This is My Body, This is My Blood

Round Trip

Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light.
Did it take long to find me? and are you gonna stay the night?
Cat Stevens, Moon Shadow

The moon hung like a broken pendulum from an abandoned grandfather clock outside my window last night. I tried pulling the covers over my head but the white noise crawled under the sheets and played a busy highway against the mattress. I closed my eyes and tried to turn the roar into waves the way I do when I stay at a cheap roadside motel, but it didn't help any more than when I stay in an oceanfront inn and the pounding waves turn into cars on a phantom freeway. It's all the same, isn't it? Coming and going. Going and coming.

So I got up. I got up and yanked the blinds, let the light all the way in. Stood there naked in front of the window, daring the moon to drown me in his bluewhite rain. I know it's been coming just as sure as I know winter's buried beneath my feet and one of these days it's gonna burst forth and turn Cerro San Luis green again, so why not welcome it? Yeah. Why not.

Because I'm tired of this swinging door of seasons. I'm tired of saving daylight and holding onto mornings when the evening is inevitable. I'm tired of the goodbyes and laters and maybes. I've had it with watching my life unfold in a rear-view mirror, one hand waving as he shrinks in the distance. The sun does its best to shield me, burn the memories into a smile, but with the darkness comes oblivion--a million pieces of me scattered in the sky like so much nothing.

I stood there anyway. Let the lump of sad fill my lungs then wind its way up my throat, where the soft tones of denial turned into a howl that shook me to the core. I became the highway, the ocean, the nothing and the everything.

I don't know how long it lasted, don't remember the walk back to bed where the cats curled themselves around my legs like bookends. The only fragment that has stayed with me this morning is the last arc of curved light as it rose above the window, leaving behind a soft dent in the sky where I suspect that howl must have landed. I woke feeling hollow, quiet, strangely stoic against the weaving of heart and head as they rally for tactical positions.

I give myself over to my feet instead. They take me to the kitchen, back to bed, to the window, back to bed. Coming and going. Going and coming.

Technorati Tags: relationships, perimenopause, menopause, cat stevens,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, endings

Writing Out the Storm

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury

Every once in a while I tiptoe down the halls of my mind and pause before the closed door of prolificity, where rotting poems and decaying narratives lie naked and forgotten.  A darkened room where creativity once flourished in the fertility of Free Time.

Sometimes I actually touch the cold handle, daring myself to turn it clockwise. By the time I get up the nerve, the tiny morsel of oppurtunity has passed and the pulse of an idea begins to whither. Eventually it slithers beneath the door to join the others.

It's 5:53 A.M. I woke to the dog licking my foot, let her outside, and in my foggy state accidentally opened the wrong door on my way back to bed. Now here I stand among the putrified remains of a story, wondering if I still own the gift of words or if it has been taken from me due to neglect. I'm nervous and afraid--discomfited by my own derelict. I want to run.

As I back toward the door I stumble and land ass-first in the Hundred Dollar Chair. An unseen hand--my own, I think--sets a raspberry latte on the side table. The keyboard lands in my lap, and my sleepy fingers find home. One by one, the first couple words choke and sputter, resurrected from the tombs of tragic sacrifice. Light finds its way into the room as I lift first one, then the other hand. I take a deep breath and push.

Every once in a while I tiptoe down the halls...

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, writer's block, relationships, body image, depression,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Clash Reunion

Memories, they can't be boughten.
They can't be won at carnivals for free.
Well it took me years to get those souvenirs,
And i don't know how they slipped away from me.
~~John Prine

Sunday morning John Prine was singing in the next room when I caught sight of my shadow as she danced a little jig, sang along with the music while I cracked eggs on a cast iron griddle. I almost bumped into her when she twirled past me in the kitchen, the creases in her smile lines like tiny bird tracks on a morning beach. I saw her again later in the day as she tip-toed barefoot across stepping stones, holding her skirt, laughing at the water skimmers skiing across the surface of the pond we dug in the back yard. Just before bed I glimpsed her between sleepy breaths as my eyes fell upon a photograph of her lost in a sensual kiss, swirling in limerance. She disappeared with the lamplight, left me counting the turns of fan blades as they quietly passed over the woman who used to sing and dance and laugh and love like they were all stolen.

Has it ever happened to you? Have you ever reached for a fragmented memory of joy, only to have it fade before you can trace the outline of a captured smile? It's not a sudden thing, this losing oneself layer by layer until all that's left are ragged footprints. It happens gradually, like the slow recession of water at low tide, until you've forgotten the lush lapping at your ankles and the gulls calling over your head. You walk on, your pockets heavy with pinkswirl shells, toward an island that doesn't recognize the shape of your bones or know the fullness of your cupped hands.

Then one day you pull a jacket from behind the door and as you're moving through the paces of a lackluster afternoon your hand rests on something familiar, a crusted curl of beauty carved by the past. You hold the shell in your hand, finger each fine feature of its delicate history, spit-shine it to embellish the iridescence of perfected imperfection. Closing your eyes, you hear the squeak of your feet against wet sand, feel the rhythm of unseen waves against your chest, taste the pungent exhale of your own salty breath. The ocean rises to lick your knees, hug your waist, touch your shoulders until she finally washes over you, reuniting your soul with her lost body, becoming the water itself.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, saliva test, relationships, body image, depression,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Breaking News

"The secret of good writing is to say an old thing in a new way or to say a new thing in an old way." -Richard Harding Davis

I've been busy...

New Workshop: It's been almost four years since I offered my Online Journaling Workshop. The reason I quit was due to the time required to read and comment on every participant's journal work. Recently a friend on an email list I'm part of, wrote about the value of bearing witness to anothers' journey, without having a need to offer feedback. Her words are what freed me to once again offer my workshop without worrying I won't be able to keep up. This time I'm allowing myself to share the work without having to take on the burden of responsibility that comes with writing thoughtful responses to everyone's assignments. In the past, participants have often done a better job of cheering and supporting my journalers than I could have done myself, so I'm surrendering to this new organic process and trusting it will take care of itself. It usually does. If you'd like to participate, send me an email and I'll add your name and/or blog to the sidebar. I hope to start in June, depending upon how many people sign up in the next couple of weeks.

New Blog: In order to facilitate the workshop, I've opened a second typepad blog, titled after my second book. I'm counting on all of you to spread the word and, hopefully, sign up for the workshop. There are no "shoulds" in this workshop and you can jump in any time, do only the assignments that work for you, or just sit quietly in the corner and observe.

New Website: It's still a work-in-progress, but after accidentally deleting all the files on my Whole Heart Publications website, I've decided to combine my books, workshops, and writing on a domain I bought several years ago. Although many of my friends and clients call me Ellie, my given and professional name is Eldonna.  In addtition to my writing-related work, I'm also including a a page reserved for other women named Eldonna.

New Tip Jar: Asking for money is not easy, but I wanted to offer people the option of contributing based upon value you receive/have recieved from my blog essays. I've dedicated nearly my entire life to nurturing others through massage, volunteer positions, teaching, and inspirational writing--obviously not huge money-making activities--because I believe in the spirit of giving.  However, I also believe there is value in laughter, art, poetry, touch, and the sharing of one's gifts. I know that good karma is circular purely by its requirement of unconditional trust. I continue to trust in the good will of people like you, whether your gift comes in the form of a donation to the Tip Jar, a link to my website(s), or a comment left on my blog. Thank you for being part of this invisible yet very real circle of friendship and support.

Technorati Tags: writing, journaling, creative writing, writing prompts, memes, blog, blogging, self reflection, writing therapy, unsent letters,

Waking Life

If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside me, threatening the life it belongs to. "Breathe 2 AM/Wreck of the Day 2005" by Anna Nalick

As the daughter of a literary Bible preacher, I grew up on the "Do as I say, not as I do," hypocrisy of good people with good intentions who often forgot the sermon before the brimstone had cooled beneath their Sunday pot roasts. Even my dad, who taught us never to curse would sometimes mutter, "shit!"  as he pawed at his gravy-tipped tie with a shredding paper napkin.

And here, I wrote a couple books about the importance of writing as personal catharsis, yet how often do I allow my emotions to pile up behind the levee until someone pokes a finger between two sandbags and, poof, here comes a flood? More often than I care to admit, thank you. And just like the nice folks who were warned of the dangers before Katrina, I act all surprised when I suddenly find myself perched on the roof of my heart as the sewage of backed-up feelings threatens to carry me away.

As evidenced by Nalick's title of the quoted lyric, it usually isn't until you're alone with your thoughts when you first become aware of that niggling in the back of your mind. You can't blame the insomnia on coffee or spicy food or menopausal night sweats because this thing that has you wide-eyed in the middle of the night has nothing to do with food or hormones and everything to do with unattended issues. Ain't no pillow fluffing or warm milk gonna fix the kind of wakefulness that stares back at you in the dark like a hungry dog next to the dinner table. The only remedy is between the covers of that neglected notebook tucked into the back of your night stand.

So you creep to the living room, trying not to disturb your lover or the cat at the end of the bed as you slip down the hallway with pen in hand. And finally, you write. You write and you write and you write, until your hand cramps and you notice the first bits of light sneaking up on the shadows. You look down at your scribbled pages, a mess of uncivilized sentences riding up and down the paper as if each word was planted by a different hand, and you can't remember writing them. All you know is the thing inside you, that hard little knot of discontent, has left and suddenly you feel weightless.

So you float back to bed and snuggle against the warm back of your lover who asks if you're okay and you say, yes. And for the first time in weeks, you mean it.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, journaling, essay, blog, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, insomnia

Photo Credit: Still capture from The Pillow Book

An Ode to Gauchos (with apologies to e.e. cummings)

i like my body when it is with your body
of stretchy rayon knit blend. It is so quite a new
and flesh forgiving thing. wide waistband better
and legroom more. i like your body of flowing
fabric. i like what it does to hips hiding, i like its
hows of hanging.  i like not feeling the spine
of non-expanding denim and its zipper,
and the trembling of unseemly seams despite
dare defining toe of camel. no, I like my body
with your body of sweet smoothness  which
i will again and again and again wear, i like moving
behind this and that of you, slowly stroking
the unfurling pills of your nappy nitpickling,
and what-is-it expands over white thighs . . . .and
possibly i like the thrill of under me you
quite so new and loose and free.

Technorati Tags: menopause, body image, aging,dieting, ee cummings

Oh No You Di-in't!

If you stopped by TIMB, TIMB today expecting brilliant writing about an intriguing topic upon which I wax eloquent, you will most likely be very disappointed. If, however, you're whoring around the blogoshphere, simply because you're bored, uninspired, or hoping for a mediocre laugh, then maybe, just maybe this post is for you. Because I sweartogod the following link taken from today's Sitemeter stats, shows that my blog appears in the Number One Slot for people looking to have their faces washed. With pubic hair. Accompanied by farting. Whilst something chubby and brown lingers nearby. I am not making this up.

See for yourself. (No image but NOT work-safe text.)

Based on the bulk of recent Sitemeter Stats, we're obviously on the downside of that slippery slope called de-evolution. I'm visualizing a ginormous, world-sized handbasket, folks. No need to fasten your seatbelts. As far as I can tell, it'll be a fairly short ride to the steaming pot of primordial soup.

What Would Jesus Read?

We watched the first episode of The Book of Daniel last night, hoping to find a replacement to the much-grieved ending of Six Feet Under in terms of good writing and development. I'm not writing to join in the controversy over some people's issues with content, I have no problem with spiritually incorrect humor because I think Jesus had a great sense of humor. And although the show was a little over-packed with drama and some of the characters were a little over the top, I found myself laughing out loud more than once.

My favorite scenes were those where Daniel (an Episcopal Priest) has conversations with Jesus, who appears to him at various moments of need. The best of these was a an exchange where Daniel and Jesus were  trying to best the other with  "altered book titles".  For example:

I'm Okay, You're Divine
Men Are From Venus, Jesus is From Heaven
Tuesdays With Jesus

You get the idea. Anyway, as we were lying in bed last night, my brain refused to rest and I continued the banter with my own private Jesus. Every few seconds I'd blurt out another title, keeping poor S awake as I tend to laugh loudly at my own jokes. Fortunately he found them funny, too, and we giggled ourselves to sleep well after we'd hit the pillow. I was worried I forget them all by the time I woke this morning, but I was too lazy to write them down, so I had to rely on memory. I think I recovered most of them and added several more as I was typing up the list. Here's my list of altered book titles for your reading pleasure. Feel free to add your own in the comments section.

The Importance of Being Jesus
Everything You wanted to Know About Jesus But Were Afraid to Ask
Jesus's Ashes
Brokeback Mount Calvary
Memoirs of a Messiah
Lord Jesus of the Rings
Women Who Run With Jesus
The Saint Peter Principle
When Bad Things Happen to Good Prophets
The Jesus Code
J is For Jesus
One of The Five People You Meet in Heaven
MacJesus
Jesus at Tinker Creek
Black Like Jesus
The Son Also Rises
Tao Te Jesus
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Messiahs
Who Moved My Jesus?
The Dead Sea Diet
What to Expect When You're Expecting Jesus
The Girlfriend's Guide to Jesus
Lord Jesus of The Flies
Jesus Shrugged
I, Jesus
Goodbye, Mr. Jesus

Of course, I couldn't leave well enough alone, and went on to create a list of movie titles (Yes, I know some of these were also books, but I didn't come up with them until I started thinking movies):

There's Something About Jesus

Jesus's Day Off

Silence of the Lamb of God

Rosemary's Baby Jesus

Being Jesus

Walk Softly and Carry a Big Cross

Peggy Sue Got Married to Jesus

Three Men and a Baby Jesus

Jesus's List

A Fish Called Jesus

Jesus Gump

Guess Who's Coming to the Last Supper

Million Dollar Baby Jesus

All the Messiah's Men

Around the World in 40 Days and 40 Nights

Barefoot in the Desert

Dead Prophets Society

Fast Times at Jerusalem High

Scent of a Jew

Jesus and Louise

What Ever Happened to Baby Jesus?

Kill Jesus: Volume 1

Coach Jesus

Mr. Congeniality

And that led me to TV shows:

Jesus Gone Wild!

Leave it To Jesus

Little Red Tent on the Prairie

Laverne and Jesus

Welcome Back, Jesus

I Dream of Jesus

The J-Files

Unmarried--Without Children

Jesus's Angels

Bethlehem Vice

No, I didn't stop there. Song titles:

Born to Be Jesus

If A Picture Paints a Thousand Words, Why Can't I Paint Jesus?

You Picked a Fine Time To Leave Me, Jesus

Dueling Citars

Go Ask Jesus

Big Bad John the Baptist

Blue Suede Sandals

Hey Jesus

A Camel With No Name

House of the Rising Son

Every Crown Has Its Thorns

Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Messiahs

I know, it's a curse. Once I get started I can't stop myself. How about a radio show?

The Palestine Home Companion

And, finally, to show my impartiality to deities:

Das Buddha

Okay, I'm done. For now. However, I have a feeling you're just getting started.

thank you gods for most this amazing life

(with apologies to e.e. cummings)

thank you gods for most this amazing
life: for the laughing wildly soul of boy
and the yellow mellow poetry of man; and for everything
which is complete which is still growing which is maybe

(i who have slept am awake again today,
and this is the moon’s holiday; this is the death
of yesterday and what was and wasn’t: and of the excited
empty everlasting unbelievable ocean)

how should living loving dancing singing
howling all-knowing from the mother
of all non-mothers barely breathing
question unforeseen Us?

(now the tongue of my tongues alive and
now the word of my words are unraveled)

happy thanksgiving, my dear ones.

Relative Stranger

Recently I received a letter from my oldest sister, who lives in Michigan. Not an email. A letter. As in five handwritten pages articulated in the familiar up-and-down script that looks more like printed letters connected by tiny sweeps of a fine point pencil than cursive. S likes pencils. Maybe it's because she was a teacher all those years. Or maybe she likes the grainy sound of lead leaving its temporary mark on flimsy paper.

Getting an old-fashioned letter via snail mail  is an extraordinary gift. Unlike hastily-written emails or shorthand text messages on your cell phone, a handwritten letter demands more from the receiver. Like making a cup of tea, turning off the phone, curling up in your favorite chair to savor every single word. Which is exactly what I did the afternoon my mail carrier handed me the envelope with my sister's return address in the upper left hand corner.

I've read the letter several times since its arrival. Partly because it's so precious, and partly because I keep meaning to respond but don't feel as though I could do her letter justice. I want to write back--really I do--but my handwriting is so godawful I have a hard time deciphering it myself. Even my signature has gone from my full name to an initial followed by a scribble. And who has the time, really? There's a reason my hand written journals leave off in the Spring of 2000. That's when I acquired my first laptop. I'm now on number three. Thanks to online banking, email, and blogging, I may forget how to hold a pen by next year.

Letter writing is fast becoming a lost art thanks to technology. However, each time I open TypePad and begin tracing my thoughts across the screen, I feel as though I am writing a letter. To you. And to you. And to you. It might not be presented in fancy calligraphy and it isn't on purdy paper but it's almost always straight from the heart and that's what counts, right?  It's not the writing that matters, but what's written--even if those words are formed by keystrokes rather than curved lines arching for each other across monogrammed stationery.

I think S will forgive me for sending a letter printed from my laptop rather than writing it out longhand. I like to think she might even brew a cup of tea, curl up in her overstuffed chair near the window overlooking Lake Michigan, maybe drape the afghan our mom crocheted over her lap as she settles in to read news from her wild little sister who left home at sixteen and left the Midwest twenty years later. We harldy know each other yet somewhere between the fifteen hundred miles and thirteen years that separates these two sisters, is an invisible connection that binds us like marrow to shared bone. A soft, forgiving substance shaped nothing like a helix and everything like family.