+ Her Barefoot Heart

Category: Blog (Page 82 of 101)

News of The 70273 Project with a side of Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart

the qualities of mud

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as a little girl, i loved dressing up in frilly socks and ruffled panties and petticoats that made my skirts stick out like a tabletop. i liked patent leather shoes and dancing in the grocery store and creating private nests for myself where i could get away from it all and create. one thing i did not like was getting dirty. dirt just did not interest me at all . . . which for some reason, disturbed my mother to the point that one day as i sat quietly working on a new book, she picked my 5-year-old self up, carried me outside, and sat me down – ruffles, lace, petticoat and all – in the middle of the biggest mud puddle she could find. she still loves to tell that story, and i declare she sounds embarrassed that i didn’t like to get dirty and smugly satisfied when she gets to the part about unceremoniously plopping me down in the mud. i can just see her wiping her hands and laughing as she walked back to the house to watch me from the window.

now i may not have liked mud then (and i still don’t like to get stuff under my fingernails, so i’ll not be making mudpies any time soon), but in some ways, mud is kinda’ growing on me. not that i want to spend time in a mud puddle, mind you, but i do like holding clay in my hands and shaping it into something or other. and i love not having a clue what i’m going to write but picking up the pen anyway and just watching the words spill out on the page.

my precious friend and writing partner julie daley (jewels, i call her with very, very good reason) recently asked me a most excellent question: what does writing from the feminine look like to me? that question captivated me for days, and the mud story kept tugging at my sleeve pointing out that writing from the feminine can sometimes be muddy. muddy in the sense that i don’t always know where i’m going when i start to write. it’s not always clear, and there’s not always an outcome – intended, expected, or otherwise. when i write from the feminine self, i write from (including myself, my vulnerabilities, my feelings) instead of about (reporting, answering the 5 questions of who, when, where, what, and why).

when i write from the feminine, it’s more about process than product, and quite often, i don’t even know what i have till i get to the end and can see patterns and threads and word crumbs. when writing from the feminine, i write from the body, and often there’s a lot of space in what i write – space enough to crawl into and get comfortable while things incubate. writing from the feminine, it’s more about following than questioning, intuition than the cognitive. writing from the feminine uses dreams, metaphors, and imagery, relying on intuition and an inner knowing that can’t always be explained (nor does it need to be, actually) more than giving ink to what others think and write and theorize.

. . . as i sit here writing this, my resident owl serenades me under the glorious full moon, and i swear she’s urging me on, telling me that writing from the feminine is natural and needed and even necessary . . .

you know how when cars get stuck, little flecks of mud go everywhere as the tires spin their way forward and out (“out” if all goes according to plan, anyway)? when writing from the feminine jeanne, little flecks (and sometimes big flecks, too) get slung out, often without segues or outlines or even capital letters. there’s seldom a nice, tidy, linear structure, and often as not, there’s not even an

The Virtual Red Carpet

No Academy Award was ever more of a surprise or more appreciated than the various honors and awards i’ve received from my friends in the ethers over the past few weeks . . .

Tracy Brown and Gordon Simmons allowed me to sponsor the Daily Gratitude Journal over at Happiness Inside where there are multiple ways to discover, well, happiness.

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My darlin’ Jewels honored me with the Beautiful Blogger award on The Awesome Women Hub on Facebook.

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Susan, Abigail, and Noel dropped a Stylish Blogger Award on me, and with that award comes a request to tell seven things about yourself . . .

1. I am named after my uncle (my daddy’s brother) who was killed at age 18. My mother and daddy met in third grade in a most unfortunate eraser-to-the-back incident while doing long division at the blackboard. It may not have been love at first sight, but they dated each other exclusively throughout high school, then enjoyed over 50 years of marriage . . . except for that one weekend in high school when a little spat found Daddy taking their classmate, Jean, out on a date. When Uncle Gene was killed, Mother saw a chance to solidify the affection of her mother-in-law, but oh the dilemma when her firstborn turned out to be female. G-e-n-e, short for Eugene, is a male, so that wouldn’t do. And she didn’t want to go through the rest of her life being reminded of That One Awful Weekend, so Mother tinkered around with various spellings until she decided on J-e-a-n-n-e.

2. I met my sinuses while flying the wind tunnel in Denver. It was fun, though – the wind tunnel not the sinuses.

3. As a child, I loved potato chip sandwiches.

4. I still don’t drink bathroom water.

5. I don’t wear a watch – haven’t for years.

6. I don’t like strawberries . . .

7. Or tomatoes.

~~~

“I need 5 more quirky things about me. I’m struggling here. Can you think of anything?” I asked my husband.

In less than 5 seconds, Hubby rattled off all sorts of things to me (almost before the question mark was out of my mouth). “That’s enough,” I told him. “I have my 7.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Cause I was just getting warmed up.”

~~~

While I am loathe to thank my husband, I am not at all hesitant to say Thank you again to these lovely, talented folk who have seen fit to bestow a little spotlight on me, though I deliver it red-faced with embarrassment for my tardiness.

January’s Idea of Time Management

Logs

Don’t read. There’s time for enrichment and enjoyment later. You’ve much more important work that needs to get out the door now.

Don’t exercise. Moving from bed to desk chair to bathroom to kitchen to table to laundry room and back to bed is enough movement for now.

Don’t slow down to write thank you notes. You’ll still be thankful later.

Don’t turn on any music, it might distract you and make you forget what needs to be done now.

Bubble baths, leisurely walks in the wood, afternoons spent behind a book are indulgences you earn by getting things done. And since you haven’t gotten nearly enough done, head down and back to work with you.

When you can’t sleep at night, just lay there and think about how awful it is that you can’t sleep. Or get up and get something done. But don’t you dare get up to write or draw or read or stitch.

Just keep saying “Yes” and eliminate every form of “no” from your vocabulary.

Put your friends on hold. If they’re really true friends, they’ll still be around when you’ve caught up.

Don’t waste time putting things up – out of sight equals out of mind. Just pile things up on your desk, on the floor, on tabletops throughout the house. Consider creating mountains as creativity, if it makes you feel better.

Buy a gross of sticky note pads (okay, make it 2 gross) and write one item – only one – from your to do list on a single sticky note. Pretty soon your walls, ceilings, even your furniture will be colorfully shingled. (Of course at the rate you accomplish things, the sticky will eventually wear off, so be sure to write yourself a reminder to replace fallen notes.)

Accept every offer to go out to eat – every single offer. Just remember to eat fast so you can get back to work. The extra weight? Bah, you can lose that later.

Writing retreat with friends? You can do that one day when you’ve whittled down your to do list. You’ve already put it off for 8 months, anyway.

Want to be a writer? Just keep telling yourself that writing checks and meeting minutes and grocery lists and to do notes is writing. Then quit the whining and get back to work.

I’m so glad today is February 1.

It Was A Dark and Stupendous Night

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38 years ago today, I walked into the bar in search of a drink and out of the bar with the bartender . . . my future husband. I went there with a friend from high school, and we’d pooled and spent our money on gas to get us there. Having not thought things through all that much, my friend came to the rescue assuring me that she knew a bartender in a bar called Muhlenbrink’s. He’d be wearing a brown leather floppy-brimmed hat, she said. We made our way through the hugely crowded bar, and low and behold, there was, in fact, a bartender in a brown leather floppy-brimmed hat.

And he was adorable. Absolutely, undeniably adorable.

She shoved and I flirted to make the seas part so we could land ourselves directly in front of Him. She thumped her fist down on the bar and proclaimed, “I know you.”

He looked up. “No you don’t,” he said and went immediately back to drawing beer.

I was mortified. Mortified, I tell you.

As I silently begged the floor to open up and swallow me whole, she persisted with her insistence. It seems she knew the HAT, not the MAN. You see, for reasons he can’t remember, Andy was wearing Billy’s hat that night.

At this point, I don’t suppose he’ll get fired if I tell you that he did eventually slip us one (note the singular) tom collins, and when the bar closed (we stayed to listen to the band – wink, wink), we were invited to a part at the bouncer’s apartment.

We accepted.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

And herstory.

We met on January 27; became engaged on April 1; and married on July 31.

Of that same year.

He says I’m the most expensive date he ever had.

I say he’s the best date I could get with the boobs I had at the time.

Ah, love.

blink, snap, beat

Funny thing, complacency.
There she was: scooting along through life,
whittling down her to do list,
wondering how it ever got this overgrown in the first place,
thinking of all the things she’s gonna’ do
One Day
and how marvelous life will be then,
even though she readily admits that it’s
pretty awesome right now.
But still.

Then the phone rings
and her husband says
“I’ve just been hit by a guy
doing about 50 mph.”
“Are you all right?” she asks,
and he assures her that he’s fine,
especially since he saw the guy coming,
swerving off the road then
back onto the road,
headed right for him
but he was able to move over just a little bit
so the fella didn’t hit him head-on after all
but just in front of the driver’s side.

Her car is in the shop,
so she calls her daughter and asks her
to go over
and once daughter says “I’m on my way,”
she breathes easier because
she knows her husband is okay
and she knows her daughter can handle anything.
Her son is in Colorado, but she calls him anyway
because emotional support doesn’t know geography.

Her husband and daughter get home
and they all spend the rest of the afternoon
quietly watching television
and refreshing the ice they hope will
contain the rise of the mountain
that’s grown on his left knee.

She sleeps good
(considering)
and the next day she sees the
big, ugly bruise across his chest –
the seatbelt’s legacy –
and even though the soreness settles in,
and they snuggle and touch even more than usual
as the sobering possibilities of what might have happened
drape over them like a heavy, heavy, heavy veil.

She writes as though it happened
to someone else
because that’s as close as she can get
to it right now,
and she wonders
why it takes a near-negative event
to shift her into
renewed, committed
positivity.

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The Meeting

For this week’s prompt, grab something out of your pantry and write a short piece – using all the words in the ingredients.

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Broth.

That’s what they called themselves: Broth. No “The” to confuse alphabetization efforts, just pure and simple “Broth.” It was Chicken Swanson’s idea – both the name and the group itself. Chicken was always hatching some idea to bring people together.

“Let’s take stock,” she clucks. (Most people would’ve said “This meeting is called to order” but not Chicken. Things just drop right out of her mouth that leave folks nodding and smiling and sometimes scratching their heads.) “Let’s get right on down to business. Now what I want to know is: what are y’all doing to make plans for the new year? Tell me everything.”

From her place in the circle, Chicken looks everybody in the eye, then passes The Wish Bone (the Broth version of a talking stick) to Salt. “Salt, you first. What’s your plan?”

“I’m focusing on preservation this year,” Salt says. “I’m gonna’ scan my picturebooks and all my mess of papers and store them up there in the cloud. Then I’m gonna’ go on over to the bank and clean out my safety deposit box, whip them paper babies into some semblance of order. Why I’ll bet I can fill a trashcan with stuff I don’t need any more. Then once all that’s done – should take me till about August or so – I’m gonna’ set to darning some socks and patching the holes in my umbrella so it’ll last another year. Yep, preservation is the name of my game this year.”

Flavoring smiles and nods (which is probably why Salt hands The Wish Bond over to her). Flavoring’s mother was an odd thing, always scooting around town in skin-tight britches and a man’s XL t-shirt. That woman was forever motion, let me tell you, so when she gave birth, she named her baby girl Flavor because she knew – she just knew – her life was gonna’ taste different from now on. Then she up and added the “ing” as her salute to action. “I thought about getting organized this year,” Flavoring says, “but then good sense got the better of me and I decided to focus on accessorizing. Clothes and physical spaces, I’m talking about. Even my car – no fuzzy dice or pom-pom trim around the top, mind you – but I’m going to accessorize nevertheless. Maybe a glitzy new license plate holder. Or maybe I’ll just replace the burnt-out license plate bulb to you can read my special order “FLAV-O-RNG” license plate in the dark and call it done. Dext Rose, how about you go next, hon?”

Though named for both her mama (Rose) and her daddy (Dext, short for Dexter), Dext Rose was natural goodness feminine through and through. “Oh, I’m gonna’ work in my garden more this year,” Dext Rose purrs. “First I’m going to get me a pretty new pair of pink gardening gloves. I’d like some of those that are soft leather with that special gripping stuff on the inside. Do y’all know where I can get some like that with roses on ’em? I think I might get me one of those new short-handled shovels I saw in my catalog, too, and a new pair of pruning scissors and some root tonerizer. Then after I go shopping, I’m going straight over to get me a cutting of my Aunt Rene’s Opening Night rose and that floribunda number that nearly took over her backyard. Do y’all remember that bush I’m talking about? We used to stop by and cut us off a red rose every year on Mother’s Day. Till Mother died. Anyway, I’m going to take those cuttings home and dip ’em in some root tonerizer and stick ’em in a pot to see if I can’t root me some rosebushes. And in keeping with my rose theme, I’m watching the Rose Bowl Parade from start to finish. I’ll cook my blackeyed peas and turnipgreens before or after, but not during. And let me tell you: I’ve already got me some Rose Water Glycerin lotion that smells so good. Every time I open it up, I can’t help but think of Grandmother. She wore Jergen’s, you know, and it had a touch of rose water in it. Or was it glycerin? Oh, I sure wish I could get a cutting of her rosebush. So, my darlings, from start to finish, I hereby declare this The Year of the Rose.”

“Well, Dext Rose, I’ll put you down to provide table decorations at our luncheons,” Chicken says, always looking for ways to delegate, always planning ahead. Then, knowing how Dext Rose tends to go long when she gets to reminiscing about the past and planning the future, Chicken asks her “Now who do you want to go next?”

“I believe I’d like to hear from Yeast now,” declars Dext Rose with a big smile and a nod of her head for punctuation.

Yeast, who was a list maker and compartmentalizer from way back, vows to try her hand at creating a collage then extracting meaning from the images and words.

“Oh goodie,” says Dext Rose, clapping her perfectly manicured hands in front of her red-lipsticked mouth. “That reminds me of the time I went to the county fair and had my palm read. It was so much fun. I went with my friend, Too Percent. We call her that because she’s just not all there, if you know what I mean. Yeast, honey, do you think there’s a chance you might take up reading tea leaves next cause I’ve always wanted to have that done, you know. I’ll be your first customer.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Dext Rose. That’s way too much planning for me right now. Let’s just sit quietly and see what rises to the top. But enough about that. Now then, let’s hear what the Juicers are planning this year.”

Celery, Carrot, and Onion Juice are triplets, and we call them The Juicers for short cause they’re always together. I mean always. You see one of them, you see three of them, that’s just the way they are. I hasten to add, however, that though they may be triplets and though they enjoy being together, they are also three separate and distinct individuals. Because of her keen ability to see in the dark, Carrot is a sought-after companion for any haunted house or campout adventure. Whenever we go out at night, we rent a van and Carrot drives.

Onion is a writer, and I declare: that girl can make you cry all over the page. In fact, we have suggested more than once that she market each book with cute little tissue box cover made from fabric that goes along with the theme of the book.

Now Celery, well, I’m here to tell you: that girl is a mess. I don’t care where she is, Celery loves to perform, which makes her the Juice spokeswoman on account of the way Carrot and Onion are so quiet. When Yeast hands The Wish Bone to Celery, we don’t think a thing of it when Onion and Carrot automatically reach over to hold on to it, too, while Celery says, with characteristic flair, “The Juicers are pleased to announce – drumroll please – that this will be the year . . . to concentrate. Carrot – stand up, Carrot. Carrot is going to concentrate on becoming green. Let’s give her a round of applause. Thank you, Carrot. You may now be seated,” and as Carrot takes her seat, Celery turns to Onion, and with an ease that lets us know it’s happened before, grabs her under the arm and pulls her up off the sofa. With her arm around Onion’s shoulders, Celery beams and says, “Onion is going to concentrate on skins and tears. Isn’t that simply marvelous?” And with that, Celery initiates the applause for Onion and, after a respectfully short time, nods for her to return to her seat. “And last, but most assuredly not least, I, Celery, am going to concentrate on condiments.” And when she turns from side to side and makes a little bow, saying “Thank you, thank you,” we feel downright compelled to applaud for her, too.

And because nobody – not even Chicken herself – can think of a single thing to say after that, the meeting is quietly adjourned.

~~~
Key:
Pantry Item: Swanson Natural Goodness Chicken Broth
Ingredients: chicken stock, less than 2% of salt, flavoring, dextrose, yeast extract, celery juice concentrate, carrot juice concentrate, onion juice concentrate

Trease

Having spent the first week of The Year slammed against the clock to tick things off the list and to fetch my brother from the airport as he returns from Afghanistan to spend 2 weeks with us, as I lay the stones and mattresses and pockets of possibility that will provide shelter and structure for 2011, I have written only lists – lists of things to do and get and remember.

I have missed you, me, us.

So this morning I commenced a scant trip through the wildes and happened upon a spark that I fanned, despite interruptions of dog and mate and food and child. Something fun and different for me (unless you count the inevitable pitfalls of memory and recall): fiction. And because I have plans that involve such ledge-jumping, I availed myself . . .

~~~ Your assignment is to write a short piece – fiction, non-fiction, poetry, whatevs – in which each sentence starts with a the next letter of the alphabet. Starting with “A.” So, yes, your finished product will consist of 26 sentences. ~~~

A Tree was born, a treeny triny Tree. Before the sun came out, in the vast silence of the moon, the Treeling began to stretch herself up from her mother’s roots, up, up, up into the moonlight. Callous philistrenes and thorny scrobbeites hogged the light and threatened to quash the youngsTreeneur before she had a chance to fledgle. Drondonemides peed on her and called it nourishment. Elvemites, tickled to be larger than something for a change, tromped on her. Flimones and flickites and fligmos landed on her for respite, then showed their (so-called) strength as they crudely pushed themselves off, thinking higher equals closer to the moon. Giantmongous birdithers made a game of balancing on the youthful, learning Tree.

Helicopters in search of a missing girlchild flew so close that the wind from their whirling blademonifiers momentarily buffeted the Treeling back into the safety of her mother’s rootnook. Icicles became water fountains as the night stretched itself out, and the Treeling licked them to quench thirst and keep her internal water system filled and flowing. Justreene, the Treelings’ mother, remained close by to provide as much shielding as possible. Kindness showed itself, even in the austere culture of winter, because Fledge (as she was now called) was watching for it. “Look for it,” Justreene told her Treechild, “look closely and you’ll see magicrous, wonderical things.”

Maneday came after the first frightfulous weekend of hunting season. Not the kind of hunting Justreene and Fledge were doing, mind you, these hunters were in search of animals to kill. Oh my goodweiss, Fledge lost count of how many soles she witnessed as hunters tromped over and around and beside her, sometimes missing her by a mere squeege. Pieces of paper were left along with other souvenirs of that weekend. “Queer that they actually believe others will find their trashscolomite useful,” Justreene murmured as she blew her mightiest clearing wind after their eventual departure. “Really,” she harumped then fell silently into the wind song.

Stumpette added her voice after a schiminisculle to sing along with Justreene’s wind. Trempet joined in to form a treeo of lullaby. Usuanda and her feathered flockure were soon chirping along in their own way. Vickets joined, too. Winds of harmony filled the night. Xenogenesis did not exist in the Land of Woulde that night as Fledge swanced to the sweettimonious melodies. Yellow sage added the light show, her flowers turning from redilicious to orangeimony and back to yellowsumptious.

“Zzzzzzzzzz,” hummed Fledge, completely content in knowing that she would always have this treemendous raffle to counsel, cajole, comfort, console, and cheer her.

### The Beginning ###

um, about that new year’s plan

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’twas the season of more chaos than usual (deaths, travel plan changes, weather surprises, etc.), and though i rolled with it (and actually, in a strange sort of way, enjoyed letting it push me around), after i ushered everybody back to their lives and cleaned the house, i wanted nothing more than to bring some order to the aforementioned chaos. so i pondered and squinted and grunted and eventually churned out an admirable (if i do say so myself) plan.

and before it was 24 hours old, i had second thoughts.

i have something i want to write about, and for reasons i can’t explain – except maybe that i was drunk on (the illusion of) control – i bowed to the masculine, the left brain, my inner anal retentive or whatever you want to call it, and planned to rev up a dormant blog and post this particular topic there all by itself.

then my heart joined the party, and that changed everything.

now there was a stint when i had two blogs going, but a year or so ago i reached an age where i grew weary of compartmentalizing my life. shoot, i even chose the online name @whollyjeanne to profess to the world (and mostly to remind myself) my intention to shed the outgrown parts and bring me altogether. no more different pieces in different boxes, each box clearly labeled to avoid surprises and waste anybody’s time.

so i’ve scratched it off: no new old blog. when i come up with a name of this topic (maybe before), i’ll be writing about it here, giving it a category name and calling that fine.

two days into the year, i’m having marvelously huge fun writing 6 impossible things before bedtime. most of the time, i blow right on past 6 without even slowing down. creativity is funny like that.

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