neverland

Another glimpse into this idea that is forming in my head.

In the movie Finding Neverland, Johnny Depp's character talks about that moment when you are no longer a child. That moment. Do you remember yours? I tapped into mine this weekend. Found it in the morning pages. That moment. When some of my dreams, hopes, ideas seemed to die.
But I have realized, these dreams have just been dormant. My brain was so busy and full of the responsibility of being an adult that my soul could not whisper these hopes loud enough for my brain to hear, to remember. The idea that my dreams retreated; maybe they went to Neverland for a while. The hope inside me is that I can begin to sift through the memories and find these dreams again.

A scene from Finding Neverland...
J.M. Barrie: It seems to me that Peter's trying to grow up too fast. I imagine he thinks that grown-ups don't hurt as deeply as children do when they...when they lose someone. I lost my older brother David when I was just Peter's age, and it nearly destroyed my mother.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: James, I'm so sorry. Your poor mother. I can't imagine losing a child.
J.M. Barrie: She didn't get out of bed for months, she wouldn't eat. I tried everything to make her happy but she only wanted David. So one day I dressed myself in David's clothing and I went to her.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: You must have frightened her to death.
J.M. Barrie: I think it was the first time she ever actually looked at me, and that was the end of the boy James. I used to say to myself he'd gone to Neverland.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: Where?
J.M. Barrie: Neverland. It's a wonderful place...I've not spoken about this before to anyone- ever.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: What's it like, Neverland?
J.M. Barrie: One day I'll take you there.

the seed of an idea is planted

The journey of grief, loss, death becomes a journey of living...more on this in the morning when I am not so tired...until then, words of another; words that resonate within this idea that has been forming inside me.

living eulogy

she danced
she sang
she took
she gave
she served
she created
she dissented
she enlivened
she saw
she grew
she sweated
she changed
she learned
she laughed
she shed her skin
she bled on the pages of her days
she walked through walls
she lived with intention

-mary anne radmacher

This sits in a frame where I can see it while I work. A gift from a dear friend. Write it on your heart. Live it.

honesty {AW}

The morning pages: a place to find the honesty.
This was what I learned this week. Writing stream of consciousness invites a letting down of the guard...a space to let the thoughts float to the surface and live. The fear of feeling is quiet. The truth I would not write about began to bubble and vibrate in the morning pages. The sketchbook I used for the tasks was too nice, too clean, too pretty for the realness of the words I needed to write. I did not want to leave a trace of my true feelings about those who did not support the creative spirit of my childhood. What if they found it? What would they think? I did not want them to feel hurt or sad or angry. But really, would they ever see? No. Still, the fear was there. In the morning though, looking at that plain notebook paper, amongst the "I don't want to do this" and the "I am hungry and my hand hurts," I began to write my truth.

PS

today was day 26...straight days of rain

(i have to admit to a few minutes of sunshine a couple of these day, but by the time we were ready to get outside to the park, the rain began again. a valuable lesson: you see sun, get outside)

an invitation

the lessons
repeated over and over
this time will I learn
to let go
believe that I do not have to fix
everything and everyone
breathe more
talk less
see it for what it is
don't pack the "stuff" of others
into my backpack
my baggage of life
just carry my own stuff
heavy enough
remember the tools I have with me
all the time
the knowledge
I carry within me
in every moment
you have it in you
too
listen
sit quietly and
listen
we will both learn

senses. the day.

smell
My husband's minty breath as he kisses me good-bye and good morning. Flowery, plumeria incense as I write my morning pages, and I am reminded of Maui. Lavender soap, as the suds form in the shower, I smell my skin and think of summer, sun. The woodsy-ness of green tea as I bring the mug to my lips as I work. The damp, odor-full smell of wet dog as she nudges with her head, hoping I will stop working to pet her. Later, the rich, pungency of chocolate as my husband and I share dessert on the couch.

hear
My fingers tap across the keyboard as I work. The weepies harmonize from the tiny speakers attached to my computer. Later, joni mitchell teaches me with her wise words and I attempt to harmonize along. The rattle of newspaper as I turn the pages, searching for words that speak. Scissors open and close, cutting through the paper. The click click pause, click click click pause of the antique typewriter as I write words that have been walking across my brain all day. Throughout it all, the rain falls and falls on the roof. Tink, tink, splat, tink, tink.

see
The glow from the computer screen brightens the room, and in the morning, I spend time with the words of others. For awhile, work related words; I write invitations to change meaning slightly, add a comma here, add definitions, delete redundancy. A break. Then the words of wise, creative, soulful, honest women. I turn the pages of this book and this book and revel in the colors as I learn. I put paint to paper and watch images begin to bleed in the water on the page. Orange becomes red becomes orange becomes yellow. I am inspired by the paintings of this woman.

taste
My new favorite breakfast treat, warm toast with butter and cinnamon sugar. I know I can only eat it until I go back to the store for a smarter start to my day, so I let the sinful taste dance in my mouth, slowly, each bite, slowly. Two mugs of Trader Joe's green tea, each cooling slightly as I work.

touch
The plush, softness of my favorite gray sweatshirt. The rain falls on my head as Millie and I run outside to the backyard for a quick break. She brushes against my leg, soft and wet, in her rush to get back inside. I shuffle my new cards, a gift from a new friend and am grateful for the wisdom I hold in my hands. I feel the smooth surface of each card and think about reaching inside the pictures and touching the knowledge there.

and know
When I pause to look at the day, I find that my heart feels happy. I am walking in my life. I am learning as I walk. I am growing as I learn. I am laughing as I grow. I am singing as I laugh. I am dancing as I sing. I am me as I dance, as I live.

day 24

Dark August

So much rain, so much life the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She's in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all will not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
the black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

-Derek Walcott

twenty-four days of rain here in the puget sound area. straight days of rain. today, my mood reflects the sky. steady grayness. the record for straight days of rain is thirty-three. i will keep you posted.

SPT 1/10

(photo on the left is my mother, circa 1949; photo on right is me, circa 1979)

When I was younger, my relatives and the friends of my parents used to always say, "you look just like your father." I have his eyes, his hair, his coloring. I was quite proud of this. I wanted to be just like him and would sometimes even try to wear his huge size 12 shoes around the house. I identified with him. He was larger than life in my world. In many ways, when I was a child he was my world. When my brother was born, he looked like my mother. It was easy for us to pair off when we did things as a family. Like went with like.

When my parents divorced, the image that I had created of my father was shattered. I didn't want to be like him at all. I was jealous of the relationship my brother had with my mother. I felt alone. I looked like him; I didn't want to be like him.

About six years ago, I came across this picture of my mother and thought it was me. I could see myself in her face, in her cheeks, in her big intake of breath as she smelled the flowers before her. A slight pose for the camera, just like I would have done. A simple photograph reminded me that I am not alone in my family. I am a reflection of my mother too.

I now know I want to be my own person. I want to just look like me. But I cannot let go of the reality that I am like her. There are moments that are difficult and full of misunderstandings and accusations and sadness. Maybe in the future though, we can meet in a place where we take a deep breath, smell the flowers, and see the way that we reflect each other.

see and link to other SPT participants here