Missing: Muse. If found, please return to ....

Missing: Muse

If found, please return to ... 

She misses her.

Thank you.

I have a confession to make.  I've lost my Muse again. If you find her, will you please return her? 
 
Actually, if I’m being really honest, and I’m loathe to admit this, my Muse walked out on me about a month ago in a fit of pique and disgust.

Words won't come to me any more, and I don't have the focus that I need to go on a daily wild-goose-chase down the blank page to find them. When I try to write, they laugh at me or play hide and seek until I’m throwing my hands up in despair and walking away from the pen or keyboard.

You see, my muse and I had this piece that we’d spent the better part of a year working on; a piece on the power of words.  Ironic, no?  It felt like one of the better things we'd written together. Late one afternoon in early May, I went in to refine it again, adding missing pieces and cutting away the chaff, when one click did the wrong thing and an auto save by fecking blogger meant that the piece was lost forever.

I stood there in panicked shock; so distressed, so completely heartbroken, that I quite literally thought I was going to be ill.  I had the awful adrenal rush that starts at the top of the head and feels like someone is pouring molten lava from the top of your head, down your shoulders and across your chest and back, and I felt sick.

This is not hyperbole.

I was as nauseous and felt as betrayed as if I'd just walked in on my lover in bed with a close friend.  Betrayed, bereft, hurt, panicked, nauseous, and angry at myself for not seeing it earlier.  

Only in this case, I was the one wholly in the wrong for not practicing safe writing. I’d put my Muse at risk, and I still had to confess it to her.  

When I did she looked like she'd been slapped.  She stood there with tears in her eyes, shook her head quietly, turned around and walked right out the door, slamming it as she stalked away without looking back.  I watched her in stunned disbelief as she disappeared from view.

I have to confess that I drunk dialed her one night. She didn't answer.  I tried calling a week later, but she’d changed her number.  I even tried writing to her, but irony of ironies, it is hard to write a good entreaty without your Muse to help you. 

There is an emptiness where she used to be.  I’m so lonely for her that I don’t quite know what to do. She's changed her address, cut all ties and I'm quite simply lost without her.

Have I learned my lesson, you ask?  Yes! Oh All the Gods YES!  I'm writing this in Word even as I type and hitting “Save” every few seconds.

Did I have a draft elsewhere, you ask?  Well yes, but one that I hadn't updated since last August, which somehow makes me feel sicker still, because it is proof that I wasn't smart enough to continue to back it up after that.  The draft is a version of the piece in its infancy.  It is unpolished, missing salient points, undeveloped; just the bones of the idea with no flesh on it.  It haunts me.  I know I need to finish it. I just don’t know how, or where to start again.  I want to finish the piece.  I must.  I just don’t know how to re-create it, and I am at a loss for how to create it anew.

So I ask you, how do I win my Muse back? How do I woo her and show her my dedication, focus, and love?  How do I convince her that it won’t happen again? How do I beg for her forgiveness in a way that lets her know that I value her, appreciate her, respect her?  How do I prove that I’ve learned my lesson?  

Because truth be told, I’m pining away for her.  I am at a loss without her.  I need her whisperings in my ear.  I miss her voice in my soul in a way that is almost impossible to explain without, oh sweet irony, her here helping me to craft the words to do so. 

Until I can sort it out, I think I’ll start but putting up signs around the neighborhood.  They will simply say:

Missing: Muse

If found, please return to ... 

She misses her.

Thank you.

I wonder if it will work.  I sure hope so.

Wish me luck.

© Tanya Anguita 

The Devil in My Grey Matter

Nature is dancing on my roof to a concerto of water and whimsy, mischief is in the air, and the fact that I am a human barometer is coming home, once again, to roost.

Migraines madden me and make for scrambled thoughts. I can't serve those with toast and call them a breakfast delicacy so I simply fry them up in my brain-pan and season them with occasional rhyme if not reason. When the devil in my grey matter jabs me with his pointed fork like this, I want to war with my senses; to battle with the pain until it whimpers in fear and dissolves into a quiet nothing. I want to send it to the corner for a permanent time out; to banish it from the kingdom of my joy.

I love the rain. If I could wear essence of petrichor, I would. Petrichor -- the scent of the rain on dry earth...so heady and delicious; deeply sensual; primal and true. I love the glorious music rain makes as it splashes and dashes, and leaps from the burgeoning sky onto my roof. I delight in the playful puddles that ask me to join them as I wander past. I revel in the water as it hits my skin, dousing my hair and dripping off my eyelashes. I appreciate the visual glory of sheets of water running vertically across the horizon, individual drops creating ripples in a pond, or families of raindrops found hanging on a spider's web in the morning. I really, truly love the rain.

What I do not love is the pressure front that comes with it. This silent migraine inducer that brings with it nausea, light sensitivity, scrambled speech, and intense pain. If I could have rain without barometric pressure, I'd be a happy woman indeed.

Tonight, however, and despite this awful migraine,I choose to celebrate the glory of the water currently coming from the sky. I give thanks for the lullaby it will sing to me. As I get ready to climb into my pre-warmed bed, I count my blessings, hum along with the music that is rainfall, and pray for sleep and for respite from the cranky devil that lives in my gray matter. Wish me luck. I think I might need it.

© Tanya Anguita

Mirage

The landscape of a weary heart resembles the open desert on a cold moonless night.

Spread out before you on the bleak internal landscape is a banquet of gnawing hunger saturated with pain and longing, a tireless thirst born of sorrows, a chill that seeps into the soul,and the cruel mirage of a distant, lingering hope on the horizon.

The closer you get to the lushness of the mirage, the more trusting in its existence you become. Running towards it with open arms, exhausting your final reserves to get there, you arrive at the place you believed it to be and find the reality of your situation instead.

There you discover that there is no pool to drink from, nothing to quench your parched spirit, no fulfillment and no comfort offered to you. There is, in fact, no one waiting patiently to soothe your aching heart. You are alone with your sorrows and all you have in front of you is more desert, and the continued illusion of hope that you've carried on your back for all these miles and all these months in a bid to replenish your supply.

Too devastated to cry, you drop to the dusty earth and in the silence of your despair, you hear the faint but somehow steady thump of life pulsing through your veins. This is your heart's steady insistence that you and it are somehow still alive.

In a moment of clarity, you realize that this rhythm of survival is what gets you through the burning desert days. This rhythm of necessity is what keeps one foot moving in front of the other. You recognize that somewhere in that rhythm, love and courage are there to carry you each burning footstep towards something you imagine, you hope, you wish will be better. This rhythm keeps you moving through the blinding sunlight.

In the bleakness of the desert night, however, you find that there is only you and your sorrows to keep you warm against the coldness of your shattered life.

There is only you and the silver ribbons of wishful thinking shining through the clouds of doubt and uncertainty.

There is only you and the distant mountains of prayer standing out from the harshness of the desert's shimmering bed.

So there you stand, bleak, cold, and broken -- your spirit frozen by the harsh night's chill -- with your heartstrings tangled up in the prickly arms of the cactus of loneliness that stands at the center of it all.

Your soul bleeds its hurts out onto the dusty desert floor, as the cruel sun starts is ascent once again on the horizon of your damaged, war torn life. Weeping bitter tears you once again place one exhausted foot in front of the other as you head toward the next mirage. The one you believe will change it all, but never does.


© Tanya Anguita

Mental Poltergeists

I have been lax about writing of late. I have all of these pieces rattling, half finished, behind the confines of my daily life. They are like mental poltergeists flinging things around and disturbing the force of my concentration. I can sense them in the corners of my mind. I feel their presence as I wander through the rooms of my psyche. I simply fail to see them dead on.

When I turn my head I catch a glimpse in my emotional periphery, but they have no reflections in the mirrors that are my eyes. They won't come out to play in the open. Instead, they send warning volleys into the middle of the floor. They tease me with their almost-presence and haunt me in the night.

I can perceive them lurking in dark corners, and shrinking from the light of my pen. But always, always, they are there. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting to be written. Secretly hoping that I'll find the incantation that lets them loose on the world. Wishing to be freed to the relative concreteness of paper.

I can feel them brush past me -- laughing, always laughing at me -- as I'm drifting off to sleep at night. I startle at their touch, and am instantly wide awake. Maddeningly, I am rarely fast enough to catch one by the toe as it leaps, cackling maniacally, over my head. It's shrill snicker frustrates my writer's spirit as it dances past me in the darkness.

I have to sneak up on these hide-y pieces. I can't catch these directly. I am forced to come at them from the side while whistling a merry I-don't-care-if-you're-written tune all the while. Only then can I reach out, lightning fast, and pin one to the page, like the literary equivalent of a butterfly collector adding a short-lived luna moth to her collection.

And when I do, I crow a triumphant "how do you like me now" to the others and feel them lean in a little closer...silently wishing to be next.

© Tanya Anguita

Heat

I am the naked stranger in your bed tonight. I am spread out beneath your sheets, patiently waiting for you.

I am easily turned on. All it takes is your caress in the right place, and I start to get hot. Until you choose to join me, I will lie here...anticipating your arrival...feeling sultrier by the minute.

Warmed by a hidden energy, I am kept flushed and glowing by the weight of the covers above me. I am here because you placed me here. I am turned on at your whim and by your command. I feel heat emanating from every fiber of my being as I await your return.

Electrified and looking forward to the exchange of my ardor for yours, I know that soon I will feel your weight on me, sinking into me; your flesh pressed against my fevered skin. I am stretched across the contours of your mattress, and I will be keeping you in a heated state all night.

You come to me, and I welcome the delicious pressure of your body on mine, and give you all the intensity you require in return. I caress you with a fervor you won't want to recover from and provide a matching warmth for your every move.

If I start to cool, you can simply reach out and turn me on again. I will make you hot over and over, until you are tired and ready for sleep. Then I will curve around you and hold you gently as you drift into sweet oblivion.

With me pressed against you, I assure you that getting out of bed will be the last thing you will want to do.

I am the naked stranger in your bed tonight. I am spread out beneath your sheets, patiently waiting for you...

I'm talking about a Heated Mattress Pad...what were YOU thinking?

© Tanya Anguita

Towards Wisdom

I try to live with a gentle grace, and hope that my heart and mind work in unison to steer me forward towards wisdom.
-- Tanya Anguita

If a blogger blogs in the woods and no one is there to read it, is it still blogging?

If a blogger blogs in the woods and no one is there to read it, is it still blogging?

when the writing won't come
write anyway.

when the writing won't come
write any way.

ANY way.

Any WAY.

Here I am writing...because I know there are words trying to get out and I have to put them somewhere. I can feel them pounding on the locked doors inside my head and heart...trying, trying, trying to get out.

I started this blog exactly 11 months ago yesterday and promptly did a lot of nothing with it.

See? Below there is a lot of Nothing! Ta-da! [UPDATE as of 10/11/10: I have gone back and filled in all of the writing I was doing elsewhere, but trust me, I'd done absolutely nothing with this writing space...Heh! ]

Silence has its place, I'll grant you, but not here! Silence here is beyond useless. A silent blog does nothing and it does it pointlessly. (Which may be some sort of Zen statement come to think of it, but that wasn't my intent.) It sits there in the ether with nothing to say and no one to say it. It waits impatiently for typing to happen and words to appear. It lurks, it lingers, it lacks and it longs. Poor lonely blog. How I have forsaken you. :)

when the writing won't come
write anyway.

when the writing won't come
write any way.

ANY way.

Any WAY.

Here I am. Writing anyway.

Oh...and here's a photo I took. Apropos of nothing.

© Tanya Anguita

The Rose or... A (not so) brief treatise on love...

Friday while in the midst of my (omg..interminable..how the hell do you L.A. people do it) drive to Redlands for Justen & Beth's wedding, the song "The Rose" came on the radio. It was 4 in the afternoon, and there was Bette Midler singing her song from the early 80s. My first reaction was to kind of roll my eyes and go to change the station; instead I got caught up in memories.

I recalled loving that song so much that I HAD to learn it. I remembered the feeling of singing it as a teenager at Vespers at camp. I reminisced about singing it while walking the 3 miles to Carma's house in Wilseyville. I celebrated singing it as a form of catharsis in the stairwell in the dorms with my voice reverberating off those cement walls that first year at SFSU . And so I listened to it, really listened to it as a form of honoring those memories.

What surprised me, what I was completely blown away by, was how powerful the lyrics really are.

Written by Amanda McBroom, it is a brief treatise on love. It is a reminder in song that no matter what happens, there is always the seed of love within all of us waiting to blossom. It really got me thinking.

Given some of the dialogue I have been having of late, I was particularly struck by the 2nd verse.

This....right here:

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying
That never learns to live

I have had, and continue to have, pretty remarkable conversations with various people about love and the nature of love. Given its universality, it is a topic that comes up repeatedly, in many guises and in many different ways. What I'm hearing from these wonderful, infinitely lovable people, is that it seems that allowing oneself to love and be loved can be a pretty terrifying thing for a lot of folks. That allowing ourselves to trust and to love is not something that comes easily. That relaxing into love isn't something many people do comfortably.

I am finding that I know amazing people who shut out love! I am learning that there are people who avoid it, fear it, and run from it. Hearing from people who theorize about love, talk about it, speculate about it, fantasize about it, but do not know how to, or allow themselves to, experience it. Listening to people who want love, who need it, deserve it, and ultimately shun it. Watching people who refuse to embrace, accept, welcome, and live love.

To me? This...THIS is the great tragedy in life! Love exists and is out there for all of us. It is exists in so many ways and in so many forms. I find it heart-rending to think that anyone would choose not to welcome love into their life.

We all deserve love, People, but we have to be willing to let it in! All forms of love...we deserve to say yes to romantic love, true love, love from friends, familial love, and love of self. All of it. We are all worthy of and all deserve to love and be loved.

In my admittedly less than sage opinion, I think the choice not to allow love into one's life boils down to fear. There is the great monster-in-your-closet fear of getting hurt or getting hurt again. There is fear of letting go, fear of rejection, fear of loss, fear of letting someone in, fear of being shut out, fear of losing someone, fear of finding someone who mirrors your heart, fear of intimacy, fear of having to face your fears. There is the disheartening fear of being let down. And the bravery-necessary-to-overcome fear of having to let go, give in, relax, and celebrate. There is the I-might-have-to-act-like an-adult fear of responsibility to yourself and to another. And of course, the often-twinned fears of failure and of success.

I think that fear of losing yourself and fear of finding yourself often vie for the same space in our brains. We don't always know what to do with self-discovery anymore than we know how to deal with loss of self.

What it all boils down to though is that with fear in place, we never fully realize that love helps us to define ourselves, to create ourselves and to become our truest most realized selves. (On a slightly off note, have you ever noticed that the only thing that separates Our from Your is a Why?...yeah...I think too much.)

Fear of love is self-defeating. Fear of opening up to someone else gets you nowhere but lonely. Loneliness has value, but in small measures, not as a way of life.

Love and fear never walk hand in hand. Love walks with grace. Fear stumbles.

Someone recently told me to be careful with my heart. Be careful with my heart? I've never understood what that means. How can one be careful with one's heart...with one's love? How can I possibly be careful with my heart while simultaneously being open to love? I don't want to be careful..I want to love...completely and absolutely and with all of me. How can I do that, truly do that, with caution as a watch word?

When I love, I choose to do so openly or not at all...I know the risks...I take them any way. I choose love over all else. I wear my heart on my face and in my eyes. Love is written on my body, and tattooed into my skin in invisible ink. I am love and I choose love.

Where I can be and am careful, is with other people's hearts. With other people's feelings. I believe that as good people and conscientious souls, we all have a responsibility to be careful with other people's hearts. Kindness, awareness, gentleness, communication, respect and caring are all important when interacting with other people's feelings. We are duty bound not to hurt others if we can help it. We are obligated to pay attention and we are only able to live with ourselves in a state of grace if we are not irresponsible with another's heart. Using someone else to bolster ourselves is never an acceptable past time. If we are aware of another person's feelings for us then we are never to take advantage of those feelings for our own gain. We have a responsibility to that person because they've entrusted us with the incredible gift of their feelings. Integrity does not allow the kind of behavior that fosters those feelings if they're not reciprocated.

To love openly is to risk...it is an exercise in trust in another, and in ourselves. It requires trust of the highest magnitude. It is tantamount to sitting with your beating heart in your hand and entrusting someone else to hold it for you. But my goodness...isn't the risk worth it?!

I believe, with all of me, that love is what you do because love is all there is. Love does not have conditions. Why bother to live and love any other way but openly and with complete trust?

I think William Arthur Ward says it best in this poem. He says:

To laugh is to risk appearing a fool,
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out to another is to risk involvement,
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self
To place your ideas and dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss
To love is to risk not being loved in return,
To hope is to risk despair,
To try is to risk to failure.

But risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing is nothing.
He may avoid suffering and sorrow,
But he cannot learn, feel, change, grow or live.
Chained by his servitude he is a slave who has forfeited all freedom.
Only a person who risks is free.

The pessimist complains about the wind;
The optimist expects it to change;
And the realist adjusts the sails.

Thank you William Arthur Ward! Thank you!

I mean really, have you ever felt better or had less pain when someone hurt you because prior to said hurt you held some of you back? Does it ache less because you hid behind rationalized thoughts and locked yourself into a little fortress of sanctified fear? Are you less wounded because you can say "I told you I might get hurt"? I'm suspecting that the answer to all of those questions is probably "no", so why do we do it?

Love puts us through our paces that is for sure. It makes us look at who and how we are. It shows us our best and our worst Selves. It authorizes us to face our demons and walks us barefoot over the coals. It sets our soul on fire and inspires greatness.

Love shows us our flaws and our strengths in a way few things do. It inspires us to be better people and we don't always have the energy to improve. It can bring out the worst in us and not many want to willingly face that. It makes us aware of our behaviors and our patterns and it forces us to really look at them and at ourselves. It causes us to look at them and figure out whether they truly serve us. That is what makes it so beautiful and so necessary. Love helps us to grow.

If you live in fear of loss or heartbreak or rejection, then you often miss out on the love that is right in front of you. You don't take the risk necessary to embrace the love standing there before you. If you don't risk then you never really get to experience love in its complete form. If you don't risk, the person who loses is you.

Yes, loss of love, heartbreak, rejection, and things of that nature hurt like unholy hell. The pain therein is excruciating and yet, to my mind you still have to love with all of you. I still love with all of me. Love doesn't disappear because I've been wronged or hurt. I'm just thankful that I got to open my heart and love. Love doesn't dissipate so easily. Heartbreak doesn't break love. Love doesn't suddenly disappear. Heartbreak is painful, yes, and the person who is feeling it often has to step back in order to heal. We might have to make the choice to shift the way we love the object of our affection, but it doesn't make the love go away.

If I love or have loved you, I have always and will always wish you happiness. I wish you true contentment. I wish you health and joy and ....yes…I wish you love. I wish you the ability to accept it and the ability to give it in return. If I have loved you, I will always love you...the form that love takes may shift, but I will always love you.

Loving someone, in my experience, can not be conditioned on their loving me in return. I love them because I love them because I love them. This is not predicated on some offering of reciprocation. We all have hopes and wishes, but we cannot expect someone to care for us just because we do them. If we have expectations and that is what defines our love for someone, is that truly love?

Every time I love, I'm just thankful that I get the chance to love. I live in a state of gratitude that I get to feel and express and live that miracle of a feeling. I may hope for, but I do not expect anything in return.

This song says it so perfectly: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD6Lo_7HCm0
Lyrics here: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/alanismorissette/youowemenothinginreturn.html

Sometimes love goes dormant for a while...it sleeps…it goes to seed as it were...so that it can blossom again...and become a new and beautiful rose. For that blossoming, for that quiet time, for that delicate balanced healing, I'm truly grateful. Love is a blessing always and in all ways. Never take that for granted and never forget. Love is a blessing always and in all ways.

© Tanya Anguita 5/5/10

==============================
The Rose

Song here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6_s0QIbI94&feature=related

Lyrics here:

Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger
An endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower
And you, its only seed

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snow
Lies the seed
That with the sun's love, in the spring
Becomes the rose

Words of Love and Consequence (aka Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive #42 -- 4/28/10)

written on my spirit are words of love and consequence. matters of the heart in a gentle text, sloping and soft. no edges, all curves and delicate phrases. the sharp corners have been worn away by grace and fire, by love-conquered fears and truths of the highest magnitude. there is no room for hurtful phrases here anymore. life and hard-won wisdom remind me that cynicism and bitter words only breed more of the same and that the same goes for love and gratitude. which set of offerings would you choose? love and gratitude will always win in my story.

when i take the time to review the pages in the book of my life...the book of my growth... i celebrate the dog-eared ones. the pages worn down with re-reading. the pages tattered around the edges, spilled on, tear stained...the pages that i had to, or chose to return to over and over again. they are the pages that tell of hard won lessons, stories told and retold, places of trial and comfort, and things that i have had to go back to repeatedly before i could move through and past them. i had to revisit these paragraphs, these pages, these chapters in order to truly learn from them. for them i am grateful. they have made me who i am today.

every moment that i breathe, i am writing my story. i am the heroine in my own choose-your-own adventure book. i have epics to live and tales to weave. i have magical happenings and mundane beauty to believe in. i am vividly alive and my joie de vivre leaps off the pages to embrace the reader. i am exceptional. i am whole. i am extraordinary. i embrace who i am. i refuse to live a predictable plot and i choose a happy ending.

as i open the cover on the book of my life, i can't wait to live the next turn of phrase. to find out what the next page will bring, and what the story of the upcoming chapter will be. life, even when painful, has so many delicious things to offer, so many opportunities to learn from, so much room for growth, and so many pages on which to write one's grace and gratitude.

thank you, all of you, for being such amazing presences in the book of my life. my story is so much richer for having you in it. i am thankful that i get to write my saga with every waking breath. i love this life and i chose "and they lived happily ever after" as my afterward and my epilogue.

© Tanya Anguita

Against the looming darkness...

When sleep will not come, the night wraps around me cloak-like and dark. On nights such as these, I sometimes feel as though the mansion of my heart is reduced to a tumble down shack hidden in the shadows. The hinges are rusted, the doors hung sideways, and the windows are covered in tattered curtains that have seen better days. It is there that the specter of loneliness visits me; draping itself seductively across my lap, inviting me to partake of its cold kisses and faithless promises.

It is then that I rally against the looming darkness. I have no interest in ghostly seduction. I don't drink from empty cups. There are lightning bugs in my soul that keep the murky chill out, and remind me that I am never alone as long as I am capable of love. And I am always capable of love.

I fill the castle of my spirit with thankfulness and laughter. The fortress of my heart is lit by the twin lights of friendship and gratitude. I find, again, that the way to happiness and contentment is often down a curiously muddled path, but grace is found in odd places and I believe in myself.

© Tanya Anguita

Excitement and evergreen...

There is a picture window with a cushioned seat nestled under it at the top of my house of dreams. The moon shines through it comfortingly on cold winter nights, and in the late afternoon, the sunlight of my spirit sends warmth through the glass so that I, and those around me, may bask, catlike, in it's gentle beams.

"Come inside," it says. "Put your feet up," it says. "There is repast for the spirit here, and rest for the weary. I will feed and comfort you. I will embrace your hurts and sing you songs of healing joy."

There is an old arm chair on the front porch of the watchtower of my soul. It is padded with contentment and ease. It invites those I care for to rest awhile in it's abundance as it is resplendent in joy, self-knowledge, and abiding contentment.

"Relax" it says. "Enjoy" it says. "There is soothing here and sweetness. Laughter and light. Stay a while and breathe deep of all that is good and true. I will brush back the fears from your forehead and protect you from them while you sleep."

As I peer out from the fortress of my fortitude I find, once again, that the view from my soul is a pleasing one. Endless possibility is spread out before me like so many mountains, standing rugged and rough hewn, in the rays of the arching late-autumn sun. Rivers of choice run in the valleys. Waterfalls of wonder pound out any doubts. I can hear the birdsong of many joys echoing off the distant hills and I often sing along. Opportunity grows on the trees around here, and everything smells like excitement and evergreen.

© Tanya Anguita

Enjoying Casa

I think my note yesterday made me further appreciate how much I'm enjoying doing the Faire right now.

I'm enjoying the magic of Casa so much. There is something about the light streaming through the trees in the late afternoon that warms my heart like few things have in a long time. It is great, majestic, slippery, subtle and stunning light and I am embracing it anew. I'm finding new friends, new space for me, new magic to be created, new memories forming...and I'm having more fun than I have in years.

Performing with Commedia Volante and Serenata and the stories and laughter we share in between show times. I feel so privileged to be a part of this group. So blessed.

Singing with Blame It On Eve...and the teenaged girls at our show on Sunday who giggled at all of our silly jokes.

Manly Men Shows, Seadogs singing, and dancing with Newcastle. Oh the Joy of dancing with Newcastle again.

Sitting at the Coughing Sheep, having a pint and sharing more of that magical elixir: Laughter while watching the world go by. Listening to Bruno play music behind me....and feeling like I'm settling into a new home...a new place of comfort and community.

Losing my hair onstage on opening weekend, and losing my lines on 2nd weekend. Carlos and later Elliot wearing my fall, hair flowers in Michael's beard and hair....oh the laughter...so rich and fulfilling. I love the ache of side-splitting laughter.

Old friends I've just met, new friends I'm still meeting, and old friends I get to reconnect with.

There are new places to explore, new stories to be created, and it is so easy to be here because of the familiarity of it all, even admidst the newness.

I love this place. I love the people in it. Thank you for welcoming me so richly and so warmly into the heart of this Faire. I feel embraced and I embrace you back. :)

Missing Blackpoint

For some reason, I find myself missing Blackpoint today. Especially my last couple of years there.

The smell of bay leaves and oak trees. Meandering or running up the high road. The light in the late afternoon as the sun started to greet the horizon and that mystical blue black at twilight with a gentle breeze singing through the leaves.

I miss Shanachie and sharing a backstage with Albion and the laughter and friendships and relationships that came out of that magical time. The inside jokes, the dress up parties, the laughter....did I mention the laughter? Oh the brilliant, side-splitting, endless laughter.

I miss dancing like that...even in 15 pounds of wool on a hot day....and knowing that we were bringing joy to a crowd of friends and strangers. I was so proud of being a part of that show. So very proud.

Puddledance and our Sidhe names. Our kiddie pool and Sidhe kibbles. Our Wizard of Oz show and the hilarity attached to that including Cindy's wonderful laughter. :)

I miss rapping the Sidhe Song in the Red Barn and the speed at which we were expected to dance that night.

Even becoming one with the tree backstage has a poignancy to it...and a humor...as I sobbed and apologized at the same time to the poor EMT who wasn't quite sure whether to comfort me or laugh at me. And then there was the child the following week that told someone to tell "the pretty lady who sang, that her make up was running" because my black eye from said tree experience was evident from the audience. Oy.

I miss the Birds of Prey show before us and the hilarity of Mark cleaning up after Lady Margaret that one amazing day when he couldn't find a towel. Thank you Mark. :)

Bruno below stage crawling out like mice from every conceivable exit...and them graciously agreeing to imbibe another time...thank you Gentlemen. Chris McIlroy's amazing photos...

I miss going to tease Sound & Fury -- gingerbread men, churros, carving cucumbers with our teeth, bananas -- and the look of hilarious surprise and oh-jesus-what-are-these-girls-going-to-do-now of it. My mother joining us for the gingerbread men...and the glee we all got out of that. Shelby's gift and the funny of that.

I miss Eileen (Durasidhe) dancing on the table at the front of the Inn, and singing there with George. I miss the night of "Queen of the World" and of the disco party Monique and I happened upon. I miss quiet conversations at Innyard stage and swing dancing with Joe there too. I miss climbing up into the trees at night and singing to the moon.

I miss showers with Jessie and all of the laughter we shared out there on those crazy Autumn nights. I miss reading children's books to each other and the cozy puppy piles fully of comfortable affection.

I miss singing in Robin's booth with Robin & Doreen. Street sets with Newcastle when I could make them.

I miss "sleeping" in the street and Monique and I being "Town Criers" together. My pet butterfly "Fang", Hannah's fake hair, gigging with the Scot's boys, learning to country dance on stage with Kevin & Jason, Red Tail Morris, Dancing in to the Faire with Newcastle, Sodomize A Lark and the Hemaphrodite pictures in the "contract" that I presented to Himself when I was in St. Pats. Hogties (you must kiss everyone of us or one of us like you mean it...lol) and so much flirting. So, so much flirting. I miss the Well, and the Court. I miss Queen's Show...and the size of the Parades. I miss cooking eggs on the stage and running through the Maze at night...giggling all the while. I miss the parties and the night life. I miss camping on Cardiac and camping in the parking lot.

And Mullah's. I always miss Mullah's and the sense of going home that settling in there at any hour of the day brought. Iced chai with lots of honey during the day. Hot chai with lots of honey at 3 in the morning. :) And for the brave and strong of heart, Turkish Coffee. :)

I miss Witches' Wood and the End of the World. I miss Pig's Cott and Front Gate. Horse Tourney and Irish Camp. I miss the big swing and riding on the Moon. Caravansery stage and visions of Reduced Shakespeare from years ago with Adam climbing that danged tree as Juliet. I miss crawling up into the windows of Innyard and taking in the passers by.

I miss friends absent and a place that once was.