“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


days go by

sunday morning: cleaning just enough to call it that, the television on: the rise & fall of the third reich, which gave me chills, and gladiator, which somewhat ditto, but at least there was russell crowe.

still no images, back to blogging only words.  it feels like less decoration, like more truth, like opening my soul but keeping my heart all to myself.  such yada yada yada, such overthinking, such an excuse for what is probably just laziness.  i just know what i know and pictures aren't part of what i know right now.

what i know:  there is a blue jay in the empty wisteria vines, circling, circling, fluttering through the open spaces, up and down and back and up.  there is a blue sky behind him, white clouds, the honking of a horn.  a warmish sunday after a coldish week.

monday morning:  the wind is up and sounds hard, speaks of gloves and a scarf.  blows leaves away from the front door, sends the cat scurrying to nestle next to me in bed.  i am too lazy to wash my hair, to even talk myself out from under these covers, but the house feels cold and i need to check the heater.  it is teetering on its last legs, and goes off several times each day.  sputtering its way to the end.

the small tree next to my bathroom window is coming down.  on purpose, because i once thought it was a flower and let it grow, but it turned out to be a tree with roots whose fingers are beginning to scrabble their way beneath the house, and so, it must go.  i'm sad to say goodbye - both maggie the cat and skye cat made much use of its shade, and i liked the coolness of its greens against the summertime window, but now the sunshine will have an easier way in.

thursday morning:  2 cold days and nights and though it will warm up today, i woke in a bad mood, could feel the badness in my dreams, dreams of running late and lost shoes and words i had to read aloud, rushing my way into the the realness of day.

i have been writing, but not showing anyone, just words for me for the rightnowness of things, and when i told that to the ever wonderful michael, he laughed and asked if that wasn't much the same as if a tree falls in a forest . . . ?, and i laughed right back, but he's wrong even if i love him.  those words aren't ready, still growing, and so . . . the dream.  that pushy thing.

these words are small, like the wren-sized sparrows on the road, or maybe they are wrens, i can't tell, but there are tons of them on the red bricks, apparently finding a plentiful breakfast.  closer to the house there are cardinals, breakfasting on the lawn, resting in the hackberry tree.  and now a mockingbird.  and now the sparrows moving closer, close enough i can see they are sparrows, swooping past the windows, waking the cat.

it's brown and dull out there, the sky is gray, almost white.  some dark pink blossoms on a bush behind a neighbor's house, but i have no idea what they are.


the truth about things is that i can't out loud write about the truth of things right now.  writing no longer heals me, at least, i don't know, maybe it does, but maybe like all medicines, i have to get the dosage right.  maybe those words i am writing are keeping my spirit alive.  just this.  i will tell you this.  my brother is sick.  very.  i am struggling to write about even the sparrows when my heart is hurting.  it's the kind of hurt that requires a paintbrush, i think, and that chair a friend found on the street, the one he brought me to paint.  nothing heals, for me, like a paintbrush when art is not the objective.

maybe this weekend.  maybe there will be pictures.  



  1. you never need pictures, you write in them.

    and maybe you are right, maybe you do have to get the dosage right. or maybe sometimes, for some things, the healing has to come from the places you'd least expect.

    no rules. no answers.

    sending love. xoxo

  2. ((((((DSKJ)))))) <<-- those are hugs.

    The pictures are there, even if you didn't post the links to them ... they're hidden among your words.

    I'm sorry about your Brother. (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v90/moose53/MINIS/HUGS/brightertomorrows.gif) Those of us who feel 'things' more intensely have trouble coping with ... everything. Even if you can't write here, get yourself a blank book and write ... your writing gets in touch with your soul and will help with the coping and the healing.



  3. This is beautiful. The kind of writing I like best - writing that doesn't have an agenda, writing that doesn't know all the answers:

    "writing no longer heals me, at least, I don't know, maybe it does ..."

    I am so sorry about your brother. xoxo

  4. (((Hugs))) I am so sorry. I hope your brother will be okay, and that you will be given the strength to see this through. Your writing sounds like it is doing good medicinal things, only often words do work in the dark, the underground of our souls, like tree roots. I wish you joy and peace.

  5. agreeing with Mrs. M. your words are pictures enough. more than enough. even when you doubt they are. AND i am so happy to see mention of the-ever-wonderful-Michael. there has been no mention of him in a while in writing.
    i am sorry, so sorry for the hurt of your brother's illness. i hope the sparrows can heal your heart. i hope your words, even if not written to us, can heal your heart. and your brother will have healing.
    in my always fondness, tilda

  6. I am so sorry to hear about your brother. I hope things get better soon.Why doesn't anyone tell us that life is not easy? Perhaps we could prepare ourselves better...

    Victoria from; herecomesnoodle.blogspot.com


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