It only matters that we sing.

Writing at MadRona's

Because I only have Internet access intermittently, it is not as easy to respond, or to post comments or to read. I have taken to writing my blog in Word when I arise, and then, on my way to The Haven, I stop at MadRona's and post it. Which is generally when I have a chance to read comments -- but time moves on and I am on my way to experience the magic of the day.

Thank you everyone for your comments, your love and your cheers. And thank you Bev for sharing what's on your heart. Blessings to you and Larry and all your family. Happy Birthday Terry. I know my dear friend that you are in a place of joy. Having found that peace, I'm sure you're smiling, and sharing your beautiful sense of humour about our human peccadilloes. Be well my friend. We will see you anon.

*****************************************************************************

Sometimes, the only way not to think about it, is to think about it. Eric Bibb, September 6, 2011, Spirit in the Song, The Haven

It is odd to open up my computer each morning and not be able to read my friends online, to not visit my favourite places, like Glynn’s and Maureen’s and Diane’s and Susan’s and so many others whose words and thoughts and images start my day.
It has been odd. And at the same time enlightening. In the absence of these voices and photographers and artists I hold so dear, I have had to rely on ‘just me’ to find my morning inspiration for this page. And at the same time, I have had to let go of the idea of it’s ‘just me’ writing here.

We are all connected.

In the course this week, one man mentions to the other that his birth name was the same until his step-father adopted him. A few short minutes, and a few names linked and they discover – they are related. Through a great-grandfather of some renown whom they share.

I share a song I wrote yesterday – and yes, I wrote a song! – and someone says, “Hey! That’s my story.”

We are all connected.

Especially through song.

On Monday night, Eric gave us all an assignment. Bring a song you’re working on, or a new piece you’re looking for insight on and we’ll all give you feedback. You can take the feedback, or not, hold onto what you’ve got, or not, but bring something to share.

I didn’t have a song to share, so yesterday morning I awoke and wrote a song – or the essence of a song.

And then the morning unfolded.

Ahmad of beautiful soul and a rich tapestry of notes woven through his music infused journey, shared the makings of a song he is writing. I listened to his words, to his mellifluous voice flowing over the images his story told and I put aside the song I had written.

You are a story-teller, a voice whispered within me. Why are you preaching?

It was a good question. The song I had written earlier that morning was too preachy, too, here’s the lesson, now learn it.

I decided to start over.

We broke for lunch.

I drove back to the house (the wild turkeys were expecting me) and as I drove along the winding road, the sun filtering through the leaves of the uppermost branches that formed a cathedral dome above my open sunroof, two lines flit into view with the grace of a butterfly alighting on a petal.

Hope lived in her belly
Strangling her soul

I held onto them.

And when I got back to the house, I sat down and began to write.

An hour later, my song was complete. At least I thought it was, though it didn’t have a melody.

In the afternoon session, Eric asked those of us who had not yet shared to offer up our songs.

I read mine aloud.

There was silence.

Eric asked me to read it again.

It’s complete, he said, when I finished reading. Who hasn’t experienced such betrayal? Who hasn’t known the loss of love? Do you have a melody in mind? he asked.

I laughed. Other than a heartbeat, no, I replied.

And that is how I came to sit in the sun beside the great Eric Bibb and his guitar. Notes rolled off the strings as effortlessly as pearls resting against eachother in a priceless necklace. With each searching note, Eric zeroed in on the essence of the music to my song. He strummed the chords, pen held between his teeth, one foot beating time on the wooden deck upon which we sat in the late afternoon sun. He made notes on the page where he’d written my lyrics. He scribbled a chord. Strummed a phrase. Uh uh. He’d intone. Scratch out the note he’d made upon the page and start again.

A chord resonated. Ahhh. Oh yeah. His head nodded. Up and down. Yeah. He turned to me. How is that for you? he asked.

I smiled. Seriously? I laughed, deep inside, in my soul. Does it get any better than this?

It's great, I replied.

Can you sing it?

I hesitated. Sing it? I searched for some clever throw-away line with just the right amount of self-deprecating humour to be funny. No words came to my rescue. I sang the verse.

That’s good. That’s good, said Eric. Let’s do another verse.

And so, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the water dancing in its brilliant light, the leaves whispering in the Madronna’s all around, Eric played and I sang. My voice was hesitant at first, searching for its beat until it found itself settling into the soulful callings of Eric’s guitar. And like a soul slipping with ease into grace, the melody began to flow as Eric lead my words home into their song.

Earlier, in the morning session, I had sat in humble silence as Don and then Cameron and Ahmad shared their songs. I had been awed.

“I love being amidst greatness,” I said. “It brings my soul peace.”

Greatness is our natural state of being. It flows all around. It only asks we listen to the rhythm of our hearts to feel its beat.

Sitting on that deck, feeling the warmth of Eric and his guitar, I touched it. Just like I touch it every day when I listen to my heart beat its song of love and joy and freedom. Just like I know it in every way when I breathe deeply and sink into that place where I am at peace.

I am at peace.

There is greatness all around me. There is greatness and generosity of spirit and the beauty of souls connecting through the songs of life we share.
It is a beautiful, messed up, jumbled up, turned around and upside down journey this life of ours. No matter where we’re at, it is a journey that grows richer when we sing our stories, of love found, and lost. Of hope rising and fear fading. When we sing our stories of life.

No matter the tune, when we share the songs of our heart we are all connected.
It doesn’t matter the song we sing. What matters most is that we do.

PS – and yes, I will share my song. Eric is setting it to music and has promised me a CD. Seriously. What could be better than that?

Me and Joni Mitchell

Malaspina Galleries -- nature's art We are eight. Eric Bibb, his beautiful wife of only two weeks, and six strangers. We are a small group. Diverse. And, except for myself and one other woman, all are musicians.

I feel out of place. Different. Other than.

Outside my comfort zone, who am I?

I am the same.

An artist seeking soul resting at the ocean floor. A mystique, seeking the way within.

We spent yesterday writing a song. Together.

In unison there is no separate voice. No different. No other.

There only is. This place. One. All. together.

There is only the song.


It was a day of amazing grace.

A day where spirits soared and hearts opened up to all that can be when we let the muse have free reign.

There is all that appears when we get out of the way of being anywhere other than where we are. Present. Visible. Vulnerable. One. Separate and together.

There is only the song.

The invitation was to write a song. Together.

The invitation is to create. Always to create.

The opportunity is to perform. Tomorrow night. At Eric’s concert here on Gabriola Island at The Haven.

This is a stretch for me. To perform.

the view from The Haven
I remember the last time I performed in front of a live audience. Just me. Singing my song.

I was hopeful. Excited. I wanted to sing. Out loud. Clear and high. I wanted to be seen. Living out loud. Wild and free.

I was sweet sixteen.

Starry eyes and hopeful heart.

I wanted my song to beat in the hearts of everyone.

The Circle Game. Me and Joni Mitchell.

I sang my song.

Joni Mitchell and me.

I won. Runner up.

I searched the audience.

I wanted them to be there. I wanted them to hear me. I wanted them to know, I can do this. I am not who you tell me I am. I am me. Worthy. Lovable and free.

They didn’t make it.

I never did find out why. They didn’t make it.

They forgot, they said. They ran out of time.

How do parents forget their child? Standing on a stage. Wishin’ and hopin’ they’d be there?

How do they run out of time when all the time in the world will never bring back that moment when a child stood, hopeful, waiting for them to come?

It took me a long time to forgive them.

A long time to start wishin’ and hopin’ again.

Perhaps I still am.

Wishin’ and hopin’
someone, anyone will turn up
and give my answers to me.

Time to quit wishin’ upon a distant them

Time to start countin upon me
to turn up.

To be.

Night falls at The Haven
All that I’m meant to be when I quit looking for my answers in sad forgotten places long ago.

time to stretch beyond the measure of time holding me back and step into the shoes I fill so gracefully when I step freely through the open door of today shining brightly, waiting for me to embrace beauty within and all around me.

I walk in beauty now. Beauty lies before me. Beauty lies above me behind and below me.I don’t remember where I heard those words.

But I know. Oh yes I know.

This is my song.

Clarity deepens in the silence

The quiet awakens me, the only sound the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

And then it stops and quiet envelops me in its welcoming presence once again.

I like the quiet. The stillness of the air silenced of all noise. I like the way it moves into me and through me, awakening my senses. I feel the silence. Its calming depths. Its velvety touch. Its sweet aroma of gratitude.

I was grateful last night for the work I’ve been doing (albeit intermittently) on ‘taking back the night’.

I arrived back late. Our first session – a wonderful sharing of thoughts and ideas and the meaning of music and then music itself – ended at 9:45. My sister’s house is an easy 5 – 8 minute drive from The Haven. As long as I don’t get lost.

I got lost.

Took the right fork for the South Road instead of the left onto the North Road. Granted, the South Road loops around the island, joining up with the North Road once again. But it was dark. I spied deer standing on the margins of the road all along the way.

I slowed down.

Cell phone service is undependable on the island. What would I have done in the pitch dark of night if I hit a doe?

I drove and watched for street signs gleaming in my headlights. Eventually, I found the road I was seeking. Bertha. I turned right, wound my way through the trees, down the hill, around the corner until I found my destination. – that’s after I drove past Bertha Street a couple of times before realizing, yes, I had missed the turn, once from both directions.

When I arrived at the house it was ten to eleven. The night was inky black, high cloud obscuring the clouds. The house was dark. I felt the fissure of fear of the dark licking at my heels. I gathered my belongings in the security of my car, left the headlamps on as I walked around the path to the side door.

I kept breathing.

Night. Dark. Strange surroundings. Quiet. They all add up to a whole bunch of imagined creatures lurking in the shadows – though there weren’t really any shadows, it is so dark on the island at night.

I took another deep breath. Calmed myself and let the silence guide me. All is safe, it whispered. All is well.

How could it not be? I’d had a marvelous day!

Anne and I had set out at nine for MadRona’s Café where I had sat and posted my blog while she read in the garden. From there, we journeyed around the island, visiting points of interest she had wanted to share. The pottery garden where guests are invited to purchase pieces of pottery and ‘leave your money in the jar’. The honour system alive and well on Gabriola.

Anne having her hand read
We toured the Village Market. Wandered on a beach and went to an outdoor craft market where both Anne and I had our hands read.

It’s not about fortune telling, Janice the palm reader told me. It’s about identifying the story your hands tell.

Mine told of stress building. You tend to be highly analytical, she said. You take action, but first you see all the viewpoints. To others it looks like you are acting without thought, some would say impetuously. But you think fast.

You live in the ‘school of service’. Constantly struggle with the balance between service and servitude. Somewhere your boundaries are being pushed and you are struggling. Your integrity is at stake and integrity is key for you to live a peaceful life.
We drove, our bellies content, back to the house. I napped. Anne fed the wild turkeys and read her book. And then my sister was off on the ferry back to the mainland and I drove to The Haven. After registering, I wandered down to the beach and sat in the late afternoon sun. The water was calm. Boats bobbed, birds dipped, sun glistened on the water’s surface. A young boy leapt from rock to rock with his father, pointing out streams of seaweed, crabs skittering along and a jellyfish washed ashore. His laughter rippled on the air, entwining listening hearts with joy. In the late afternoon shadows, joy descended and the heat of the day intensified.

I let it all wash over me and simply sat in the moment, feeling the presence of wonder and awe flowing all around.

Clarity sharpens in moments of solitude. Senses slowly unwrap themselves from the blanket of traffic noises and sirens and sped up life that becomes the norm in the busy scuryring to and fro of city living.

Sitting on an Adirondack chair overlooking the bay, sun streaming down upon me, soft breezes stirring my soul, I feel myself unwind.

I am blessed.

I am grateful.

I am coming home within myself.

On Gabriola

It was a crack of 9 start from Highland House. I drove out of the lane, greeted a friendly Paint who stood, head over the fence, watching me leave. He didn’t mind having his picture taken. He seemed accustomed to the attention. Jill, the B&B owner, had hauled him, and seven equine friends, (including a super inquisitive miniature pony who liked to sneak out of the corral and visit guests whenever he could – he’s not a bear Jill had warned me), west from Ottawa two years prior when she picked up stakes in search of a new way of life. Her job in the hi-tech sector had collapsed with the market. With few job prospects she took up the challenge of taking over her father’s business at Highland House.

“I haven’t had a lot of time to market both the B&B and my equestrian school,” she told me. “But my son loves it here. He’s really thriving and I love it. The business will come.”

And I’m sure it will. Relaxed after my one night sojourn, I know I will make plans to return – it is a perfect place for a writer’s retreat or simply a get-away.

I headed westward along a secondary road, postponing my re-entry onto freeway driving as long as possible. The road wound through high plains, along lakeshore where water lay tranquil in the morning sun. This is True Grit country. Vast expanses of plains punctuated with craggy outcroppings and rock. Fir and pine stand sentinel, silent witness of time passing. Evidence of the pine beetles' voracious appetite can be seen everywhere. Pine trees stand denuded or in semi-robed state with rusted red needles tinder dry. Nature has its way of impressing upon mankind its unrelenting force and beast, no matter how small, ensures we humans understand our place.

Driving west pulls the thread of memory into the present. Dark grey tarmac, yellow ribbon dividing right from left, pulls me into the past as I move forward.

I have driven this road many times and still the view, the aura of journeying westward entrances me.

On the ferry leaving Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo
When my daughters were in their middle school and high school years we’d set out every Easter break for the coast, the car laden with their essentials for a week long holiday at Tofino, a little piece of paradise on the far west coast of Vancouver Island.

One year, Liseanne, the youngest, desperate to test the extent of my tolerance asked if she could bring her Beanie Baby collection (those small stuffed animals that were the rage when she was in her tweens.)

Sure I replied.

Her sister, Alexis, (the eldest and as she used to like to tell me, -- the better mother :) )was aghast. You know how many she has, mom? You can’t let her bring them all.

I smiled. Why not? I asked. We’re in the car. There’s room.

One hundred and sixty-seven Beanie Babies later, the car was loaded with three girls (they always brought a friend along on the trip), various bags and suitcases, food for the road, food for the cabin, food for just in case and an assortment of games and books to ensure our week long stay at Middle Beach Lodge would not lack for things to do – which it never did.

The year of the Beanie Babies however, I had decided we should try a different resort. When we arrived at the Wickinannish Inn, a very exclusive and beautiful resort, the valet opened the rear passenger door and out tumbled one hundred and sixty-seven Beanie Babies. Liseanne followed in their wake, asking the bellhop if he’d mind loading them all on their own luggage cart. Beanie Babies don’t like being handled like luggage – don’t you know?

The next year there were no Beanie Babies on the trip. Only Powlie, her giant, overstuffed polar bear who travelled everywhere with her. He even had his own seat on a flight once (mostly because the seat beside her was empty – and Polar bears don’t like being stuffed in the overhead bins – don’t you know?)

One year, during a period when I was working with street teens, the girls took it upon themselves to do a photo-shoot on the beach. They hauled make-up, a suitcase of clothes and the video camera to the shoot location and proceeded to video each other dressed up in the latest fashions.

Having met many of the teens I was working with (I was writing a play with them which we produced and staged as part of a benefit concert I organized) Alexis and Liseanne convinced their friend Vicky – who was travelling with us that year – that they should do a special segment of their video in honour of the girls they had met in the play.

And thus, one of their most memorable videos was created. “Hooker on the Beach”.

Dusk draws the sun into night on the ferry to Gabriola
Twelve years later, I still haven’t shown Vicky’s mother the footage of her daughter strutting her stuff on Long Beach.

In the video, Alexis, the official documentary interviewer, asks her erstwhile subject about her life with great seriousness. (In the background you can hear the videographer, Liseanne, giggling and egging her on with suggestions of what to ask and how Vicky should behave and answer.)

They had learned well the art of ‘hooking’ from the young girls they had met during the course of my research into teen prostitutes and street children in Calgary.

“So Miss Precious, can you tell me how you find men on the beach to be your customers?”

“It’s easy,” replies Miss Precious who is chomping gum as loudly as possible. “I’m so beautiful they can’t resist me.”

Nope. Don’t think even now I’ll share that particular piece of footage with Vicky’s mother!

Those were unforgettable years and form the fabric of our lives. And while I was somewhat aghast as to the subject matter of their video, there was an innocence and a depth of compassion and understanding to what they were doing and what they had learned about these young girls.

In the course of my work with street teens I stood out posing as a prostitute one night. The girls were curious about the work I was doing, and the work these young girls did. One day, shortly after my ‘night on the street’, Alexis and I were walking with Bella, their old dog, and she asked me. “Why do they do it mommy?”

“Like you and me, they are looking for someone to love them. For many, they’ve never known what that feels like,” I replied before adding, “And this is the only path they know.”
Alexis listened intently, as she always does, put her arm around my waist, leaned her head against my shoulder and whispered, “I’m so glad I know you love me.”

The road pulled me further westward, to my daughter Alexis. I’m so glad she was there waiting so that I could remind her, “I love you.”

Always have. Always will.

****************************************************************

Sunday morning.
Dinner at the Marina
My sister, Anne, and I took the ferry to Vancouver Island last night and just made the 7:20 to Gabriola. After a beautiful dinner overlooking the marina, we headed home to their house on the island – a delightful retreat from it all. Anne takes the ferry back tonight and I shall be alone to stretch my creative muscle and revel in the wonders of this little piece of paradise here on Gabriola Island.

At 7 tonight, the course begins. It's rather an intensive schedule -- 9am to noon. 2 to 4pm. 7 to 9pm.

I'm looking forward to it.

No Internet at the house, so I'm sitting in a delightful cafe soaking up the island charm and drinking tea while Anne sits on the garden patio reading. How blissful.

You'll find me here, every morning during the week, I'm sure. I'll watch out for you!

The beauty of silence

I left as early in the afternoon as I could get away. Dark and threatening storm clouds were lumbering in from the north.

I'm not fond of driving in the rain.

It poured. And splattered. Wind lashed my car. I plugged in my iPod, though I was disappointed that iTunes and it were fighting. It wouldn't download any of my audio books off my iPad! But the tunes were great and I kept driving.

By Banff, the rain was coming in fits and starts.

By Golden, the clouds were breaking up.

Up and over the Rogers Pass, down into the lake area. The skies cleared and I opened my sunroof, turned up the tunes and cruised along. The driving was easy.

Except of course for the holiday weekend traffic. Not so nice. But, not so bad either. Most of the road between Banff and Kamploops (about a six hour stretch of highway) is single lane in each direction. Over the years, there have been many tragic accidents and many deaths. In an effort to cut down on reckless passing, BC has instituted a new law. Get caught driving 30km over the speed limit and your car is immediate impounded for three days -- it actually happened to two young friends of my daughter who were on their way to Vancouver for a wedding. They had to take the bus and return three days later to pick up their car in Golden.

One thing about the new law -- there sure weren't as many crazed drivers whipping past. In fact, I did eventually pass the one black giant SUV that had been darting and passing in and out of traffic. slipping in and out of spaces between vehicles, dangerously close to oncoming traffic.

He was stopped by the police.

I'm sure he's not a happier camper. And I am not sad for him. The risks I saw him taking did not make the road safer for anyone.

I kept driving past. Going the speed limit -- okay maybe 5 km over.

Looking west along Shuswap Lake
I had planned on stopping at Salmon Arm, a resort town on the Shuswap Lake, but the road kept calling me westward and I heeded its call.

At Kamloops, I debated stopping and decided I'd go another hour and see how I felt. From Kamloops to Vancouver, the Coquihalla Highway, a four lane ribbon of road that wends its way through the Coastal mountain range depositing wayfarers at the oceans floor. But, dusk was falling and I decided to find a place to stay for the night.

It was the sign at the edge of the highway that grabbed my attention. "Mile High Resort". I exited right. Followed a two lane road into the high hills as the sun bruised the sky ruby and purple and pink. A side road to the right read, "Mile High Resort" 11km. I followed it wary of wildlife crossing the road in front of me. Finally, I came to a small settlement of houses with the resort coddled up against the short of a small lake that shimmered in the evening light.

But... there are no phones at Mile High Resort. And after 5pm -- no manager in the office. Just a sign that read, "Sorry. We're not taking any more visitors today."

I carried on my way. To Logan Lake and found a delightful B&B, Highland House. Jill, the proprietress was accommodating when I called. "If you give me half an hour, I'll make up a room for you," she said.

"Thank you!" I replied. "I'll stop and grab something to eat and then I'll be there."

Darkness had descended. The only place I found in the small mining town of Logan Lake was the pub.

It was hopping. Karaoke Night this Friday, the poster read.

It forgot to mention the kitchen closed at 8.

I sat at a table with a couple of patrons, Eileen and Doug and they extolled the virtues of this small town. "It's a beautiful town," Eileen told me.

They moved here when Doug's work with the mine opened up.

Copper. Open pit.

Thirty-eight years I worked the mines, he told me.

He's retired now. Just last spring.

I'm struggling with having him home, Eileen told me when he went to the washroom. It's a real change.

Did she tell you she left me for ten years? Doug asked me when he returned from the washroom.
She said, 'go get a life' and then we'll see. It took me ten years to see, life's better with her.

They both laughed. Touched fingertips across the table.

I still wonder what life would be like if we'd kept that ten year trend going, Eileen teased.

A man got up to sing. "That's your friend," Eileen said to Doug, her head nodding towards the stage where a man stood, mic in hand, waiting for the music to stop.

Oh yeah! said Doug. "Billy. I thought he was still working at the mine. He retired two years before me."

And Billy began to sing and everyone stopped talking.

He was that good.

The early morning view from my window
And then, it was time to go. To find my way to this delightful B&B in the dark.

I only had to call once.

I found the turn off, made my way down the gravel road towards the lights and Jill's welcoming figure standing in the drive.

I got out of my car, looked up and gasped. The sky was littered with a million sparkling lights. "Night fairies dancing in the sky," I used to tell my daughters when they were small.

I stood for a moment in silent wonder.

I'd forgotten how beautiful the stars are when away from city lights.

I'd also forgotten how welcoming silence is.

No sounds of traffic in the distance. No barking dogs. No human content.

Just silence.

It was a blissful night.

And now, I'm off again. Towards the coast where Alexis and her boyfriend will meet me for lunch with my sister and then, Anne and I are off to Gabriola island for the weekend. She'll leave Monday morning and I'll stay on to immerse myself in more wonder at The Haven where I'll be coached and inspired by Eric Bibb and his gift of the blues.

I'm off to see the Wizard!

from my iPhone -- Ellie thinking about sleeping on my bed while I'm away!
I am off on an adventure today. Off to The Haven on Gabriola Island for a song-writing workshop.

It is a stretch for me. and one I anticipate with much joy -- and trepidation.

I am not a songwriter. I am not a singer (just ask my daughters) and I am not a musician.

A whole bunch of nots in one whole sentence that don't add up to not doing, but yes doing!

What I am is an adventurer. Songwriting is an opportunity to stretch my writer's muscle in ways I never have before imagined.

And.... I believe in songwriting one must be very very sparse with words. Paint a picture, cut away extraneous prose and pare it down to the essentials.

I'm looking forward to that! Being a 'long' writer, cutting out the extras is a great exercise for me.

From The Haven, I'll journey back to Vancouver next Friday to spend the weekend with C.C. and my eldest daughter, Alexis, who is living once again in that magical city by the sea. And then, after four days with Alexis, I'll get back into my car and drive eastward for a few days, wandering by myself through verdant valleys, maybe visiting a winery or two in the Okanogan Valley, back over the Rockies and home.

My car is loaded. And I mean loaded, with Alexis' boxes and bags she left behind when she moved out west in June. Hmmm. Her idea of leaving everything packed and ready to go is very different than my idea of leaving everything packed and ready to go. Go figure!

Her email listing the items she desperately needs me to bring included Ellie, our wonder pooch.

Sorry hon. No room! (I've posted a photo instead).

I'm not even sure where I'm going to put my suitcase!

Which brings me to the other point of this post today.

I'm not sure how much time/access I will have to post. I'm obviously taking my laptop -- but once in the flow, I may refrain from posting for a few days.

Which is just to say.... if I'm not online it's because I'm having too much fun by the sea! Letting the muse seep me in the salty fresh aura of coastal shores and lapping waves and seagulls cawing and windswept vistas spreading out before me.

I will take my camera -- maybe even something other than my iPhone camera :)!

Gabriola, like all the Gulf Islands, is one of those mystical, wondrous, beautiful places in the world kind of place to be.

and I am sooooo excited to be spending the next week there!

Have a great one everyone!

Namaste.

Louise

Falling Up

Does anyone else have this problem? I get a message saying... your browser is no longer supported by Blogger. You may experience problems. Some features may not work. Try Google Chrome.

I download Google Chrome.

I upgrade my IE.I even change the design of my blog to add spice and sizzle (and to appease the blogging gods in case they were bored with the old look).

I log in this morning. Bah! Humbug! The message still appears at the top of my NEW POST page AND my new post page is all messed up! The window to type in is smaller. Only the top half of the 'features' banner is visible and I don't have an HTML button any longer (at least not one that I can see).

Harumph. Time to get a real techie to take a look.

In the meantime, I'll keep on writin' and readin' and doin' the rithmitic'. Blogger is not adding up to a whole bunch of ease of blogging.

Regardless, as I drifted off to sleep last night, a poem started to write itself in my head. I debated turning on the light and writing it down and opted instead to let sleep coddle it.

In the morning, there it was, still waiting. Still prickling my creative juices. Still looking for expression.

I meditate.

I make coffee.

Let the cat out.

Turn on my laptop.

Still it's there.

I consider ignoring it -- but as I said to my eldest daughter last night, it's not good to ignore gifts from the Universe.

And a poem is a certifiable gift from the Universe.

I start writing and the muse awakens and begins to flow.

FALLING UP

Falling
I catch myself
standing up
to my defenses
beating me
down

Standing up
I find myself
holding on
to my fears
falling
apart.

Finding
myself
standing up
I catch
my ego
crumbling
apart
amidst
my fear
of falling
down.


Now, yesterday, Mark from Mark is Musing, commented that I was deflecting. I pondered that comment. Wondered, seriously? Am I?

I also had some of that, harumph. Who is he to tell me who I am or what I am! attitude going on -- but that's just my thirteen year old not wanting to listen to someone telling me the obvious.

And in truth -- Mark may or may not be right. Maybe I am deflecting from what is going on in my belly by writing universally of what is going on in my belly.

There's a gift in that -- just as there's a gift in Mark's comments. (I'm not trying to pick on you Mark my friend. I appreciate your voice and it's ability to awaken my internal knowing.)

Because in Mark's words was the gift of 'seeing' that what I write comes from within me. It is inspired by 'the flow', that collective consciousness that rises up and awakens me to my truth, my knowing, my being.

I sometimes call her 'the muse' -- mostly when poetry is involved because in poetry, the flow is so apparent, so evident I cannot lay claim to her creative process.

Every morning, writing this blog, I trust, 'the flow' to appear. I trust the process to unveil itself. To flow through my body, into my arms, through my fingertips and out onto the screen, where (blogger willing and Shaw Internet cooperating) the words will appear on your screen too!

And every morning it happens. The muse awakens. The flow begins. And voila! A blog appears.

I don't start with an idea for 'here's the lesson I'll teach today'. I don't start with a concept to flesh out. I start with a feeling. And let the feelings flow. Sometimes, I don't know what lays beneath the messages. Sometimes, I don't have a clear picture of what the 'inner' meaning or workings of what I'm writing is. And always, it will resonate with each of us differently.

For me, the process is in the writing. The knowing is too.

Which is why comments are so appreciated. Even when I don't respond.

(I should make this blog a posthumous submission to Duane Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Thursday's that has now moved to Fridays -- but this is Thursday so I am pleasantly out of synch.)

And then, after writing that, it becomes a little bit clearer. I am so in awe of Ruth at Synch-ro-ni-zing who responds to every single comment she receives.

Seriously. How does she do that?

I too want to respond, but 'the critic' in me whispers his vile commentary -- you are sooooo phony when you do that Louise. You don't have time, Louise. Seriously? What would you say. -- that one always gets me. LOL -- I write a blog every morning. I comment on other bloggers blogs every day. I don't have anything to say? -- yeah. Like really... :) I have lots to say and share and learn and grow from what I read and write.

And in that knowing I see the Victim's Voice disguising herself as Victor. She was lurking, the sneaky little devil, between the commas and the periods. Between the 'hey, I'm doing my best' and 'it's my blog I'll write it how I please' assertions.

Gotta love the Victim's Voice. She's got a lot to teach me!

I breathe and move with ease and grace into gratitude.

It is truly a Pleasantly Disturbed Thursday masquarading as nothing other than, my beautiful morning. My best day yet. My one and only life lived in the rapture and wonder of now.

Gotta love it!