…and (even more) rain.
But, hey…such loveliness! Life is good, friends.
Many of you have been celebrating Samhain/All Hallows Eve in your Northern climes, so I wish you a belated happy Halloween/Samhain, m’lovelies!
And to my fellow Southerners, I wish you a merry Beltane for yesterdee.
Here at Rapunzel’s we observed a Beltane strung with Halloween-ish fancies. For my Moon-girl wished to watch spooky films and eat spider cookies. I picked lilacs, and sweet woodruff, and bunches of Iris with laughing, bird faces. And there was dancing, and other things besides.
And a New Moon, dark, soft, but insistent in Scorpio. And she’s been slow-dancing, cheek-to-cheek with Mercury – jiving with my own native Mercury in Scorp. In fact, it’s been a brilliant few days for writing. So much so that I overdid things somewhat, and ended up in bed with a blistering headache.
Even after all these years, I’m still learning lessons with pacing myself.* But when there’s so much to get out and onto the page…and quickly! Before it disappears again, across the veil and into that Otherworld. Before it all dances away and appears in someone else’s dreams; because these stories compel us to write them. And they will bump up against who they choose, seeking us out with their tiny, unfurling tendrils; testing us, until they can latch on to a compliant host.
It’s not that these stories are fickle, it’s just that like all creatures, they’re driven to breathe (fire) and flourish. And when they’re newborn, they require so much of us, compelling us to love them, and pay attention to them so that they may thrive.
Storytellers. Mothers of dragons.
I find that there’s so much that remains unsaid here. I do feel that I’m fairly open in this space, and yet…I don’t write about a lot of my life. I don’t write about my work, I don’t really write about my family, or much beyond the boundaries of this cottage. I tend to frame things carefully here.
My garden and the natural world say more than I can here.
These are just tales of a quiet, mostly happy life – a record for me that jogs memories, and the memories of feelings and days from out of their dusty corners. Years after the trace of them is gone. I do realise that a quiet, happy life,** whilst not in the least bit dull in the living to me, can be dull for readers.
I could attempt to offer “useful”, magazine-style posts. But to be brutally honest, I’m not interested in doing that, because my time and energy is mostly elsewhere. And I’m wary of feeding that hunger for the “10 ways to wake up in the morning”, “5 ways to be happier”, or “how to be a rainbow unicorn in 3 easy steps”.
Apologies for the snark. But I find that stuff irritating, soul-sapping, and even confusing. If I ever read these types of posts I come away with more questions than answers, and with a vague sense of discontent. Because, too shiny…something’s amiss. And whenever I visit bloglovin, I’m bombarded with the stuff.
I admire those confessional writers who get really personal -the shamanic writers who dive deep into the well of their feelings, and who heal others through their experiences. But I’m not that writer.
Here, I engage the “I”, but that’s an anomaly. In academic writing there’s no such thing. And in my other world of fiction, it’s most definitely the 3rd person. She, he, they. The shapeshifter’s skins. They reveal more of my heart than I can.
Here, I skitter across the surface out of a deeper necessity. Because the more I know of myself, the more I know that it’s through fiction and character – my endless, life-long fascination with character and worlds other than my own – that I most seek to understand and make sense of emotion and experience; and not just my own.
It’s through character that I’m driven to explore worlds beyond the familiar, and to integrate both the known and the imagined. Alone, in that moste private of worlds. That’s where I invest myself the most, it’s where I pour my energy; until I have little left to offer, other than the overflow.
But…I’d rather write, than write about writing. Because there’s a thing that needs no explanation.
Having said all of the above, I am still (truly) amazed that anyone visits me here at all. I’ve often considered making this a private blog simply because it’s “the blog where nothing happens”. And perhaps like paint drying, this space should only be watched by the one trying to create a collage of her days.
Last year, this space served me well as quiet space of healing, but I’m careful now to make it clear that this isn’t a genteel gardener’s blog. To be very blunt indeed, I don’t actually seek that readership. Because at some point, there will be a disconnect. And I don’t go out of my way to shock or alienate more conservative souls. But I often see it coming, and I can’t change that without trying to change me.
So I regularly clarify things, my pretties: Dark Side Of The Broom. Consider that title, if you please. For yes, here there be sweetness and light, but it also contains nuts, and dragons, and rattlin’ bones. There’s a mad witch, and cat-claws, and moonlight, and shadows.
It strikes me often, how immensely grateful I am for the connections here, because I have made true friends on’t the interwebs. And so I leave this door open. For now. May it continue to one of my meeting points for kindred spirits, at the crossroads at midnight.
This week, (or what’s left of it), is shaping up to be beyond busy. I have a pile of work that needs to be done. Also, I was given an extraordinary gift by a group of dear ones, (I’m still a little taken aback), and this week I shall be enjoying that gift.
So I had best get on. But first, I need to plant out some pumpkin plants in my pumpkin patch. I gave up trying to grow pumpkins from seed and outsourced them, (even the nursery up the road gave up because of the birds, and ended up getting them in from elsewhere). But I must have pumpkins! And lately the Instagrin has been awash with pumpkin porn, making me all the more covetous.
This time though, I have plants that are large and hairy of leaf, which should deter the parrots. For we live amongst ravenous creatures, with rakish charms. And there is no help for that.
I’m not even speaking of Merlin. We have a new nickname for him, but it’s unrepeatable.
Cheerio for now, luvs. Warmest wishes for your week. xx
ps – I actually got around to writing a digital letter these past few days. It was written on impulse, and sent out on a whim.
*ADHD never really “goes away”, and it’s a myth that one grows out of these things. But it’s also one of my superpowers, because heightened sensory experience, enthusiasm, and excitement for life. My boredom threshold is higher than virtually anyone’s, besides a toddler.
**generally speaking, very happy. My 40’s, (unlike so much of my 30’s), is a place where I’m content to dwell. There’s a pile of goodness, for which I’m immensely grateful, these days. Particularly the people in my life. This is not to say that I don’t have regular bouts of INFJ-type existential wibbles, (I feel another one coming on after lunch). That just comes with the territory. I don’t even mind that any more – it’s just a sign that my questing impulse is still intact beneath all my layers of middle-aged comfort.