This morning, I was still or yet again, in what I have decided to term a funk. I am also going to point out that a funk for me can be a depression, a dealing with life on life’s terms that feels heavy without freedom and expression of my simultaneous joys. It can also be a place where my head is very full of things, that do not seem to congeal into one coherent story. A brain full of fragments. I think everyone has fragments, but a funk comes for me when the fragments have weight and meaning, appear to conflict, and come to no conclusions as to actions to be taken. How long can one sit, not reacting, before one gets stuck?
So, Kathy’s blogs “When intentions ‘fail’ perhaps something else ‘succeeds’ and “Rant” , yet again, used some of the words for the concepts and feelings of the fragments in my head.
I typed a LOT in the comments of the two blogs. I fretted over Kathy possibly feeling that I had run over her blog. I fretted over why I cannot(have not been able) to just write my own blog in response. I told myself that Kathy can speak up, delete comments and so on a so forth. I got distracted in this thinking by the feeling of creation.
I have been smelling pumpkin pie cooking for two days. I avoided making pie, crust is messy. I thought of the warmth of the kitchen and the scent of ‘home’ that permeates the house when I bake. I followed the scent of baking bread. I am NOT making bread!(I said that loudly to myself.) I thought of cinnamon, cloves, vanilla, and cedar simmering on the stove. OOOOO I can do that!
Then I thought that if I just wiped the counters. Put some things away. Created a clean slate. I made a simple list, without expectation of getting any of it done today, just the step of noticing the items was enough. My brain began to gather around my writing pink pen and said oh dear don’t write that down, it’s too simple just take action! So, I did.
I have cleaned things, which weren’t so messy as my eyes were seeing. I am working on the cooking. I am focusing on how the ingredients feel in my fingers, thanking them for providing grounding input for my overdone system. I am very glad my fingers like to feel and to create images and feelings. This overrides the fragments. This provides structure and value for me. I am starting to feel anxious again as I type, so I’m going to go off now and continue creating. Thank you, friend Kathy!
A bit ago, I found something in the blog on Writing Without Paper. An event, activity, called One Shoot Sunday. Anyone interested can read the full and requested directions there. Part was to credit the Photographer:
This week’s One Shoot takes us to the Isles with English Photographer Fee Easton. Though a self-described “amateur photographer,” Fee’s work is far from amateur. One need look no further than the cathedral pictures below to see some of the intricacy at work. Just take a moment and note if you will the engaging interlace of the shadows on the floor.
Now please, join Fee as she takes the time to guide us through her photographic journey…
- Accept the Picture Prompt Challenge! (please click on the image below to see it in the size and proportion in which the artist intended)
On The Way
soft moving hands
is it my fingers that create
or the turning of the wheel that uses them
expression cries out in the light of the dark
–by Elisabeth Connelley, Purple Profundity
And it was at that age . . . Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
– Pablo Neruda
translated by Alastair Reid
My scent upon your fingers
Eyelash curled upon a freckle spattered cheek
Giggle racing across the sky, aurora borealis, shifting colors of spirit
Fingers woven in your hairy chest.
Touching butterflies like your eyelids in the night.
Honest and Strong, a Mountain
Whispers in your ear, the Mind’s eye sees
–by elisabeth connelley
Smooth sheets caressing naked calves and feet
The soft grunted intake of air
Upon bumping a familiar round belly
A sigh and change of position
To spoon one back into sleep
Hands on breast and thigh
Soft sleep warmed lips brushing fur
Careful languishing sighs
Sheer curtains move
As always they move
From blowing heat.
A door creaks open
Something wanders in
Observer of a chrysalis
Feet hit the floor
–by elisabeth connelley
When I am here
what part of me do you love
do you fantasize about
you can paint
when you feel
who are you
do you ask
do you dream
illusions and puffy things
you wake up
you think me gone
was never here
missing the view
of the image
in the mirror
wisps of air
–by elisabeth connelley