Home Again

In my last post I announced my new blog, Thatch Road Studio, and I was quite sure about making the leap to a new space. It was going to be a new beginning, a happier place, one where I could stretch my wings in more directions. I mulled over names for weeks and scoured the dictionary for words that jumped out at me. I wanted something lyrical and creative, a name I wouldn’t ever have to explain … simple.

Half an hour after I hit the publish button I went downstairs to fix dinner and another half hour after that the panic hit. Ohmygod, what had I done? I ran upstairs planning to delete the new blog and found Richard in the middle of a computer project, so I headed back downstairs with every intention of correcting my miserable mistake later. Then I talked myself out of it.

The truth is that I’m homesick. I hadn’t expected to feel this way and I’m not sure what it means. Am I too comfortable or have I found my niche? Writing Anam Cara feels like a home I’ve built and feathered. A nest. It’s become exactly what I’ve always wanted - my own little corner of the world. Why would I want to throw that away?

So often people buy a house and fix it up, getting the colors and landscaping just right, laying new flooring and switching out light fixtures, making the kitchen so welcoming that company wants to hang out there instead of in the dining room. It’s just the way they want it and then the longing for something new creeps in. The house goes on the market, it sells, and they move to another house and begin the process all over again.

I think that’s what may have happened with my blog. I’ve been looking back over my shoulder wanting to go home, so I’m going to honor that right now and stay put. I kinda like it here now that I’ve redecorated and stepped far enough back to see what I’ve made. I can do everything here that I intended for the new blog. And why not? It’s mine. Because I'm not ready to make the move yet I'll keep both blogs. There's no hurry.

Welcome back to Writing Anam Cara. It’s like I never left.

Thatch Road Studio

There’s been a change brewing here for a while now. A change in this blog and one inside of me too. When I began blogging, just over two years ago, I didn’t have a clue how to do it or what I wanted it to be; I wasn’t sure it would be anything more than a lark, a little exploration of going public with my writing. I was scared to death. “Surprised” doesn’t begin to express what’s actually taken place in this little corner of the world wide web.

As I’ve moved more deeply into my own creativity, both through writing and art, something richer and happier has come forward. I like the way I feel these days, the way I see beauty in simple things, the stories that swirl around my head begging to be written.

I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about something in terms of its blogability; “I am so blogging this” is now a part of my vocabulary. Not because I need to tell the world about it, but because it helps me see more clearly, to put words to feelings and experiences, to record the fleeting beauty that surrounds me. And because there’s a certain common experience we all understand and it helps to say the words.

I write about sad things too. My sister will always have a voice in my writing. The grief I feel for her is part of my soul now, as it should be. Writing about Doreen helps me heal, it gives voice to a still soundless cry as I work my way to acceptance and peace.

In the months to come I’ll write about getting married. We’ve decided to wait until next year, so you’ll have ample opportunity to hear all about the plans. I’ll try not to be too much a bride. But just a little bit. Sometimes. When I’m too giddy to contain how happy and excited I am. And nervous about pulling it all together. Just a little. Maybe.

In acknowledgement of all this new life and so many changes, I've started a new blog called Thatch Road Studio. I'm really not sure what to do with this, whether I'll transfer my efforts to the new blog or stay here. I've grown to love my little corner of the world; it's really just the name I don't love. It's long and I find myself explaining its meaning too often. It's bad enough trying to explain blogging to someone who's never encountered this particular activity.

So, feel free to take a walk over to the blog next door. Leave a note when you get there.

Renew, Refurbish

Yesterday afternoon, in a fit of frustration and determination, I joined a gym. I’ve let this part of self-care slide in the last few years and with that spiral has come 15 extra pounds - not an earth-shattering weight gain, but clearly enough to keep me from wearing my favorite clothes. You know how it is; jeans get a little snug around the waist, then they refuse to zip. Sometimes I hold up a skirt and laugh - or swear - depending on my mood, which is often dependent upon how my clothes fit. See? It’s a vicious cycle.

I belonged to a gym several years ago and went regularly enough to warrant keeping a bag ready and knowing which work outfits packed well, from shoes to makeup. It’ll take a little planning, but should be an easy enough re-adjustment. The best part is that this company has a gym a few miles from my job as well as one in the town where I live. No excuses. None.

My first work-out was this morning and I loved it. It was short, just a little cardio and a tentative foray into the weight room, enough to figure the lay-out of the place. It has huge windows looking out over the boulevard on one side and the river on the other, exposed brick walls, high ceilings and open stairways. It’s in an old mill nestled at the water’s edge, a relic from an era when steam boats carried goods to bigger cities and smaller towns. It’s been retro-fitted and refurbished, updated with its historical feel intact. Kind of what I have in mind for myself.

I don’t want to look 25 again (umm, wait … maybe I do), and I’m not interested in a re-build, just a little re-enforcing of the structure, to be stronger and sleeker than I am right now. I’m beginning to think about all the things regular exercise can head off: osteoporosis, diabetes, high cholesterol and blood pressure, general aches, maybe even breast cancer. It’s been proven that exercise helps with depression and energy levels. There’s no reason not to exercise, yet I’ve put it off and ignored the obvious until my clothes just don’t fit anymore.

Gym membership doesn’t really fit into my budget in these post-tax weeks, but then, neither do a new wardrobe or health issues. And you know what? It felt good, really good, to work up a sweat today.

All in all, it seems like a good start.

Balance

I’m in the middle of a creative surge this week. The house looks a little worse for it, but not so bad I can’t ignore it for a few more days. A quick vacuuming always perks things up enough to make me feel better anyway and that’s easy enough to do while a project is drying.

On the table in the loft I’ve laid out a few frames for collaging and painting. One is almost done (I think), a couple more are at mid-stage, another is just at the beginning. I’d been working at the dining room table, but got tired of the mess. The dining room is visible from the front door and it began to nag me to do something with it rather than calling me to play, so I moved it all up to the loft where I have better light and a view that stretches across rooftops to the hills west of town. It’s pretty and sunny up there and I can ignore the mess more easily.

Getting my taxes out of the way has freed up a lot of energy. It’s hard to play with the muse when I’m fretting over something. It’s been very clear, this year, that creativity goes out the window when I’m worried. The stories don’t speak, photos don’t compose themselves, glue jars get stuck shut, it just doesn't flow.

A lot of us are like this; worry is soul-killing and there’s usually not a damn thing we can do about any of it. The line between letting go and being pro-active seems wide; finding a bridge between the two is one of my life challenges and I live in the no man’s land of worry far too often with little interest in much more than turning things over in my head, day in and day out.

Today I’m going to stay home, listen to some music, work/play in the loft, pull out an old story to revise, plant the wisteria we bought two weeks ago, and get ready for girl’s night at my house. If the wind stops blowing for a while I’ll even go for a walk. Yeah, I’ll vacuum and clean the bathrooms too. Just to keep things balanced.

Earth Day Sing-Along

Here's a little something for Earth Day. And because I love the Discovery Channel. And, mostly, because this commercial makes me smile.

This is Spring?

The weather has been cold here far later than it should be; sunny and clear for the most part, but cold in that way that makes you want to wrap up in thick sweaters and throw on an extra pair of socks. The trees in my front yard are bending low in the icy wind. I hate being cold. It makes me cranky.

It’s late April, for god’s sake, and we’re supposed to be getting the rain that brings May flowers. Instead we’ve got March winds and February freezes. It makes me want to hibernate. And cook.

Tonight I tried making dumplings for the second time in my life. I remember my mother’s dumplings being light and fluffy, a perfect treat on nights so cold the kitchen windows steamed up and dripped onto the sills. My mother has never been a great cook - not even good - but she was a wonder with baking when she was younger.

There’s something almost magical about dropping spoonfuls of dough into simmering liquid and scooping them out a few minutes later transformed into bites of heaven. I used to cut them open and spread a dab of butter on each half. The soup was only a vehicle for bread and butter.

My dumplings don’t turn out that way at all. Goopy dough in, goopy dough out. I’m not sure if I leave them in too long or take them out too soon, either way about all we got out of them tonight was a good laugh. And a list of possible uses ranging from plugging plumbing leaks to plastering the walls.

As much as I love the kitchen and trying new things, I think we’ll live just fine without dumplings. Besides, summer has to arrive someday. Soon. I hope.

Sunday Scribblings # 107 - Compose

I took guitar lessons when I was nineteen. It was an attempt to be something I was not. I had this idea I‘d be less dorky if I learned to play songs, maybe write a little music for the poetry I’d cranked out during those angst-ridden teen years. I loved music.

I don't remember where the first guitar came from, but the second was a classical guitar small enough to fit my hands, versatile enough to learn the basics. Once a week I carted my heavy case to the rabbit warren of funky, old offices above a music store and sat waiting for my lesson in a room hazy with smoke - cigarette and pot - while much cooler and more talented people came and went.

It was 1979 or ’80, and while disco was in full swing, rock was still strong and that was what I wanted to learn. I was shy, read more books than anyone I knew, didn’t have a clue about life, but in my imagination I had the potential to dazzle and playing guitar was going to make me special.

After a year of practice, toughening my fingertips and training my ear, I had to admit I hadn’t learned much more than where to put my fingers. I’m a little tone-deaf (you don’t ever want to hear me sing) and never learned to tune the thing. One of the assignments was to compose a song; it was agony. The teacher actually winced. I stopped the lessons soon after that, probably from embarrassment as much as recognition that I just didn’t have the soul of a musician.

I played off and on for a few years, even briefly dated a guitar maker, then sold my guitar sometime in my twenties when money was tight and it didn't seem like much of a sacrifice. Though I have an occasional urge to try again, I remember the long hours of practice and the time it would take away from what I really love - writing, photography, art - and I'm not willing to do that anymore.

I can compose a sentence, a picture, and a collage well enough to satisfy my creative longings. It makes me happy. I can see what I can’t hear; it’s the song of my soul and just needed a different medium than the one I tried to force all those years ago.

Looking back on that year I’m a little impressed that, even though I was a nervous kid by nature, I had the composure to follow through on my dreams. I tried my best, learned a few things, didn’t learn others, ended up with a little story that makes me smile. Not so bad.

For more compositions go HERE.

Charmed

Richard found this video on YouTube last week and showed me the next day. I'm so charmed by this song and the video that I have to share.

Sunday Scribblings # 106 - Fearless

Fearless – I like the sound of that word. It sounds full of adventure and strength, like it could carry me through life in a bigger, richer, more sure way. When I’m nervous about something I get small, pulling in until my heart skitters along my skin.

My sister and I used to talk about fear, about how our mother was a Nervous Nelly who didn’t let us explore our own abilities. “Are you sure it’s not too much”, she’d ask, and urge caution with the reminder that we “didn’t have to do it” when we had an idea to try something new. She taught us to be afraid of the world, of the new, of the possibilities that were open to us … afraid even of ourselves. We second-guessed instincts and learned to question opportunity.

Doreen got fearless far sooner than I did. She looked the boogie man straight in the face and said boo first. I’ve never seen courage like she had during those years of treatments and surgeries. She went from passing out during blood tests to joking with doctors during scary, painful procedures. She was fearless and full of attitude.

I try to remember what that looked like and remind myself that the fears that stalk me are pint-sized by comparison, not to say I shouldn’t be a little scared sometimes. I’ve also survived my share of hard life circumstances, enough to have given me a closet full of fear-fighting armor and weaponry that I wield with a fair confidence – but I still don’t feel fearless. I’d rather hide in that closet than stride out battle-ready.

Yeah, someday I’d like to be fearless, more sure of myself. Who, and what, might I be then?

For more fearlessness go HERE.

And The Winner Is ...

This morning I put names in a bowl and drew out Vanessa's. You're the winner of my blog birthday give-away!

This was so much fun I may make something lovely just to give away.