Goals for 2019 and other musings…

Jeanne Elizabeth

Popping on to WP… to say HI! And to give everyone who follows my blog an update as to what I HOPE happens in 2019.

First, and foremost, I have missed all of you lovely poets, artists and dreamers… HOPE you are well and busy as my world has been quite busy too. Beyond moving to a new town and making friendships, selling and buying a new house and making it my home, and living on the East Coast and acquiring a love of my new lifestyle, I am embarking on quite a creative 2019.

‘Night Blooms’

My newest interest is felting wool roving into landscapes… taken from my photographs of an enchanting New England.

‘Forest’, ‘Mount Wachusett’, ‘Yellow Wood’

The ‘Yellow Wood’ piece is not quite complete as i am awaiting Highlighter Yellow wool roving. These pieces are smaller… generally 4×6.

My piano lessons are going well. I am tapping away and happy to announce i will be able to play simple versions of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Jingle Bells’ at holiday celebrations. My Christmas cards are written and mailed. I enjoy the daily stroll to our post office in historic Still River. The building is not manned but does house mailing supplies and is a convenient drop-off point for stamped parcels. It is a beautiful landscape and well preserved for generations and those to come.

We had one snow fall in November, which unfortunately has melted. I was able to capture the beauty for memories and inspiration.

I bought an Underwood office typewriter in HOPES i could produce unique and one-of-kind poetry chapbooks for my favorite poets. The typewriter, turns out, is in need of extensive repairs and i am waiting to hear the prognosis. I HOPE to hear good news soon. It was my intention, after all, to create beautiful chapbooks for the poetic souls who capture my imagination daily. If all goes as originally planned… i will be setting up a section on this blog to sell those books, along with my felted landscapes, and perhaps expand to sell mine and other people’s paintings. Stay tuned!!!

And, if you have read to this point, without losing interest… i am most excited to announce i have embarked on a six-month writing adventure with a published poet who is quite extraordinary in his writing: Nicolas Samaras.

I am equally intimidated by his word prowess. My goal is not necessarily to be published … i am much too shy to have the world seeing my thoughts on paper. But i took the bullet that has been wanting to pierce my skin and watch me bleed… i take hold my stained paper and profess to be ready! The funny thing is i have been plugging away at this blog for eons… most of what is on here is complete gibberish… I believe it is time to shine the apple.

Get ready for an all new Jeanne on WP in 2019. And you? What are your goals for 2019?

personal musings unleashed…

I see far too many people who are not thinking… and well i have to turn away and protect my thoughts. composting logic
reality forced anger
paths burdened with tears

My religious views are Work-in-Progress and my political views are Independent. I am a free thinker who will listen and either agree or disagree with you. My main philosophy is that life is precious regardless of your worldview. So act like life matters and we will get along just fine.

Side note: Most people, family included, have or had no idea I struggled with suicidal ideation since age 8 until 50. My brother acted on his depression. I wanted to but was fearful of the consequences. We wonder if people who die by their own hands go to heaven. I wonder if we will ever learn to listen and hear people. Even in their silence there are clues… i saw my brother’s anger mixed in with his smile. I was too caught up in raising my daughter that I chose only to see his love for me and Anna and Jeff. I walked past his anger and should have called him to talk. 💔 I play that look over and over in my mind. Like today. I dislike what i see in so many eyes and feel helpless. Daily. How do we fix the pain that surrounds us? How? 💔🌏

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. –V Woolf “A Room of One’s Own”

Well… i am off to assemble a “Room of My Own” and enjoy what are the last few weeks of a gorgeous summer. Life is different in Massachusetts. It is a good change for my mental health. A much needed change and very few sour notes exist in my song book. Grateful for the positive energy surrounding me.

It is as if…

Where to start? It is as if my life is being lived in one day… with no way to slow down. Juggling between need-to-do and want-to-do and compromising. All this beauty is descending upon my head in rocket speed… the town i have moved to is bursting at the seems with poetry and dance.

Harvard MA was home to the Alcott’s and other Transcendentalists who started a Utopian Society at Fruitlands. I am in love with the philosophy.

All matters of life are to be sipped here.

I am gulping… famished from years of neglect. I am bathing in this community and coming alive.

To be continued…

Even the air… intoxicating!

i am not neglecting you. personal musings unleashed.

Sorry i have not had time to peruse your blogs. I am usually quite attentive. Of late i am swirling in personal obligations. Life is happening… again. I am fully alive and grateful to have passed through ten years of darkened days, oft taken for night. Days of sleep are now past. I am busy setting up a home in Massachusetts. Last week was spent in Cape Cod while our red oak floors were refinished. The floors are beautiful again. I am feeling beautiful too! 😍😘😊

Never have i felt so at peace. Not since Christmas 1990, when finally in 1995, i was awakened to grace and forgiveness… my rollercoaster emotions in 2008 took me drowning in feels of self-defeat. Grief. Guilt. Despair. A season of MDD with psychosis set in. Luckily minds change. So mine is too! For the better. A healing is happening in this house move.

I will get to your blogs. In time. I have not forgotten you. You matter. I will be by soon enough…

some of my time spent in art galleries…

Regarding Beauty

Please click to read Sigrun’s “Regarding Beauty” Sub Rosa’s quiet and contemplative blog that never disappoints.

Her post is in regards to Andrew Wyeth. Mr. Wyeth was an American artist, who happened to vacation on Monhegan Island, Maine with his son Jamie Wyeth, also quite a remarkable artist.

Yes, my Monhegan that I hold so dear to my heart and mind!! This is how I was introduced to Andrew Wyeth’s art work. Exploring and learning about this magical place of many storied artists.


May 2016

The United States Post Office recently issued postage stamps, in 2017, to commemorate his skill in painting that demonstrates a sheer witness to spelled-out emotions, with quite an obvious definition.

beauty often cracks the surface of happiness and leaves a depth open to more, than had beauty not succumbed to let us know it had arrived. 

This is how i experience Andrew Wyeth’s paintings. I feel the breeze breech my soul, witness the longing of a girl far from home, and welcome the sunshine through a clear pane of glass. Mr. Wyeth moves us to feel life without knowing what tomorrow brings. He always brought with him mindfulness on his brush.

I purchased the stamps with the purpose of enjoying his art work. They remain intact on my desk, waiting for an opportune time to write a beloved friend.

What friend exists to warrant a stop in my day,
to comprehend the comings and goings of shadow
a written note to alert
the wings of a dove descend.

Bird in the House, Andrew Wyeth June 6, 1980

Wake, Jamie Wyeth

December 22, 2017

Photo modified with Pic Collage

Beware the sun setting. This encourages the claws to rise within.

Early this morning i was doing well. It is now mid-day. I feel myself sailing off into the abyss.

This abyss is not heaven. Its hell on steroids. Whether its the packing up of my beloved writing room, or the thought of getting on an airplane Sunday morning, my mind is working up into quite a frenzy.

It has been days of this craze. I am unsure where it stems from. But it has arrived. And I best chill or I will be so agitated nothing will scrape me off the walls.

January 2, 2018

I am quite fearful of sharing the dark existence but on occasion it slips and sails. I am safely back into my cocoon. Well, what was my home. This once rapturous dwelling now expects me to hurry up and wear my wings indefinitely. Be vigilant and ready for take-off. I much rather undress and retire. Lie wistfully contemplating the atmosphere. The soul immersed in each layer, teetering between and through.

So how will my blog look going into 2018. I wish i knew. I have no idea. It most likely will stay this raw, unedited mess that lacks direction. On a whim i may post my photos. Or get ambitious and finish my quilts. Or unpack my paints and create worlds unknown to most.

Or….✍🏼🧡

Swim Against the Waves

For my lovely daughter. Always. And Forever.

Wow! Yesterday was quite eventful. Not in a good way either.

There is a back story to this story that unfolded shortly after breakfast. I was busy writing Christmas greetings to family and friends, realizing how few cards we had received this year. The amount of personal greetings slashed by modern life.

When, to my surprise, my daughter came bounding down the stairs, so early in the morning.  It is Christmas break from studies so this was most unexpected.

I despise Snapchat. Instagram. Even Facebook has become a weapon against humanity. They had assaulted my daughter again. Naked photos of themselves. Asking her to send in like.

She had never wanted to fight back. She is a teenager and teenagers do not always think so well. Hormones and all. But she had been attacked too many times to lay down her sword. She picked it up and I stood with her. I picked my sword up too.

I made a phone call to the school. I needed to speak to someone. Was any one going to listen? Really hear me and my daughter? Do something to change how we interact.

There seems a hollow cry in our schools, churches, government, to stop bullying, assaults, sexual victimization against each other.  People talk loud and do little. They stand up strong and bend with the wind.

Sex is a beautiful gift. Meant to be protected by love and care and understanding. Not a quick fix to fill a void. Not a solution to calm the raging inner world. Who even believes that anymore? Anyone?

So the Dean of Students and the Assistant Principal sat there and listened. Their advice quite trite, get off social media. What? She wants to make friends. Be a friend. Why should she not fight back and change the landscape of abuse? Why do the good people need to retreat and lay down their swords?

As we exited school property, two police officers pulled up. Our schools are now protected by officers of the law. What little law is up held. We are flying free in the streets, rioting and not caring of the girl, weeping in the night. Now afraid to be a friend to the world.

My daughter has recently turned 18 but she was made an adult before she had a chance to be a kid. So it is with modern society. It has become an adult before it ever figured out how to be.

With much gratitude

This is truly a heartfelt post. Why? You!!!

I never could have imagined sitting here nine years ago. I could barely talk. Was I saying any thing? Perhaps in my eyes you would have seen the pain. I welcomed death. I contemplated suicide.

After a year of therapy, my confidante encouraged me to reach out. I wrote everything in prose, and poetry to him, and so I thought, why not gather my thoughts and start a blog. It is anonymous after all. (Hahaha. That was not quite his idea of reaching out.)

Hahaha…this! (I may have posted elsewhere, a picture of myself?)

Regardless, I have changed from those once fateful days. I graduate with highest honors, a 3.96 gpa. I walk on December 16 and will be with my husband, two of my children, and countless bloggers who have seen me through. Whether you know it or not, you do now. I will be thinking of you. And my therapist. Forever grateful! 🤗❤️

I hope to continue my blog. I have become fascinated with the arts. I have traveled alone. Taken two poetry workshops with incredible poets. I have become. And when those brief moments appear, and I slip, dancing with death, I fight as all my might will muster. And write a poem. Or paint a picture. Or visit an art museum. Etc. Etc.

Period.

I am saddened on this day of freedom.  Why?  For my sake?  Oh, in the least.  I have fond memories of days spent with my children, free in the meadow, looking underneath milkweed leaves to find the eggs of monarch caterpillars.  The egg being no larger than a period it took a dedicated mind to search.

“Did you notice that dot?” the gaiety of footsteps and boundless laughter ensued. “Oh, there is another one!”

listen the silence
child hear the story told
wrapped in sparkling gold

Yes we found many eggs.  They lived beyond the gestation period.  With each new morning they grew, having spent the previous day munching away.  Each caterpillar consumed at least one leaf, possibly more.  I could not keep track of their calories but soon they cocooned in a spring green blanket sewn with gold thread and slept while I tended to weeds, admired the blossoms, daydreamed to nature’s melody.

I wondered if they too heard the bird song, a lullaby of sorts until the crow cawed, signalling it time to wake from mere fantasy of flying, to dry their teary wings and soar.

Soar.  I find it hard to say that word.  I have not found a monarch egg for years.  I struggle with the thought of a vanishing monarch that once was queen of the meadows.  Is this her last period?  The end of her story?  It was a joyful time when my children and I raised monarchs in our backyard.  Not so much anymore.

I wrap you swiftly
my golden thread weaved through time
pray you rise today

Dear child of mine, should you read this and only shed tears I wish you sweet dreams all your years.  There was a time we soared, not so much anymore.  Peace.  J

The Letter

The Letter

No longer
do I sit at my desk
ponder
what he is thinking of me.
The coffee cold
I put away the linen paper
with gold border
just my initials
scrawled at the bottom.
He will know
who I am
yet I search
for the girl inside,
my desires for a man
I cannot have.

I am
nothing
but the stars
in his eyes
the ocean of my heart.
Does she know
my secret
as I sweep past her
in the kitchen
where we meet?
He sees me
and only I
can wish
to see him
again.

The whispered winds
scent of pine trees
the hands of the clock
draw sands of time
blur the image
left behind.