~ from cats, dogs and nature to the flowering of body, mind and spirit ~

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Tale of a Tortie

Well, this cold-snap, otherwise known as a temporary deep-freeze, made our stray female cat brave (i.e., desperate) enough to come to food in a carrier so that I could get her to the vet to be spayed, etc. This pretty Tortie was left behind by the previous owners of our house, and once our cats had settled in, not to mention the dogs, she made herself quite scarce these past two-plus years (we only caught the very occasional glimpse of her in the woods). We're pretty sure that Bojangles (our rescue from this past summer) is her kitten. However, no more kittens for her -- and no more being stalked by Tom either! Abundant food, fresh water, and more tolerant cats-in-residence means we may now have another member of the family; we'll see how it goes.
Stray Tortie
Mr. Bojangles

Friday, December 15, 2017

Awen


"Awen, the living energy that stands behind the form" *


*Martin Shaw from Scatterlings

Every once in a while, it's fun to scroll through some photos and enliven them with the iPhone app Artisto. Those above seemed to want to express their living energy with the help of that neat bit of software.

Widget ... because he's just so darned cute.

Monday, December 4, 2017

Inside the Trunk


The small, ugly trunk sat squatly defensive in front of me, bound with tattered leather straps and a rusty lock. About the size of my modern carry-on luggage, the splitting wood of the battered chest dared me to brave its dark interior. What was hidden inside? I was the latest in a maternal line of ancestors to receive the gift, though it didn’t look like anyone had peered inside for decades if not a century or more. 

I held an ornate key, in odd contrast to the unprepossessing trunk, in trembling fingers. A coarse braided-hair string straggled from the end of the key. Hesitating, I then heard a voice from the ether of distant time whisper open and read. So I did. 


My name is Damaris. They say my mother killed my sister. They hanged her for the crime of murder. But she didn’t do it. I was there. I was two years old and I saw what happened. But my own life would have been forfeit had I spoken. I knew enough to be silent. The Plymouth colonies in 1648 were not safe for outspoken women, least of all for a girl child. Before I die, though, someone needs to know what happened. Mama said to me our last touch, “Pray remember me.”

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Accessing Bone Memory

Martin Shaw, at 2:18 in the video says, in response to writing about what one knows:


“As a writer, I’m interested in what I call Skin Memory, Flesh Memory, and Bone Memory. Skin Memory is stuff you put on a CV … it’s objective. Then you have Flesh Memory and … it’s a little like acupuncture points. They’re the moments in your life when you’ve been really touched by something deeply. Maybe it was an illness, a love affair, something that marked you so that when you remember it, it touches you deeply. … Storytellers, or myth tellers, go deeper … it’s chthonic … it’s what Bone Memory is. … motifs and images that speak directly to your soul … but not related necessarily to anything you claim that happened around you.”



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