Why Write?

Why write. To be honest, that is not the question, but I like the question for a title better than, Why Publish? I write all the time and doodle. I have journaled for most of my life. I have written for publications and with the right audience, I have been well received. I add right audience because I used to write columns for the weekly county organ in the small southern town I lived in. I wasn't exactly those people's cup of tea.

I am a little sour on publishing, on being seen. I am so southern - so aware of what people think, and at the same time, a person who is incapable of conforming. You have met my type, the non-conformist. Yet I try to conform - until I don't.

Why write, why publish, why open myself up to others opinions, sometimes hurtful? Why?  I had a career as graphic designer/artist/typesetter. I have grown quite used to being invisible. Nobody ever says, who did that beautiful ad?  How did the phone book get so many glorious pictures, what a fine layout.  

I think of myself as invisible. After all, I am 66 years old. I have been invisible since my thirties, when my cuteness turned to stress and lines. It was strange to begin with, this invisibility, but it has grown on me. I depend on it. Unseen, unnoticed, doing my own thing. 

Did I mention, I finally left the south? Eight years ago, moving to to the Rogue Valley, I became even more invisible. The norms around me are quite different. It is OK to be different, to wear a weird outfit or two, to show up as oneself. I have watched myself expand and then contract in this atmosphere.  As life does, it has thrown some curve balls at me. And lets not forget the pandemic that drove us all inward for two or more years... I embraced this on my farm, living with my husband Carl and our dogs. Poking my head out again is a trial.

So why write? Why let anyone know what goes on in my strange little head that has quite a few narratives going on? Maybe if I write, if I share, someone, somewhere will feel strengthened, will shift how they think for just a moment, allowing change to happen.

We are all afraid of change. The world is in hyper drive and damn our fears, it is full stream ahead in a world imagined by all the Sci-Fi writers the world over.  Awhile back, I listened to friends discussing AI. Each person held a different perspective how this sudden influx of artificial intelligence will influence our reality. I realized, in different books, I had seen many of these perspectives unfold. I find this comforting, we have had many people imagining alternate futures for us for awhile. 

Why publish? Why add my voice out there when there are so many voices screaming to be seen. I've grown comfortable with invisibility. Maybe too comfortable.

We are living  through interesting times. I am a southern voice dissenting with politics that flourish there. I left there for a place that had decriminalized marijuana. I am comfortably stoned now, why add my voice to discophany? Isn't it dangerous to disclose oneself, to let anyone know what is going on in that brain sitting behind the blue eyes?

Yes it surely it is. But a life without risks is boring. I pledged to myself at about age twenty to live an interesting life, not necessarily a good one. I was five or six when I learned to ride a bike. I immediately wanted to form a scary fun club - but I had not takers. I seemed to be the only one who enjoyed scaring the crap out of myself with adrenaline rushes. I rode down steep hills, wrecking, I even had a concussion after a fast glide down and the gravely turn at the bottom spinning me out of control. I still enjoy the thrill of swimming in a river (especially rivers in Oregon where there are no water moccasins. I can tromp near and in creeks without the burdensome worry that a venomous snake might bite. Oh, one might not believe what a relief that might be.

Do you want to know these things, dear reader? Do you want to know what I believe and value? What you like to peek into the stories I tell about MOTU (Mother of the Universe) or Wolf and Raven, or Elorac and her grandmothers?   Chuen and Oc, lost in Meso-World? Are you interested in another opinion about the world? 

My friend Karen, encourages me to put my words out here. She asks me this question as I open this blog and think about that seductive publish button. She wrote to me, " dig deep into why you hold back when you KNOW your writing is healing, revealing, insightful.

Bear with me as I explore this. What is written above is not digging deep. It is the initial chatter before I dig deep in this. 

I hold back precisely because I know and have seen how powerful words can be. I run away from power now. Finally the little girl who sped down steep driveways on her bike, plunges into the Rogue River for a swim and who used to swim with the snakes in the Ocmulgee in Georgia has become cautious. Why?

Oh life has bitten me in these last years. Some of my descendants live hard lives and typically I want to take the blame. What have I done to cause mental illness, domestic violence, this plunge into societal darkness. I can't quit blaming society's dark turns on my own self. How is that for an inflated sense of responsibility. Sure I do know I could have made different choices and lives would be different. But would they be better? Autism, mental illness homelessness have fallen on those I love. I am helpless with their addictions, their responses, if they seek help. I have come face to face with my own powerlessness. As a middle class educated white woman, I mistakenly thought I was a savior and I could help people fix their lives. I discovered not only could I not fix others, but they could break me. And during the pandemic, I stayed home with my broke self and got used to this new shape and it's contours. 

Nothing stays the same. I am not the only one suffering. I have resources, friends and place and methods to find healing. Maybe I hit the publish button so we all understand we are in this together - suffering and celebrating. We are all attempting to find footing in a world that is changing faster than we can handle. We are all looking for someone who might can articulate how to stay afloat when the cosmos is swirling around us chaotically. 

I have my stories. I can share. I have to be careful not share other people's stories when their stories touch mine. I have to give them the invisibility we all crave when our lives aren't shiny and happy. 

Blog entries should not be long. Should not contain more words than a person can handle on the screen at once. We are a world of soundbites. who need our answers to be short, easy to read, exciting and fast. If you are to read me, there may be more words than you can process, (there are so many words in the world, everyone, we all think our opinion is important (the why I don't hit the publish button story). My story as a middle class white woman who has had so many entitlements are not the words we need to feature these days. Yet my story isn't typical (whose is?). I search for ways to become irrelevant and allow the next generation, the other colors in the world to flow into their sunshine. 

Maybe that is what is needed. For a white woman to admit she shouldn't be the star, and to make room for the rest of the crowd to be seen, to have their days of visibility. Maybe if I write, I can help myself and others find this path of non-dominance. Maybe we can search for ways to allow the world to change and shift as it must and for us to find meaning, not in being the brightest star in the room, but being within a constellation of diverse and colorful stars, blinking and shining in our imperfect way.

I found this old blog spot....

It is 2023. It has been over 11 years since I posted here. I forgot this blog existed. Even if I had remembered it, I am still shocked to find I have an easy access blog spot that I can fill with entries about my days.

 

   

I am no longer in Middle Georgia. I transplanted myself out of there eight years ago and moved to SW Oregon where I am no longer a criminal for enjoying cannabis. I am a cannabis gardener now! 

Tomorrow is May 27th. It rolls around once a year and is the anniversary of Carl getting "blowed up" in the Vietnam war.  Previous posts seem to cover that thoroughly. Here we are Eleven Years (!) later and the day is here again.

There are times this date can be very uncomfortable. This year, we seem to be alright even as we notice it’s imminent visit. Carl has many friends here in Oregon, most of whom he met going to various Vet groups. He goes out to eat with them, goes to group with them and talks on the phone. He is connected to them in many ways.

I too, have grown connections in this area. It is a journey to grow up and practically old in one place and then move away in my late fifties. In a way, it is freeing. I found change difficult enough in a South that seems to never change . I am getting older and it nice to be in an area where old and faded is the fashion. We can tell tourists to the area. They are so shiny.  

Here the sun beats you to a pulp in the summer time - at least in years long drought the region is experiencing - the temps have reached 115 degrees in my experience. Summers can go by without a drop of rain. Fires can burn near my neighborhood for two weeks with the National Guard only allowing residents into the area (2018).  Winters have such terribly short days, and summers, indeterminably long days. We are pretty far north up here. I have adjusted to having snow in my life - the whole reason I thought I could never leave the south was snow.

It is a gardening haven where I live. People take it real seriously. I certainly do. It has become purpose for me, this gardening. There is so much wrong in the world but I can put a little carbon back in the ground. Learn to grow food and take care of the soil. I can feed the homeless with my extra produce - practically helpful when I have bumper crops of apples and pears. This year I expect to give squash and corn, tomatoes and beans to the food agencies as well.

 

In the eleven years since I last wrote here, the world went Tipsy Turvey. It is as if we are on another timeline all together. We are no longer on the brink of climate change, but brutally finding out just what the long denied term really means and how it manifests. Rain (a now grown grandchild) asks: would you rather die of water or fire? East or West Coast, she means. I have, for better or worse, chosen the fire. I like I have a new place to share. I like that maybe nobody will ever see it. Ha. i am the invisible writer, naturalist, gardener, priestess - who would like to live out loud - though I don't actually want people watching and hearing. In this place, on the edge of what wilderness is left, maybe I will visit this blog spot again and spill more thoughts, more who I am and what I think about. Become visible in small and meaningful ways.

light, Carole

Keepers of the Memories

Our veterans tell the story of their dead. They carry the stories to us.

I once saw the Traveling Vietnam Memorial wall at Ocmulgee Indian Mounds. My husband, newly minted in the Marine Corps League, stayed with other veterans guarding the tribute the entire time it was here. The Indian Mounds wore the memorial like a holy salute to the dead.

I saw all kinds of Vietnam veterans at that monument whose reflections in the wall made the blackness come alive.  Every time I looked into those shiny black walls, I saw another veteran carrying another story of another who died whose  names grace its Wall.

I finally visited the real Vietnam Memorial in Washington DC. My experience at this wall was so different. The most overriding factor determining my perceptions was the refections in the wall weren't grieving veterans. It was my own curious face,my mother, brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew. We didn't look anything like someone who carries on their soul a war for which an excuse has yet to be found.

The memorial for World War II was not so starkly insightful about who I am and am not. It was a gloriously large airy arena where we all wanted to hang out and bask in the grandeur of the views, the magnificence of the sculptures, the skillful transmission of the its largeness in world history.

We strolled back by the Vietnam memorial as we left. I explained my feelings to my niece. The Vietnam Memorial is like a scar on the land, reflecting back to us who we are. It announces with great solemnity that we acknowledge our dead, who fell in commission of the wars waged by our politicians. We acknowledge in its entire geometry the rise and fall of the American War, as the Vietnamese call it. It honors these men and still tells the truth of an unjust war, one that was waged on the Vietnamese people and our own young men, their families and friends.

We are connected to all of these memorials and to each of these names whether we realize it or not. I choose to honor the history and the men and women who sacrificed to create the republic for which I am a citizen. I am proud of our warriors. I am proud of the truth telling of our memorials in Washington. I have great respect for those who serve. Their stories are the reason we acknowledge and mourn with them the great losses and sacrifices they and their fallen comrades have made on behalf of the rest of us. Also I honor  those who have fallen in war anywhere at any time. May the nonsense of war cease.

Death By War, a Memorial Day story

Memorial Day is set aside to remember those who died in war. Most often, it is the survivors of war  who keep the memories for us.

My husband, Carl, is one such survivor. He is a combat veteran of the
Vietnam War (or as it is called in Vietnam - The American War). He carries memories very specific to the week in which Memorial Day occurs.

On May 27th, 1969 near dusk, Carl, who was the squad leader, and his first Fire team leader, Gary, and a member of Gary’s fire team sat in their 3 man fighting hole on the company’s perimeter when a helicopter landed to resupply the company with food and men. Carl distributed the C-Rations among the fire team leaders of his squad. It had been over 24 hours since they had any food.

Carl was called up to the CP (Command post) and was assigned troops “fresh from the world,” which means these men were landing in Vietnam straight from the US. He took the men back to the fighting hole and as they got settled, he wolfed down his spaghetti and meatballs - a meal he had to be hungry to eat. He saved his favorite, ham and lima beans for later.

The area came under attack, the fire brought in by the helicopter giving away their location. Incoming recoilless rifle rounds, highly accurate small artillery pieces, were shooting rounds in the fighting holes up and down the perimeter. Carl and Gary put the two new guys and the fire team member in the fighting hole.

The sun was near setting and therefore firing would soon stop because it would give away the NVA position. Carl watched several men who had left their positions on the perimeter during incoming and were walking on the ridge line back to their hole. Suddenly these men were running. Gary and Carl looked at each other and Carl said, “let’s get down, just in case.” The two of them resumed their positions on top ofthe other three guys, just barely inside the parapit of the fighting hole.

Carl’s entire right side exploded. There was a cloud of black gun powder smoke where Gary had just been. Carl’s flak jacket and and helmet protected his internal organs and head, but his right leg and arm were very nearly blown off. Gary was dead.

Valentine, Schmallentine

Valentine's Day is a wonderful day to make art. My granddaughters participate with me in labors of love for this day allowing me to use pictures of them and then they tell me their Valentine sentiments.

This year, the girls seem to not be on the love vibration.  No ballads of love from these girls. Thank you Higher Powers of the Universe! They are sending a different message!

The handshake valentines came from a series of photos I did to illustrate commitment and community for my church's pledge drive. My the small handed model wanted to see these photos re-purposed in a valentine. 

I admit, the pi one was my idea. I mean anyone who can draw a mustache like this on her face is definitely a natural, must be irrational and very important to boot! You have to love a kid like that!

And Buddha, of course, has his bit to say about all this love stuff.

On last year's Valentines, Buddha wasn't as grumpy.

The girls and the goats had plenty to say.

And romance was the purview of roosters and chickens.

The goat girls figured prominently in last year's designs, teaching me much about love in unexpected places.  So does the girl in the heart below.

I take comfort these two goat girls still have each other, and my three granddaughters also have each other, loving parents, grandparents and beyond. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

A morning trek with my old camera

I found the charger to the old camera, the go-anywhere-, even-under-water camera. It is a beat up and shabby looking, but I am so happy to be able to use it again. I love the pictures it takes, the richness in the darker colors, the way it interpolates pixels.

I took pictures this morning trying it out. Take my morning trek with me.

This is where I sit to write this blog and work on my novel. I have a migratory work space. I'm a laptop warrior. This is the center of operations for now, in the junk room. I like to create from a place of mass chaos. What can I say?

This is our garden. We had a fire yesterday burning the roots and ground cover from the plot we are preparing for corn, beans and squash. The three sisters, I squeal. Carl C shakes his head and says something sounding as if he wants to thwart or change my plans. Gardening with a partner takes compromise. The burned spot will be the next place we dig.

Here is the corn plot we are preparing.  I've taken to circle gardening. I like to dig out a circle, marking the cardinal directions and put plants aligned with the directions. This is no science behind my madness, only a slightly ODC plan to make earth compasses all over the land. Carl C likes directions, so he has conspired with me on this latest patch, helping me to exactly delineate the directions. The yellow duct taped bamboo pole in the right corner of the photo is south. The chair is in the north, though slightly east. I have woven with bamboo branches a retaining wall for the low end of this small piece of ground where we will grow corn, for sure. Carl C has dug out roots, master minded the pole construction and exact circlitude.  It is definitely a joint project now.

Look, look! The bamboo in the northwest from which our poles come.  And see the measly little circle gardens I did by myself, and thereby proved this would be a great way to feng shui our handicapped garden.
There is cabbage, swiss chard and collards in these. I also have lettuce and spinach in another unseen circle to the right. It has picket fences and sharp bamboo twigs to protect it from the chickens. We ran out of chicken wire.

Back inside, my old/new camera itches to take a look at the mantle above our fireplace. Here, dust and all is what our mantle piece harbors.

The camera and I walk over to the house shrine and take a peek. 

Since this buddha seemed fine, we went to check on the outside buddha.

We found him checking out his reflection in the bird bath.

I know where the wild chickens lay! It is hard to emphasize what a victory this represents. I have been searching for their laying place for months, and finally they started laying in a place I had made receptive for their laying needs.

They ignored it for months while the yard cat lounged in it, but when I changed where I fed the pets, the cat migrated back there. Another month went by and then, yay, an egg. Two days later, another egg. I began writing the dates on them and gathering the oldest one everyday. Day before yesterday, two eggs were laid. I can identify at least three separate egg layers  by color and shape! I only have four wild laying hens.

Here sits Buddha. He hasn't moved since we looked at him a minute ago. He's really enjoying the day, I can tell.

So are our two loyal, loving dogs, though if I'd go on a long walk in the woods with them, they would find it an even better day.

And a final look at Buddha bathed in sunlight, keeping the company of a bottle tree and some irises who will bloom in spring.

In the Land of Milk and Honey

Dearly Beloved, we are riding out the last day of the year with a wee hour insomniac session and wish to memorialize 2011 as the year of the goats. It was actually the last year and a half, but I will generalize.

I am learning to say the goats instead of my goats. For an aspiring Buddhist, I use the word my entirely too much. And the goats no longer live here on my land with me. There is the word my again.  The land we co-inhabited is now minus the two goats who once stayed in the back yard. 

The darlings are happier now - I believe I can say this with certainty. They were born in North Carolina on a magical goat farm. My family packed them up from a scenic wonderland and brought them to Juliette where there were no peacocks strutting around or seventy or so more goats to herd around with.

They weren't my goats in the beginning anyway, but still the idea of them gave me a sly goat grin. My Capricorn heritage prepared me to compare myself to goatiness long before the goat girls ever graced my presence. I became responsible for the girls because I have legs which work. Because they had needs which needed to be met - twice daily feeding,  browsing in the woods, hoofs to trim and water to fetch. If there is a possessive pronoun to be used, perhaps the operative phrase would be: I became their human.

When I visited them at Salamander Springs last week four days into their new living arrangement; I discovered the goats are not loyal like dogs. They already had adopted a new person to be their human. They were in goat heaven with acres of honey-suckled bottomland to graze and a farm full of humans, dogs, chickens and ducks.

And then again, six days later I visited them and they had been bad goats; escaping their acres of  fenced land and meddling in human areas. This landed them in the chicken coop, a virtual Hawaii vacation compared to my over browsed back yard. Their sly goat grins still hung in the air with a Cheshire quality as they lounged with Bantams. To these goats, a banishment into the chicken coop is like throwing them in the briar patch. In my yard, they often sat outside the chicken coop watching all the chicken drama as if this was the finest entertainment on the planet. 

I miss the girls, but I am glad they have gone to a real homesteading and teaching farm. Wwoofers come and go there - young people who will always fall in love with the goat girls' beauty and charm. These goats are with good  and responsible people, earth dwellers like the goats themselves.