Dance, Anyone?

As I sat down to return to my writing (finally, and at long last) I perused some recent blogs. Each one with a picture or video placed strategically here and there. It began to niggle me a little, the time it would take to include all the juicy photos, etc. to seduce readers – “lookie, hey, over here! Read mine!” I have lived long enough to understand that it’s a tide I can’t swim against. However, it’s tempting. I am tempted to experiment. Could I write with enough texture to make you forget that there isn’t a photo? Could I seduce you with words, a catchy title and nothing more…well, except for a nod here or there from the numbers who’ve read it?

See, I believe the whole point in writing is to lead you inside, not out.
Not at first glance.

No, I mean for you to go inside, to your own internal version of the written words; to lead you to your own stories. And to invite you to then look out from an either changed or enhanced perspective.

I’ve begun reading Anna Karenina. Tolstoy has it! He is that master who writes with so much texture that we effortlessly see what he’s writing about –  our version. Once I lay down a picture of her, you then see my version of what he wrote. The implication is that Anna looks like that photo. The story takes the tone of the publishers image of her on the front cover, as opposed to what my mind might have conjured. I love opening books with nothing on the front cover. I am then completely free to allow my creative mind to do what it does best, create.

Writing is an invitation to dance creatively on the dance-floor of the writer’s proposed reality. Reading is simply following the writer’s lead onto your own inner dance-floor,  to the music of that magical meaning factory called your mind. No props, no preview, just a fresh new dance every time you open the cover…or click on the link embedded in the photo.

I may not resist the temptation.

This piece officially begins my re dedication to writing.
Shall we dance?Dance2 don

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Women in Sensible Shoes – The Gang’s All Here

 Our affection for one another was palpable tonight around the Birthday table. Susan invited all of us to a hosted dinner at Bella Mia for Mary’s 58th. There were 14 aging lesbians and one 11 year old girl (our daughter) ordering rib-eye, sirloin, and crab-stuffed halibut, with sides of some of the finest greens I’ve ever tasted. Bottles of wine and mixed drinks flowed with the ease of a springtime river.

Susan’s generosity was well spent as we bantered and laughed and then, yes, settled into recanting the tales from the 40 year old birthday party, or now wait, was that the 50 year birthday?

Marking the shared “ages-old” by the themes set for each party. All of them feel the same year after year yet that sameness grows on you like the taste of martinis in your 30’s — at first it’s a bit unappealing but then you get used to the taste and associate it with pleasure. After a while it becomes something you look forward to, to the point of definitely NOT missing it!

There is some unspoken agreement that, even as I write, won’t surface and form words. But it’s there and I’m in alignment. My body and my heart feel the need of the nutrients acquired in attending a gathering/party/Sunday night dinner. The obligation is to none other than our own souls in honor of a sense of continuity and shared journey’s.

Sometimes, I just sit there in Jani’s backyard, as the flies land on the veg dip and the kids get muddier, louder, hungrier, musing at how unimportant all the conversation is but how very important it feels to be there sharing in the discussions.

July brings cherry pie from Lynn. August brings peach cobbler or pie from Anne and Monica’s yard. New years is the neighborhood crab feed. One year we had Sunday dinners and each one, for a pace in time, had themes. “The Lemon” theme brought Avgolemono soup, lemon meringue pie and asparagus with lemon sauce. Jani’s birthday requires angel food cake, year after year! Julie is sure to have spent at least the whole day of, if not most of the day before, preparing her dish(es).

We need someplace, and good people, to share our meals with. They are barter for the stories we bring in the pockets of our hearts, ready to share if the timing is right and our basic needs are met.

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Grown up question for 2/18

How would I live today if I took my dreams seriously? Do I know what I dream of, long for?

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“Planned Neglect” Newbee

Rockin’ the Bahkti…

Not sure what it means but it’s the first thing I wanted to write. A woman at the spiritual center I belong to is known for saying that in praise of someone’s creative success. Perhaps I’m feeling some creative success at just having reached the computer to write today.

After Reverend Susan’s talk yesterday, the main thrust of which was about “first things first,” I held onto the phrase “planned neglect.” It’s a process of consciously neglecting everything else but what you say must come first, God, writing, meditating, loving…whatever.

Today I promised myself to give planned neglect a try.

A sweet juicy writing space rose in me this morning. I was like a lover nearing orgasm in my focus to get my fingers to the keyboard when, like an inconsiderate partner, I answered that damn phone.  The sweet, juicy, ‘ready-to-write’ lay there waiting for me to carry this through to a satisfying end, and bit by bit, non-writing activity by non-writing activity, the juiciness faded to a remembered commitment to write.

It’s clear, after preparing a crock-pot meal, ordering heat vent filters online, ripping seams from a sewing project, and fielding two, no THREE, long winded phone calls that I am but a mere beginner.

Here I am, writing anyway. Satisfied to be at least holding hands with the juiciness, knowing that I missed a golden moment with this writing thing that just keeps seducing me. I am closer than ever to trusting it, to allowing myself and my life to do the free-fall into it that I think I have unconsciously feared for many a year. I know not where it will take me, for how long, or what it wants (besides “me”), but it won’t leave me alone and I am enchanted by the power of it’s seduction.

Planned neglect.  In that talk I mentioned earlier, Rev. Susan quoted a story about a renowned violinist who described how she came to be great. She realized that putting anything before the thing that called her greatness forward was a destructive habit. She decided that the violin was the “first things first”  in her life and by giving it priority – every day mind you – it led her to greatness.

This thing that can’t be born without my written consent, that is woven into all my thoughts, it shall have it’s day, not because I am prophesying but, because I am too weak to hold it back. God bless me, here it comes and it’s birth canal is lined with conscious neglect!

Here is a fun ‘afterword’ (if you will): I decided to look up “Rockin the Bhakti” and here’s what I found at

In Sanskrit, Bhakti means love, not necessarily the love you share with your intimate partner, but devotional love.  To live the life of a Bhakta or a Bhakti is to live a life of service to something greater than oneself.

I just adore how the unconscious leaks and burbles up hints about where it’s taking us!

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