No internet access this morning so I’m just writing my blog post and saving it in a Word file to upload later.
It’s bad enough when I can’t think of anything to say, but having no way to post that nothing makes it so easy to just not write anything at all.
But not having done this for a few days illuminates why I’d started doing daily posts to begin with. I noticed during my cessation a definite decrease in creative thoughts.
Even if I can’t write actively on my WIP daily, thinking about it makes it better when I do write. This daily dose of writing a few words even when I don’t feel like it, or think I have nothing to say, makes it easier to at least *think* in a way conducive to writing.
So why didn’t I spend these few minutes I had on my WIP instead? Because the *stuff* in my mind needed to be cleared. It’s like during meditation. When I first sit and try to still my mind, there’s a lot of extraneous fluff that has to be cleared before I can think of nothing.
Well, before I can think of something good toward my works, I need to clear the fluff too. And now all day I’ll think of things I want to think of and I’ll jot them on scraps or pull out my mini and put them to good use.
It’s just a way of priming the pump. No one drinks the first waters that come up, but it’s perfectly good for watering the flowers.
My friend Carla and I were discussing the limbo state of not knowing what one day to the next will hold. (My memory is faulty, but I’m sure she’ll comment and straighten me out if this wasn’t the topic, lol.)
In my case it was regarding whether I’ll be staying here or moving. Usually, the idea of living like I’ll be here tomorrow is in reference to the possibility that today could always be the last day of my life.
But after some thought, I realized that it also applies to everyday life. I’m going to build my garden this year just like I would if I knew I’d be staying. Besides, with the real estate market like it is, it could take years to sell this place if it comes to that.
So I’ll live like I’ll be here tomorrow. On all counts.
There is an old man (old, as in 97 or so years) who lives down my road. He used to call every Sunday to see how my garden was doing and tell me about his.
For the past few Sundays he hasn’t called. He wears a hearing aid and keeps it turned off unless he’s making the call, so it doesn’t do me any good to call him instead because he won’t hear the phone ringing.
So this morning he did call and I was relieved to know he was still kicking. It gave me a chuckle when he said he hadn’t seen me around in a while and was just wondering if I was still hanging in there.
Old man, I was wondering the same thing about you!
Tonight I am composing a PowerPoint presentation for the Benton County Master Gardeners.
This is a lot of fun – which surprises me. Why? Because first of all I’m terrified of public speaking. I accepted the offer to do this presentation because I want to get over that fear.
So I am surprised I am enjoying preparing for it so much. And I’m surprised at how much writing is involved. It is truly a creative process to put this together and it’s a lot of fun.
Ordinarily, I take people out on an herbwalk and it’s a more interactive thing than just me standing in front of a room full of expectant people waiting for me to say something interesting. The *doing* of an herb walk doesn’t make me so nervous. It’s the *talking* about one that does.
As I organize the photos and think of the things I’d like to say about them (and write those things down), I am losing my fear of doing the presentation and am beginning to look more forward to it.
That is the biggest surprise of all.
… my desire to detach from the consumer cycle as quickly as possible and get to growing my own food. There’s still time to learn the ropes while swinging from the apron strings. - Me 2010
The concept embodied in that quote makes me feel better about the whole day job vs. writer job issue.
On one hand, it’s a comfort to imagine that I am still hanging onto the apron strings. The fact that I’m here reflects a certain pre-pubescent gawkiness in my development as a writer. On the other hand, I resent the need to be here and would like to move past this stage.
The goal, for me anyway, is not to make a lot of money as a writer. The goal is to bring my life to a point where I don’t need a lot of money. And that’s a project best completed while still swinging from the apron strings.
Not everyone thinks it important, but place matters to me.
I suppose I would *be* happy wherever I am, but when choice is involved, certain things are important about the place I inhabit.
Certain species of animals and plants can thrive only in specific environments. Others thrive anywhere.
I am one of the former kinds.
So what kind of places work for me? What are my habitat requirements?
- It must be drenched in wilderness and spirit. Some places are filled with spirit, like New Orleans, for example. That’s a city I do love to visit, but it’s not where I want to live.
- There must also be a certain energy about the place. This is probably related to ‘spirit’, but I’m not sure. It’s just something I feel, and either a place has *it* or it doesn’t.
- A place where birds sing (contributed by J. Duffy. Since I’ve never stayed anywhere birds didn’t sing, I can’t say for sure whether it’s vital to me or not. Sure seems like it ought to be, though.)
- Moving water, variety to landscape, trees (but all that being said, there’s something special about the four corners area, and I think I could easily live there.)
- Four distinct seasons (contributed by Lua) I can’t believe I forgot this one, but it is one of my important needs. I like to be able to note the turning of the wheel of time and that’s so much easier when the season is evident at a glance.
I’ll think of more qualifiers later and add them to the list. What kinds of things are important to you, or are you, like a weed, able to thrive anywhere you’re planted?
More thoughts on how places make me feel. When I’m traveling near home, and if I have to cross the MS river bridge at Sunshine, heading south toward Houma, I feel a sense of dread, even, and it feels like I’m traveling to another dimension altogether. An unfriendly one (although the people down there are far, far from unfriendly, don’t get me wrong). It’s just how it *feels*.
I used to live in Thibodaux/Houma/Shreiver.
I’ve been sitting behind the keyboard so much lately, it was time for some physical labor. In my tiny garden beside the house, I’ve been stacking rocks.
The rocks are varied in size and shape. Thick flat rocks, roundish cobblestones, and square brick shaped are common and abundant here. Rather than sort the rocks, I just use whatever is nearest at hand and go from there.
Makes for messy walls, I know. But so little else is organized and neat in my life, why should the walls be any different?
I stacked them from inside. The fence is level, so I wanted to build up the gap between the ground and bottom of the fence. It's meant to keep out dogs, cats, chickens, and horses. I doubt it will keep out the cats if they really want in, though.
The fence is aluminum and I got it from a lady who posted it on Freecycle. Until now, I hadn’t found a good use for it, but I knew sooner or later I would. Yes, I’m a packrat.
The ground is fairly sloped, so I have to look uphill toward the garden from down below the front of the house. Hopefully, this will help with erosion and the ground on the inside will build up behind the wall over time.
A cute picture of Cheese in Zack's boot. Cheese and Spidy are the only two surviving kittens of the four. Cheese takes the lion's share of mother's milk.
For drawing some parallels, but I can’t think of anything right now. That’s so frustrating!
To write posts, to demonstrate my voice and capacity to at least halfway string words together effectively, is the reason for having this blog.
It’s bad enough to not feel like writing, but it’s worse when I want to and can’t.
On second thought, there is a parallel there, but I don’t want to go down that road right now.
So for today I’ll stick to cleaning house, drinking coffee, and writing on SYMBIOSIS instead. And when it cools down a little outside, I’ll work on my garden wall.
Topic up next for discussion (and I hope more than me will be discussing it. I talk to myself enough already, so give feedback, okay?) is the saying “Bloom Where You’re Planted”.
You might imagine since I like to garden and grow things, I might like this saying. I don’t. On one hand. On the other, I do.
Like so many other things I wrestle in my mind, this topic leaves me divided, too, but less so than others. I do lean more toward one side than the other on this issue.
Tonight when I’ve had time to think (if work doesn’t scatter my brain again today), I’ll blog my thoughts about this phrase.
Feel free to pitch in before then.
Here’s a pic of the retaining walls in progress. Definitely they are not like the awesome rock walls built by early settlers in this area. Some are on this property, too. Those walls were built just to have somewhere to put rocks cleared from fields. They helped contain sheep, as well.
As water moves down the hill, it carries sand and small pebbles with it. When it reaches the wall, it’ll leave that behind and the ground gradually will build up behind them. As this happens, I’ll raise the wall higher until the slope is almost level on each terrace.
This will take years, of course, perhaps most of my life. My gardens, as are almost everything else I do, lifetime projects.
When I’m not actively working on the few that are most meaningful to me, I feel dis-connected from a meaningful life. Gardening is one that I choose to keep, although the progress toward my goal will be slow.