Jam & Tea

Our Jam & Tea group met a couple days ago after a couple months hiatus. Our skills were rather rusted out ans we sounded out of tune and off-beat. We didn't let our amateurishness stop us, however.We've rededicate ourselves to regular gatherings for jamming and snacking (thus the name of our group: Jam & Tea). Down to four of us again with two violins, a hammer dulcimer and me on the piano, we're ready to go.

I stole a few photos on the new Sony NEX-5Tcamera I got for Christmas, then played around with the editing process. Love the poster-like results. Maybe we'll get famous and I'll have to use them.

Hopefully I'll follow suit with my writing again too. Haven't written a word throughout the holidays and plan to start up again TODAY.

Unblocked. . .

All it took for me to clam up and not be able to write for a few weeks was a friend's comment. A former nun in the same convent, she reacted to my memoirs by asking me why in the world I wanted to go digging around through the dregs of my convent past. Her accusation that I failed to portray events the way they actually happened bothered me most. Instead of defending myself, I shut down and pulled away from her. I felt betrayed and stopped writing.

Later, I wished I had simply told her that my writing is--and can only ever be--my own version of what happened in my nineteen years as a nun. Not one of the nearly two hundred women there had the same experience. Though we were there together and were subjected to the same treatment, we each reacted differently.

My book is my viewpoint--and very much my own truth.

I have to believe in my own self and my own truth. So now I climb upward and onward once again. Even though it sometimes seems I'll never get there, I'm determined to reach the summit.

Day of the Dead

Day of the Dead

I borrowed the image from Wikipedia, and couldn't help making the following comparison. . .

As a nun. . . . I was Bride of Christ.

a skeletal bride

outfitted in bridal regalia,
while dead inside.

Betrothed to an invisible groom

I was sacrificial virgin, 

offered to appease the supreme
Male-in-the-Sky. 

I played the part well. . .
one of the walking dead.

  

Wore a smile full of teeth
 and gazed at the world
through a pair of
empty-socket-ed
eyes. 

She Nose

Not knowing,

yet fully balanced,

she may or may not

Be.

She sits on the edge of his nose.

Who could she 

Be. . .

who sits so

comp . fort . a . blee?

Does she even care,

and

if she does

who is she?

I am Enough

My current petty struggle with my partner is nothing other than the familiar go ‘round I seem to reach with each of my long term commitments: my former husband, my last partner, and my present beloved. It always comes down to my expecting them to fill up the needy places inside me. I expect some One person to love and accept those things about me that even I have trouble liking about me. It brings out my sometimes-feelings-of-not-having-enough from someone. Not enough time for me; not enough understanding; not enough fill in the blank.
 

 At such times, I seek elsewhere for whatever will make up for this lack. A good book, a tasty sweet, a walk along the river, time with my cats, an exchange with a friend, writing, or creating a piece of art. Anything that might temporarily plug up the hole.

Eventually it all gets resolved.

I find what I’m ultimately looking for, but have forgotten. . .

a bit of calm and unexpected self-acceptance.

A new insight.

A sense of fulfillment.

I reclaim my place of knowing it is only I who can find the solution. And I turn back in the direction of happiness. I allow the light. Open to hope.

It’s taken a lifetime worth of effort to learn this. Thanks to those I have loved and who have loved me in return, I have finally come to accept that I must be my own best friend.

Now, finally, I can look in the mirror, smile, and say to those blue eyes looking back at me. . .what a wonder filled being I am.

Gift of Hummingbird

I must be spending too much time "back in the convent", because I've been on the edge of depression the past few weeks. Digging into the past has brought up a few of my shadows. Darkness that I would rather not know about.

So, as I was watering my transplants this gloriously colorful, fall morning, a hummingbird flitted into the direct path of my hose. His little wings were getting wet and I thought he wanted a drink. I stayed as still as possible, not wanting to disturb him. He stayed in midair and then flew off in the bushes again. A second later, he showed up next to the spray from my water hose again. I couldn't have felt more honored, had he been a prince or king. At first, I wondered whether it was a sign that someone close to me had died. Then I realized he had another message for me. Hummingbird represent joy and lightness of being. I checked out a few websites, and liked best what I found here.

Without Stories

I grow increasingly aware of the thoughts traveling through my head. 

Stories about me and my world. 

Neither thoughts nor collection of stories 

are who I really am--no matter how glorious or ugly they may be. 

I am beyond. 

Wanting very much to let go of the whirl and stickiness 

of condemning and overly demanding words. 

For much of my lifetime, I have cultivated being nice and good. 

If I am every able to let go, who would I be?
I imagine feeling lighter. 

Less serious or worried. 

If I were able to reach this blank slate, 

would I finally know freedom?