Daily Archive

I let my inner critic have free reign this morning, and then punished her thoroughly for having the audacity to be so demanding. I had a day off from work, and I awoke with plans, but one look at my basement craft area turned that into Plans, and the critic took over as I stood meekly back  in the corner and let her go. I did slyly suggest that she recruit some help, though.

We called upon the lone child home, the 16 year old off school for Good Friday, and grumpy because his track meet was cancelled, to be the helper. A verbal tussel later, he was fervently wishing for his coach to call and tell him his track meet was on again (no such luck for him) and was helping us- me and the inner critic, who was very grumpy with all comers.

Well, this is where the critic got her comeuppance.  She wore herself out playing not just inner critic, but outer critic as well. While the boy-child did indeed help, he did so like a 16 year old boy. The critic was fuming, but I reminded her that this was a big job and we needed help. So, while picking up other people’s belongings and putting these in the correct room, sorting out books to give away, cleaning out a closet, and sweeping, my inner critic dealt with the fact that getting a 16 year old boy to do something he doesn’t like, and do it your way, is very like herding cats. She told him so, while I stood in the background and snickered.  He beamed up at us innocently.

By the end of the morning, the job was done, and so was my inner critic. She was so exhausted from trying to get him to actually cooperate and stay on task for two minutes running that she packed it in for the day. She did not come up with 75 other tasks to do (which she normally does). She did not tell me that the job wasn’t perfect (which she always does). She simply left, and I washed up and headed for my writing. By the way, I should also be able to reach my papers and stamps and fabrics again, so she did accomplish something!

I will have to remember this technique the next time I feel that “get your work done, and all of it” version of the critic lurking around, waiting for a chance to pounce. Too many people to work on, and she folds up and goes away!

Red sun, slow riser,
Paints the wings of the white dove.
Dawn comes soaring in.

I am sooo excited to be able to share this new version of one of my poems with everyone! Lori responded to my initial poem and I asked her if she would help me by reading it alongside another version sent to me by my poetry mentor, a version I felt stripped it of its essence, which happily Lori agreed to. Then Lori did the masterful thing and took the best of my mentors assessment and created this version instead. Thank you Lori!! And a very Happy Easter to you!! (and to everyone else as well!!!)

Easter is a
Resurrection away.

Fran wrote a lovely poem for this week’s Bluestocking topic regarding distractions of daily life that keep one from their artwork.  It is true that we allow these mundane things to distract us, but I was reminded that we can also see our life, daily distractions and all, as a work of art.  That thought made me think of a quote I have on my refrigerator from Edgar Cayce:

“Do make the home your career, for this is the greatest career any soul can make in the earth.  To a few it is given to have both a career and a home, but the greatest of all careers is the home, and those who shun it shall have much yet to answer for.  For this is the nearest emblem of what each soul hopes eventually to obtain…for it is ever creative in purpose…”

Edgar Cayce reading #1070-1

She tells  me I can’t get out the oil paints right now because I can’t have the windows open and the house will smell of turpentine.

 She tells me I can’t go outside to photograph because it’s too windy.

She tells me I can’t go do some pottery on the porch because I need to clean up out there first and it’s too cold anyhow.

She tells me I can’t because….

I have met the enemy…and she is me.

Posted by Mari with thanks to Pogo.

All is distraction
the house that will not clean itself of dust or ditritus;
garbage from a hundred trips of guilt
clogging the memory of a precious night;
the phone call advertising some useless other thing
and my shame at my rude reply;
the socks I did not mend
but thought it somehow important
enough to keep the socks;
the clothesline of life
pegged crooked
while I failed to see
the sun break pink against the pines
or scent of a thousand mornings.