tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91010442400412043742024-02-07T00:05:16.465-08:00Swimming TurtlesArt & Craft.eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-9852258434084241132017-04-23T09:22:00.001-07:002017-04-23T09:22:39.904-07:00What If<div>
What if the thoughts are real?
</div>
<div>
what if the moments of clarity
</div>
<div>
of me
</div>
<div>
sitting in the sunlight
</div>
<div>
streaming across my own space
</div>
<div>
are truths that I can not live without
</div>
<div>
and
</div>
<div>
as I sit
</div>
<div>
slowly leaching
</div>
<div>
in another room
</div>
<div>
with that same sunlight streaming
</div>
<div>
though not living
</div>
<div>
still
</div>
<div>
dreaming
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
how what then?
</div>
<div>
how what now?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If I could have that room of my own
</div>
<div>
that space to be what I want when I want it
</div>
<div>
to create my experience
</div>
<div>
as I was created
</div>
<div>
what then?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
it is too big a picture to think about as a whole.
</div>
<div>
small parts
</div>
<div>
a glimpse here
</div>
<div>
a whisper there
</div>
<div>
while I sit
</div>
<div>
and drink my tea
</div>
<div>
contemplating
</div>
<div>
this
</div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
<br />
<div>
reality. </div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-31943897235029011932017-03-14T20:00:00.003-07:002017-03-14T20:00:45.966-07:00forty-three<div>
I am filled with thoughts
</div>
<div>
they drift in and out of feelings
</div>
<div>
swellings
</div>
<div>
dwellings
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and I still sit
</div>
<div>
waiting for my crumbs.
</div>
<div>
sitting
</div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
<br />
<div>
still. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Why?</div>
<div>
why.</div>
<div>
y.</div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-90905842843256711102017-01-14T11:55:00.001-08:002017-01-14T11:56:02.946-08:00Jagged Edges<div>
The disconnect between reality and
</div>
<div>
the inside and
</div>
<div>
the outer world
</div>
<div>
and
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
then there is me.
</div>
<div>
standing, usually
</div>
<div>
somewhere between.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What is real?
</div>
<div>
How do you know?
</div>
<div>
How do I know?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When those worlds do not intersect cleanly
</div>
<div>
and leave their jagged little edges
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
who is there to turn to
</div>
<div>
and remark upon their beautiful shapes
</div>
<div>
the dancing that the light makes when traveling across them?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and I
</div>
<div>
still standing
</div>
<div>
see and absorb
</div>
<div>
yet
</div>
<div>
for what?
</div>
<div>
For whom?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
<br />
<div>
Is it for no one? </div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-39458181827002102362016-12-29T23:55:00.002-08:002016-12-29T23:55:52.958-08:00A New Folder: Therapy<div>
I thought a lot about therapy these last few months/years.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is hard to go into a person’s space and try and explain what it is like for me to live in my own space which is not my own yet one that this society makes is believe is my/our own
</div>
<div>
yet not to label people by what they look like
</div>
<div>
even if they are what they look like
</div>
<div>
and not to trust our judgments
</div>
<div>
yet to trust our judgements
</div>
<div>
and to make our own decisions
</div>
<div>
and our own thoughts about life
</div>
<div>
when the thoughts we have are fleeting strings disattached from reality
</div>
<div>
and we can string together anything.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
how does one do this life thing?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had it all figured out so young
</div>
<div>
and then I had to fit into this world
</div>
<div>
and I had to comply with its rules in order to not stand so far out
</div>
<div>
and be spotted as something so different
</div>
<div>
and that process wore down my shell which was my home
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and now I am not a turtle with the shell on her back
</div>
<div>
I am more the thing that crawled out of it
</div>
<div>
like the hermit crab
</div>
<div>
but I am not able to find the right fit of my shell
</div>
<div>
I am in a tank with those painted idiotic pieces from some dine store shit hole
</div>
<div>
and I am stuck with my lot.
</div>
<div>
Yet, I was;t eaten
</div>
<div>
I have a home
</div>
<div>
I am fed
</div>
<div>
I have a shell - just not one that I like
</div>
<div>
and I keep trying to make it work
</div>
<div>
or I keep switching
</div>
<div>
yet
</div>
<div>
something just isn;t right
</div>
<div>
and I can’t find my stuff in here.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Where am I?
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel like the girl from The Secretary might have had the same feelings.
</div>
<div>
Who am I with all this other stuff inside
</div>
<div>
yet
</div>
<div>
I feel so fine when I am alone inn y room with my secret box of comfort.
</div>
<div>
And
</div>
<div>
trying to fit in.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She fights for it
</div>
<div>
when she feels it
</div>
<div>
when it clicks.
</div>
<div>
She becomes a woman
</div>
<div>
without that step being defined by society.
</div>
<div>
It was her claimed moment.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I?
</div>
<div>
Where
</div>
<div>
oh where
</div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
<br />
<div>
am I? </div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-48313456444604219612016-12-29T17:19:00.001-08:002016-12-29T17:19:58.472-08:00The Day After<p dir="ltr">Hooked up Google home<br>
Does this mean I am forever done?<br>
All status of off-the-grid gone<br>
All thoughts and feelings<br>
No longer my own?</p>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-1582517837382752572016-12-27T09:34:00.001-08:002016-12-27T09:34:21.198-08:00NYCOh my<br />
how I have missed the churning pavement<br />
beneath my feet.<br />
<br />
My pace,<br />
My Own.<br />
Makes for finding me<br />
easily.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I was brought to tears by a painting<br />
John Singer Sargent<br />
Mrs. Hugh Hammersley.<br />
<br />
I brought my spouse to it.<br />
He was not moved.<br />
He had another agenda.<br />
Understandable.<br />
But my eyes were full<br />
and my heart,<br />
stirred.<br />
<br />
Awakened,<br />
to something<br />
dreamy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-72949384321931822412016-05-10T17:07:00.001-07:002016-05-10T17:07:55.955-07:00Migrant mother, mother we are<p dir="ltr">I wonder about this mother role that I jumped into without knowing. <br>
After searching this famous photo of Dorothy Lange's for answers within the lines of worry and life upon the subject's face, I thought about how our functionality of being human has altered us -the current mother having so much choice. ..too much? <br>
We are just looking to have the space and place to make and birth the babies, right? <br>
Yet now, so different. With the competition to be "men" and handle everything. <br>
Brings it's also to interesting launching points for the role of men- when we used too argue that we were just a uterus for the men, now we can say they are walking sperm. <br>
Swung the other way the pendulum has, no?</p>
<p dir="ltr">And i, sitting with this book of photos, reflecting upon my own world- what do I have to say? <br>
Where is my space and my place? <br>
Do I get to find it even if I have already had the children? </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi21xmmAmlF-cGAf-tev9qDL2RE1dNh3ECDAF9_Z3gjw1K1vA6Y0dZs6Cc7YcHkSJ3HhcaqTEcKcGtMD-tiTJ0qvCXDyUxUZm8b9b0CZseY-fuK2BNJY4DXSbMhIA7UNQtIKVCk6mOsr4Mn/s1600/20160510_170112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi21xmmAmlF-cGAf-tev9qDL2RE1dNh3ECDAF9_Z3gjw1K1vA6Y0dZs6Cc7YcHkSJ3HhcaqTEcKcGtMD-tiTJ0qvCXDyUxUZm8b9b0CZseY-fuK2BNJY4DXSbMhIA7UNQtIKVCk6mOsr4Mn/s640/20160510_170112.jpg"> </a> </div>eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-16979572761524344472016-02-19T09:29:00.002-08:002016-02-19T09:29:24.050-08:00Procrastination<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
Some believe that their talents were given to them.<br />I am not so lucky.<br />I have to dig around for mine<br />without using tools<br />without knowing there are tools<br />without seeing that there were gifts to awaken within.<div>
<br /></div>
Later,
</div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
I thought about what brought up peace, happiness, contentment, joy
</div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
and it is moments when we were all home
</div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
all doing our thing<br />mother is in the garden<br />weeding in the rain<br />father is at the computer<br />playing - or creating - a game<br />sister is sorting books<br />putting them in oder<br />and I<br />me myself and I
</div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
hover
</div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
by the sidelines
</div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
<br />
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
waiting. </div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-44907535173246114482016-01-23T15:15:00.001-08:002016-01-23T15:15:29.236-08:00All Pointing Signs<p dir="ltr">All Pointing signs can be avoided rather than pricked on...however, this does not change the fact that they are still very much there.</p>
<p dir="ltr">This, from Galactic Rabbit:</p>
<p dir="ltr"><b>Libra</b></p>
<p dir="ltr">Every couple of years I notice articles circling the internet describing the passing down of intergenerational trauma. How our fears and sorrows, our deepest sources of grief, are etched into our DNA and delivered into the bodies that come from our bodies. A sadness like a vampire inside you—immortal. These sorts of scientific findings compel me to wonder how quiet pain is measured. I think about the way my mother’s face turns dark at the mention of sex. I think about my father’s bad heart and how, when we were states apart, my body felt him fall to the floor. I fell down too; I cracked my chin open. Unconscious, I pissed myself and was ashamed.</p>
<p dir="ltr">In an essay about Serena Williams, in <u>Citizen</u>, Claudia Rankine writes:</p>
<p dir="ltr"><i>Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold </i><i>across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.</i></p>
<p dir="ltr"><i> </i>Libra, yesterday your body was a living record of all that has happened to you and before you. Today, your body is just a human body—it is muscle, blood, and bone. In order to protect it, the stories that evoke shame must have a different ending.  You must be brave enough to write them.</p>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-549645505468634902016-01-23T14:33:00.002-08:002016-01-23T14:33:25.390-08:00anyday everydayI put this blog out in the open in a few places.<br />
because,<br />
well,<br />
dark times reign at certain intersections<br />
and I have read that opening up channels<br />
of any sort<br />
may shed light<br />
of any sort.<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-57620178004700992832015-10-10T22:27:00.001-07:002016-01-03T11:33:53.428-08:00Selective Destiny<div dir="ltr">
The 41 club.<br />
My doll.<br />
The fact that my friend Tory is a forest fairy.<br />
Wallie & Steven</div>
<div dir="ltr">
My beautiful gold cards.<br />
The seasons of my youth.<br />
The Library experience.<br />
Esalen... for real?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Rhythms and Eurythmy.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Rhythms & breathing.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Books. Author. Bodywork.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Get back up on the horse, walk, meditate, track the circle of the sun and the light it hits.<br />
Sing to the birds.<br />
Build garden houses.<br />
Write, read, breathe, walk, run, dance, sing, be.</div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-8334104464292391662015-10-09T15:08:00.001-07:002015-10-09T15:09:51.858-07:00Making Things<p dir="ltr">I'd like to make this... <br>
Now, if only time rolled along for me but stopped everything else for a bit.</p>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-75351924701027735842015-10-06T17:35:00.001-07:002015-10-06T17:35:03.288-07:00Swimming<p dir="ltr">Moroccan style. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHAyDPEvPft6ONMHc7Nr3x0_gauvvlDndYKOsBE3H79JVzaLWjDj-q3cwKx8qpwJTEPIcgOw8qrINKdmweePOipMf1HGaGnAfSNLVsMcBYvseaBWC6jbvP9gBLMZ5ga9NZRqfv7HOL6yh/s1600/1444178060915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHAyDPEvPft6ONMHc7Nr3x0_gauvvlDndYKOsBE3H79JVzaLWjDj-q3cwKx8qpwJTEPIcgOw8qrINKdmweePOipMf1HGaGnAfSNLVsMcBYvseaBWC6jbvP9gBLMZ5ga9NZRqfv7HOL6yh/s640/1444178060915.jpg"> </a> </div>eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-27841616849373130392015-10-05T23:12:00.001-07:002015-10-05T23:20:08.492-07:00Just because & why not?<p dir="ltr">I went to a women's writing group this eve- as I came about it in a serendipitous way I figured I would try and go.<br>
We are all so very different, the 5 of us, and with writing bringing us together it just might work.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Next meeting, 2 weeks and I shall have something to read aloud to this new audience. I am looking for prompts as to which of my many ideas I will go with to develop and...why not...consulted my Purpose cards as I found them frighteningly right on the mark twice now. I was called an Oracle by the younger set so it seemed fitting to get the cards for our weekend away.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Tonight, I asked what to dream about, a three card spread. And, this is what came up.</p>
<p dir="ltr">We shall see if I can remember.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Until then, stories abound!</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxyWJxAWoSz-X3N7QRM0xgH1GgGYH1e81HWHnSMUk_5MbX5P4qjYEDEKPAXNoYHingOOk3kKgJi0c0tIOtZx2LCDJtJV0SSfQtmAAkpWr1ey3kvJzm4skMC6MZBk7AzxPW4mj_KNLr-JY/s1600/1444112216064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxyWJxAWoSz-X3N7QRM0xgH1GgGYH1e81HWHnSMUk_5MbX5P4qjYEDEKPAXNoYHingOOk3kKgJi0c0tIOtZx2LCDJtJV0SSfQtmAAkpWr1ey3kvJzm4skMC6MZBk7AzxPW4mj_KNLr-JY/s640/1444112216064.jpg"> </a> </div>eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-58024351530602854382015-10-04T21:58:00.001-07:002015-10-04T21:58:04.752-07:00Ok, listening.<p dir="ltr">So, you can't make this stuff up.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQnKpEUcFV1bu8YuwSuZakmBprbuDr1mfAdtSZteB5eJmYMsBg79_ib7zv9jZAETMIpUBrAXe3OY6omZmDpMkz__yaLWMvmthYDhkZpxAPksCeYNcVfWEV0h_WBnEstQzk8j-VIGMr09v/s1600/20151004_215601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQnKpEUcFV1bu8YuwSuZakmBprbuDr1mfAdtSZteB5eJmYMsBg79_ib7zv9jZAETMIpUBrAXe3OY6omZmDpMkz__yaLWMvmthYDhkZpxAPksCeYNcVfWEV0h_WBnEstQzk8j-VIGMr09v/s640/20151004_215601.jpg"> </a> </div>eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-56462169175803948762015-10-02T23:26:00.002-07:002015-10-02T23:26:28.778-07:0010 minutes at the end of FridayFriday night, weekend away. A place in some dry hills, cooler temperatures, farm animal sounds drifting through the air.<div>
I wondered about doing my 10 minutes here, out loud, rather than in the book by hand.</div>
<div>
It is so easy to delete here - which I have already done so. The waste - of time - or space - of stuff. It is a waste that I wonder what will happen with the stuff. Is there anything to do with the stuff?</div>
<div>
Yet, all in all, it really doesn't matter if I do anything with it or if I do not. Just that I sit here and time the 10 so that I can fulfill my goal - the idea is in the practice.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not drinking alcohol amongst so many who do is a string of moments to write about.</div>
<div>
In this moment, I sit in my bunk, next to the window and nearest a door, as intended, with a party of sorts going on outside and around the corner and a quiet space in here for myself and two others. We do not talk. We are alone with ourselves yet I wonder if they feel my presence as strongly as I feel theirs?</div>
<div>
In this moment I am thinking if this is unique to me and perhaps why I like to be alone so often - unburdened then by the intake of all their projecting. Information stretching out from their pores and beyond like a wave hitting me</div>
<div>
and I sputter</div>
<div>
trying to breathe</div>
<div>
and still hold my own self afloat.</div>
<div>
Yet, in this manner,</div>
<div>
who am I?</div>
<div>
Just the flotsam reacting to their jetsam.</div>
<div>
or</div>
<div>
vice versa</div>
<div>
it really does not seem to matter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And this phrase - about the phrase it doesn't really matter - which has been spoken a lot, this is what is on my mind now and how I have used it for effect rather than gathering together my intentions and feelings (both before and/or after) on what I wanted to say. Am I cruel to myself on purpose? Is it because as another mentioned in the circles today that I am still procesing the way in which I was developed before I was even born?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been exhausted by all the thoughts lately - all the plots for happiness and 100 days of this or that.</div>
<div>
Why not just be by myself and live amongst my own thoughts to see how I really am?</div>
<div>
Then I wonder about the other component - the relationships with others - would these come to me on my own accord or do we live seeing the supposed perfect scenario and mimic without thinking.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Am I really just this debbie downer when around people all the time dowm deep and joyful when alone in the deciduous forest?</div>
<div>
Do I care to stretch the moments together to test out the theory?</div>
<div>
And</div>
<div>
does it even really matter?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
thoughts going round and round with 11 days to go.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-89270246077978877322015-10-01T23:40:00.001-07:002015-10-01T23:40:35.552-07:00October.<p dir="ltr">Wrote for 10.<br>
Plank for 60.<br>
10 squats.<br>
Read a book.<br>
Cooked dinner & didn't set table or clear.<br>
Got little boy to bed after bath & books in time.<br>
House clean.<br>
Yard ok.<br>
Halloween decorations in progress.<br>
Talked with friend.<br>
Planned a future event.<br>
Daydreamed a fun scenario.<br>
12 days till 42.<br>
12 days till tipsy.<br>
12 days to get through 41.<br>
Took a photo.<br>
Walked the dog.<br>
Laughed with a big boy.<br>
Thought about decorating improvements.<br>
Sat in the shade.<br>
Concentrated on breathing.<br>
Did a good deed.<br>
Planned a better one.<br>
Experienced a creative moment.<br>
A random postcard brought me to tears.<br>
Received a compliment.<br>
...all in this day.<br>
Thanks.<br>
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCI98JbnViIMpJ4_iFAdZ7G4QKt-5p7tGBUCD79CqAhjcXErMky7PLtEPySmQYuE4LYhxZaXlueSzOv52d2emMVF5XGfXPRxBKqsBv1P-KFWP19D_JECzfGsFNtPqHOCQ-2JlsLEHsLBBF/s1600/20151001_232835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCI98JbnViIMpJ4_iFAdZ7G4QKt-5p7tGBUCD79CqAhjcXErMky7PLtEPySmQYuE4LYhxZaXlueSzOv52d2emMVF5XGfXPRxBKqsBv1P-KFWP19D_JECzfGsFNtPqHOCQ-2JlsLEHsLBBF/s640/20151001_232835.jpg"> </a> </div>eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-37967711606208772992015-09-23T00:36:00.003-07:002015-09-23T00:36:40.573-07:00New found selfAlthough not writing here doesn't mean not writing anywhere<br />
tho diligent I may not have been.<br />
<br />
Discovered a place where my efforts on paper can be appreciated<br />
by me<br />
<br />
spent 4 hours on an agenda<br />
feel confident<br />
and free.<br />
<br />
It seems as if that little voice<br />
whispering upon my shoulder<br />
when not shushed by the no-can-dos<br />
actually can do.<br />
<br />
And<br />
with the reminder<br />
that I do not need to guess<br />
predict<br />
anticipate<br />
the ending<br />
For anyone else but me<br />
I can live free.<br />
<br />
Last challenge before 4:15am<br />
find a passage of harmonious truth<br />
to share with other souls<br />
<br />
Looking...<br />
looking.<br />
<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-83009737330247544672015-09-08T22:24:00.001-07:002015-09-08T22:24:43.357-07:00Goals<p dir="ltr">Meditation is up to 7 minutes, yikes!</p>
<p dir="ltr">Still haven't written the gratitude letters, making no good clear time for myself...</p>
<p dir="ltr">Writing sporadically, almost every day however in Evernote and not here.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Fell back in old habits, kicked them out (sort of).</p>
<p dir="ltr">Back walking almost every day.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Interested in this 6 month permaculture class, ohmygee- it would be amazing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">School begins this week and I find myself wanting more in-house-alone-time... big boy needs a job.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Byron Katie is amazing. Keep folowing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Mountains & ocean, who can choose?</p>
<p dir="ltr">Trees, trees, it is all about the trees.</p>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-29306738155552275242015-09-02T22:23:00.001-07:002015-09-02T22:23:16.189-07:00September.<p dir="ltr">Days till something happens, <br>
Days till nothing happens. </p>
<p dir="ltr">All the signs point in one direction<br>
Yet<br>
I look away. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The ground, <br>
Sturdy.<br>
My footing,<br>
Even. <br>
My heart, <br>
Yearning. <br>
My eyes, <br>
Ahead. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And...<br>
My bags,<br>
Untended<br>
Unfriended</p>
<p dir="ltr">And</p>
<p dir="ltr">Yet</p>
<p dir="ltr">Blisters<br>
remain.</p>
eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-51499399879178993952015-08-27T22:14:00.001-07:002015-08-27T22:14:35.236-07:00The Sewing Roommaterial is what I bring to the table.<br />
cloths so thick with it<br />
<br />
and some threadbare<br />
whispy<br />
downright invisible.<br />
<br />
and me<br />
wrapped in tapestry<br />
with bells<br />
and a sideways smirk<br />
which hides<br />
on the inside...<br />
<br />
materials.<br />
of those,<br />
I have lots.<br />
<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-11440821197720248312015-08-26T22:10:00.003-07:002015-08-26T22:10:42.685-07:00The Giving Treeand then the heavens broke<br />
and I was busy<br />
and there were jobs to do<br />
and places to go<br />
and a friend<br />
and I was happy.<br />
<br />
The park<br />
a haven for interactions<br />
dreaming of putting in<br />
a little library.<br />
:)eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-43185528298000904112015-08-25T23:47:00.002-07:002015-08-25T23:47:52.147-07:00Pixie DustIsn't it amazing<br />
when I focus on the shortcomings<br />
the negatives<br />
the problems<br />
then<br />
all I see<br />
are problems<br />
negatives<br />
shortcomings.<br />
<br />
And<br />
when<br />
instead<br />
I seek out what I like,<br />
that what likes me comes back.<br />
<br />
Amazing.<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
Byron Katie = amazing.<br />
sparkly.<br />
pixie dust was sprinkled<br />
and then she hands you the jar.<br />
<br />
And<br />
in thanks<br />
I sprinkle my toes<br />
so I have some wherever I go.<br />
<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-77530196179569160442015-08-24T21:34:00.002-07:002015-08-24T21:35:04.086-07:00Awake and DreamingThe twins in the teak cottage<br />
amid the ferns<br />
<br />
they work<br />
studiously<br />
side by side.<br />
<br />
And I<br />
on a tree lined balcony<br />
the city spread out beneath<br />
with the white Persian cat weaving between my ankles.<br />
<br />
The coffee is hot<br />
and the cinnamon still swirling.<br />
<br />
I am looking off into the clouds<br />
and feel the mist<br />
from the leaves<br />
from the depths<br />
from the forest floor<br />
so far away<br />
so far away<br />
<br />
<br />
Tomorrow<br />
the newspapers will arrive<br />
and I will have some such thing<br />
want to read to me about how the day was done<br />
yet<br />
I already know<br />
inside<br />
because I wrote it.<br />
<br />
There,<br />
in the octtage,<br />
the walls speak.<br />
<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101044240041204374.post-58960843765048902412015-08-23T22:09:00.001-07:002015-08-23T22:09:23.594-07:00Day 1 of year 24anger or annoyance?<br />
<br />
Bubbling, building.<br />
gaining focus.<br />
clearer thoughts coming together.<br />
<br />
today I saw the white cat about my ankles<br />
crossing from left to right in the mirror of my dressing room.<br />
when I looked down, she was gone.<br />
the persian princess had been smiling.<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
uncertain about where to be one thing vs another in my world of boxes,<br />
I muddle things up and can not keep them straight everytime.<br />
fruustrating.<br />
human.<br />
equally frustrating.<br />
<br />
A lesson which finally resonated enough to stick was that it is the practice and not exactly making it to the finish that counts the most.<br />
Perhaps I knew this as the medals held no triumph for me.<br />
yet,<br />
for some reason,<br />
just saturday<br />
on a new trail<br />
with a different band of women<br />
mist still hanging in the sky<br />
awaiting bright dawn light<br />
I heard it again and it struck.<br />
The practice<br />
is where the perfect is found<br />
and not<br />
the other way around.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I must articulate myself wisely.<br />
<br />
reading a book by Jean Shinoda Bolen<br />
fantastic.<br />
daydreams about visits to greece<br />
research of history vs. mythology<br />
aching to touch maps and follow the lines of streams<br />
<br />
It feels good to have a daydream.<br />
The good is in the practice.<br />
<br />
Also, had an idea for a short.<br />
<br />
The tale of Artemis, the twin of Apollo<br />
being withheld from her father until it was safe to meet him<br />
and amused he asked her what she wished:<br />
A bow and arrows,<br />
and to find them herself.<br />
Nymphs to follow her<br />
and to find them herself.<br />
Hounds to protect her<br />
and to find them herself.<br />
And the perfect woods, streams, meadows...<br />
and to find them herself.<br />
Laughing, the delighted God granted her this<br />
and off she went.<br />
<br />
The hunt for each item as exciting as the item itself<br />
and lost in creating her own world she was.<br />
<br />
Lovely.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />eLizAbeth http://www.blogger.com/profile/14464902757908951574noreply@blogger.com0