Stream of Thought.

(Monday, January 29, 2007)

Last week, I began the exercise of doing some stream of consciousness, so to speak, journaling. It's been a long time since I've written anything but poetry, and seeing as though fiction was my first passion, and that I truly hope to embed it into my life now and in the future, I figured it was time to stop planning about when I'd begin to write again, and just do it!

Despite feeling pulled in a million directions and trying to dive headfirst into every little thing I do, I, for ONCE, started slow. I didn't promise myself I'd write for half an hour, when I can barely (okay, absolutely can't) find time to sit and read leisurely for half an hour amidst all I need to do each day... instead, I promised myself ten minutes. Just to get the creative muscle a little exercise. And so far, it's worked. And guess what? I'm already formulating ideas in my head, fleshing out characters, scenes... it's amazing how a little bit can do a lot. I invite everyone to try... and if you do, I'd love to see it -- please share!

The exercise: Pen and paper. Ten minutes: don't let your hand stop moving even if you run out of ideas or things to say or misspell something or can't think of a word -- just write, for the sake of writing. It's not about quality, necessarily. Also, don't think about what you're going to write before you start. Look at the clock, and start, no prior plans, just whatever's in your head. (You will continue to note my obsession with weeping willow trees in this writing, hehe.)

My first effort:

Under the weeping willow tree, there sits perched a girl. She is not six or twenty-six; she is ageless. Her knees are knobby and her elbows scraped. her hair is knotted and between her toes are prickly briars. She is a map of childhood, every beauty mark, bruise, band-aid a symbol along some vast, neverending, never present road. And yet she goes nowhere. Here she sits. Her skirt is woolen, the fabric pilled and worn thin on the rear, for she sits often; but she runs and jumps and skips even more. She climbs the very tree, hidden and curtained by its languid vines, cradled by its sprawling limbs. The knots of the branches are her steps. Her fingers close around each knob, long, splindly fingers, nails chewed back and raw. She lets the tree become her throne. Some days...but not today. Today she sits on a bed of summer grass, her feet bare. Between her wiggling toes, she strokes stems of vibrant dandelions. She plucks a blade of grass and chews upon it, a book spread wide open upon her lap. She reads. A bee buzzes past, a butterfly flits up above in the leaves, but mostly she is alone. The vines sway soothingly, brushing together in a soft, afternoon song.

.................................................

On a sidenote: I have spent a lot of time creating a new layout for the Diaries, and learning my first bit of CSS. It all looked great as I was testing it out. Unfortunately, when I tried working it into my Blogger template and it's just... not working. Perhaps this is why so many switch over to Wordpress or Typepad -- is it doable, or is Blogger just quite incompatible with CSS, or just my CSS, or what! Not to mention I uploaded to the new Blogger, and it's messed things up quite a lot. At any rate, what do you recommend? Wordpress, Typepad? Is it worth it?

Until next,
-xo Meg
2 comments

Pied Beauty on Poetry Thursday.

(Thursday, January 25, 2007)

I believe I began loving poetry, truly, and appreciating it, truly, when I took a formal poetry class. Before that, I had no clue what blank verse or iambic pentameter were; I just wrote poetry however I chose. I found, and still do find, beauty in that. However, my true love for poetry came out of this study of formal verse and learning how to write it and use it to plant little secrets and treasures within my lines.

I thought I would share the first poem I wrote for that formal class. I was surprised at the work that came out of me, how naturally the rhythms came for me, and I find a lot of joy in writing formal poems to this day.

This poem was submitted and published in the college literary publication, and when I was asked to read it at the opening, I kindly said I would prefer not to. Truth be told, my professor loved this poem and urged me to submit it along with others, but this one was chosen, and I was ashamed. I had recently been learning a lot about Catholicism and was just exposed to it for the first time, and the poem is a reflection of some questions and thoughts I had while sitting in mass. I thought it might be sacreligious or offend someone. At that time in my life, I found it so peculiar that a priest would never know a woman -- this sort of blew my mind, and I wondered if other women wondered, too, how a man gave that up. I put priests on a pedestal; I thought they were incredible, god-like. I grew up in a way that was completely opposite of all the beliefs of Catholicism, and it was mind-blowing to begin learning and reading and thinking hard about their faith and customs.

I feel comfortable sharing it now.

An Adoration of Ordination

A drop of sacred water hits the floor.
I wonder, did his mother pray for him?
Many a woman lives to see him sin—
to feel his tongue along the chalice brim,

And shiver in their loins to wonder why
the taste of the Son received his affection
instead of a more voluptuous perfection.
And his scarlet candle, still it burns.

A movement, a whisper, his lips upon the altar,
and silently, his mouth proclaims the Gospel.
Many a woman lives through crucifixion
of secret confessions and longing to tell.

In dawn and eve he bends to kneeling poses
and meditates upon the Mystery
of Faith through wooden beads, his rosary.
The Agnus Dei waits among his prayers.

A little water cuts his wine in fraction;
a little faction partakes of his wine,
and female bodies thirst in curiosity—
what prophecy, in God’s divine design.


Indulge in more Poetry Thursday!

Until next,
-xo Meg
5 comments

Aspirations.

(Monday, January 22, 2007)

I have been pondering, for some time, getting a master's in Library Science once I complete my undergrad degrees. This pairs with the poem I wrote for my last post -- I have TOO many things I want to learn and be! As it is, I'm a double major in theology and English and a minor in art. And yet, I do it for the sake of learning, writing, and creating. Believe me when I say I have no insanely ambitious career goals (despite publishing some poems or perhaps a novel). My long-term goal is to be a stay-at-home mom, to homeschool my children and take care of my husband and family. It gives me the 'happies' just thinking about it!

In this day and age, is that considered conventional, or unconventional? It's hard to say. It seems the conventional standards today have evolved into women being career-bound and independent from the home, or simultaneously juggling high-powered career and home life. Or that's what the media would have us believe, anyway -- what's expected of women. But this is only true inside of a certain class, I'm sure. And yet the word "convention" does make me think of the homemaking mother. I admire both sorts of women immensely.

More and more, I have been looking into this pursuit of my master's degree. I am a little wary of distance education because I like being more hands-on, but most of the ways to receive this degree are through distance learning. Which means I could travel with my husband for his job, while in school. But mostly, the prospect of working in a library thrills me. I've always adored libraries and books, and have been known since childhood to hole up in some aisle, find a spot cross-legged on the floor, and just page through, breathing in the scents of paper and print.

There is a little work study position open at school, in the library, which I'm praying I'll get. Perhaps I'll just be sitting at the desk, checking people out. Perhaps I'll be repairing the spines of books, or reshelving them. No matter. I'd adore it. Here's to hoping!

Until next,
-xo Meg
5 comments

Quirky Poetry Thursday.

(Thursday, January 18, 2007)

For this Poetry Thursday, I decided to skip the prompt, although it seems like a great deal of fun, and share something I wrote very recently. It's a series of haiku that make one poem, inspired by a quirky little daydream I was having. I often find myself thinking up characters or double selves of me, because there are so many things I'd love to be and do. A potter, a seamstress, a bookbinder -- too many things I'd love to be in one lifetime; and so, I often create characters in my head, quirks and all, and wait for the time when they will cease to be just imaginary persons in my mind, and begin to jump with life on paper. One day, I will write these people.

Until then, here is a little tale of a botanist. I imagine her tinkering about in a greenhouse, side-by-side with her well-experienced mentor, Ophilia, in this particular science, wrinkling her nose as she studies plant parts and impressing her elder with her entymological knowledge. Oh, and she wears a yellow rain jacket.

Snippets of a Botanist

Amidst all her pots,
Ophilia's in her greenhouse,
hands stained black as soil.

Jars of this and that
On an old rickety shelf,
Emit bizarre smells.

Blue blooms unfurling
As a vine creeps up the wall,
Plucked off one by one.

A tome lays open,
"Taxonomy of Fungi,"
Bookmarked with a leaf.

A beetle scampers
Out of a watering can:
Our next specimen.



Read more Poetry Thursday here.

Until next,
-xo Meg
5 comments

A Sacred Space.

(Monday, January 15, 2007)

Ever since I graduated and moved home from boarding school in 2004, I've found it incredibly hard to locate a 'space of my own.' I've gone through 3 moves in the past two years, and one final (and more permanent) move is coming in 4 months when I marry and move into an apartment with my husband-to-be.

So, as one might imagine, after two moves, packings and unpackings, I got sick of all the moving and, when I moved a few months ago this last time, I left most of the boxes unpacked. The move is temporary, and I have so much else on my plate -- classes, wedding plans, amongst other things, that I pushed all the boxes full of non-necessities aside. They are full of some shoes, books, papers, tidbits, candles, half-filled journals, pieces of me. I am living out of boxes, and I can't seem to locate a place of my own.

I am reluctant to create a 'space' here in this place, as it will be destroyed in less than 4 months. But I long for one. I read of artists and writers, creative people who have this special, sacred place, a studio of sorts. I think often of what mine might look like, or where it might be. I came to realize that our tiny, one-bedroom apartment will have no separate room for a sacred space for myself. So, how do I create a space where there is so little space?

Perhaps a little corner. A table strewn with candles and statuettes, little this-and-that bowls filled with plants, clippings, whatever I find that expresses me. Perhaps by a window, which sits open, curtains shifting in the breeze, and a series of shelves nearby where my books and plants and pottery sit.

I won't have a studio or a large place for creation. We will be like two peas snug in our little apartment as it is -- no room for too much luxury. But perhaps I can find sacred space in the little things, in the little places.

What are your sacred spaces? I'm so interested to hear.

Until next,
-xo Meg
3 comments

Wednesday meme, then!

(Wednesday, January 10, 2007)

It was, originally, the Tuesday Meme; but alas, I've come late -- but it seems so fun, I'm going to do it anyway (thanks to Ruby)!

Two names you go by:

1.. Megs
2.. Shmegan (or Meg Shmeg)

Two parts of your heritage:
1.. Dutch
2.. Cherokee

Two things that scare you:
1.. Tiny, enclosed spaces
2.. Tragically losing a loved one (I've not yet experienced the death of someone close to me.)

Two everyday essentials:
1.. A hot bubble bath with my current novel
2.. A good bearhug from my love

Two things you are wearing right now:
1.. A flannel blanket
2.. My favorite slippers

Two of your favorite bands or musical artists (at the moment):
1.. Rufus Wainwright
2.. Sting (for one particular song I can't stop listening to!)

Two things you want in a relationship (other than love):
1.. Great communication
2.. Laughter

Two truths:
1.. I just ate a piece of chocolate I shouldn't have
2.. The light is still the light, even if a blind man cannot see it.

Two favorite hobbies:
1.. Reading
2.. Writing

Two things you need to do this week:
1.. Venture an outing to the used bookstore
2.. Address about 60 more envelopes

Two stores you shop at:
1.. The Apple Basket
2.. Target

Two favorite sports:
1.. Football (watching it)
2.. Any sort of boating (doing it)

Two shows you like to watch:
1.. CSI: Las Vegas
2.. Oprah

Two things you’d buy if money were no object:
1.. A little cottage in the Amish countryside
2.. The entire Pistoulet china collection from Pfaltzgraff (and the recipe book of recipes from southern France!)

Two wishes for 2007:
1.. To think, speak, and act more kindly and compassionately in every way to every one
2.. For a healthy, blissful start to my marriage

Until next,
-xo Meg
0 comments

Found once more.

(Sunday, January 07, 2007)

Now and then I lose myself completely, only to be utterly refreshed and satisfied when I settle back into my "old self." It's like a familiar comfort that surprises me each time. It is funny now to look upon my last post and think of it as a question left hanging amidst despair, which is what I was feeling at that time. Now I read it and it fits. I disappeared almost wordlessly, but I have returned completely renewed and, I hope, with much to say.

Now for a venture about town, and to sit in the laundry mat while I read a beautiful novel. It's January, and it feels like spring.

More to come... I promise!

Until next,
-xo Meg
3 comments

© Megan K. 2006-2007




About

Meg... wife, writer, reader, dreamer, artist.


Reading


Enjoying

Penelope Illustration
Wish Jar Journal
Lori Joy Smith
Loobylu
Dooce
Ruby
Alex the Girl
More to Me
Drowning in Ink
Waiting on the Front Porch
La Vie En Rose
Inside a Black Apple
A Fanciful Twist
I Still See a Spark in You
37 Days
Colors on My Mind
Diary of a Self Portrait