Hands in Pockets

O how I wish I had pockets to hide my fidgeting hands.

This town whose quaint and cloying air constricts and stares, breathing down my neck their unspoken questions of Why I am So Different.

Why don’t you feel at home in Our Perfect Town where only our kind are welcome? 

Our One True God.

Our One True Sexuality.

Our Choices Alone.

Our Judgments.

I wish I had pockets in which to store my fears and feeble hopes that I will wake one day to find you changed.

Your adulterated acceptance.  Forgotten tolerance. Laid bare.

Your dreams are not my dreams.

If I could just have a pocket in which to hide my hands.

There is a cleansing moment as the sun crests the rooftops of the neatly antiquated rows on your main street and the few welcoming arms give over in friendship and caramel delight.

A moment where my hands clasped around this cup of mirth are busy and have something friendlier to do.

Less fearful and more awakened to your call.

I can almost forget your hatred, as it rained down in my heart, replaced momentarily with warmth.

I’ll hold my armour off a little while.

And let my hands relax.

Follow Your Joy

I have very little to say this evening. I hope you will take it seriously, though.

Following your heart is never a waste of time.


Belittling someone else’s dream could destroy them ~ that dream may be all they have. And if you think their idea of living is not to your liking, then don’t live that way. Show some respect. And never give up on your own dream. If you think it is too late, then find a new dream and follow it with every ounce of your being.


Good night and Good Luck.

Covered in Roses

This morning, I picked out a couple new essential oils, including Rose Absolute.

Rose oil is one of the most expensive essential oils, (it takes nearly 200 pounds of roses to make a single ounce of oil), but this one is not as costly, as it is mixed into jojoba oil. This means, also, that it is ready to use, already in a carrier oil, which lends the essential oil much easier to massaging into the skin.

According to my go-to aromatherapy text,

Snapshot_20140523_6(click photo for amazon listing), rose oil can be used therapeutically for:
“Allergies, anger, anxiety, asthma, circulation, constipation, coughs, depression, digestive system, grief, hay fever, headaches, irregular menstruation, jealousy, libido, migraine, nausea, nervous tension, postnatal depression, resentment, scar tissue, skin care, sore throats, stress, vomiting.”

Since I’ve been having some of these issues, as have several (or perhaps many) of my clients, there are five drops in my diffuser filling up my office with its scent as I type.

So, next time you want to buy yourself or your special someone a rose or two, don’t hesitate! Not only will you make that person very happy, it’s also for Therapeutic purposes!


The Last Time I Saw Paris

A few on topic Throw Back Friday photographs. Montmartre, Paris:


à Paris

I think, tonight, for the first time ever, I actually understood Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amelie Poulain.

At 33 I have finally begun to admit to myself that I am primarily an introvert. Not only admitting it, but accepting it has led me to a slightly better understanding of myself and the longstanding discomfort and disconnection I often feel in social settings.

Watching the thirteen year old French film this evening, for probably the thirty-third time, I discovered a deeper understanding of the film and the characters than I ever had before, even when I was Amelie’s own age of 23.

I have moved around a lot during my life, and have rarely found myself at home in my world. I’ve rarely been around people for long enough to feel I’ve done a good enough job being their friend, that we understand each other, that we can trust one another. The fact is, I don’t know how to connect to people. Perhaps even my closest friends. I want to be a good friend, but sometimes I just don’t know how. I’m afraid, or lazy, or selfish, or I just want to be alone. Yet, I crave that connection. 

Sometimes I look for it in locations as much as people.

In 1999 and 2003 I tried to experience the locational belonging I had felt through the pages of my high school text books, a connection I had sensed with the city of Paris, France. Both times I came back to the US feeling lonelier than ever. And very disappointed. Eleven years ago, when I lived, ever so briefly, in Paris, I was there with a study abroad program. I succumbed to depression and discomfort and left the program in February instead of at the end of the Spring semester. For over half the elapsing time, I felt like a failure. I think I am only now understanding that I didn’t fail. I just didn’t understand who I am.

When I lived in Paris, my apartment was just blocks from the canals where Amelie skipped rocks and that impossibly tricky continuous shot of her doing so was taken. I never took a photograph of those canals. I don’t know why. It just never occurred to me to do so. There are so many things in Europe I wish I had done, or seen, or photographed. Myself included. There are very few photographs of me from the last time I visited Paris. This is a common thread in nearly all my albums. Unless I request someone take my photo, there usually aren’t any of me. I love having my picture taken, but I’m the one who is usually behind the lens. Most of my photos are of landmarks, or classmates, or architecture, or the sky.

From my flat I could walk to street markets where everything from silk scarves to cheese to flowers were sold. People were friendly and helpful and smiled and patiently listened to my muddled French and gave me exactly what I had tried and sometimes failed to ask for. My flat was only about two train stops from Montmartre, and that is where I spent most of my time, especially after I quit the program. I’d walk a few blocks north, climb the stairs to the elevated platform, and then travel by metro up the curving track towards the hill above the city. I’d disembark, then wander the winding streets up towards the Basilica. Montmartre was a place of comfort, of familiarity.

If I could just allow myself to feel at peace with the comfort of being alone in a beautiful place, the whole world would feel like such a happier, homier, place. Through accepting who I am, I can be more comfortable being uncomfortable in social situations. I think that changes how we interact with others, knowing who we really are. Bizarre as it may be, accepting ourselves as loners may actually help us to connect with other people – other loners, other outcasts. Knowing who we are and not forcing it, but allowing that part of us to open up and connect to other singular, perhaps lonely, hearts.


“Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world.” ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Le Petit Prince

Tea and Coffee

As I slowly drag myself from box to box, wishing for a magical resolution to the tedious process of unpacking, I take a sip of my cold tea, left from three hours ago on the coffee table in the living room – the only room that is organized satisfactorily.

As I wander through the kitchen, deciding what to put where, I think about making another cup.

I have discovered of late that I do better overall when I have tea in the morning, but save coffee for the afternoon.

It’s almost 12:00. Is it time yet for coffee? I’m not sure. Also, that would require clearing that particular counter.

When any of you find that house-elf employment agency, would you please let them know I’m still waiting on that application?

I will put the kettle back on while I wait.

The Cottage

We spent the past three days (with a lot of help) moving into our new house.

Every room is filled with boxes, partially unpacked, and furniture, still finding its perfect place.

I’m so happy to finally have a place of our very own. And on top of that, a room of my own where I can write or knit or sew or just sit and dream when I want some time alone.

Snapshot_20140518_2in my office/craft room/library!

I need so many more bookcases.

And a china cabinet. And one or three of those neat cube shelf things we registered for at Target. Or this awesome unit.

Things are starting to shape up and now we have the rest of forever to figure out just how we want it all set up!

For now, we’re off to Tractor Supply for dog food and Wegmans for people food – The supply of pizza from friends and coworkers has been awesome and sustaining, but after four days of it, we need a change in diet!


Wordless Wednesday



In Preparation

I am not six months pregnant.

I’m kind of caught between I wish I were and I’m glad I’m not.

It has been just over four months since I lost my pregnancy, and almost five since I found out that the loss was inevitable.

I am dealing really well with the reality of the situation, although I have moments that make the loss very fresh and real and bring forth unwanted sadness, tears, and anger.

It’s really hard sometimes to envision a world in which I could actually be a mother. As if in that first pregnancy loss all hope of any future child was also dashed. This is ridiculous, of course . . . Perhaps. But it is a real and sometimes crushing fear. And sometimes I wonder, do I even want to be a mother now? Has that desire been taken away with the hopes of that first baby, leaving only jealousy for those who get that chance behind? It’s a hard thing, you know, trying to become something you once wanted to be so very badly after a loss so viciously final.

All the same, I am planning ahead for when we decide it’s ok to try again. In case we do.

As we were packing up and relocating our belongings into a box mountain in the dining room, in preparation for the move to our new house, I took from its coffin the primary What to Expect book and flipped through the section on what to do Before you are expecting.

In preparation for the pregnancy that may or may not ever come, I have decided to treat my body as if I were already pregnant.

As I’ve mentioned before, I was not in my best health six months ago. I was overweight, didn’t eat right, never exercised. So now, I am on my way to a healthier me. I feel more like myself than I have in ages, and I’ve still got a little ways to go. I’ve changed my eating habits and my exercise habits, and the results are rawther fab. I’ve lost 14 of the 20 pounds too many I had worn. We are moving to our own house away from the noxious fumes of our landlady’s second hand smoke. I quit drinking. And I’m taking prenatal vitamins.

I have a certainty now that once I actually get pregnant again, I’ll be able to gain a healthier amount of weight from a good base point. In the mean time, I’m going to wear my size 4s with pride until there is a happy reason to go back to yoga pants for anything but work, and eat all the sushi I can get my chopsticks around.

Almost Ours

We’re supposed to move this week. And waiting to is kind of a bitch.

My husband and I just bought a house in a quiet neighborhood in our home town. I say bought. The paperwork is all done. But the house isn’t ours yet. We haven’t gotten word on everything being clear, but it seems we are quite close. But, there’s almost always some delay on a closing. We’re hoping that everything goes through sooner, but there’s no way of knowing. So, we wait.

I’m home from work today so I could get my car inspected (pass!) and do some laundry (can’t wait for it to be in our own space!) and put a few more things in boxes. But of course, I’d love to be writing and checking in with my interwebs. This can be very distracting. So, I’ve turned off Twitter and Facebook so I can focus. And turned up the volume on my Pandora station for inspiration.

And now, I shall . . . procrastipack.

Where are those house elves I hired?



Maybe I should have another cup of tea . . .

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