The Weeping Willow Diaries

Dedication.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 16:21:00 +0000

Why... do I have such trouble going through with things I start? This blog project is a perfect example. Now, of course, the first year of marriage has had its own challenges and has taken up (in a good way) so much of me, made me see myself for who I am, etc., that I haven't had much energy to do much else...

But I always find myself coming back to wanting a place like this, to force myself to stick to the inspirations I acquire, to follow through with them, to DO exactly what I WANT to DO. And don't!

So now I will try again. This time, with the knowledge that it doesn't always come naturally. That I can't expect to wake up every day and feel ready for the world, inspired, or even feel like thinking about anything but what has to be done this day. But it's time to follow through with something... in fact, many things!

But I'll start slow.

Letters and Postcards and Other Adventures!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 12 Jun 2007 01:21:00 +0000

I've been feeling under the weather and having very, very strange dreams! But tomorrow, in the event that I (hopefully!) feel better, I may have some adventures in mind. Even if they just take place on my new living room floor.

I'm thinking lately of how much I love letters, and how I can't remember the last time I received one. I used to have a pen pal when I was young who lived in California, but it was almost like a phase that we grew out of. I don't know anyone who lives far away...

But writing letters would be therapeutic, I'm sure, in a journal form. My therapist once had me write a letter to my birth father, without the pretext that I was going to send it. I ended up sending it, but what if I chose someone to whom I'd never send the letters?

We used to have to do this exercise when I was in kindergarten or first grade, writing journal entries, sorts of "letters," to the person of our choosing. At first, I wrote to an imaginary girl named "Daphne." Then, I started writing to the "Dolphins" football team. Who knows why! I must share some of those silly entries!

So I wonder, if I wrote letters in a journal, to whom would I write? Do any of you do this? Hmm....

A Month's Lessons.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 08 Jun 2007 14:44:00 +0000

This past month has been one of learning for me. I've been out of class, but I have learned more important things:

How to take pleasure out of each moment in itself. Relax, breathe, and don't wish you were in tomorrow, because of this or that... simply enjoy the "now." This has always been a hard lesson for me.

Find a prayer in even the most drab activities. Folding laundry, doing dishes... each can be a little piece of peace.

The value of caring for a man, learning to place the one you love before yourself constantly. This is something that is even more necessary to every day life now, in marriage, than it was before. Doing the little things for someone makes all the difference in a relationship.

The wedding preparations in their last month or two were absolutely exhausting paired with class, finals, last minute things to do. Taking time to breathe and be absolutely on no schedule, with no obligations, has been heavenly! I promise pictures once I get them uploaded and organized. There are sooo many, and it will be a project in itself!

I'm walking each day, taking my days breath by breath, and taking each moment slowly. It takes practice to live this way.

Hello, old friend.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 05 Jun 2007 23:04:00 +0000

I have been gone... and now I'm done being gone. I said so last time, but last time, probably immediately after that post, I got swept up in this crazy one-day affair of excitement and joy that goes "poof" before you know it, called a WEDDING!

And now I am settled, in a place of our own. And I'm very, completely here.. and have never been so "here" and happy in my life.

So, hello again.

Time flies!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 15 Mar 2007 19:56:00 +0000

Long time, no see! I have been utterly overwhelmed. So much to do... so little time! The weather here is crazy. I've got spring fever. Yesterday, it was like summer... tonight into tomorrow, we're getting possibly half a foot of snow. Goodness gracious, I hope it all evens out and becomes more predictable by the time my wedding rolls around....

This is a quick note to let you know I'm alive and quite well. I suppose you could say I took a little mini-vacation, even though I didn't leave my house, and even though I've been up to my ears in work and busy things.

In the meantime, how charming are these little vintage postcards? It's almost like spying or finding a hidden diary and knowing you shouldn't be watching or reading!

Postcards of my imaginary vacation coming soon....

I promise!

The Secret of Pistoulet!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 25 Feb 2007 00:00:00 +0000

What a deliciously quiet weekend I am having. Yesterday, I spent the entire day unpacking all the kind gifts we got for my bridal shower, washing every little piece and putting them away, amidst cleaning and redecorating what will soon be my OWN! little kitchen. While it was quite the task, it was so very therapeutic and relaxing. My feet were tired, but refreshingly tired, and what will soon be my OWN! little kitchen! looks so quaint and pretty!

This afternoon, I had very much work and studying to get done. I holed myself up in my to-be's apartment and made a cosy little time of it. I walked down to the corner store and decided to treat myself with a little something to bring home. I opened the window just a little bit, cuddled up with a throw on the couch, made myself a cup of cafe Francais in one of my new Pistoulet mugs, and made an afternoon of it.

The Pistoulet dinnerware we got as a gift is so utterly charming! I still wish for the book that goes along with the set, so maybe soon I will treat myself to picking it up... then I can share the Secrets of Pistoulet with you! (I wonder what it is? Delicious soup recipes, I think...) Anyway, half the secret's how lovely all the plates and little bowls look! And the mug I enjoyed my cafe from this afternoon! The review for the book is exquisite; I'm so intrigued...

"Far away in the remote, untraveled southwestern French countryside, there is a small village which contains two homes, an eleventh-century church, and a very special farm known as Pistoulet." Thus begins The Secrets of Pistoulet, a charming and beautiful little book filled with food, magic, and love. Part fiction, part cookbook, this richly illustrated book is reminiscent of the popular Griffin and Sabine, with its collection of letters to be removed from envelopes, and recipes tucked into their own little pockets. Drawings, photographs, snippets of diaries, and mysterious maps decorate this tale of Mademoiselle J., who arrives at Pistoulet with a broken heart. There she is welcomed by the farm's tenants: Madame Claude; Monsieur Andre; the black dog, Marcel; and a chicken that lays golden eggs. Soon, such soul-strengthening dishes as Potage of Babble (guaranteed to cease excessive chatter), Potage of Passion (Cooks beware: this soup has been known to result in marriage proposals!), and Tart of Sunshine (sure to heat both body and soul) have Mademoiselle J. on the road to recovery.

The Secrets of Pistoulet packs a lot of charm into a small package. Readers who love to cook will want to try these simple, tasty recipes, though it may be difficult in some cases to follow the directions exactly ("Go to the nearest fishing port and acquire moules from the fisherman with the largest pecs and most tattoos....). Those who don't will be more than content to simply imagine these sumptuous meals as they, along with Mademoiselle J., attempt to unlock Pistoulet's magical mysteries."

So much to be done this weekend, but so much accomplished. And still many hours of the evening left to spend quietly. I think I'll run a bath and read a book and wait for my man to come home. Could I be any more content?

Poetry Thursday: On Hips...

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 22 Feb 2007 21:54:00 +0000

I have been sooo very swept up in the past week. Lots of busy things to do, tasks for class and just for the wedding. A surprise bridal shower was thrown for me on Sunday, and since then, I've been very consumed with getting things ready and cleaning the apartment and this and that!

But now my week is coming to an end, and even though there's so much left to do before Monday, I decided to take some quiet time and indulge in Poetry Thursday. I have been spending some time (when there is time) drawing figure studies of women, so the topic was particularly interesting to me this week! Even though I didn't have time to write something myself, this week's prompt really inspired me to share these two poems that I adore...

Phenomenal Woman
Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

*

Homage to My Hips
Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top

Upon the Discovery of a Treasure Box...

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 00:13:00 +0000

It has been so long since I have been able to visit this little part of my world! Our town got what I thought was going to be a quaint snow storm, but turned out to be something quite a bit more serious that cooped me up inside for the better part of three days. Winter wouldn't have been quite complete without one such little storm, however; so I can officially say I'm satisfied and ready for spring!

I took a wonderful little excursion recently that I so wanted to detail with pictures, as I'm such a fan of Vanessa's delightful narratives and stories, but alas, I am without the privilege of a digital camera for now, so the old-fashioned way of tale-telling will have to do...

It all began with a reunion of sorts. Two long lost friends of mine invited me to a place from our pasttime, a favorite little flea market of ours. This is an immense place, an open market, with quaint shop beside quaint shop and little family eateries and mom-and-pop type counters here and there, and open stands of seafoods and colorful candies and people strolling and dashing and fabrics. And you never know what you'll find there. Some people call them junk stores; I think of them as treasure chests.

All the sparkly jewelry stores were pulling my attention as we walked along. There were so many beads and delightful stones and opals and big, chunky necklaces, handmade and found who knows where. My first stop was one such stand, with three tables lined with every different sort of beaded necklace and earrings one could dream of. The proprietor was on his phone, talking away, and as I raised necklaces up to his attention he smiled, covered the mouthpiece of his phone, and offered up a price, each time grinning delightfully. After roaming around several times in awe, fingering this and that pendant, I settled on two charming pieces: one a myriad of green and ruby and teal beads with a pearlescent turquoise pendant, the other strung with amber beads and weighted by a beautiful emerald-hued cross. To my delight as I rushed them home later that evening and tried them on, I realized they also came with matching earrings I'd somehow overlooked!

I chanced upon a place filled with antiqued little country signs, reading "Tea" and "Coffee" and "Sugar," and hung with berry vines, and then a stand that reminded me of being twelve years old. Remember those cheap, adorable little mood rings that were a phase years back? I used to have many of them when I was an adolescent, and I came upon a stand that had boxes of them. Just for old times' sake, I bought one! It's a $3 little thing, and sits just like an oval onyx upon my finger, and looks pretty and recalls a lot of fun memories when I look at it. Sometimes it changes colors and green and brown circles spin the center, but I think it means little more these days than "Megan, your hands are freezing!"

Then -- THEN -- the biggest treat of the night unfolded. We stumbled into a $2 jewelry store. The jewelry I speak of is not fake silver and gold, but handmade necklaces, you see. EVERYTHING in the store was $2, and I could hardly believe it for the beautiful pieces that were hanging everywhere. We spent the better part of an hour inside, sorting through the charming collection. I found a red-corded necklace with an "ivory" elephant's head hung on the end, some white and green big pearly earrings, and another pretty little beaded necklace. It was so hard to choose! We knew then we'd be making this shop a regular visit!

This place is just one big treasure box. One day I will take pictures of the bins of wonderful little finds, but until then I hope you enjoyed the humble tale and perhaps experienced a little of the travel for yourself!

Smell, Rather than Taste...

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 04:14:00 +0000

As a spontaneous exercise, the Sunday Scribblings prompt didn't get me thinking immediately about food or taste, but smell. I was smelling gardens and spring. I gave myself ten minutes to write without stopping to think, with pen and paper... regrettably, I got a little bit interrupted, but nevertheless, here's the product, which ended up in another little description of that character I've had in my head for a while.

. . . . . .

Pots are scattered on rickety shelves that line the walls. Their clay is chipped here, soil-stained there, making terra-cotta towers where they're stacked into the corner.

The ceilings of vaulted glass are cradled in frosted panes, framing glimpses of movement within. Motes of sunlight flicker through in sparkling, lazy spirals to the floor.

An old woman tinkers about in front of a shelf, plucking dead leaves and stems from a particular pot. Against the delicate lavender leaves, her gnarled hands resemble a man's, with thick fingers, cracked and stained the black of soil at their tips. The sound of her feet upon the dusty floor is a whisper that's as deafening as a whisper can be; an idle shuffle, which she does not notice. Long, white hair creeps a long way past her shoulders, bound at the nape of her neck with a cord. I cannot see her face, but her frame is slight, her bony shoulders stuck in a perpetual hunch.

Her presence is haunted with a tick: a sharp intake of breath through her nose every seven seconds. At her first sharp breath, I think she is surprised; that she has made some discovery. But after a few instances it becomes a rhythm, and I realize that she is unaware of her own sound. It keeps time with the shuffling of her feet, a melody of quirks that she would suppress if she knew she was being watched.

Enjoy more Sunday Scribblings!

Canarino!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 21:09:00 +0000

I must admit that after that last delicious post about all sorts of bath tea concoctions, I have been lost somewhere quite steamy and foggy... but it isn't my bath tub! That's not to say I haven't enjoyed a bath or three or more, but I've been bogged down with a bugger of a cold.

The thing about colds and illness that irritates me is how far behind it puts me. I am a firm believer in rest, rest, rest, when your body's telling you to -- so I haven't enjoyed one of my usual daily/nightly walks for the better part of a week. That's how long this congestion has been pestering me! Not to mention the inspirations I've been feeling (the mind is willing, the body is not!) to take out my box of charcoals and get messy. Plus, I've been concocting up bath tea and salt recipes, and experimenting with some delightful ideas... I think these will be a real treasure once I get some cooked up!

One thing I do slightly enjoy about being ill, if I must be, is lemon-flavored Theraflu. A hot mug of this stuff just pleases me to no end, and relaxes me beyond belief! So, last night, after realizing how much I do love this part of being ill, I decided that someone else must enjoy hot lemon drinks as much as I have come to, and therefore there must exist a recipe somewhere, for something as delicious as this (minus the acetaminophen and such!). It was then that I discovered.......

Canarino! The Classic Italian Hot Lemon Beverage!

The best part about it is that there seems to be no sugar in it and in fact... really nothing in it, aside from natural ingredients (lemon peel). Better believe I'm going to order myself a batch of this very soon, once I shake this cold. Until then, though, I'll settle for enjoying my evening mug of Theraflu, curled up, hoping to feel better tomorrow!

Creative Bathing!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 12:45:00 +0000

Over at Create a Connection, Tammy Vitale wrote about 'Creative Bathing.' I sat and read, smiling hugely and squirming happily in my chair, because I am a religious, ritual bath-taker--sometimes even twice a day (which is great for me mentally, but probably not as great for my skin). It is very difficult for me to convince myself to take a shower, and do so only when I'm in a hurry--compared with a bath, I just can't resist.

Normally, my baths do not involve candles and music, but go by a certain routine of my own. I begin to fill the tub with very hot water, and when it's just filled enough to cover the bottom, I add my favorite bubbles... lavender & chamomile. I slip in when it's about a third of the way full, bringing my book. I like to get in while the water's still running so I can let the faucet pour water over my feet...I get a little bit of a foot massage that way! I read away until I feel relaxed enough or until the water starts to lose heat, and then I toss aside the book and finish my bath with my favorite wash and a loofah. Usually, if this is my nighttime bath (which I always, always take every night before bed), I get out, put on this delicious lotion, especially on my feet, put on socks and pajamas, and hop into bed.

While a ritual routine is great, this post made me think about doing something a little different for myself for bathtime. The scents and routine I use are comforting to me, but after a while I don't appreciate them as much because I don't try anything new in place of it. I've decided to share two recipes I'm going to try out within the next month or so:

* * * *
Green Tea Bath (green tea has slimming, anticellulite and anticholesterol properties. Also contains polyphenols, which strengthen the immune system and prevents free radicals and cancer cells from multiplying. Tea leaves also tighten pores and soothe insect bites)
5 tbsp loose green tea leaves
1 cup fresh or dried jasmine flowers
4 cups water

Bring water to a rapid boil. Add green tea leaves. Steep for 10-15 minutes. Add jasmine flowers. Let cool down for 5 minutes. Strain and add to bathwater.
* * * *

Jasmine is my favorite scent; and I, in fact, do often drink jasmine green tea, one of my favorites as well. This next one looks expensive, but wonderful:

****
Seashore Bath (revives circulation, conditions parched skin)
3/4 cup sea salt
1/2 cup Epsom salts
1/3 cup bicarbonate of baking soda
2 drops essential oil of cedar
3 drops essential oil of clary sage
5 drops essential oil of orange
1 drop essential oil of neroli (orange flowers)
5 drops essential oil of bee balm

Mix well. Add to warm bath.
****

On Saturday, I gave myself a hot mustard foot bath. I suddenly had come down with a cold, and my sinuses were so congested, along with my head in general. I take a little plastic tub and fill it with as hot of water as I can stand, and stir in a heaping tablespoon of ground yellow mustard. Then I sit and soak my feet, keeping them in and sending the man to bring back more hot water to refresh it, keeping it steaming for 30 minutes. This is very good through the lungs and the liver, and really loosened all the congestion up for me.

There are so many benefits in different sorts of baths, and I'm a huge fan of the healing properties of baths and other sorts of pampering -- massage, for instance. I'm becoming increasingly interested in the subject, actually, and was just this weekend researching a book to purchase on massage. I've always given massages, but never with any particular technique, and now I'm looking to do so. My fiance has a lot of pains in his neck, and I think a regular massage once a week, if I knew what I were doing a bit better, would help him out immensely. I perused some reviews, and it seems this one, The Massage Book, is the best, followed possibly by The Book Of Massage: The Complete Stepbystep Guide To Eastern And Western Technique -- anyone else have texts to recommend? I'd love one that includes some information on aromatherapy and massaging with oils, as well (or a website would do for that).

Year-old Goodbyes.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 04 Feb 2007 20:46:00 +0000

It has been nearly a year now since I told him goodbye. The year creeped up on me--I didn't realize until I was waiting for sleep to come in my bed a week or so ago. When I realized it had been so long, I could hardly fit the thought into a corner of my mind, to dwell on later, or put aside forever; instead, it's there still, catching my eye like a glint of water under the sun.

I don't recall the way we said goodbye. I certainly know that neither of us planned on it being our last, and I'm sure our goodbye had no sense of finality to it. I could never bring myself to speak to him again, and his reasons for leaving the goodbye for our last are likely the same as they were over twenty years ago.

When we met for the second time in my life, some three and a half years ago, I would have never thought our goodbye would be so soon. Our hello meant so much that I thought I could never say goodbye, and it wasn't until recently that I questioned how he could have said it so long ago, when I was only a newborn in his arms. Maybe he didn't say it then... but he thought it; he knew it.

Maybe he never wanted to say hello. But he did. My letter came to him on his birthday. Soon after, I heard his voice in my ear for the first time: "Hi Megan, this is your dad."

I remember his hello, but I don't remember our goodbye.

Indulge in more Sunday Scribblings.

"A Feast for the Senses!"

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:48:00 +0000

Deb proposed "A Feast for the Senses" over at Create a Connection, which I can't wait to share. You might recall how much I love quirks -- quirks in people, in places, in myself, in everything! I'm a very sensual person, and so you can imagine how much I adore and delight in my senses... so, what I like to do is answer in stream-of-thought form, not reading ahead of time and answering with the first and most honest answer that pops into my head...

1. What are some of your favorite smells? What's a smell that many other people seem to like, but you don't? The pages of books (new books, old books, in-between books, any books!), coffee, grass--especially onion grass... it reminds me of my summers as a child, "man" scents--at least, mine, who has a particular smell. Fabric softener as I'm walking down the street past someone's house as they do their laundry. I've heard people say they like the scent of gasoline, and I've never liked that, at all.

2. What are some of your favorite tastes? What's a taste many other people seem to like, but you don't? Coffee (yes, I'm a fiend) with light cream, chives... the crusts of my grandmother's pies. Pepper. Salt from the ocean. Most other people I know like, or LOVE, some sort of seafood... and I don't like any of it. I never grew up eating any seafood whatsoever, so I think it's got something with just being weirded out toward it since I wasn't exposed to it.

3. What are some of your favorite textures? What's a texture that many other people seem to like, but you don't? Something strange I can't stand are very dry, sort of cheap towels. For some reason I have this memory of towels like this about biting down on one and it creaked in my teeth and made them feel funny. I know this sounds bizarre... it gives me the jitters and shudders! I can't stand it! Oh, anyway, this was supposed to be about what I like. I love the feeling of flannel sheets -- vs. people who seem to rave about silk or satin sheets. They feel cold to me. I like cosy. I love fluffy icings for pastries and cakes... fluffy and light and whipped rather than the heavy, custardy or dry icing.

4. What are some of your favorite sounds? What's a sound that many other people seem to like, but you don't? Birds singing through my slightly open window on a cool summer or spring morning, nice and early, cool breeze coming in... or the simple sound of crickets and locusts buzzing as the sun sets late on a summer evening... that thick, humid silence as a storm hovers in the air. Many people like whispers, but I don't... I prefer just a quiet, soft voice that is low, just so. Just low enough.

5. What are some of your favorite sights? What's a sight that many other people seem to like but you don't? I don't like sunset scenes. On postcards. Or beach scenes. They all seem false. Being there is just so much more beautiful. I love the sight of old, gently antiqued and worn wooden chairs.. rocking chairs.

This all makes me wish for spring!

Stream of Thought.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 00:43:00 +0000

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?

Pied Beauty on Poetry Thursday.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 15:33:00 +0000

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!

Aspirations.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 13:38:00 +0000

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!

Quirky Poetry Thursday.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 01:07:00 +0000

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.

A Sacred Space.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 16:49:00 +0000

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.

Wednesday meme, then!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 11 Jan 2007 01:11:00 +0000

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

Found once more.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 07 Jan 2007 19:34:00 +0000

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!

The Moon and Sixpence.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 16:33:00 +0000

"I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar with him from birth. Here at last he finds rest."

Where have I gone?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 26 Oct 2006 12:30:00 +0000

I have not felt like speaking, or making my presence known anywhere. I've been feeling fearful, and once again clamming myself up into the shell of solitude that I trust. My place of solitude is soothing, familiar, and constant. The only flaw it has--and it's a big one--is that it's so tempting to stay inside... and inside, I will never grow out, I will simply remain content to boil in self-pity and victimhood and feed off of my own tears.

Why is our own pain so comfortable to us, even though it is, in fact, pain?

I doubt things I never thought I could doubt, and the struggle of feeling too sensitive, too emotional, lacking so much self-esteem and integrity, has entered a new level. I thought I was making progress; I felt myself battling my way up the hill--but now I feel as though I've fallen face forward and slid back down, and now I'm staring up toward the top, which is higher than ever.

When I'm me, when I'm emotional, when I turn myself inside out and expose my vulnerabilities and just how sensitive I can be, I get hit right on the weak spot. And so I've been holing up, afraid to admit just how bad I'm feeling, afraid of hearing "be a strong woman!"

What is a strong woman, exactly? One who takes insults, hurts, pain, with a grain of salt and laughs them off? One who never cries? I KNOW that's not true... but I've lost my conceptions of what a "strong woman is," and how to be one, or whether it's even important. I'm lost.

Why should I have to live up to this? Why can't I just cry?

Friday the 13th.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 00:13:00 +0000

Last night, I took a walk to the market on the corner for some odds and ends. It was Friday the 13th, and as I crossed the alley I saw a cat scamper across the street onto the other side. I delighted in this, and as I headed down the street, crisp leaves fluttering in whirlwinds upon the breeze, the evening hovering at that near-dark, not night, but not still dusk, I was exquisitely at peace. I ducked beneath the evergreen boughs that hang over the neighbor's fence, and my mind got to churning, thinking about myths and age-old stories.

I'm currently taking a class that examines the myths and history that grew into the tales of vampires, and eventually, into the novel of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Being so chin-deep in Gothic literature and tracing such an intriguing trend through different tales, novels, and movies, has been so enlightening. When one thinks vampire, one usually thinks... silly, rather than creepy. But we learn of the vampire so based on myth and history, that for the hour of class, we begin to believe that perhaps vampires really do exist... and it has made this Halloween season all the more enjoyable for me.

This time of year always makes me feel like a child. I enjoy so many things simplistic -- going to fall festivals and weaving my way through corn mazes, drinking hot cocoa, raking leaves, dressing up, and carving pumpkins. My favorite, though, is Halloween night, pulling the couch up to the TV and watching scary movies while waiting for the trick or treaters. What is your favorite time or memory from this season?

Sunday Scribblings.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 02 Oct 2006 02:08:00 +0000

The Skin...

Of his arms, spread with a blanket of blonde down, a soft complement to the sinewy veins and muscles beneath.

Of his hands, coarse and ridged upon the thumb, smooth and ruddy upon the palms; life-lined with gentle rifts.

Of his face, veiled with the growth of strawberry blonde beard, long, soft whiskers and short, prickly stubble. Dimpled with shallow nitches upon the cheeks; wrinkled subtly with laughter at the corners of the eyes.

What a lovely exercise for Sunday Scribblings, to take note of the little nooks and crannies of the one I love, and revel secretly for a few moments in his beauty.

Poetry Thursday.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 28 Sep 2006 17:52:00 +0000

I seem to be slowing down during these first days of autumn, taking the time to let my eyes follow the upward sprouting of the trees, and delight my senses in lingering upon the changing hues and the crisp scents.

I wrote this poem last fall, when autumn was bringing to mind the days I spent in the apple tree behind my grandmother's house--an old house I had spent so many days within, imagining, growing. When the house was auctioned off last fall, I was sad, and inspired...

On the Occasion of the Auction

Behind the hosue sits perched an apple tree
whose branches cradled me in summer limbo.
I'd read and nap before the sun sank low
enough to summon me inside, wordlessly.
Within, the walls, which hung with fragrant comforts--
of must and yeast and fleshy pipe tobacco--
hushed the locusts' hums, drowsy and slow.
At dark, in bed, I heard the clock's retorts
below me, replying chiming melodies
to answer crickets' songs: The hours, the hours.
The floorboards sighed and settled, lulled into
their wooden skeleton, in quietude
throughout the night. Outside, the fruit tree towers,
stoic, languid, helpless to our pleas.