What Lunar did next (and where to find her)

 

Hello, hello! It has been so very long since I wrote to you all here, although I have thought of you, and your love and encouragement, many times. This interweb place can be awfully cross and shouty, but please do not imagine that your quiet kindnesses go unfelt. They are a powerful medicine.

This post is really to redirect you to the places you can find me these days.

The main place for longish form writing on my daunted but continual attempts to live a joyful, creative life is on my Patreon. It's not free, but the blog-type posts are all accessible for £1 a month and it's probably the best place to have a conversation with me.

There's more if you want it: book reviews; shortish essays on the practices, books, podcasts, thoughts, whatever which truly help me live creatively; discounts off my art and writing tuition; writing dates; editorial help; plus more if you're wildly generous.

But this isn't a sales pitch. You can find me for zero pennies on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

I still have my Etsy shop for art, and I also now have a RedBubble shop too, which prints my artwork onto a world of giftable and practical things.

And for those good souls who held my virtual hand as I navigated my first years as a mother and then as a widow, I will quickly tell you that life continues to throw spanners in the works (mostly medical, and all for me - the girls are fine), but life is also very good.

We are still in beautiful Chagford, although much closer to the river now, and I am still writing and painting and hanging out with trees.

7yo is made of springs and giggles, with a surprising ferocity when crossed. She dangles off trees, loves her streetdance classes, plays endless board games, and writes stories in her special notebook.

13yo is in a lovely secondary school (after a false start in an unlovely one) where she can still do forest school. She is loving musical theatre and playing piano and draws with more skill than she will believe. I see Thomas in her sometimes, and that is a healing thing, but mostly she is her own gentle, wonderful self. Teenagehood hasn't gone beyond eyerolling and living in her bedroom yet, and only recently she came home covered in mud from rolling down hills with her friends, so I feel we're both getting off lightly.

 

Do please reach out and find me. I would be delighted to reconnect with you - or to meet you, if you are new here.

Thank you all,

Lunar

Cheers!

It's been an intense week.

I can now drive round a roundabout, even a complex one with weird lane changes or traffic lights or an overturned trailer of hay or all of the above, without breaking a sweat. I mostly even take my intended exit. So now my driving lessons comprise two hours exploring the shortest, blindest, deadliest slip roads known to West Devon. And then, when I am so tired I can barely think, I drive through Chagford and run the gauntlet of horses and double-parked delivery lorries and roads created for tinners' sleds. Ah, the joys of rural life :).

The final year of my degree's up and running now. I am jogging alongside trying not to look winded yet, although the truth is I'm already developing a stitch and when I peeked ahead at the essay questions I almost fainted. But everyone and their dog's running now, it seems, so this is my version and I won't quit until I get to the finish line, whatever state I'm in by then.

My little job has begun, which has already meant I got to have coffee with Terri Windling and Ellen Sherman while they discussed writing. (Tilly was of course in attendance, but chose on this occasion not to join in the discussion.) At one point Terri mentioned the Jean Rhys quote:

'All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.'

and I realised that's part of why I'm loving this work. Jean Rhys is talking about one's own writing - and, next year, yes with a hallelujah on top to that - but it's how I think about assisting a writer and artist too. I may not be pouring my own words into the lake, but I am removing obstacles so other words and art can get there. It seems a very humble thing, but actually feels important and deeply satisfying.

I feel Rhys has set the bar uncomfortably high for 'trickle', so I'll say I've added a puddle-splash to the lake. It's just one poem, but it's my poem and I'm proud of it and it's (soon to be) published, so I'm very happy about it. 

Meanwhile, there are still those girls to raise. 3yo is having a dressing-up phase. Here she is on the way to collect her sister from school:

and I am feeling quite emotional about 9yo's decision to learn the fiddle. I've bought her a half-size one, but I still have Thomas's and it would be a wonderful thing if she could play it one day.

Last Friday was the ten year anniversary of our wedding.

I manage these powerful dates a little better each year. We were given some homemade mead as a wedding present, to be drunk in 2012. We had planned to celebrate our second wedding anniversary with it, but of course that didn't happen. It has just been standing miserably at the back of the teas cupboard all this time. So, as our women's group gathered so near my anniversary, I risked the possibility of explosion and/or poisoning and opened it. It didn't explode and it was surprisingly drinkable (in tiny quantities - it's definitely potent!). Even 9yo had a sip, and although she pronounced it 'disgusting' and went back to elderflower cordial, I'm glad she tried it because she was at the wedding too :).

I am definitely not a writer who can work whilst drinking alcohol, but I'm raising a virtual glass of this mead to love in all its forms and to the next ten years. Cheers!

One good thing

The ticker tape streeling through my mind in various shades of urgency does not stop. I need to just accept that it has not and will not ever stop. Except, of course, it might. But for now, while there's just me and the girls and the meals to prepare and the house and the garden and the study deadlines and the driving lessons and and and and See? Endless streeling which can quickly become strangling if I don't keep snipping at it like it's some enchanted forest of briars with something worth having in the centre. There is nothing in the centre. All this effort to snip off this task and that task, get as much done as I humanly can...if I could magically make it all done; then for one shining, bleak moment I would have nothing. And I've never liked nothing. I've done a lot of workshops but they've never won me round. (It's the hen thing again.)

So I am left with the doing, but a deep need to be doing less frantically and more gracefully. Maybe I could go at my ticker tape thicket with a scimitar instead of shears. Maybe I could stop sometimes and look back at all I have actually done. I get so determinedly focussed on what I have yet to do that I forget I have achieved at all.

I have raised an exceptionally lovely human all the way to nine and a half. Here, she is industriously making granola balls for everyone at the outdoor skills camp the following day, wearing her Dada's T-shirt which has been her nightie for seven and a half of her years. I have just confiscated the maths workbook she was doing in bed by torchlight. Kids these days...

And another wild and wonderful human all the way to three and a half. Here she is on her daily forage for breakfast, still in her onesie :).

I have, through both luck and judgement, come to this spectacular place to raise myself and my children:

So far so loved-up and homely, but what gnaws at my bones is the writing I have not done. And I don't know why, when it's the one thing which brings me OUT into the world with a ferocious courage I can barely believe when I am unwriting. Yes, the time lost feels like time unwriting work which now will never be. It is a tragic loss, if only to myself. Every circumstance I could stutter in mitigation matches that of someone who just wrote anyway.

'Tis as 'tis. No more unwriting. Poems have been coming, which is new and surprising. I have sent some of them out with sturdy boots and knapsacks to see what they can make of themselves. The final year of my degree starts very soon. It mercilessly chomps at my time, but also makes me read good writing deeply and so fills the wordwell. And a tiny but perfectly formed job has been placed in my hands. I keep looking down at it like it's a bird's egg. It feels fragile; it has not yet begun; it may only last a short while. Terri Windling has asked me to be her assistant. We will discover the exact shape of the role as we go, but basically I'll do some of the non-creative work which is intrinsic to the business of writing and editing. I'll learn a lot and get to spend time in the happy company of Terri and the famous Tilly.

Sometimes you just need to achieve one good thing:

In the spirit of which, I have cut my own hair. Again. So here I am looking very pleased with myself despite 3yo quite painfully getting her foot caught in my earring. And, yes, I do know filters exist.

Freedom

In these rooms of strangled noise and hobbled steps,
she is free like no other.

I came here as a boy,
untamed by mother,
unknown by father,
understanding only lightning and darkness.
Now I am a man, of sorts, who has earned,
with a million nights of quiet walking to nowhere,
the privilege of the garden.
High-walled and strong-barred,
but only light between sky and skin.
Most never make it to the garden.
Most pace ceaselessly
and hopelessly.
Some, like her,
are too tied and bound
to pace.

Her howling sent shivers through the deepest middle of me.
Cough and Stoop and Spectacles and Laugh
were taken away by nurses
to be calmed with soothing sharps.
Shout-shout started
and was cuffed where he stood,
still calling twice his trouble.
The pacers picked it up
but were bullied back to slow
by the big bad nurse.
He likes the dangerous days.
So do I.
But I do not tell.

If I told,

I would not be trusted to stand

in this garden,

at this window,

watching her flayed wrists in their iron pads

twist and twist and twist;

her face telling all to me

despite clamp and gag.

She must not excite the others

says the doctor.

Too late.

I have watched them try needle after needle.

The clear stuff;

the yellow stuff;

the misty stuff which holds your soul

forever out of your grasp.

Nothing.

She collapses for moments-

how I hate those moments-

then she is bulging her eyes at them,

filling the room, the garden, me,

with her freedom.

They cannot allow this to continue.

They must believe they are free.

One day she will not be in her bed.

Then I,

not to mad to bury a pill or two,

will follow her to freedom.

What I REALLY want to be doing

Hello.

Recently, the universe has been sending me the message to look at what I really want to be doing. This has been through various blogs, emails, books, conversations, so, okay, message received. Here is my answer.

Immediately it felt that this was about my art work. I've got multiple writing deadlines and I'm enjoying the challenge of meeting them. I'm keeping up with my homework for the class I'm taking in life writing. Family's all good (teething aside) and even a rocky friendship has lately been strengthened against slippage. So, my art.

But don't I love painting? I'm on the verge of sorting out my studio (will show you the transformative makeover in a future post) and I've got an exhibition to work towards in September - a happy time away.

In my (pre-makeover) studio, 

with a pinny (because I'm messy) 

over my coat (because I have no heating)

But when I stopped and visualised myself making art which no-one else was ever going to see, I wasn't painting! I was on the floor (often a very creative place in our house) doodling patterns with felt tips. 

Felt tips! They're for kids!

Well, I've never pretended to be a grown up. And, of course, now I've given it a go, it's the most fun I've had (art-wise) in a while and I'm liking the results so much I might even exhibit them. Had a brief wobble about writing 'Felt tip on Canvas' in the description, but decided to have faith in my medium.

Here's the very beginnings. Let me know what you think. And would you be put off buying a piece of art which was done with felt tips? Might it in some way add to the fun of it?

 First Pattern; Early Stages

If you need inspiration to contribute to my Happiness Week, here are five three-minute films about people taking the Action for Happiness Challenge.

And to keep the love spreading beyond that week, why not join the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation?

But if you're the one in need of a smile, check out this rejection letter sent to Gertrude Stein. 

Bright sunlight

Fine rain

I can't see the rainbow

But I feel it

A Clutch of Small Stones

Today, happiness is

A Playmobil pirate

And no socks.

He is
Rain to my parched soil,
Good earth to harbour my seeds,
Thirsty plants to honour my rain.

Even after she landed,
She smiled,
Enjoying the fall.

Out with baggy men's jeans
In with skinny women's jeans
Is everyone looking at my bum?

'Come look at this'

Whispers my husband.

Our daughter,

For the first time,

Has surrendered to dreams

In her father's arms. 

Six Tales of Courage and How To Be Successful

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by a coalescence of happenings which all point (or shout if I try ignoring them for a while) in one direction. Today I look out over my world and am blasted by the vista of courage.

My favourite thought about courage, and I'm sorry I can't attribute this (can anyone else?), is that a fearless person has no opportunity to be courageous: courage is feeling the fear and still doing what needs to be done (slaying the monster/ removing the spider/ exhibiting the painting/ getting the haircut). So, the more scared you feel, the braver you can be. Hurrah!

I'd like to share with you some of the examples which appear on my horizon.

A friend has just met up with an old friend. Not so scary, you might think. But this woman was part of a group my friend had felt rejected by many years ago. Yes - now it's scary.

Another friend is taking on a teaching job for the first time; moving out of the student space and standing in the spotlight as the one everyone else turns to for help. She's definitely scared.

One of my best friends, who deserves a break more than anyone else I know, has been sending her children's books to publisher after publisher, despite many rejection letters (and silences). I know that one's scary.

An artist friend staggered when a commissioned piece fell on stony ground, but is working on another commission now, with fresh faith.

I have organised a local exhibition of my newest artwork (more on that in a post coming to you soon) at a time when my town will be swarming with art lovers and artists. Big scary exposure!

My daughter, Ickle Pickle, is standing, with support, despite some bumps and scares and bruises.

Which brings me to that famous Goethe quote:  

“Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.” 

Maybe boldness is another form of courage. It certainly needs courage.

So, did these bold and courageous actions attract power and magic, even genius?

My first friend discovered that she had misunderstood her old circle of friends. They had not rejected her; they had actually missed her when she left. Now she is beginning to find some of them and re-weave the web of friendship with them. It is a magical and powerful process.

My second friend is still nervous about being in the teaching role, but is buoyed by all the people telling her how much they have benefited from her help over the years - a kind of genius, right?

My hopeful writer friend took me out to lunch yesterday to celebrate her first publishing deal. After all that magical dreaming, the genius won through and it actually happened.

My artist friend has been swamped by people eager to applaud the genius, power and magic in her paintings and to express delight about their commissioned works from her.

My exhibition, while still safely in the future, is also lurking in my studio, magically tempting me away from these hypnotic keys and suggesting that maybe I, too, can pour power into art.

And we know, don't we, that Ickle Pickle will one day run into my arms and climb a tree and, also that she will fall many times, but try and try and try. Her example is breathtaking; her method so simple:

Step One - Begin trying to do something that is way beyond your abilities. 

Step Two - Keep trying.

Step Three - Now you can do it.

We can all do it, whatever it is. 

Do let me know what it is you can do and where your courage lies so we can all inspire one another.

Small Stones, Queensland and the Solar System

It is a dull and dreary day.
My daughter laughs.
The clouds are beautiful.

January trees 
Dance the wind
To exhaustion

I stand, arms wide,
Contemplating
The sacred majesty
Of nature.
A labrador
Takes my legs from under me.

If one's husband
Puts his fork
In his hair
Whilst sneezing,
Is it wrong
To laugh?


Today I am full to bursting with love and, of course, that is reflected everywhere I look around the net. I have two links for you which will hopefully make you smile, although for different reasons.

The first is 100 Stories for Queensland. It does what it says on the tin. No-one's getting paid and the submission date is soon, but it's an inspiring example of heartfulness from our global village community and everyone (including you) is welcome to submit a story for inclusion. I will be. And do please pass this on to anyone else who may be interested.
[Edit: My story, 'Cake' has been selected for publication :o). Do please buy a copy if you can; 100% of profits going to the Flood Appeal].

My second link is more of a frippery, but has been making me smile all day. It is, quite literally, the song of the solar system. I recommend (when you've made it go as fast as it will so you can hear Pluto), slowing it right down and leaving it on as you work. It's like a cosmic wind chime :o). If only you could all have the pleasure of my daughter singing along.

A Path to Happiness... and small stones

January wind seeps,

Like an unwelcome hand,

Under my clothes.

Birds startle up in a plume

Like fresh-popped champagne.

The cat,

Like the cork,

Rolls lazy in the hot dust.


This practise of poetically witnessing and relaying a moment each day is working beautifully for me. I feel more creatively inspired and happier :o). It's not too late for you to join in here. And I am receiving such lovely comments, both here and on Facebook and Twitter, that when this month is over, I shall continue with one per blog post, just to keep my hand in and hopefully keep a smile on your face too.

A happy sight last month,

almost outside my door

Which brings me to the other thing I want to say today. I have just discovered Action For Happiness. It's a movement with the sole aim of increasing our happiness and decreasing misery. The beauty of getting on board now (although it doesn't officially launch until April 11th 2011) is that you can help shape how this is done; add your ideas and prioritise actions. I'm very excited, and it meshes wonderfully with the intention behind this blog and, well, my whole life really. I do hope you join up and join in.


I will be using the launch week to publish happy-making stories on my blog (true, fictional, whatever). I will write one myself, but also hope some of you will email me your stories so I can add them and generate maximum happiness. If you have a happy-making story to tell, do email it to me at: lunarsolargaia@gmail.com . Obviously I'll need to approve anything which goes into my blog, but your story is your own so please tell it how it feels truest. (This totally applies to fiction too.) Happy writing :o).

Small Stones

If you click on the widget on the right, you'll be transported through the virtual ether to a river of stones blog. 
I'm taking part, but I'm not blogging every day, so you'll get my small stones in installments. What follows is the first three.


In the deepest pockets
Of the Earth's skirt
Snow holds on


Subtle movement
Songbird diaspora
Empty peace


Thistle seeds wait
A month.
Two.
Three.
And then
The goldfinches come.




Mostly I have accepted this challenge to inspire me and because it's fun. But there's a possibility of one/some of them being published in an anthology at the end, so I would much appreciate your help choosing which to send of for consideration (I can send up to five).


And, as always, I love to hear your responses to my work.


And it's not to late to join in! This is such a marvellous planet and we humans are so amazing. Let's pay close attention (send your brain to another dimension, etc.) as a prayer of appreciation.

Love in the Snow

Disharmony

Two days of chilly shoulders and frosty undertones. No more snow outside. It has gathered on our hearts. 

We rally round our daughter, coaxing her from tears to joy again and again. It is exhausting, but she keeps us in some kind of contact.

The Solstice fire has died. Christmas has been unwrapped. Another year looms and I am unready to meet it.

Another 365 days of nappies and hoovering and washing up and surviving from coffee with a friend until a cup of tea at playgroup.

I feel physically dis-heartened. Something has gone so wrong. I am tired, but I am always tired and I didn't feel like this last week. I don't remember feeling like this since I have been in partnership with my husband who is usually such a source of joy for me. Today he is an irritant, possibly acidic. Not even a bath of asses milk would be balm enough. I need something else.

 Feeling Rather Tense

My husband needs something else too. And though I ache to give it, I cannot name it, much less find it in myself.

He cannot stay in a space with me. He laces his boots in a silent, depressed fury, kisses our girl who sits on my lap goodbye and opens the door to leave.

My breath stops. He has never, ever, refused to kiss me like this. A desperate voice  from inside me calls,

'I love you.'

The door shuts. The tears track my cheeks and I hug the baby tight as I watch him descend our steps.

He turns around. He'll take his bike; get further from me.

But no. He has opened the door again.

He is in the room.

He says,

'I love you too.'

More tears. And we tell of the mirrored smallnesses which have sucked the heat from our lives.

We kiss. Find resolutions. Find comfort in each other again.

There is a bright flame in the dark and we gratefully warm our hands; thaw our hearts.

Later, I ponder what had led us to that place. Many things, of course, had interwoven the net which caught us, but I see one thing clearly: I had forgotten my machete. When the world is tangled and dense and catches at my hair I have a tool which never fails me if only I remember to use it: I can write.

I recall evenings too busy and sociable or too tired and miserable to write my journal and the dream-binding which followed; which always follows.

Fool

I am a fool. If I achieve nothing else this coming year, may I remember that writing is not only my passion and my talent and, newly, my job. It is also my lifeline, the lighthouse beam which sweeps an arc accros the unknown so I can catch a glimpse of my mind-corners and chase the scuttling creatures away.

And I am wise. 2 days of iciness out of 365? We're not doing so badly. I did call out. And he did turn around. He is the source of much of my joy once again.

And all those nappies? That's where the real love is. One nappy at a time, I am saying to my family,

'I love you'.

In Love; At Peace