For the Daily Prompt: fret.
Few frets at Fiddle Tunes. This is from 2010 and my son played with the Cajun group.
Blogging from A to Z, happy things. M for music, music, music!
My father and sister and I had a chance to record some of the family songs. This one is called Down by the Sally Gardens. My parents used to sing the duet.
May you have a joyous Monday!
Normal chaos, 2010.
For the Daily Prompt: wrinkle.
Unstaged, messy, daily life is wrinkled and joyous and unpredictable.
A picture of me and my sister in early 2012, about 6 weeks before she died.
Some days are about longing.
There is a door, so I submit this to Norm2.0 Thursday Doors.
For the Daily Prompt: trill.
This is my great grandpa Bayers, who played in John Philip Sousa’s band.
For Norm 2.0’s Thursday Doors.
My doors to sacred are outdoors and music and loving friends and family.
We were practicing a Requiem. A door into grief and comfort.
This is for Taleweaver #147 – What brings you joy?
My minister talks about containment in ceremony.
That the ceremony can be a container for us to handle our worst selves and our best selves safely.
The Catholic mass is an example, particularly when it was in Latin. That it takes us through horror and suffering and death and then resurrection. This past weekend we performed the Mozart Requiem, from grief through joy.
My minister says that Western Civilization has lost the container for spirituality in the churches and instead holds the sacred in a love relationship. He says that the projection of one’s best self on the loved one can then flip into the projection of one’s worst, if we are not careful. We are attracted to people who have some of the aspects that we hide in our unconscious, so these are activated and projected. We magnify the talents and the beauty and wisdom of the love object. They are not real. True love is when we can slowly withdraw the projection and see the actual person who is there and then really love them.
I am taking a class where we are reading The Maiden Tsar. I am thinking of the chicken feet that Baba Yaga’s house stands on. We say that a person is chicken when they are afraid and won’t go forward, a coward. So Baba Yaga’s house on chicken feet: it is a house of fear, fear alive, terrifying. And what do we find in this most frightening place? We find that that our culture has most devalued: an old woman, not beautiful, not fertile. And she cares nothing for logic. In order to meet her challenge and not be destroyed, we must use our intuition, not our logic. No linear thinking, but a respect for magic and for humor.
I am thinking of the grandmother theory, that women have a dramatic menopause because they are the tribal memory. They have to survive the famine, raise the grandchildren, remember where there might be food, remember tricks and things forgotten. A useful man may remain fertile for the tribe, but a useful woman loses hers, because she is now a walking repository of knowledge. And western civilization has denigrated and ignored her: so she lives in the house with chicken feet.
My children are now adults but they do not have children yet. I am a practicing grandmother though. I am living alone for the first time in 28 years. I practice on other people’s children. A two year old loves my house: there is a stick dragon in the closet that roars if you press his throat. There are toys that he can’t take home. “That is mine. You may play with it while you are visiting.” I put a towel on the floor and get the espresso set out. I have never made espresso. He sits on the towel and pours water from the coffee pot until the cup overflows, the saucer overflows, the towel is soaked. He looks up at me, holding the coffee pot. “More?” I say. He hands it to me and I fill it with water again. His mother is surprised that he is wet from head to toe when she picks him up. By then the towel is cleared, the coffee set is drying, and he and I share a glance, our secrets safe. Until the next visit.
Finding Words One at a Time
Creative Writing, Book Reviews, Adult Humor Stories
poems, flash fiction and photographs
Tripping the world, slowly
A site for my creative writing endeavors, writing prompt responses, and experimentation.
EXPLORING THE TEENAGE DIASPORA
lest I forget
A photographic journey through the North of England, Scotland and Wales