Sunday, July 29, 2012

Letter From the Butterfly

Picture is "Butterfly Wings" by Pamella Marie Moorhead

And then one day my eyes closed and I went to sleep. I slept for a long time. I was wrapped up so tight in blankets, I couldn't see, couldn’t move. I was frightened to be that tired; that I needed that much to be in a cocoon and sleep so long. I felt like I could no longer take a life of crawling around on the ground, mushing through mud in a rainstorm and taking hours to crawl up the side of the tree to eat a simple leaf of the lilac tree.

And then one day my eyes opened; even with them open it was dark. I was wrapped up tight and had to fight to get out. When I did get out everything looked the same on the outside, but I was different somehow.

And then I began to fly. I flew over all the mud and trees I used to crawl over and I was fast, and I was light, and I fluttered up and down in the sky. I would go from rose to dahlia in a matter of moments and drink the sweet nectar, so much sweeter than the green leaves; like eating dessert as your main meal. And the birds were scared of my bright colours and you humans would stop and stare and my beauty.

And then, dear human, I learned that when you lay down to sleep, it is not the end, but merely a new beginning and when you wake up you can fly.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Market Day

For two weekends in a row, Saturday has been market day. Last weekend I came home from getting groceries and there was a note on my computer from a friend. Her son was playing down the street and a few of us gathered, drank coffee in a 30c degree parking lot, and listened to him, the guitar; the voice. We talked about life, food, the new cook books I just bought, what makes us feel good and our strengths, intuition and future.
This weekend I went to my sisters market. I was home for the weekend and had left my coffee in B’town. So I mixed some Starbucks instant that my mother refuses to drink. I hoped for coffee and a quiet little corner to read Cormac McCarthy and do some writing. Even on weekends I do my morning pages and I sort of expected to be bored. 

The Hub in the Dub was indoors, in a little hall, on a back road. The inside of the hall was made out of polished wood, and the plug -in clock seemed to have stopped working hours ago, but no one had taken it down yet. The bottom floor, where we were is the size of my apartment, plus a kitchen in the back. There were four tables on each side of the hall selling jewelry, lemonade, vegetables, soap, food, art and music.
When I got there a small amount of people were everywhere setting up and organizing, sister Duncan was in the kitchen. She had made two bike trips earlier in the morning to get everything from her apartment to the hall. I helped my parents unload the car and set up vegetables from their garden. I grabbed some coffee which I later described as smut coffee and really began the day.
I had about two sips of smut coffee and there were no inhibitions and no sitting down. There was no time for writing I seemed to talk to everyone, either helping people sell or catching up on some old news, often talking about things that I never share, thank you smut coffee.
At one table was a four year old with his mother. Morgan had short brown hair with dirty blond streaks, an excitement in his eyes, and in his movement. They were selling lemonade for a benefit the next day. It was Morgan’s job to juice the fresh lemons. He climbed up on the wooden chair and leaned over the lemon ½ and put all his body weight on top of the fruit. He used that weight to turn the lemon and juice it. When that was done, and they had enough juice, he decided he was going to be like the artist across the hall and sell his own pictures.  He began to draw dancing robots and man eating plants, eating snails.
A 14 year old boy walked in and I took a second look. There’s something about him I thought. Calm, curly blond hair, orange shirt, I shrugged and kept going. Shortly after that his Mother walked in and I realized it was Dylan and Kenna. I went to school with Kenna and we worked together in the city. I remembered Dylan from 7 years ago.
Dylan was selling homemade jewelry and was playing with his own I Pad during the down time, He owned this calmness, this maturity. He proved he was able to sit in the Hall and take on the responsibility of selling his own crafts.
Then Morgan saw him he stopped drawing, stopped being interested in lemonade. He pulled his chair over beside this Dylan. He was a little plaid, blue shirt, pulling a chair twice as tall as he was between two tables. Morgan watched Dylan play on the computer. Neither said anything, I’m not sure if they even looked at each other. Dylan’s confidence and silence transferred over to Morgan. The two of them, ten years difference sat in each other’s company. Morgan looked over Dylan’s shoulder; the two of them relaxed and comfortable with each other’s company, all trusting, all understanding.
Do they know each other? I asked my Kenna. They met once before she said.
And I wished I could approach people with such confidence, knowing and silence. Silence especially after the smut coffee.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Jipzee The Cat

6 years ago when I moved home there were 4 cats, the youngest was just about a year, so he had pretty much grown out of his kitten looks and was becoming a cat. He slept on my bed with “my” kitty and we played fingers, which usually ended with me putting a band aid on my ripped finger, I wasn’t fast enough moving my fingers under the blanket.

Mama Dunacn and the Puppy found him stuck in a woodpile at he was trapped. He was only little and his survival skills are often in question.

All of our cats, minus the first one have been indoor cats, we learned as the first one tried to stand up to cars and fought with anything that it could fight with that indoor cats live longer and are happier. Mole and Pewter was and is afraid of the outdoors and the other two would race outdoors and wait to be caught not sure what to do next.

Jipzee always begged to go outside and we tried the pen, but he couldn’t be outside when anyone else was outside because he would cry and talk to us. We tried a leash but he needed to be everywhere at once. His coat was limp and dull, and he was a little chubby.
So in his sixth year my sister said just to leave him outside on his own. We weren’t sure of his outdoor knowledge or how it would work out. But he loves it. He gets up and out before breakfast, sleeps the afternoon on his favorite chair, and goes back out in the evening. His coat is shiny, he’s turned to muscle and his personality has just bloomed. Although there’s no more fingers or snuggles at night.

I’m watching him now prance across the garden behind Papa Duncan watering the vegetable garden, taking the role as garden companion replacing the puppy who is no longer with us. He catches birds and mice and leaves them on the doorstep as a thank you; which is more than we thought he could do.

And we understand why he sat and cried in the cage. When he see’s us outside and he’s not hunting he comes over and joins us, sits on the bench with us as we drink coffee or he sits on the picnic table seat as we eat lunch outside (this cat does not take any interest in the dinner table inside the house.)

When we go for a walk back the lane he comes to the edge of the property and begins to speak: “Mauooo” and “Hre row.” When we tell him it’s ok he follows us up the road, talking the whole time.
One night we sat back at the horses field keeping an eye on the senior horse, and he came and sat with us, walking around the Adirondack chairs then explored the neighbours house coming back to check on us and hear what we were talking about.


His nick names are “princess” and “gentlemen” “little man” "the dude" and“Ma Boo” and he’s just one of the most interesting personalities I know.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

5 Minute Sad

And today I was sad. I cried for 5 minutes and went for a walk around the parking lot. Then I felt better. Hasn’t happened to me in 15 years; feel bad for a few minutes, and then work it out. I wrote to the person whose situation made me cry and found out how she felt. Now I feel OK.

 I didn’t cry for hours and I wasn’t muted by medication.

 Maybe I can work with this state of mind another day.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Write as Me

This weekend doing some searching of the inner child and self confidence I remembered a university professor talking about experimental theatre and abstract art. He said something along the line of It's great if you can be a piccaso but I want you to know that you can do a mona lisa. This is a paraphrase and in my own words. But I spend the next 10 years researching structure and putting "me writing" behind myself. When being offered books about writing from my favorite bookstore I would pick a structure book over a creative book like "Bird by Bird."

In university my plays were fantasy like, creative and experimental. I know structure and understand it and can use it and will use it in my work, but when I said yesterday, Frosty, you do't have to do the mona Lisa, You do what you do best, what you know, I opened up, I wanted to read other peoples plays for enjoyment, i read romeo and juliette for the fun of it and have headed on to hamlet, which dispite a theatre degree have never read the whole way through and i gave myself permission to get back inside my head and write the stuff I want to that makes me feel rather than copy someone else.