http://vimeo.com/5732745

Well, I had something entirely different in mind for today until I received an e-mail from one of the members in my choir. For anyone who has convinced her/him self she/he couldn't sing, didn't understand music, etc. PLEASE click on the url above where Bobby McFerrin explores the pentatonic scale in a hands-on, or I should say feet-on, manner that will change your mind. We've got it in our bodies, folks. Enjoy. Back to some writing next week.

The Three Muses

This week, something a little lighter of heart. On the brink of self destruction, Winnie experiences an intervening force (a trio of angels? muses? guides? - you decide) that reroutes her life.


The hoot of a barn owl and her own reflection against the black night on the other side of the sliding glass door startled Winnie. Her hand jerked and Merlot leaped from her goblet onto the carpet where it was absorbed like quicksand by the cream-colored wool.

“Stupid chicken shit!” Winnie hurled at the night sky. The words ricocheted off the glass pane and splattered all over her.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself as she uncorked the bottle and refilled her goblet for the fourth time.

Winnie’s armpits itched and a rancid odor wafted up when she lifted her elbow. She yanked a cord and drew the vertical Venetians closed, and then stumbled toward the utility room for spot remover. Her eyes caught the slight movement, a shift in the corner of the darkened room.

Holding her breath, she took a step backward. The wood planks beneath the worn thin carpet creaked under foot and she froze. Winnie ran a hand along the wall until she reached the light switch, dreading, yet compelled to illuminate the bogeyman hiding among the Hoover attachments.

With a shaking finger, she flipped the switch. A glare of white light from the bare 100 watt bulb above her head flooded the room.

“Jesus! You could blind a person,” hollered the bag lady like visage in the corner shielding her eyes with a bony hand. She was older than dirt, dirtier than dirt too, it appeared. She wore a ragged housedress of faded indefinable print and a tattered musty sweater several sizes too large for her scrawny frame.

Her sparse white hair spritzed out in all directions. Her eyebrows, same color as her hair, were like two fat caterpillars napping above rheumy blue eyes that squinted out under heavy lids at Winnie.

“Who the hell are you?” Winnie gasped, holding one hand over her palpitating heart. “And what are you doing in my utility room?”

“Relax, missy, I’ve been sent,” the woman croaked as she stepped out of the corner, over the attachments, and dusted herself off as best she could.

“I’d planned to land on the porch. Guess I’ve lost my night vision. Call me Gwynyth,” she said, extending a liver-spotted hand with dirt encrusted fingernails.

“What do you mean you’ve been sent?” Winnie recoiled. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth tightened with judgment.

“Think of me as your guardian angel,” Gwynyth said. Her crooked smile was missing a few teeth. She dropped her hand to her side, noting that this woman was not the friendly type.

“I don’t need a guardian angel,” Winnie said in a huff. “And, if I did, I certainly wouldn’t choose you!” She pulled herself up to her full 5’5” stature and stared down her nose at the old woman.

“You don’t choose us, dearie, we’re assigned.” She took Winnie’s elbow and spun her around toward the bedroom door. “I musta really pissed off the boss to pull this assignment,” Gwynyth said aside.

“Unhand me!” Winnie cried out. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You left a mess on the floor in there. Thought I’d sort of show you my credentials,” she said as she ushered Winnie, protesting all the way, back into the bedroom.

Gwynyth pointed at the blur of red wine diffused among the fibers of the carpet. “Spit clean,” she uttered. The spot vanished.

“My god, you’re a witch,” Winnie whimpered.

“Nah, that was another lifetime,” Gwynyth smiled amicably. I’m here to help you clean up the mess you’ve made of your life, help you with your problems, and stuff like that.”

Winnie brushed a stand of her own graying shoulder length hair back from her face. “I’ll have you know my life is NOT a mess, and I have no problems.” This creature was working her last nerve.

“Well, here’s one problem; your bed faces West,” Gwynyth sighed in disgust, shaking her head slowly.

“What’s wrong with West?” Winnie asked in spite of herself.

“Sun rises in the East. Hell, at your age, just to know you made it to the next day when you open your eyes has gotta be worth something,” Gwynyth cackled.

“At my age? I’m only sixty-two,” Winnie hoisted her chin.

“The Golden Hours,” Gwynyth continued, ignoring her, “ that’s what you want to be waking up to: sun rise; new day; fresh start; clean slate; all that crap.”

Gwynyth tugged at the cord and whipped the vertical Venetians open.

“Yikes!” she yelped at her own reflection.

She pulled, grunted and groaned until the rounded brass foot of the bed was aimed squarely at the sliding glass door where the earliest rays of tomorrow’s sunrise could not be missed.

Gwynyth wiped her hands briskly on her faded dress, surveyed the room. She lifted the ceramic goblet from the bedside table, slid open the glass door and heaved the contents out into the night.

“That was a perfectly good glass of Merlot you just wasted,” Winnie complained.

“Stunt your growth,” Gwynyth retorted.

“I’m sixty-two—there’s not a lot of growing I’m likely to do,” Winnie groused.

“‘Sup to you,” said Gwynyth. “A friend of mine said ‘whether you believe you can or believe you can’t, you’re right’. I’m here to convince you you’re not done yet.”

“A moment ago, you had me on the very brink of death,” muttered Winnie. She yawned and sat down heavily on the bent wood rocker next to the bed. This had been a very tiring evening.

“I was just messin’ with you,” Gwynyth said as she bent down to remove Winnie’s slippers. She turned down the blankets on the bed, fluffed the pillow and reached out a hand to Winnie.

“Beddie-bye time,” she said.

Too tired to resist, Winnie allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, and guided into bed where the covers were tucked up under her chin. As her eyes closed with the heaviness of sandbags, she decided this had all been a wine-induced hallucination. Things would look better in the morning. Across the room, the light clicked off softly and the last sound she heard was the shuffle of feet leaving the room.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a rooster crowed. Winnie twitched the muscles of one eyelid, then allowed a crack of vision. A blaze of peach, melon, and mauve lit the morning sky. Before she could clamp down on it, a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“Stunning, ain’t it?” Gwynyth’s voice crackled next to the bed.

Winnie jolted upright, groaned, rubbed her temples then collapsed back against a just-fluffed pillow propped against the head of the bed.

“Quick—what do you hate most?” Gwynyth demanded.

“Living a meaningless life,” Winnie said. Startled by her own vulnerability, she yanked at the flannel sheet and swiped angrily at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Not fair,” she hissed.

“When you first wake up your defenses are down. That’s when I can get an honest answer out of you. By the time you leave the house, you’ve already got your armor on,” Gwynyth explained.

“Why are you still here?” Winnie groaned.

“Told you. We have work to do. Fresh start, new day. Today’s the first day of...”

“Don’t say it,” Winnie warned.

Gwynyth produced a bamboo tray laden with English muffins topped with cream cheese and marmalade, three crisp strips of bacon, orange juice, coffee and a multivitamin. A colorful cloth napkin was folded into something resembling a giant bird that stood watch over the food. The smell of hot coffee made Winnie’ stomach rumble.

“Eat up. The others should be here soon,” she said.

“Others? What others? You can’t just invite people into my home. My god, the sun’s not even all the way up yet,” Winnie sputtered.

At just that moment, a rumpled heap landed with a thwump on the deck just beyond the sliding glass door.

Winnie shrieked.

“Musta lost her landing gear,” Gwynyth mumbled as she opened the slider.

She watched as AfroDidee chortled, pulled herself to her feet, rearranged her face into a big smile and hollered, “Gwynnie!”

The two old women fell all over themselves in a clumsy, bear like embrace.

“Ya don’t look a century older than the last time we worked a gig together,” AfroDidee wheezed. “Creation sends her regards,” she reported to Gwynyth. “She got busted in a Save-the-Redwoods rally in San Francisco.”

“That girl always has a cause,” Gwynyth nodded respectfully.

Winnie, sitting propped up against the headboard, watched wide-eyed as Gwynyth and her friend entered the bedroom.

“Winnie, this is AfroDidee, Goddess of Luv,” she said, making a grand sweeping gesture toward the old woman whose steel gray hair looked like an electrocuted Brillo pad. She was dressed in a Go Raiders sweatshirt, and adult diaper covered with colorful Valentine’s Day stickers, and red sneakers.

Her walnut-colored eyes twinkled in her leathery face as she dipped a quick curtsey and said, “Hi-dee.”

“No—It’s Winnie,” Winnie corrected. “She’s wearing diapers,” Winnie stage whispered to Gwynyth.

“I can take ‘em off...” AfroDidee offered, but was interrupted.

“Oh, god no—please!” Winnie covered her eyes with shaking hands.

“I meant the stickers,” AfroDidee explained to Gwynyth, her voice apologetic. “You know, for different seasons.”

Gwynyth patted her arm. “It’s okay, she’s just a little jumpy,” she reassured her friend. They both regarded Winnie who was now squinting through her fanned fingers as if watching a horror show.

A rap on the glass slider startled the trio.

“Hey, hey, whatta ya say...” a voice boomed on the other side of the door. “...Open up or I’ll go away.”

“Fate!” both Gwynyth and AfroDidee called out.

Gwynyth slid the door open and pulled a stout old woman in a large straw hat into the bedroom. She wore a flowered muumuu and rubber flip-flops. Her skin was the color of hickory and her hair was died deep auburn like the last rays of sunset.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, a righting the hat that had been knocked askew by the doorjamb.

“This here’s Winnie,” AfroDidee pointed to the woman who had pulled the quilt up under chin and held it there with a death grip.

“Fate’s the name, intervention’s the game,” she said by way of introduction. She turned to Gwynyth and said, “What’s wrong with her?” She crooked her head to once side then the other, studying Winnie from different angles.

“Nothing’s wrong with me except I have a room full of lunatics and I haven’t even had breakfast,” Winnie squawked.

Fate munched thoughtfully on a marmalade-spread muffin.

“I think we need a game plan,” she said. “Did she come with instructions?”

“Why me?” Winnie moaned. “Why not Mrs. Rosenblatz down the block?”

“Mrs. Rosenblatz doesn’t hate her work and drink herself silly at night or spend her weekends watching bad television all by herself with the blinds pulled,” Gwynyth explained in a reasonable voice.

“Can I help it if I’m trapped in a crappy job? I don’t have a college degree and I couldn’t run a computer if my life depended on it. My lousy ex-husband left me penniless, the bum. If I had any money, I’d retire. If I had any sense, I’d kill myself,” Winnie ranted. “So I drink a little bit at night to brace myself for the next day. So what?” she challenged.

“Hey, you are the weaver, you are the web,” AfroDidee offered.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Winnie asked.

“We create our own reality by the choices we make, and then we’re stuck with it until we make new choices,” Gwynyth answered.

“All roads lead to Mecca,” added Fate.

Winnie scowled.

“Or, you might say,” Gwynyth explained, “there is a master plan, but how you get to the outcome is through a series of making one choice after the next.”

“Each choice has its own consequence,” Fate added.

“It’s like when you married Harold back in the 60ies. Remember? You wanted to be a librarian but you couldn’t afford to finish college because he couldn’t keep a job,” Gwynyth tsked.

“Harold was a toad,” Fate muttered. “A mere stumbling block on your path, but you gave up on yourself.”

“You mean I’m responsible for the way my life looks?”

“‘Fraid so, kiddo,” chirped AfroDidee.

“If you had your druthers, what would life look like?” Fate inquired.

“My druthers?” Winnie sneered. “Well, I’d be lounging on a South Seas island with my wealthy husband, sipping one of those drinks with the umbrella in them. Why?”

“And that would be a meaningful life?” Fate asked.

“Look, you’re Fate. You already know the future. Why not just cut to the chase?” Winnie asked in a pique.

“Well, I’m not really supposed to do this, but you are one pathetic case. Maybe just this time.” Fate pulled up a chair opposite Winnie. “Remember, how you get there is up to you.”

Winnie sat up straighter in bed. She had to admit; it wasn’t every day that Fate just laid it on the line for you.

“Okay, you’re not so far off. I do see you on a South Seas island with your husband. He seems to be a native there.” Fate squinted her eyes and peered into the distance. “You’re finally doing what you were meant to do. You have a fair amount of notoriety on the island,” she finished. “Whew! Plumb wears me out,” she muttered.

Just then, the phone on the nightstand trilled. AfroDidee lifted the receiver. “Winifred’s residence, AfroDidee, Goddess of Luv speaking. How may I help you?”

A pause while AfroDidee nodded her wiry hair.

“One moment please,” she said grinning hugely, “I’ll connect you.” She handed the phone to Winnie, gave a palms-up shrug and said, “Looks like my job is over.”

“No fair,” Fate mumbled. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

On the phone, Winnie was saying, “Palo? Yes, of course I remember you. Well, how very nice of you. Tomorrow night? Oh, my. Let me check my calendar and get right back to you.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, before Winnie hung up. She sat in stunned silence.

“Are you going to leave us here dying of curiosity?” Gwynyth asked.

“How strange is that?” Winnie said. “I thought he moved back to Fiji. The man I met at my aunt’s funeral three years ago just asked me out to dinner.”

* * * *

Remnants of breakfast remained on the tray. Gwynyth finished the cup of coffee. Fate wiped a bit of bacon from her lower lip. AfroDidee set the juice glass down carefully. Winnie swallowed the last of her muffin.

Gwynyth leaned against the pillow at the head of the bed, her sweater draped over her shoulders. Fate propped herself against the foot with her straw hat perched on bent knees. AfroDidee rocked in the wooden rocker, a blanket snuggled over her lap, her red sneakers resting near the nightstand. It looked like a pajama party for the demented.

Winnie perched on the edge of her bed, holding her robe closed with one hand, and gestured wildly as she spoke.

“I can’t just have dinner with a man I barely remember,” she said, with an openhanded smack to her forehead. “I’m sixty-two, I’m fat, I’m wrinkled, I’m gray....”

“I’m waiting to hear something that matters,” AfroDidee offered.

“What was it he saw in you three years ago that would lead him to call you out of the blue?” Gwynyth asked.

“He said he like my droll humor,” Winnie smiled in spite of herself. “And we talked about poetry, right there at the graveyard, waiting for my poor aunt to be planted in the ground,” she shook her head in wonder.

“Sounds like he was looking at the inside of you while you seem determined to focus on the outside,” Fate offered. “Which, by the way, there’s nothing wrong with the outside of you,” she added.

“Go ahead; choose happiness just once for yourself. Step outside the box and take a little risk,” Gwynyth urged.

With a trembling hand, Winnie lifted the phone and dialed, amidst smiles and winks all around her.
* * * *

The three old women sat slumped around a wrought iron table on the plaza, lulled by the noonday sun, the trickling waters of a nearby fountain, and an icy pitcher of Margaritas, which sweated an ever spreading circle on the checkered tablecloth. A multicolored umbrella turned lazily overhead.

Gwynyth smiled and refilled her own glass before passing the pitcher on. Fate, sporting an Easter bonnet covered in bright Azaleas, fanned herself with an envelope while Gwynyth unfolded a letter, hand written on cream colored stationery. AfroDidee laid two glossy photos on the table. One was of a clump of children, Winnie, and Palo in front of a small wooden building with a brightly hand-painted sign that read LIBRARY just above the door. The other was of Winnie and Palo sitting on beach chairs at the water’s edge, smiling at the camera, each holding a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella.

Gwynyth took a gulp of her Margarita before reading the letter.

Dear Ones, she began. “Ah, she called us dear ones.” Gwynyth stopped, sniffed, and blotted a tear that trickled down her cheek. Fate moved the pitcher of Margaritas to the other side of the table. AfroDidee poured herself another glass.

Greetings from the South Seas where Palo and I have opened a small library on the island, with guess-who as Head Librarian? I’m also teaching English as a Second Language to the children. I couldn’t be happier...”

“Ah, she couldn’t be happier,” Gwynyth dabbed at a tear and blew her nose.

“That’s our girl,” Fate said.

“She looks kinda blissful, doesn’t she?” AfroDidee observed.

I’ve truly found my bliss, Gwynyth continued. She raised her eyebrow at AfroDidee.

“Hey, it didn’t hurt that you pulled Palo out of thin air just when you did,” Fate addressed AfroDidee.

“I thought you did that,” AfroDidee looked at Fate.

“What’s that little word on the bottom of the picture?” Fate squinted.

“Over,” said AfroDidee, flipping the photograph.

Here’s to better choices. Love, Winnie p.s. those are virgin Mai Tais.

“I’ll drink to that!” smiled Gwynyth.

I Am Addiction - Anonymous

A client brought me the following essay. She found it on the internet—author unknown, or I surely would have gotten permission to reuse it. I am so moved by the way creativity has shown up. For anyone who has ever suffered from any form of addiction, please read and pass this along. If we can’t use blogs to help make the world a better place, why bother? If you’d care to share how this essay affected you, please e-mail me at the address below in the About Me section. I wish you health, well being, and a joy filled life.


I hate meetings…I hate higher power…I hate anyone who has a program. To all who come in contact with me, I wish you death and I wish you suffering.

Allow me to introduce myself; I am the disease of addition. I am cunning, baffling, and powerful. That’s me. I have killed millions and I am pleased.

I love to catch you with the element of surprise. I love pretending I am your friend and lover. I have given you comfort, haven’t I? Wasn’t I there when you were lonely?

When you wanted to die, didn’t you call on me? I was there. I love to make you hurt. I love to make you cry. Better yet, I love to make you so numb you can neither hurt nor cry, when you can’t feel anything at all. This is true gratification. And, all that I ask from you is long term suffering.

I’ve been there for you always. When things were going right in your life, you invited me. You said you didn’t deserve these good things, and I was the only one who would agree with you.

Together we were able to destroy all the good things in your life.

People don’t take me seriously. They take strokes seriously, heart attacks, even diabetes, they take seriously. Fools. For without my help these things would not be possible.

I am such a hated disease, and yet I do not come uninvited. You choose to have me. So many have chosen me over reality and peace. More than you hate me, I hate all of you who have a 12-step program. Your programs, your meetings, your higher power. All of these things weaken me, and I can’t function in the manner I am accustomed to. Now I must lie here waiting quietly.

You don’t see me, but I am growing bigger than ever. When you only exist, I may live. When you live, I may only exist. But I am here…and until we meet again, if we meet again, I wish you death and suffering.

Color Pallet – Travel Musings

Neck stiff and travel weary, I turn my head and look past the haggard, sleep-deprived sojourner next to me, beyond my reflection in the Greyhound window, into the early morning sky.

Black clouds stretch like raven wings along the horizon, back lighted by steel gray as the sun waits off stage to make her entrance.

Miles down the road at sunrise, the moist, peach California sky is the same color that lines the inner folds of a seashell I found on a beach in Coral Gables, Florida; the clouds--shifting wisps of mauve—a similar hue as the Colorado mountains at sunset. At daybreak, midsummer hills imitate the variegated yellow, gold, and brown tassels topping fields of corn from my Iowa childhood.

We pass a County fair; the double Ferris wheel stands in bas-relief like a giant infinity symbol.

Beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, shimmering fog swaddles San Francisco. It is slow to lift and gives only a hint—a mere suggestion—that a city lies within.

The stippled waters of the Bay spread like cellulite-laden thighs.

At the edge of Golden Gate Park, a body lies prone in the underbrush of eucalyptus and cypress; one less nameless, faceless, homeless mark of urban blight for the equestrian patrol to roust.

Gray pigeons on the rooftop of a cheap motel smirk down at the pink neon sign flashing vacancy in a filmy window. Irony is not lost on them.

Paddle

There's a process to writing that intrigues me; it's called revising. Just when you think you've got it down, there's just that one more little thing--or sometimes a whole bunch of things--that could make it even better. The same thing happens in song writing; a half note might need to become two quarter notes so you can add an extra word.

In my post, Let Me Introduce You, dated 9/11/09, I mentioned a character from my story Paddle, and in Life as Fiction, 10/2/09 I posted an excerpt from that story. As I frequently do, I ran the story by an editor who wanted a “hook,” a reason to care about this young girl and how life would hone her over time. I’ve added a prologue to give you a little back story. My hope is that it will make you want to turn the page, begin the next chapter.

“Leastwise you’ll be cooler down there,” seven year old Paddle whispered to her Aunt Seraphine as the grave diggers slowly lowered the polished oak casket. The smell of musty earth, like a basket of mushrooms, wafted up from the dark hole.

With her knuckle Paddle wiped at a trickle of sweat mixed with a tear or two as it slid down her cheek. She looked at the handful of mourners, gathered around the small family plot, wilting in the Louisiana mugginess along with the flowers placed at the head of the grave. Preacher Marcus, Doc Lester, Ginny and Benji Hawk, Deputy Sheriff Higgins, and four old women from Aunt Seraphine’s quilting group sang the last refrain of “Amazing Grace.”

Paddle knew about planting people. It started when she was just a little kid, four years old, when her momma and daddy got killed by a logging truck run amok. Then Grandma, who’d taken her in, died of the bad lungs. Aunt Seraphine had moved in to take care of Paddle and Grandpa until he shot himself out in the timber while hunting rabbits. Paddle never could wrap her thoughts around that one.

Three days ago, she went into the kitchen for a glass of water and Aunt Seraphine was crumpled on the floor looking sort of gray. Heart just gave out, Doc Lester had said.

“It’s all right; I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself,” she’d said to Doc, who had pulled her into a big old bear hug then driven her over to Ginny Hawk’s just down the bayou.

“’Course I’ll take her in,” Ginny said, her voice all gruffed up with love and sadness. “She’ll be the big sister Benji’s never gonna get any other way.” And that had been it; she was officially part of the Hawk family.

“Benji, don’t you touch those cupcakes in the display case; I mean it,” Ginny admonished Paddle’s five year old new brother a week later. “Paddle, grab that coffee pot over there and fill up Deputy Sheriff Higgins’ cup, will you?” She shooed Daemon the cat out of the puddle of sunlight where he’d curled up right in the middle of the Blue Hawk Diner.

It was good to feel useful and earn her keep. Paddle got all saucer-eyed when Sheriff Higgins left her a quarter and said she’d make a right fine waitress.

Ginny spread her arms wide to take in the whole café and said in a voice that made the Deputy Sheriff chuckle, “Some day all this will be hers.

“Benji, stop spinning on that stool; it’s going to make you hurl,” Ginny shouted back over her shoulder. She laid out some paper and crayons at one of the booths and settled him there. “Thanks, Mike,” she called to Mr. McPhenson who’d left a handful of bills next to the cash register for his Southern Comfort Breakfast Special.
* * *
This is how life went, year after year; daily chats with the locals, catching up on the latest gossip, a few foreign visitors from out of state with their funny accents who used words like quaint and delightful. On the first of every month, Ginny would sit down with Paddle and make up a “special” and show her how to price it out so they wouldn’t lose their shirts on it.

Calendar pages kept turning and a decade passed. To Paddle, it looked like this was the life she was destined to live. It wasn’t a bad life working at the diner after school, but when those foreigners talked of places like the Rocky Mountains with their deep canyons, or the lake in Utah that was so salty you couldn’t sink, or even the gold coast of California that sat right there on the Pacific ocean, the travel bug bit at her like a swarm of mosquitoes. “Might as well put that dream to rest,” Paddle would tell herself as she moved from booth to booth refilling the salt and pepper shakers.

Then Lucas arrived.

Small Miracles and Metaphors

It has been raining for weeks in my neck of the woods. My cells feel saturated. This time of year usually puts me in an introspective frame of mind where my thoughts just string themselves together like prayer beads.

The other day I watched a crow peck at a nut that it had dropped to the ground from an overhead telephone wire, watched as it craftily maneuvered the shell with claw and beak to reach the meat inside. It was a miraculous success; I wanted to applaud.

I remembered a quote from Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. She said: “Even miracles are mundane happenings that an awakened mind can see in a fantastic way.” This week I offer my thoughts about small miracles in the form of birds and feathers.

For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been intrigued by feathers. I was two when I met my first spirit guide, a mythical bird-like creature I called Snigwig. It lived in our side yard, and I watched its five legged, blue feathered, saddled body from the arm of the couch next to the living room window. My family received my stories about my new friend and our adventures together with the bemused indulgence often afforded children without siblings. The only other person who reported seeing this special being was the town drunk. I’m not sure he was telling the truth, but he’s dead now, so I can’t ask.

I no longer remember when I stopped seeing this guide, but birds have continued to bring me comfort, joy, courage, and support.

Birds are the connectors between the heavens and the earth--flying in the ether, walking on earth, and living in the trees in between, grounding spirit to earth. Their feathers are magical metaphorical gifts. When I find a downy little feather, I’m reminded to be gentle with myself, to take little steps, to know that it’s okay to be a babe in the woods. Big feathers remind me of my power and my ability to soar like a raven, to see life from a broader perspective.

Each time I take a walk along the creek or in the woods, I come back with a special gift of a feather; it has happened with such regularity that I no longer question it. Often I find a feather waiting for me just as I reach a turn-around point in my walk. One step short and I wouldn’t have seen it half buried just off the path. Occasionally the feather is lying in a tiny patch of sun, and its sparkling iridescence catches my eye. In the next moment, as the sun spot fades, all that remains visible is a patch of leaves and twigs.

There are times a feather seems placed right in my path. Once as I followed the creek path near the water, I found an owl feather projecting from the top of a cattail, nose high from the ground, gently swaying about in the breeze. Feathers have drifted down in front of me from trees, floated over to me while I squatted by the creek, and with a different magic, given by friends who know this proclivity of mine.

The type of feather is significant. When I stray from serenity and am caught up in the busyness of life, a pure white Crane feather comes my way. If you’ve watched a crane you know the focused, patient, and serene feeling it conveys.

When I’m in touch with the intuitive, magical side of my nature, a shiny black raven feather appears and reminds me of the laws of nature, the psychic realm, shape shifting, and being in two places at once.

Not long ago I wandered along the path near a creek, feeling very small and vulnerable. I bent to straighten my sock and found the tiniest piece of baby fluff, a black pin feather, the owner of which I could not place. It was so absolutely sweet, delicate and child-like that it reminded me that I am perfect just the way I am, however small and vulnerable I may feel.

Another day while walking through vineyards, awe-filled by the astounding beauty of a pre-autumn California morning, I breathed the heady fragrance of lush purple grapes. As I bent to pick a small cluster of juicy grapes, I found at my feet a double feather of the palest beige, variegating into dark brown, ribbed with gold highlights and flecks of grey. It was soft, billowy, stunning to behold, and very reflective of the beauty of this area where I live. That feather sits on my altar next to my bed, and when I forget for a moment that life is beautiful, a quick glance at that wondrous feather restores my faith.

The notion of specific lessons or gifts to be gleaned from particular birds intrigues me.

I sat on a large piece of driftwood on a deserted beach. The overcast early February sky and the glassy water beyond the breaking waves were the same indistinguishable silver gray. The Pacific Ocean rumbled in and out; it frothed and sputtered and crashed about in a way that irritated me. Everything irritated me. For a month, I’d tried and failed to complete a particular task and I was in a dour mood. I had come to the beach to find peace of mind, and it wasn’t working.

I saw a dense dark cloud moving at an alarming rate from North to South. I squinted myopically as this cloud mass approached, and realized that it was a flock of pelicans coming to land not far from where I sat.

In a flurry of squawks and flapping wings, these larger than life birds with their immense wing spans, swooped down and lit in the wet sand of the receding tide. The unlikelihood that anything as big and bulky as a pelican, let alone a flock of them, could actually become airborne again without effort was belied by their just as sudden departure en masse.

In that moment, I felt a little more optimistic at the likelihood of completing my own task. I mean, it wasn’t as hard as becoming airborne. I walked over to an object protruding from the sand before the next wave would carry it off, and retrieved a stately gray-brown pelican feather—just a reminder of the moment.

When I open myself to the special messages of birds and their feathers as they cross my path, my life is enriched.

Overheard Conversations

I know I’ve dedicated this blog to creativity, and perhaps overheard conversations don’t seem to fit the category, but where do you think the inspiration for a lot of fiction comes from? To a writer, everything is fair game.

Walking in the Woods
I’m walking briskly through the redwood forest on a beautiful summer morning. Ahead I spot two women, dressed in baggy jeans and sweatshirts ambling along the path. Not wanting to slow my stride to stay a respectful distance behind them, I break into a trot and jog on by. As I pass, I hear the apparent end of a conversation.

“…so, I tossed a rump roast and some veggies in the crock. Handful of garlic, too. Tasted real good, but it gave George the diarrhea.”

“Mmmm. Aren’t those the most beautiful trees ever?”

Definition of Rhetorical Question
A middle aged woman is dressed in a tartan cape that matches the pattern of her doggie’s sweater. The doggie, a beagle pup, sits stubbornly on the sidewalk, ignoring the taut leash and her owner’s obvious consternation.

The woman steps off the curb and squats in the street, eye level with the pup. She leans forward and earnestly asks, “Why are you acting like this?”

Wish I Were You
Basking in the afterglow of my early morning workout at Curves, I wave goodbye to the desk attendant and step out into a slice of September sun, pausing for a moment of sensate pleasure.

As I head toward my ancient blue Honda, I note another gym-goer pull up in her shiny new silver Explorer. The middle-aged woman climbs laboriously out of her car and grimaces at the world as she beeps the lock gadget. She tugs at and rearranges her matching baby blue Lycra exercise outfit. She reminds me of a pigeon preening.

Although a warm stiff breeze rustles the leaves of crepe myrtle overhead and lifts the edges of my sweaty tee shirt, her well-lacquered hair holds fast to its helmet shape. Determination lines her face as she marches purposefully toward the gym. She nods briskly as she notes my leave-taking, and mumbles, “I wish I were you,” as she pushes herself through the door for her thirty minute workout.

Now, I know, in context what she meant was she wished she were finishing her workout, like me. I couldn’t help but chuckle at how astounded she would have been to suddenly experience herself as a sixty-three year old lesbian mom/grandmother/writer/therapist/composer/actor that lives alone on a meager income in a large one-room rental with a stuffed raven perched on her computer for a companion.

Ah, the things that fall out of people’s mouths.