For many years, I posted a photo of Tiki or Bamboo any time I managed to squeeze at least a half-hour of writing into my day. Dubbed my Cats of Creation, they chivvied me from bed to writing nook for nearly a decade, where they listened to me read chapters aloud and offered their meeps of approval and salty Siamese commentary.
One of Na'la's superpowers is in the fine art of the check-in. When Na'la and I sit down to talk, time loses all relevance. We've become so absorbed in conversation that she has literally missed flights.
I'm sort of beside myself, wondering how best to introduce Kate to you, because she's like another aspect of myself. A wiser, more motherly, sass-tastic aspect of myself.
You may think of me as someone who has her shit together. Corporate job. Amazing marriage. World travel. Oodles of time to create. t may surprise you to learn how much I struggle from day to day and breath to breath...
When I was a girl, all the pockets would simply rip out of my clothes because I was always stuffing them full of rocks. Odd-shaped rocks. Olivine. Quartz. Shiny bits of mica. Pahoehoe lava with ropy, iridescent swirls.
The practice of burning bay leaves dates back to Greek times, to the best of my research, and it's believed to be one of the herbs burned for the Oracle at Delphi as she entered trances for temple visitors. Doug and I visited Delphi on our honeymoon in 2003, and so this scent is now indelibly overlaid with image of the olive trees that dot Delphi's landscape.
"But I'm just not creative!" It shocks me now, every time I hear it uttered. It shocked me when it used to come out of my own mouth.
Several days before Halloween, which is a delightful way to begin a story, I received a question. Onça’s message asked why I believed that we, as a subculture of dancers, have felt drawn to incorporating a womanly sacredness into our lives. And the question cut to the heart of the maze of words I’ve been walking lately.