Category: writings (Page 48 of 66)
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.
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.
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.
For this week’s prompt, grab something out of your pantry and write a short piece – using all the words in the ingredients.
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
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 ###
’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.
every year about this time, i become paralyzed. people share their plans and rituals for mapping out the new year, and they all sound so elegant, so elevated, so evolved that i just shut right down and limp through new year’s day, relying on my blackeyed peas and pork and turnipgreens to do their job so all will be well. last year, i vowed to craft my plan for 2011 in september, admonishing myself to let the satisfaction of early completion outweigh – in fact, shut down – any dreaded (and perhaps inevitable) second-guessing.
though it wasn’t in september, i did start earlier this year. and i spent a goodly part of last week talking about my plans with my chicklets, alison and kipp, and my friends angela kelsey, julie daley, and sally gentle. spent even more time making notes – one item per index card to allow for shuffling and flexibility and all that jazz. and yes, i inevitably read about the invitations and visualizations and resolutions, goals, dreams, plans, strategies, stepping stones, big rocks, quadrants, etc. other people use. i even allowed myself 20 minutes to look at (okay, drool over) paper planners cause though i haven’t added to my vast collection in the past three years, i am not too proud to admit my lingering addiction to time management systems (complete with pages of teensy little ole’ lines that i can hardly see, let alone write anything on) encased in colorful, conveniently pocketed-on-the-inside binders. though i’ve tried enough products to know otherwise, i’m here to tell you: when i hold a binder in my hands, i have no trouble imagining my life playing out smoothly, efficiently, and According To Plan. i can taste it, i tell you, and it is powerful.
2011 will be fueled by my participation (and ultimate win, i’m tickled to say) in NaNoWriMo. after 3-4 years of tire kicking, i signed on the digital dotted line and publicly professed (to more than a few non-writers, admittedly, to provide a safe escape hatch should i not finish) my intention to write not the generally prescribed 1667 words a day but 2000 words a day. and though i’m not ashamed to tell you that i upped the ante on account of the fact that the over-achiever (aka teacher’s pet syndrome) in me runs deep, i am proud to say that i wrote more than 2k words every single day. which turned out to be a good thing because i lost the week of thanksgiving and still managed to finish a day early with more than 50k words. and the thing is, it felt so good – the structure, the repetition, the end-in-sight of it all – that i use that i bank on that satisfaction to lay down my tracks for 2011.
so with complete disregard for the the rightness or consideration for whether it’s noble and lofty enough, in 2011 i will:
1. move more. (not anything that involves large trucks complaining about getting in and out of our driveway, mind you. i’m talking about walking and dancing.)
2. become fluent in yoga. (one pose at a time. okay, maybe two to keep it interesting.)
3. read alice in wonderland. aloud. to myself. (starting in january)
4. finish the primary source interviews for the bank robbery book. (by 4/31/11)
5. complete (or at least cease) contextual research for the bank robbery book. (fourth quarter)
6. write 3 children’s books with my daughter. (first quarter)
7. edit the fictional book penned during nanowrimo. (second quarter)
8. attend blogher. (august)
9. meditate a minute at a time (cause let’s face it: i’ve had that beautiful silk zafu – black with golden dragons – for months now, and i just took the plastic off. which means that 20 minutes every day is highly unlikely.)
10. finish volume 1 of the book i’m compiling with my daughter. (third quarter)
11. get that new blog up. (check back tomorrow for details and a viewing!) change of plan
12. further investigate that idea i have for a digital community.
13. quit handing over my personal power.
14. get that broken tooth fixed.
15. uncover (recover?) my muchiness. (warning: this will likely involve unleashing my non-malicious irreverent self more often.)
16. look into completing certification in death education and counseling.
17. remodel our bedroom and create a guest space in nc.
18. learn more about the electronic gizmos i have (iphone 4, ipad, powerbook pro, flip camera, sony camera, livescribe echo pen) (remember apple’s newton? i had one.) and software i own so i can make my life easier through better use of technology.
19. cross-pollinate my creativity by enjoying bouts of making collages, slow cloth, and even playing the piano.
20. attend the storytelling festival in jonesborough, tn. (october)
21. trek to merion, pa to see the barnes collection in its natural and rightful habitat. (april)
22. finish papering the nc laundry room in photos (scanning each one before tacking it to the wall).
23. spend a day (or 3) in milledgeville, ga doing book research and visiting flannery o’conner’s place. (september)
24. be fiercely feminist and fiercely feminine. (there. i’ve said it out loud.) (no ned to quirm cause i’m just the And to Thelma and Louise.)
25. enjoy a monthly massage without feeling i have to earn it.
26. stop spending so many words just for the sake of saying something. (obviously, that starts tomorrow.)
27. write every. single. day. (format subject to change on a monthly basis to keep it interesting.)
28. conjure six impossible things daily before bedtime.
29. create full moon collages with jamie ridler. (jamie calls them dreamboards, but i’ll be doing them in my special collage journal cause i have authority issues, you know.)
30. pen a thank you note a day.
31. reorganize my studio in ga.
32. create walls i can write on.
33. conjure and share more stories (pronounced STO rees) of my altar girls.
34. finish up that production team handbook and the director’s checklist. (january)
35. call many of you sugar to your face.
36. sing out loud without clearing the room. (alison, this one has your name written all over it.)
37. create new e-digs for alison. (january)
38. develop a rhythm of 1 day a week or 1 week a month tending to the inevitable and necessary deskwork. (january, then maintenance throughout the year)
39. book and enjoy creative retreats with selected gal pals. (if interested, let me know.)
40. let go of those stories that just don’t fit me any more. (note: the old paper-tied-to-a-balloon trick just doesn’t work for me, so, shoot, how ’bout i invite you to my (digital) campfire and tell ’em to ya?)
conceptually speaking, in 2011 there will be:
less mass, more movement.
less accommodating, more truth telling.
less talking, more doing.
less squirming, more smiling.
less explanation, more full, deep, satisfyingly content experiencing.
less justification, more justbecause.
and because i’m such a sucker, here are my collages for 2011:
(note at the bottom of the page: “If we’re not supposed to dance, why all this music?” from Gregory Orr’s poem “To Be Alive“)
and my color (pay no attention to the part that says 2010). (and hey, thanks, bridget.)
and my tangible totem:
and last, but definitely not least, my word: ship. (thanks, kipp.)
i was in line at the pharmacy when they opened to fetch his prescriptions. he told me he didn’t need them, but i called him anyway to ask if he was sure he didn’t want me to just bring the bag with me. “no,” he said, “i’ve got enough.”
then the snow came.
and came.
and came.
and came some more.
and first thing you know, he’s at the bottom of his pillbox. it’s okay now. they left this afternoon, headed home . . . and to the bag with another month’s worth of meds inside.*
it’s my nature to think about things like this. i was, after all, the only fourth grader to build and stock the family bomb shelter. so when did i start second-guessing myself? when did i begin to think that planning ahead – thinking about things like having extra supplies of food and medicines on hand – is a fine display of negativity? when did i become embarrassed enough about the way i am to grow silent and default to others?
when i listen to my self and act as one with my intuition without reservation, without explanation, without apology, those are my moments of pure, unadulterated, ordinary joy.
* (i stayed behind cause let’s face it: when they slide off down the side of the mountain, somebody’s got to be here to inherit everything.)
~~~
this post is my response to today’s reverb10 prompt by brene brown: Ordinary joy. Our most profound joy is often experienced during ordinary moments. What was one of your most joyful ordinary moments this year?
mary talks to her bookkeeper from under the dryer, hammering out an appropriate memo to explain to her employees that there will be no holiday bonuses this year – not because of the economy (well, not directly anyway), but because her store manager (for reasons she can’t fathom) approved 33 hours’ worth of overtime for one full-time employee and 24 hours’ worth of overtime for another. after those two checks are written, there simply isn’t any more money.
suzie sits on the gold sofa with a leopardskin throw over her legs as she patiently explains how to cook a turkey to her daughter who is preparing the holiday dinner for the first time ever.
janie’s grandmother drops by to beam her pride at her teenage granddaughter who is now working as the salon’s receptionist and girl friday.
as i sit waiting for kristi (the owner and my stylist) to mix my color, an adorable little 10 year old girl appears at my chair and introduces herself. “are you alison’s mother?” she asks. “i sure am,” i told her.
“i’m ansley. miss alison is my voice teacher.”
that’s when her 5 year old sister, lily appears. in her flannel nightgown. we chat a bit, and just before her mother appears back on the scene, lily tells me “you’re funky” – which i take as a compliment and put my glasses on to punctuate and prove her right. “lily, child, you go put your clothes back on. go on right now. shoo,” her mother says, sending the girls to what was a bedroom when mrs. geiss owned the house decades ago. ansley and lily will spend the day playing with brandie’s (the other stylist) daughter while their mothers spend the day making other women like me feel special and beautiful.
in answer to the simple question as to her readiness for the rapidly-approaching holiday, beth pours out her grief, frustration, and exhaustion. as she tells us about her mother who’s in the depths of a deep depression, currently in ICU where the medical staff treats her body and refuses to treat her troubled mind, as she tells us about her teenage daughter who’s recovering from injuries received in an automobile accident, injuries requiring her mother’s assistance with everything – and i do mean everything, phone calls are quietly ended and cell phones tucked away. it’s two days before christmas, yet all thoughts of shopping and parties and cooking completely disappear as we bear witness to beth. in that moment, nothing is more important to us. nothing.
this is my soul food. this gathering of women in an old victorian house tastefully transformed (with the help of mid-century accoutrements and the tasteful style of the owner) into a veritable pink tent where women come together regularly in the name of beauty, always remembering that there’s beauty . . . and there’s beauty.
~~~
today’s post is my response to today’s #reverb10 prompt by mysticflavor: What did you eat this year that you will never forget? What went into your mouth & touched your soul?
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This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
here ‘n there