I've been writing

I decided to stop blogging for a bit so I could write a longer story.

So far it's over 20 pages long.
When it's done I hope to share it.
Either that or go back to blogging.

The story is a fantasy about meeting Gaugin
and apprenticing with him.
Not as a painter, but as a writer!
Yes, Gaugin was a writer too.

It is also a woven tapestry of shamanic journeying and synesthesia.

I love it.
Every piece of writing is a nest.
I needed a bigger one.


And then I procrastinate...

Why would I want to be finished with this love?

~~~~~~~

In the meantime, every so often I will post some links to free recordings for a website that I have really enjoyed throughout the past few years. I've signed up for several different website programs throughout the years, but...

I decided to promote the programs offered by Kim Wilborn as an affiliate because I trust her integrity, her lightheartedness, and how accessible and affordable she makes the content. My favorites so far are The Spiritual Path of Tarot, and A Year With The Goddess.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will get a percentage of anything you decide to order if you go through the link I provide. It's up to you to do what works best for you!

If you would like personal guidance on any of the offerings please contact me at - Innerworkstudio@yahoo.com

Love yourself and enjoy this incredibly short journey we call Life!

short translation

[echoing bird]

brrrr-eet, brrrr-eet, brrrr-eet
phewit, phewit, phewit
cheep, cheeeeeep
arrrat, arrrat, arrrat

beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
peace, peace, peace
here, hear
a heart, a heart, a heart


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On my Medicine Walk the mountain is filled with the ecstasy of bird song. The sky is covered with smoky clouds in varying shades - white to silver to pewter to slate to charcoal. The ground is still moist from Saturday's rain. Tiny yellow wild flowers on thin sage green stalks line the trail and even the cactus blooms.

One bird sings as I walk - first above me, then behind, then ahead up in front. Above, behind, ahead -repeatedly - till finally I listen.

Then he flies below and away, down the south face of the canyon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ancient brain knows a predator lurks when the birds are quiet. This is how I know my heart is safe - the birds are singing.

Writer 2

When you decide that this writing life is for you, you are stalked by Doubt. Now imagine Doubt as a character - a boogey man, a gangster, a pessimistic critic. Doubt is strong, powerful, and undoubtedly famous. Or think of Doubt as fear appearing like a hideous demon with fangs like a shark and carrying a megaphone. To top it off, Doubt knows more than you. In fact, Doubt knows you better than you know it.

And yet you persist.

You don't know why you persist - maybe it's because your friends and family are kind enough to encourage you. Even though deep inside you know Doubt knows best. And yet, you refuse to follow his/her advice. That in itself makes you feel kinda stupid.

And yet, you persist some more.

Something about writing sparks you. You wake up, and before you go pee, you want to write. You need to get to work, but you write a few sentences, promising, like you do your cat, you will be back soon. When it's time to make dinner, you decide to write first. You don't follow your to-do list as closely as Doubt assures you you should. And now you feel guilty.

So you stop persisting.

Doubt has won the day. Except that one day, you sneak a piece of writing on a post-it note. Actually, several post-it notes. Maybe a poem strings out of you like cheap plastic beads, some of which you suspect could be pearls.  The start of a story spins itself out, albeit with no pay off ending for the reader. Fragments of a memoir spurt forth but you can barely stand it because of the grief. The Grief. So, you cry. Memories you didn't know you had over whelm you. Then periods of being stuck without a single word leave you feeling like a zombie. Doubt scoops you up like a clump of cat-litter. "Shame on you, wasting time like that."

But...surprise...Persistence doesn't leave you.

Persistence leverages Doubt. And so you gather the courage to face this mortal enemy. But Doubt is tricky. It shape shifts from boogey man to gangster to critic disguised as friend, teacher, wise guide. This has to be the worst thing imaginable. Until your writer grows up and notices you're not that important. The boogey man is not real. The gangster's got snitches to deal with. The critic has bigger fish on his radar. And you relax. Your problems are over...ah, not so fast.

Persistance slacks off.

You start to play around with the craft. You become distracted with practicing. You become enamored with the beauty of it all. That poem was a masterpiece. If you never write another poem, it's ok. Creating dialogue for the fun of it? It's like snatches of conversations overheard. You are happy to just eavesdrop. Memories are more colorful than words - forget the memoir. Who will read it anyway?

Doubt is back.

That sneaky sonoffabitch.

Writer

There’s really nothing I can say that will convince anyone that I am a writer. To most people, it means you must be an author. Have published a book, or articles in magazines. The word author is often coupled with words like prolific, original, masterful. But the era of electronics has changed this. Anyone can write and go public. I blog, therefore I am. A writer.

Before blogging I wrote journals. I have most of them stuffed in the window seat storage space of my bedroom. I rarely go back and re-read them. It’s all in the past and no longer who I am. I started writing them when I was 14. My journals are full of rants, and self-pity. I was a writer then because I needed to befriend myself. The journal is a mirror for that part of me that needs to be assured she can live to deal with another day. When life is shitty and incomprehensible, forget shopping. I journal.

Today, why am I a writer? And particularly, why have a chosen to write by way of a blog? I sure as hell have no intention of teaching anyone or sharing information. It’s simply fun. I blog whatever comes to me. It’s all different. There’s no specific focus or intent. I have no timelines, no agenda, no editor giving me guidelines to follow. I blog to be visible to myself. To have a party with all the voices that speak to me. Journals kept in dark musty storage spaces keep me hidden, introverted.

When I write I learn self-respect and self-acceptance. It’s a way of caring for the parts of me that have been neglected. It’s showing me the way to self approval and self love. I go beyond the social world of interactions and exchanges and find a vast landscape of living things with which to commune. And these living things love me back because I pay attention to them. 

These living things - starless days, a slithering snail, a wind whipped tree shivering in the dark. Half-rotten fruit, smokey songs, a cheeky squirrel, the symbolic slap-in-face, the 89 yr old man who hoards, baby thighs. Chia seeds, coconut caramels, cat food, the heat of the crock pot, an ice cube scented with peaty scotch. The runny nose, linen sheets, carpool lanes, marble steps, wet mulch, salty water, Bob Dylan’s harmonica. Aaaah. There’s more. And more. There’s always more. More love than any heart can handle. 

Through writing I’ve learned the writer’s secret answer - I write so as to never have a reason to be hateful. If my writing hurts, I question it. It may not be writing. It may not have joyfully lived, sung, or dreamed. I throw it away. Write something real. Something someone can relate to. Or not. I just checked my trash. It's empty.

Writing can be a sword. But only those needing to be cut and healed will feel it. Writing can bring forth tears. But only those who have not crossed the sea of sadness can be ruptured by grief. Writing gifts the lonely with solitude, the harried with something worth doing, the worrier with song. Be a writer and forget why.

The Intentional Bully

Marcus’s pale blue eyes wander around his room. The unmade bed, heaps of rumpled clothing, the faint sour odor of a day-old half-empty glass of milk. His body shakes with a start when he hears the click of his door closing. 

“Who is there?” the question pops out unbidden and he knows it won’t be answered. His shoulders slope towards the floor when he exhales. 

His habit to stop at the door, and visually sweep the room has been going on for as long as he can remember. Well, ever since that day in kindergarten when an unwelcome intruder snuck in his closet and waited for him in ambush.There had been nothing different about that day, nothing to warn Marcus of what was to happen. 

He spent the day as most kindergarteners do - playing school. He practices cutting evenly around the edges of images and measuring glue - learning what’s too much, what’s not enough. Too little and the edges lift off the page tempting wayward fingers to snatch them off. Too much and white blobs ooze out extending past the edges of the E for Elephant or W for Wolf. Or, W for Willy.

“Hey, Willy, Willy, here’s a W for Willy, Willy, Wart-face,” he tosses the W across the table.

Willy’s nose and hands are plagued with warts, although not warts of the treatable kind. His are permanent and threaten to grow as he grows. Marcus makes fun of Willy and Willy has no recourse but to strike back. Marcus, though not completely oblivious to the pain he causes, prefers to relish the energy ratcheting up his spine, vertebra by vertebra,  and puffing his chest like a cobra. 

“Give me your sandwich!” Willy spits the words into his face.

Instead of complying, Marcus, stuffs the rest of his PB&J into his mouth.

“Willy, take your sit, please!” Mrs. Habberstock stands with hands on hips.

Marcus barely suppresses a smirk as Willy clenches his fists and sidles away.

“What does a kindergartner know of sticks and stones and names that can never hurt you?” his mother whines to the principal. 

“Markie, will you please apologize to Willy tomorrow?” his mother’s unkempt eyebrows contort into wavy lines. “And, please, promise Mr. Abercrombie you won’t do it again?” 

It should have been a command or at least a strong request, but Mrs. Nielsen was coming in to the principal’s office against her nature. She wore a threadbare brown sweater over a beige dress, her thin tresses pulled into a bun with an almost imperceptible net protecting the small wisps of pale hair. Crusty pieces of eggy flour stuck to the frontispiece of the apron covering her shallow chest.

Mr. Abercrombie fastens his lips in a flat line and clasps them there as if with little metallic snaps. His eyes, dulled with boredom, look past her eyes and fixate on her bun.

“Mr. A, I promise not to do it again,” Marcus wiggles on the chair, double crossed fingers tucked away under his scrawny thighs. 

Mr. Abercrombie unsnaps his lips. Words escape from the aphotic horizontal oval of his opened mouth. Marcus isn’t listening. Rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, he unerringly  knows when to respond to satisfy the adults. 

“Yes, Mr. A. I will Mr. A. Sorry Mr. A.”

“Thank you for coming in Mrs. Nielsen and when can we expect a check from your husband? Your tuition is past due.” A trickle of saliva escapes from the right side of his flattened lips and he wipes it quickly with the back of his hand.

“I’m sure he meant to send it…I, I, believe it’s in the mail,” she twists the frayed strap of her faux leather clutch and grabbing Marcus by the sleeve of his t-shirt scurries out the office door.

A faded metallic bronze Nova with musty houndstooth interior awaits them. Once inside, Marcus opens the window and readies his hand out the window to ride the air current. Up and down, up and down, he waves, a wingless bird.

“Whoo hoo, I can fly!” 

Mrs. Nielsen hunches over the wheel, muttering more to herself than to Marcus. His mind rides the nervous sound of her whines and moans the way his hand rides the pressure of air. His voice drowns it out with many ‘whoo hoo’s’. 

“I can fly, I can fly, I can fly.”

Mrs. Nielsen pulls into the ashy-grey asphalt driveway, maneuvering left and right to avoid potholes. Then enter the house through the side door where a vine, a wisteria or bougainvillea, withers.

Whenever he walks in the house Marcus wishes for a sibling. A baby brother would be best. Willy has a baby brother, and two older brothers as well. Marcus watches how they come to the door at daycare to walk him home. Willy walks between them, their arms around his shoulders. Marcus and his mother drive by them, his hand flying out the window as they pass the threesome. Then he screams for a candy bar and mother always complies. He begins to realize a brother will never materialize. 

On this day, though, he didn’t see them. And he forgets the candy bar. At the doorway, he drops his back back on the kitchen floor.

“Markie, will you please take the back pack to your room?” her voice rises with a whine at the end as she rubs the knee that broke her fall.

“After you make me a PB&J. Make it two. No, make it three. I’m starving and you forgot to get me a candy bar.” Leaving the back pack he saunters to his room. 

Kicking his shoes off into the air, one hits the ceiling, the other ricochets off the dresser. 

“Willy, Willy, wart-face. Willy, Willy, wart-face”, he sing-songs to himself. 

“Here’s your sandwiches, Markie.” Mrs. Nielsen sets a tall stack of PB&J triangles with trimmed crusts on top of his dresser and picks up his shoes.

“Get out! And close the door.” 

Mrs. Nielsen drops the shoes alarmed by the harsh tone of his voice and scuttles out. He sounds like his father.

“A mouse in a woman’s body”, his father always jeers. 

The door gently clicks closed. Marcus gets up and opens it.

“And stay out,” punctuating the words with a slam. Click goes the door. Click goes the lock.

Then a click again. This from the closet door, and turning around Marcus faces the sound. Standing in front of him, are Willy and his two older brothers. For a moment he feels like an infant again.

“Mommy,” the word falters and he lets out a whimper. 

The Tuppence boys signal to each other with a look. All three grab a hand full of PB&J triangles and shove them into Marcus’s mouth.

“Like how we stuff your face Markie?”

Marcus thrashes about making enough racket to alert his mother who, unable to open the door, wrings her hands.

“Markie, Markie, what’s going on? Markie, will you please open the door?”

Willy and his brothers lick the peanut butter and jelly off their fingers while Markie, on all fours, gags. 

“Apologize to Willy, Markie,” one brother hisses.

Mrs. Nielsen hearing voices goes to the kitchen and puts together a tray of assorted cookies, completing the ensemble with glasses of milk.

“Markie? Will you and your friend like some cookies and milk?” pressing an ear to the door. “Markie?”

Marcus opens the door with a sticky hand. Peanut butter and jelly lodged in his nostrils and front of his shirt. 

“Markie, that’s really creative.” She’s heard other mothers say this to their toddlers at the park. 

“Let’s see what you can do with cookies and milk, shall we?”

Marcus is speechless as she presses the tray into his belly. He grabs it reflexively to keep it from falling. With a yank, he is pulled back into the room. The door slams and door clicks, and the lock clicks.

“Whadda ya say Markie? Let’s see what you can do with cookies and milk.” The eldest Tuppence grabs the glasses and pours milk over Marcus’s head. 

“Stop. Stop. Ok, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tears trickle down Marcus’s face finding a path along with the milk, between blobs of peanut butter and jelly. The Tuppence boys wince. 

“Nothing like a bully acting like a baby. Let’s get outta here.” The three boys head for the window, the eldest going first, Willy last. 

Willy looks back at Marcus who looks like a suet feeder. 

“Let’s not fight anymore Marcus.”

“I’m sorry Willy, I’m really sorry. I want to be friends.”

Willy grins a big toothy smile and takes a bite of a cookie. He waves his hand in the air -  up and down, up and down. Then he is gone.

Mrs. Nielsen stands at her kitchen window. Little green buds are unexpectedly mounding on the bare branches of the vine. She hears the bath water running, then slips quietly down the hall and listens. Her son is talking to himself. 

“I want to be your friend, Willy. I want to be your friend.”

She closes her eyes, clasps her hands, bows her head. 

“Good job, boys.”

Leo Full Moon

The Full Moon in Leo overpowered me!

I had planned on doing a specific ceremony to transform some old energy and clear the way fully for the new, and then I decided not to because of how I was feeling... very restless and unsettled.

So, I just allowed the energy of Leo/Sekhmet to infuse me…I surrendered to it.

I journeyed with Sekhmet and felt Her branding the Ankh across my heart chakra. And she gave me her Scepter to hold. I felt fine at the time and I even spontaneously danced the energy in celebration. 

But later I felt sort of mauled - worked over - by the Lion energy...It felt hot and intense. Burning. 

So unlike the cool, soothing, Lunar energy I am accustomed to. 

It is difficult to integrate. I feel a sort of fury…a hunger…the hot breath of Sekhmet...a throat full of power...

Now that I have written this I am aware of how I don’t make as much room for Leo to express in my life. It’s uncomfortable for me to feel that kind of primal power…it’s uncomfortable for me to stand up in public for what I feel is right…I don’t take responsibility for my own leadership qualities…I am afraid to stand out and be at odds with others…I want to fit in so I feel safe.

But seeking safety at the expense of being who I am is to become prey...

This blog is my roar.

Regal Essence

Long mane,

Power-full roar, 

Surrendering - 

The purr softens the fear,

Of transformation -

Into pure being.

Welcoming the Wild Child

I'm writing of the Wild Child. *

Whether we are aware of it or not, we all have a Wild Child inside of us. It's the Child we were told must not interrupt adults, or get too dirty, or scream when angry and hurt. It's the Child that had to share when she didn't want to, or stop playing much too soon, or say please and thank you without understanding why. It's the Child that had to hurry past that interesting glob on the sidewalk, and was told not to stare at people or talk to strangers.

I'm not going to say these 'because-I-said-so' messages we learned where wrong or useless, I taught my children these very lessons. But the inescapable rules of society and civilized living have an effect beyond that which is intended. The Wild Child we were when we were born soon after becomes an outcast, an orphan, a wandering homeless shadow in the landscape of the Soul.

There are many books, articles, and blogs one can google to find much more on this subject. But I want to share how I found my Wild Child and why it was so vital that I bring her home to me.

It happened through a dream that led to another dream.

~~~I am in a large, beautiful Spanish villa. There are balconies and verandas full of bright potted flowers, and courtyards green with lush foliage. A Wild Child comes to me and wants to live in my villa. 

"No," I say, and although she is beautiful, I am not sure I like her. She is too wild. She is too much for me.

"Let me make a call and find you a home." Someone else is sure to want to foster her.

But this decision on my part is not what she wants and she disappears into my unconscious sleep.~~~

In the morning I woke up feeling upset and puzzled by my dream ego's reaction. Why, if I have such a large villa, would I not at least offer this orphan a room. Calling a placement agency is not something I would ever want to do.

I shared my dream with my dream circle who followed the protocol designed by Robert Moss, and I came up with an action plan - I would re-enter the dream and see if I could offer my Wild Child a place to live.

That night before bed, I went back into my dream. It was she found me easily, and we roamed the many rooms, courtyards and hidden alcoves of the villa with her leading the way. Wild Child and I bonded quickly and enjoyed each others' company immensely. And, surprise! That night I feel asleep without the usual worry for the burdensome cares of the world.

Then I dreamt this ~~~

It is evening and I am going to my mother's house. It is a much smaller version of my dream villa. I am upset with my mother for having neglected me and I tell her so three times. But she does not understand my feelings. I leave her and feel frustrated. I wake up with my Wild Child energy saying to my mother, "You have always abandoned and neglected me." ~~~

This feeling is my truth. It is the root of my Wild Child's banishment. But I no longer feel victimized by my mother's unconscious behaviors. She did and does her best to love me in a land that is foreign to her and not her true home. I have done a lot of healing work around this tender wound and know that although the rejection of my Wild Child started as a young girl, I do not have to hold my Wild Child at arms' length, or worse yet, banish her existence out of my waking consciousness, just because of cultural norms and mores. That repetitive, deadening pattern of rejection stops here.

The Wild Child comes bearing gifts of freedom of expression through mind, body and soul. She is holy, and wholly the essence of who I am, and who you are. She is as Wild as the animals that roam the Earth and that we take so much for granted. The Wild Child is the key to remembering what is essential to living with magic and grace. Wildness is a treasure we can't afford to lose. When Wildness is lost, our freedom disappears, and worry consumes our living hearts.

My teacher Bruce Gelfand says "Intending Creates - Creating Intends." In my villa there are many rooms and safe places. I invite the lost and orphaned Wild Childs to join me in joyful acts of artistic imagination and playful creativity. And my little mother, clutching her new coloring book and brightly hued pencils, is also welcomed.

*Note: the Wild Child archetype is not the same a feral child who is willfully abused and subjected to inhumane treatment. Also, if you look for google images of Wild Child, you will get a bunch of pictures of half-naked teenagers attempting to model sexiness. This is also is not the Wild Child...

Dear Soul-Lights,

As this season comes to an end, I'm thankful for the time of darkness and look forward to the beginning of a new cycle as December Solstice approaches. From Samhain on the Feminine has gone on an inward quest, a Lunar quest, where She gestated the Inner Light and spiraled inward. By the early morning hours of Tuesday in our Northern Hemisphere, She will symbolically rebirth the Light once again, as She does every year, and the cycle will begin anew. 

I've been working with my own Lunar consciousness - Moon cycles, dreams, shadow, body symbology, Tarot, my Soul's creative expression through writing. And I've worked with two Goddesses - Sulis and Freya - very different energies which I feel created a vital balance.

From Sulis, the Goddess of Healing Springs, I learned to honor my feelings in a deeper way by sensing more how they flow through my body. My body informs my feelings, and my feelings inform my body. When I listen, I am whole. 

From Freya, the Norse Goddess of Love and War, I've learned to acknowledge how these two opposing forces play out in my inner life. They both take skill...and wisdom to know what's required and when...for now. 

I will continue to honor my Lunar consciousness, of course, but I look forward to how it will shift and integrate with the soft winter radiance of Sol. I intend to quest for the Feminine Solar energy as well as the Masculine in ways that are supportive and sustainable for all of Life. I believe the culture of patriarchal ways of being in the world are coming to an end...at the very least within my own psyche. All relationships and experiences that I am involved with will reflect this and I will endeavor to express this truth in hopes of nurturing a transformative process within and without. 

I give thanks to all of you who read my 'chicken scratch'. I say that with affection, as I often feel like a broody hen when I sit down to write. I make a little nest for myself and Emily, my cat usually joins me, which makes it difficult to find a place for the computer as they both want my lap. 

This blog is not about passing on more info, or promoting something, or sharing what someone else has written. It's about participating the act of creation. I see us all creating wholeness and moving together in synch with the most loving intentions. 

Con mucho Amor!

draws from the well

Freya's Necklace

Everyday I go on a Medicine Walk. I call it that because I usually walk alone and use the time to practice walking meditation, or listen to talks regarding things of a spiritual nature. During my walks something seemingly inconsequential, but extraordinary nevertheless, usually happens and today was no exception.

I walked listening to a talk regarding the Goddess Freya. I was surprised to learn of this story regarding the Norse Goddess of Love and War about a gold and amber necklace she considered her most beautiful possession. This necklace was a piece made by four dwarves that she paid for by granting each a day and night solely in her company. To acquire it Freya had to leave Valhalla and travel to Earth, her childhood home, across the Rainbow Bridge that spans the two realms. The acquisition speaks of a return to her origins and the reclamation of the source of Freya's power and magic. For this reason the necklace was later stolen by one of the other god's of the Norse pantheon and Freya had to go to war to retrieve it.

As I listened to the speaker recount how she had re-enacted this story in Sacred Drama and Ceremony, I suddenly recalled a necklace that I just recently put away because it had become a poignant reminder of loss. My necklace is not amber, but it is made of chestnut and amber colored stones. The speaker described how she had participants take apart a necklace that no longer served to remind them of love, and then reassemble the necklace in a way that symbolized their coming through an experience transformed. 

As I continued to walk deep in thought, I tried to imagine taking apart my necklace and redesigning it but, in my imagination, it refused to come apart. It was precisely at that moment that the ordinary became the extraordinary.

In my mind's eye, Freya appeared and surprised me by saying, "You earned the necklace, dear one, and paid the price. Now look to the sky for the symbol of transformation you seek."

In the twilight, the last light of the setting sun still brightened the mountains. On this cool and breezy autumn day a Hawk drifted across the sky tilting it's body one way then another. The movement showed first the amber colored underbelly, then, as it tilted the other way, it's sepia wings shone like burnished gold. The Hawk's tail blazed red like a flame fanned by a sudden gust of wind. 

I stopped walking awed by the beauty of this messenger and gazed through moist eyes as the Hawk slipped further away towards the mountains. In that instant I felt transformed. The thought of the necklace no longer evoked a sense of loss but of appreciation for the hours of dedication I had given in service through embodying the teachings of the Sacred Feminine. The Hawk, one of my Medicine Animals, reminds me that I am not alone as I continue forth along the Spiral Path reclaiming the freedom to fully own the power of the inner wisdom that is my birthright. 

It is said that Freya is a Goddess who loves to come unbidden. I thank Her for gracing me me today with the magic of love and healing.

Old Woman Solstice

(This is a true story…I do not dream nor fable…)

Deep in the most ancient of forests, during the frosty Yule Moon, a stone cottage with white edged ivy curling around the windows and surrounded by a hedge of holly, was home to Old Woman Solstice. On this longest winter night she sat rocking patiently by her fire of oak and apple wood. The tall figure of a visitor, young and proud, stood facing her.

“You live a dangerous life alone, Madam,” said the Undertaker. “If you die, who will know to put you on a barge and take you to the river so you can float away in peace? Who will know what you taught, and what to do with all your herbs and potions?”

“Do not worry, Undertaker,” Old Woman Solstice replied. “I am well accompanied by my Heather Besom, my familiars Owl and Wolf, and my Spells. It’s all I need when Old Man Death comes for me. The herbs and potions will return to the Earth from whence they came and wait for someone else to rediscover them.”

She continued pensively, “And don’t forget, I have completed my Book of Shadows.”

“Ah, yes, and where is it hidden?” the Undertaker rubbed his long thin hands, dark veins pulsing with anticipation.

“Why would I divulge that information to you?” Old Woman Solstice  replied.

“Because, when your time comes, I need to know what Shadows will receive you, my dear.”

Old Woman Solstice rocked long, lost in thought. Outside the sound of leafless branches scratched against the windows of her stone cottage and snagged the new tender tendrils of ivy towards their naked wood as if to clothe themselves. The fire crackled and the chimney sipped the apple scented smoky wisps.

Startling the Undertaker with a sharp snap of her fingers and a whisper of words he did not understand, her Book of Shadows suddenly materialized. 

“This is all it takes for me to summon my Book, Undertaker. When my time comes it will be here waiting for you.”

The Undertaker looked longingly at the Book. It’s cover was black with gold lettering and decorated with the starry constellations of winter. The Book of Shadows held the key to the Old Woman’s soul. With the Book in his possession he could decree the time and place of her death. He wanted to banish Old Woman Solstice and her power over the Cycles of Earth and Sun, so that the end of all life would be solely at his command. 

Old Woman Solstice placed the Book on her lap and gently smoothed it’s cover as if to comfort and reassure it. The wrinkles on her hands resembled the patterns on it’s surface. She regarded the Undertaker tentatively, and knowing should she die without an successor the disaster that would befall the world where the Undertaker to take control, struck a bargain.

“By tomorrow night, find the River where I will rest in the greatest peace, procure a vial of the water, and the Book will be yours.”

The Undertaker agreed, knowing that just within a 1/2 day’s ride the most peaceable river ran along the southern edge of the forest. He took off his hat and with feigned courtesy bowed to the Old Woman. 

“Agreed. Until the morrow’s eve then.” He left by the back door and stole stealthily through the forest, his beak of a nose resembling an enormous black crow leading the way.

Old Woman Solstice did not sleep that night. She rocked and rocked and whispered lengthy incantations well past the late dawn of winter and into the middle of the day. 

The Undertaker arrived at the River as the Sun reached it’s zenith, penetrating the water to it’s very depth. Such a brilliant Light in winter the Undertaker had never seen. It’s rays gleamed as sharp as the golden blades of the warriors of old. The beams of Light struck the water with a hissing sound making the surface of the river bubble. 

The Undertaker furrowed his dark brow when he saw the river’s normally placid waters start to blister with heat. He reached for his pocket and brought out a vial. But as he went to dip it into the water, the River boiled and steamed with more fervor, so that even tongues of fire leapt crimson and amber from it’s surface. 

The Undertaker growled but the River continued to roil and churn, and with a sudden lurch, spit mounds of fish, cooked through and through, on to it’s shores. One particularly massive fish knocked out the Undertaker so that he fell dead at the foot of the gnarled trunk of a twisting Evergreen. A thundering shower of pine cones pounded down on the grimly crumpled body of the Undertaker thouroughly preventing any Light from entering. The many fish that sacrificed their lives that day decomposed and became a rich layer of fertilizer from whose scent the Undertaker recoiled. His soul had no way to go but through the deepest roots and buried layers of rocks and relics to find a dwelling place. 

Old Woman Solstice got up slowly and with much effort from her rocker. The pain in her bones cut deep to the marrow. She had kept the Cycle of Life safe for another year. But she was not long for this world. Old Man Death would soon come knocking and succeed where the Undertaker had failed. She needed to find another to take her place, secluded from the world, yet forever upholding it’s natural order.

Walking between tear drops

Decision time .  

The group had grown too, too confining . It felt to her like they were going around and around and around in circles . Their words floated out of their pursed lips like smoke rings . Unimaginative halos of niceties . When things started to get more sharply intimate and real, hazy psychological walls of words would come up . smoke . wisps .  

A little psychology is not a good thing . It made one think they know something . superiority . pedigree . control . Made them experts at hiding behind psycho babble . made it seem noble . appropriate .

Boundaries misused keep other’s at arms length . withhold comfort from the lonely . distance . 

Like avoid triangulation . To her it sounded like strangulation, which is exactly how she was feeling . crushed . squashed . Holding back what she really wanted to express .  

These things she noticed and kept quiet . colluding . compliant .

She had to make a choice .  Forfeit familiarity for the unknown . imitation friendships foster disenchantment . it made her wild with sorrow . sad . solemn . 

It dismayed her to realize she was not complacent . That instead she wanted to speak words of truth that would strike like lightning . That she wanted swords to clash . Blades of words to cut through the fluffy folly of their rules of conduct . etiquette . protocol . 

Let's cut the crap . Live instead on feral dreams and untamed stars where the savage night is on fire ! 

Not here . Not with this group . 

All this fire inside me, she thought . I didn’t think I knew fire . But here it is . hot . blazing .

The fire wasn’t the problem though . She needed the fire for the conflagration of words . forge . combust . She needed her single flame to burn her way through the cooped up feeling . circles . circles .

She’d faced the trial by fire . jumped through rings of smoke . 

Now she needed to walk between tear drops . rain . 

The view from here

Whoa! Ok! After meeting with Mister Bates, I've come to realize this interaction with the muse is not only fraught with pitfalls, but with heights that demand a great deal of competence as well.

The pitfalls are plenty. And equally part muse-induced and writer-induced. However, with regular and consistent practice such things as distractibility and mental fatigue can be eradicated. Writing employs the muscularity of the imagination, replicating the guidelines for a full body workout is sure to do for the imagination what the workout does for the body. Enlist the expertise of a competent coach, recruit a few equally enthusiastic buddies, eat lots of protein, and the writer has a winning formula. No need for a contract. Or so Mister Bates counseled.

Just do remember the part about resting in between.

I remain unconvinced. To reach the dizzying heights of literature, is more than a great sweaty workout, it's like attempting to climb Mt. Everest. Maybe I should aim for Mt. Whitney? Or, hey, Mt. Lukens or Mt. Wilson will do. Just writing this sentence makes me realize how much more realistic it is for me to literally attempt these climbs than to write beyond my current level of competence.

This is were my thoughts had stalled when the muse idea had slipped in. The writer-me was in need of an expert on inspiration.

I hadn't previously given much thought to establishing a connection with any particular muse because I didn't think I needed to. Muses are ancient, I reasoned, what can they possibly offer the modern writer? And, besides, there's at least nine to choose from. Additionally, a perfunctory reading of the functions over which they preside leaves one puzzled.

There is, for instance, one for each of the following: epic poetry, lyric poetry, love poetry, comedy/pastoral poetry, sacred poetry. There's a muse for history, tragedy, and astronomy. I would include their names but they are for the most part difficult to spell and pronounce, and eats up time with spell check. These nine muses were probably born to Zeus and Memory (English translation of Greek name), so unless the muses made love and bore children, which I understand is often the case, the original nine are unlikely to of any use to me.

It has become obvious, however, that one has little choice in the matter. If one just thinks 'muse' long enough, one is likely to get mused. Arbitrarily. Like winning a game of Bingo.

I do have one thing in my favor though. Considering the fact that muses live forever, and therefore do not have to propagate as often as humans to maintain their lineage, I decided it should be a simple matter to investigate the family tree of the somewhat more contemporary muse assigned to me, Lillian Eugenia, otherwise known as Lily Gene.

It turns out records of muse lineage are consistently unavailable since the time of the Greeks. I have had to resort to the use of my super powers - intuition and rationality. In other words, creative writing and research. After much deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that Lily Gene is indeed a descendant of a muse and a greek youth who would likely have been more in love with Apollo than with his paramour. It is also highly likely that the muse and the youth would have been related.

I'm sorry...I know...it's disappointing to come no closer to the actual identities of Lily Gene's parentage. Regarding the matter of the contract, it would be so advantageous for me to establish her pedigree. But there is a very, very good reason for me to discontinue with this path of inquiry - a historical precedent that has been set. Most mortals attempting to expose, usurp, research, or establish the veracity of muses have been turned to birds or flowers, or something much worse.

As luck would have it, one can invoke a muse, but the most effective spells and incantations are the providence of the gods of antiquity. (This helps explain why the need for the contract) So, apparently, I am back to where I started: attempting a long arduous climb with the muse allotted me.

I will probably end up with bloody blisters, dog-tired, and flat on my stomach from vertigo, but, it is rumored, the views are worth it...

Lily Gene reports to the Grand Wazier

Most Honorable Grand Wazier,


I have been diligently tracking the goings-on of my charge. I'm afraid we may have underestimated how magnificently cunning she could prove to be.

This morning I caught site of her leaving the house with a yoga mat rolled under her arm. She was not going to Yoga, I can assure you, because rolled inside the mat was the contract your assistant and I had so carefully crafted.

I followed her on foot down treacherously narrow alleys where all manner of garbage and offal had to be expertly avoided. Every now and again she'd come to a corner and proceed first to the right, then to the left, as if executing a peculiar dance. But I believe she suspected I could be following her and was attempting to give me the slip. I find this behavior remarkably audacious for a mortal so advanced in years. But, with deference for your diligent training, I am more clever. I borrowed my cousin's dog, Grand Aplomb, who has an excellent nose.

We followed her to an old dark building designed in the 1970's with railroad ties for steps and railings, although I surmise the entire building is built of such. She mounted the stairs to the second story with an impressive flurry of quick noisy steps, and stopped at the door of one Lucius Bates, Esquire. Before entering she looked furtively over both shoulders, then with an 'Umph', I speculate of victorious self-satisfaction, pushed open the door. 

I managed to catch a glimpse of Mister Bates, who sports an underbite that protrudes well past his nose. He is short and stocky and smells of cigars, the scent of which being quite offensive to Grand Aplomb, sent him off to chasing after his own tail. The charge, fortuitously did not notice the commotion, so instantaneously did she become engrossed with making a fuss over the alleged inequities of the contract.

I crouched, just outside the office door, behind a large potted plant, and well within range of the conversation, but due to the disorderly behavior of the dog could only retrieve the following intelligence:

Wherein, I had requested a camel in the event the contract was rescinded, the charge is offering a moped. A pre-owned moped. 

Grand Wazier, I believe said moped is being tendered as inducement to lure me into acceptance of other revisions I was not able to overhear, but of which I am sure I will soon be apprised. I cannot stress enough the necessity to maintain an attitude of alert circumspection during these most delicate of negotiations.

I will, of course, keep you informed of any further developments. 

In the meantime, I am holding up remarkably well thanks to the encouraging presence of my cousin, (who from prior experience assures me the charge is altogether manageable), and the diversionary antics provided by Grand Aplomb.

I, Lily Gene, with all respect submit this report, and, as always, holding you in the highest esteem, remain eternally at your service.