, playing roles, pretending, imagining, story-telling. When we return home and ‘tell our day’, we are artfully shaping material into story form. (These stories are often funny, incidentally.) So in a way as word-users we all exist in a literary atmosphere, we live and breath literature, we are all literary artists, we are constantly employing language to make interesting forms out of experience which originally seemed dull or incoherent. How far reshaping involves offences against truth is a problem any artist must face. A deep motive for making literature or art of any sort is the desire to defeat the formlessness of the world and cheer oneself up by constructing forms out of what might otherwise seem a mass of senseless rubble.”
cronelogical
Synchronicity is so amazing sometimes. This is my very first time I’ve participated in Illustration Friday and it happens to compliment this weeks topic at the BlueStocking meeting. The topic for Illustration Friday is “Sprout.” But I think what I drew signifies a growing and healthy hope, also.
Literary Bohemian
p.s. This is just a thumbnail. if you’d like to see a larger version, stop by my blog.
(Photo by Robin. 2006)
I saw on the news that Punxsutawney Phil (the famous groundhog from Pennsylvania in the U.S.) came out of his burrow on Gobbler’s Knob today and predicted that we can expect an early spring. Only six more weeks of winter, says Phil. Phil’s prognostication is based on the fact that he did not see his shadow. I’d have been amazed if he had. It’s a gray, gloomy, and overcast day.
Have you ever noticed that colors pop (really stand out) on gray, gloomy, and overcast days? I’ve always thought of it as the gift of the cloudy day, the way the colors become so brilliant (provided there’s no rain, mist or fog to dull them).
But I digress. Phil’s prediction (taken from the official website) is as follows:
Phil’s official forecast as read 2/2/07 at 7:28 a.m. at Gobbler’s Knob:
El Nino has caused high winds, heavy snow, ice and freezing temperatures in the west.
Here in the East with much mild winter weather we have been blessed.Global warming has caused a great debate.
This mild winter makes it seem just great.On this Groundhog Day we think of one thing.
Will we have winter or will we have spring?On Gobbler’s Knob I see no shadow today.
I predict that early spring is on the way.
Of course it’s read in Groundhogese first, then translated into English by one of the Inner Circle. It’s interesting to note that since 1887 when the first official visit to Gobbler’s Knob took place, Phil has seen his shadow 96 times, no shadow 15 times, and no record exists for the remaining 9 times. Looks like early springs are hard to come by.
For those wanting to do a little weather prognostication of their own, here’s an old Scottish poem to help you out:
- As the light grows longer
- The cold grows stronger
- If Candlemas be fair and bright
- Winter will have another flight
- If Candlemas be cloud and rain
- Winter will be gone and not come again
- A farmer should on Candlemas day
- Have half his corn and half his hay
- On Candlemas day if thorns hang a drop
- You can be sure of a good pea crop
The children are our greatest hope.
Gailkav
“He who has health has hope and he who has hope has everything”.
Traveller
Hope may be a thing with feathers, but in this case, hope has wings.
Quinn
Suitcases of Hope
This week, Lori had the opportunity to attend a lecture given by Nobel Laureate and Holocaust-survivor, Elie Wiesel. Prof. Wiesel spoke at length on the nature of hope and despair, cautioning us not to despair when we look at evil and indifference in the world. He stated that even our creative endeavors must be “with a purpose that appeals to hope.”
Do you agree with this statement? If so, how do your creative works, whether written or visual, inspire hope?
Pack a suitcase to bring to the Blue Stockings meeting. Fill it with pieces that inspire hope and then share something from your suitcase at the meeting.
Or if you have a story, photograph, piece of art, or a poem that you believe inspires hope, please feel free to post it (using the category “BS 02.02.07″)
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