The alternating rhythm of the crickets summer anthem beat like a metronome against the backdrop of a clear sky with a full moon as its only adornment.
Our woods can hardly contain the cacophonous symphony.
The North star holds us in place and his heart beats with mine as one. Our hands touch and with one look at each other we quietly tuck this memory away for the winter nights that are months away.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
A Writing Refuge
Today the breeze blows gently across the clover where bees light from flower to flower, providing a respite from the summer heat. The garden boxes are full of blooms and produce that await adoration and plucking.
The peace of the farm fills me to the point of tears and threatens to overwhelm me.
At this moment ..... it is just me.
No one needs me.
I am away from the call of household chores and the beckoning whispers from things that are undone.
Their imagined pleadings are cleared with the wind.
The sound of birds twittering in the tall oak just beyond the market and the humming of bees in the lavender to my left thrum along the lay lines of my soul and awaken a passion that has been simmering for far too long.
The farm is alive with work and purpose and serves as a reminder that I must fulfill my own purpose. There is no way to skirt past the life that is drawn here. From the people that come to purchase the food that sustains them and their families, to the existence of the flora and fauna that provide sustenance to bees, birds, butterflies and the unseen life underground.
The place is a comfort to me.
A place that feeds my soul.
Whatever this place is in the grand scheme of it all, to me, it is peace.
The peace of the farm fills me to the point of tears and threatens to overwhelm me.
At this moment ..... it is just me.
No one needs me.
I am away from the call of household chores and the beckoning whispers from things that are undone.
Their imagined pleadings are cleared with the wind.
The sound of birds twittering in the tall oak just beyond the market and the humming of bees in the lavender to my left thrum along the lay lines of my soul and awaken a passion that has been simmering for far too long.
The farm is alive with work and purpose and serves as a reminder that I must fulfill my own purpose. There is no way to skirt past the life that is drawn here. From the people that come to purchase the food that sustains them and their families, to the existence of the flora and fauna that provide sustenance to bees, birds, butterflies and the unseen life underground.
The place is a comfort to me.
A place that feeds my soul.
Whatever this place is in the grand scheme of it all, to me, it is peace.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Creative Power
It's not like I don't have ideas.
I have ideas. Great ideas. But there has been so much to do.
Grandkids.
Pool time.
Boat time.
And.....work. I love work. Love my clients. But it does require about 40 hours a week from me.
But I am on a quest. A quest for inspiration. A quest for time.
So, I checked out all the books the library had on writing. I hope I am not depriving another desperate writing soul on needing these books, but I had to grab them all. Cling to them. And hope for something to creep out of them and into me.
I am enjoying "If You Want To Write" by Brenda Ueland. Written in 1938, her wisdom towers above the language of today and gets down to the nitty gritty.
Chapter I ~ Everybody is Talented, Original and Has Something Important To Say
How's that for inspiration
And a few other Chapter favorites ~
- Sooner Strangle an Infant in Its Cradle Than Nurse Unacted Desires - William Blake
- Why Women Who Do Too Much House-work Should Neglect It for Their Writing
- Keep a Slovenly, Headlong, Impulsive, Honest Diary
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