Create Your Own Adventure

A few weeks ago I had a weekend free of obligations. No chores, no visits with friends, no meet-up with like-minded writers – simply me and my space. My first reaction was to strip down naked and run around my fledgling apartment bellowing, “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” The sense of expanding freedom lifted my spirits to where I wanted to flame on and SOAR.

But soar where? Where would I go? What would I do?

Quickly my sense of freedom morphed into a daunting sense of dread. I had to do something, right? I couldn’t have a day free and simply not accomplish anything. Productivity was in order! I needed to embrace that Effort Engine and chug-chug-choo-choo to something wonderful or I’d feel guilty!

Whoa there, Nelly. Who said it had to be productive? Why not just get your ass out of the house?

So I did. For one day I pretended my life was one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books. Want to explore that cave — turn to page 23. Say yes to the handsome man offering you coffee — turn to page 17. Save the dragon from the army horde — turn to page 5. I changed my perspective from Getting Shit Done, to “How many cool experiences can I rack up today?”

I did some journal writing at my favourite coffee shop. I treated myself to an awesome lunch of awesomeness (with bacon!). I walked spontaneously into a salon where they were able to fit me in for a much needed hair cut and then I walked out thirty minutes later lighter on my feet. I knitted in public. When the day was slowly drawing to a close, I found myself at the neighborhood pub having a pint and a devilish dessert (regardless of the fact I didn’t finish my dinner. What would mother think??). Jotting some last thoughts in my journal, a bell went off in my head.

*Ding!*

“Create your own adventure,” I wrote, “don’t wait for someone to offer you one.”

How amazingly simple. So simple, we tend to forget it in this age of RIGHT THE FUCK NOW and TWEET ALL THE THINGS and FB POKE ALL THE FRIENDS. The best way to connect to the World is to disconnect. I had conversations with real people in real reality. I interacted. I watched birds bouncing around for muffin crumbs. I laughed with a nearby toddler. I smiled at the sun. I thanked the Gods for a truly satisfying day and the delicious stout I was drinking.

Lately that has become my motto. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it’s partly due to one of my best friends dying back in October and then having my 42nd birthday. One could call it a Mid-Life Crisis, but I don’t believe it’s anything that shallow. I’m not dating a younger man or driving suped up classic muscle car. I believe the PTB (Powers That Be) are reminding me how fucking lucky I am to have a body that works, a mind that’s still sharp, a heart that’s strong, and a sense of child-like wonder and play that has not diminished over the years. Lift is too short to simply sit around and wait for someone to offer you an amazing experience. You have the power to create it all on your own.

So go do it.

Spooktacular Bliss

As a child, I wanted Morticia and Gomez Addams to be my parents. How cool would it be to live in such an extraordinary house with your own mad scientist lab, unusual creatures, and live a life where every day was Halloween? Nothing you did could be strange enough. Nothing you tried would ever be considered ridiculous, ludicrous, or unrealistic. You would always be encouraged to go farther, to not hold yourself back, to just go balls-to-wall freaky and be appreciated for it.

*happy sigh*

Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents very much. Yes, they are human beings with issues, but overall they were damn fine parents and I am one of few who can attest I had a happy childhood.

But….as a kid we all fantasized about having a different life. Waking up one day and realizing you’re a princess or your father is Superman or your parents are super-secret agents. My fantasy was that I was an Addams. An Addams that dressed in GAP clothes, collected comic books, wrote horror stories at the age of 11, played with Legos and Barbies, and looked like your average, extra tall girl.

I suppose, to coin a phrase from Seanan McGuire, I am a Pumpkin Girl. One who likes to be pretty and carry a chainsaw. Or in my case, feel pretty and squeal with delight at how cute Alien is. Who doesn’t like Lovecraft, but adores Gaiman. Who dresses in jeans and high heeled boots, but wishes she lived in a Tim Burton movie.

The thought trigger behind this declaration is on the full moon of this month, I experienced a perfect piece of time. You’ve had them. A moment that is so intricate and perfect and naturally choreographed, no one could have been able to orchestrate it any better if they tried. Well, every October on the Labyrinth Moon, a few friends and I have continued a tradition I started years ago, the tradition of pathworking in a corn maze. Very simple, yet very powerful.

We did our customary prayers before entering the maze and with no help from the Hint Cards, we traversed the maze by our intuition and our goddess alone. There have been years of mud, rain, and clear skies. This year was the most amazing ever. There was a thin cloud cover to keep the heat in, but the moon’s rays illuminated the clouds like a low burning candle. The maze was well kept and the corn was very, very high; leaning and stretching like bony fingers from the ground. Next door was the pricier, and more popular, “Haunted Maze” where one could hear the teenage girls scream, the teenage boys guffaw, and the chainsaws….well…..chainsaw. Theme music from movies like “The Omen”, “Jaws” and “Halloween” crept effortlessly over the corn fields like dark silk. A nearby oak tree, massive in its age and wisdom, had thick, webby fog.

My friend and I took in the atmosphere and took our time walking the different paths. Occasionally we would hear an ominous gong sound within the heart of the maze. I put my ear close to the corn, “Do they have speakers in this maze too? I thought it was just the Haunted one?” The gong ricocheted off the mist and the corn and added an extra touch of spookiness.

Finally, after completing half the maze, we turned left, and were greeted with a straight path that led to a completely open area. I sucked in my breath. Before our eyes, mist was swirling around the tops of the corn. Spirals of movement could be seen and for the first time that evening, we witnessed a thinning of the veil. Swirls danced around. “I think I just saw a fae,” muttered my friend. We slowly stepped into the opening and realized it was in the shape of a heart. We were literally in the heart of the maze. In the center of that heart was a Tibetian bell. On that bell was a sign, “This bell represents your dream. Let others hear your dreams.” So we did. We each struck the bell 3-5 times and our dreams rippled out into the corn field and beyond the veil.

I stopped. I took a moment. Turning slowly round (and then twirling like Julie Andrews) I soaked in the mist, the low hanging fog, the eerie oak tree, the corn marking the boundary of this scared space, and the music…..by the gods I was so full of bliss and glee, I could’ve just popped. Or melted. Or both. I felt like I was in the middle of a Tim Burton movie and that the headless horseman was going to come riding out of the corn any second. Knowing me I would wave hello and duck.

It was a perfect piece of time. A spooktacular bliss that I shall cherish and tuck away with my two other perfect moments:

1. Senior year in high school, homecoming game, Halloween night. The moon was full and before half-time, the game was called off due to the impressive fog bank that rolled in. I remember walking back to the school and not being able to see anything beyond a five foot radius. Yet I could hear everyone else; their voices distorted and echoey as the fog warped reality. I loved every minute of it.

2. July 4th a few years ago in Logan, Ohio. I was visiting friends and the custom was to watch the fireworks being lit in the next county. How do we do that? By going to the highest point in town. And where was that? In a small, very old cemetery where an oak tree named Thor resided. Other people brought lawn chairs, but I opted to politely ask a resident if I may please use his headstone as my seat. He didn’t mind at all. So I sat there. On a headstone, in a cemetery, watching the fireworks as the lightening bugs floated about.

Perfect.

What’s your spooktacular bliss?

I Have a Creative Genius

Elizabeth Gilbert, world renowned author of “Eat, Pray, Love” gives an amazing, funny, scarily insightful speech at TED.

Make the Change

“You didn’t want paradise, you didn’t want hell. So you got what you wanted. Nothing changed. If you had to choose, which would you prefer? Peace or Freedom?”

This was a line from one of my favorite TV show’s season finale. The episode was deep and heart-wrenching as two brothers try to stop the apocalypse they unwittingly started. I’ve been a fan since the series premiere and thanks to it’s grungy, dark, witty, and supernatural flavor, it helped take away the pangs of no more vampire slayer and her broody ex-boyfriend.

The words hit home and I realized just how much I could relate to the character arguing behind the wheel of his cherry sweet 1967 Chevy Impala. He didn’t want to be Heaven’s bitch. He didn’t want to be Hell’s hound. So, his traveling companion told it to him like it is. “Nothing changed.” Somber and sobering.

I was reminded how often I would gripe, “WHEN I get a better job…..” or “WHEN I can pay off all my bills…” or “WHEN I move into a nicer place….” or ….”everything will be better and I’ll be happier.” Well, guess what? Not gonna happen. I need to choose to be happier NOW. If not, “nothing’s changed”. Yes, all those other things will assist in alleviating stress and contribute to a more perky Mutant, but I have a choice. I can choose to let that shit go and just live in the moment or I can live in the future with my spankin’ Delorian and wonder when I’ll be satisfied.

Also, like the character, I refuse to be anyone’s bitch. Even if that means to my own self-delusions to what being spiritual or happy or successful are. I won’t be my own bitch. Peace or Freedom?

I’d choose Freedom.

How Can I Care?

What do you do when you don’t have the motivation, let alone the care, to do what you love?

For about a month now I’ve been feeling sluggish and uninspired to do any sort of writing whatsoever. Yes, I’m sure the lack of updates to this blog is glaringly obvious I am having some issues. There are many things I should be blogging about: my recent turn around the sun, my plundering of yarn stores, my Beltane experience with added drama llamas. And yet, I don’t. I himm, I haw, I cringe, and then reach for a pure distraction. Oh look. Laundry. Gee, I think it’s time I re-organized my tribble-sprouting yarn stash. How about I do uninteresting Facebook statuses? Sorry, did you say something? I was dressing up my virtual pet named “Elphie” on Petville.

Gah.

Even at this moment of ticka-tacka-typing I am struggling (or as Mr. Gaiman eloquently puts it, “trudging through fog”) to get the words out because it feels like a chore. Not in the “Every Writer Must Write Every Day Even If It Sucks” or the lame ass excuse of “I must await the arrival of my MUSE.” It’s more than that. It feels like much of the things I love to do, I simply don’t care anymore. I’d rather float and waft about barely touching the surface of anything of substance.

My heart is simply not in it.

And that scares the shit out of me. I have always been lead by my heart and tempered by my brain’s common sense. To attend a Beltane festival and simply not get into it, to want to write and simply get all flaky because it’s a burden isn’t like me at all. Granted, the moment I stop loving to Dance, now THAT is when I would seriously consider my mental status.

Knitting is a wonderful distraction from writing. I’m still creating something, but it’s for me and I’m always proud with how far my skills have come since I started this little hobby just over a year ago. Writing is different. I do it for me and for others. I’ve been doing it longer and I’m much more critical of myself.

So rather than blog or ink out short stories, I knit and watch movies. I want to change that. But to change it I need to figure why my heart has been so squished and stressed and wounded as of late.

Self-awareness can be a bitch sometimes.

An End of a Decade

The first birthday card of the year arrived in the mail four days early. My first guess as I reached into the cavernous mail box, fingers searching for the small envelope was, “Ah, must be Mom.”

I was mistaken. Ripping it open right there in the driveway, I was pleasantly surprised to be gifted with a lovely homemade card with beaded accents. Within was “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” stamped in a calming teal ink. Hand-written was, “Best Wishes From The Audubon Society.”

How very, very cool. I’ve only been an official member for less than a month and the kind birding fanatics remembered my birthday. Even before my own mother. *chuckles*

It occurred to me this morning, as I poured my very dark, very rich, and very caffeinated coffee into my Cedars mug, that today is the last day of my 30′s. Not simply the last day of a year, but the final day of a decade.

Whoa.

My pre-java-jolted brain wheeled from the significance of just how much time has past. Ten years of learning, stumbling, growing, hurting, loving, and coming into one’s own. I started my 30th year in pure Wonder Woman fashion — literally. Red, blue, white, and yellow streamers decorated my old apartment as Seasons 1 and 2 of the TV show played in the background. One friend brought a specially made WW cake, while another brought his muchly coveted Bennie Berry Juice. The party was filled with friends from all aspects of my life: childhood, dance club, wiccan, and other. I loved introducing them to each other and sitting back to watch the freaky geek sparks fly. The evening eventually ended up at the EMBERS where my dancing friends partied with me until I was the last one standing.

Thirty feels like so long ago. My third decade was when I became an ordained Priestess, loved three men, and watched my father die of prostate cancer. I nourished fledgling friendships and had two of them crash and burn before the decade was out. I made tons of mistakes, but was also gifted with just as many revelations. I wrote first drafts of four novels. I ballroom danced. I got corporately laid off three times and fired once. Now I am curious where my new career will take hold. I learned it was okay to be honest and to say “No”. I learned who my real friends are. I learned that all the rebirths I’ve done from the ashes is not a punishment but what I am meant to do to be who I am. I gained weight and lost it and gained a little of it back. I grew hips on this once stick-straight body and grew my hair long. I reveled in being a redhead and embraced my inner geek. My sass has grown sharper and my heart stronger. I’ve learned I can be tough when the need calls for it, and be compassionate when others won’t. I’ve learned what I am and what I’m not and have accepted both. All of this in just my third decade of life.

Forty will be awesome. There will be burning, there will be flames, there will be a Firebird spreading her wings; soaring over her old shell as she shines vibrantly in all that she is. And there may even be a margarita or three. Whatever this decade brings, I will not shy from it, I will not cower. I will look it proudly in the eyes and say, “Let’s rock.”

Should an Artist say, “I’m sorry”?

This post will be irrelevant as the fifteen seconds of drama has long past via internet / pop culture time, yet I still feel it needs to be said. When Amanda Palmer tweeted last month the story of Evelyn Evelyn, the reaction was positive. Unfortunately, when it was revealed that the conjoined twins were a fictional duo with a fictional backstory created by Amanda and Jason, everything exploded spectacularly.

Every fan had an opinion. Some raged it was heartless, thoughtless, and downright inhumane to exploit the conjoined twin community, as well as, abuse victims with their tragic story. It even went as far as to accuse Amanda of promoting “ableism”. Others would not accept an “I’m sorry if I have offended” from Amanda claiming she should just dump the three year long project all together. Yet there were quite a few, me included, who supported her right as an artist to create, to provoke, and to open our eyes. People being how people are, even fans started gnashing at each other claiming Amanda should apologize, while others firmly stood their ground declaring that she doesn’t have to.

For the record — she did. When one says, “I apologize,” it is a way to relate to the other person’s feelings, acknowledging it, but without taking on their issues as your responsibility. However, when one says, “I’m sorry,” you are taking on the hurt person’s issues as your fault. Amanda did this and for many, it wasn’t good enough. My opinion? That’s their problem, not hers.

Also for the record — many in the disabled community defended Amanda’s artistic view and were not offended in the least. They are actually looking forward to the CD and performances. If they are not offended, then why should I? I will not speak for them because they can speak for themselves.

Being an artist is tricky. You will never appease all your fans all the time. Some will be shocked or offended if you take your art into a new, shiny direction — a direction they are uncomfortable with. An artist is not one who cranks out the same muse every. single. time. If they did, then it’s NOT art. It’s regurgitated drek to appease consumers. For example: Duran Duran is without a doubt my most favorite and loved band of all time. I love their music and their personalities; however, not every CD they’ve put out has been fantastic. “Rio” and “Astronaut” is their best work, in my opinion. Yet when I didn’t like “Red Carpet Massacre”, I didn’t toss in the towel or demand they apologize for not meeting my fanatic standards. I simply shelved the CD with a “No iPod for you!” Simple as that.

Artists are human and they will not always hit a home run with their art and THAT SHOULD BE OKAY. No one should expect them to apologize just because a story of theirs didn’t merit, or a song wasn’t as melodious, or a painting was too intense. Art is not meant to be wrapped up in a safe, politicly correct bow for our protection. It is supposed to express, expose, and explode.

With that in mind, below is my response in Amanda Fucking Palmer’s blog.

Hello Amanda,

I am not a fan, but I am an observer. Before a year ago, I didn’t even know who you were and since then I’ve followed your tweets, read a few bloggy posts, and was treated to be in the audience of one of your online parties. Through all that I can honestly say this — I don’t like your music, but you as an individual impresses the hell out me. Odd, eh? That I would come to appreciate and enjoy and respect an artist following her passion and bliss, yet not like the art she produces because it’s not my cuppa? LOL! Yeah, I’m weird that way. I see Hearts and yours is full, intelligent, messy, heavy, uplifting, cranky, explosive, and brassy. You are authentically YOU and there not many people in this world who can put that up on their fancy fireplace mantle. Sure, there are times you stumble, say “Oh FUCK!” *cough* the current Evelyn Evelyn fiasco *cough*, but you learn from it and move on. Naysayers can simply stay in the corner and grumble as you continue to bounce around with your paintbrush of vivid colours, creating the art you wish to express.

Regarding E.E., as you are new to me, I honestly thought the story was true. That was until I saw the photo and observed some details which made me go, “Aaaaaah, this is not was it appears to be”. I even listened to one of the tracks and thought, “Wow, puberty was tough on that one twin, her voice is SO LOW.” *insert tongue into cheek* I got it. I was not offended, but I admit I was a bit disappointed the conjoined twins did not exist. That they really are not getting their big break. That was a bummer.

But, I’m still here.

Love, Embrace, Frolic, and continue to Do What You Do, Amanda. I came over here from Mr. Gaiman’s camp and I don’t plan on running away screaming. I shall just sit back and continue to enjoy the person Who Is Amanda Palmer.

Rock on.

Some Who Wander Are Lost

Have you ever felt lost? Or have the gnawing inkling at the back of your mind that you’ve forgotten something important? Did you turn off the faucet? Was the stove left on? You drive to your daily grind knowing something is amiss but you simply cannot place your finger on it?

Welcome to my world.

I’ve been feeling exactly like this and it was all triggered, ironically, when I got laid off from my extremely stressful job over a year ago. With no stress or mundanity to distract me any more, I could feel my spirit squirming to get out from underneath the debris I allowed it to be buried under. When it broke the surface, a marvelous exhale could be heard through-out my life and then a simple, lulling question.

“How in the hell did I get here and what do I do now?”

Alright, technically that’s two questions. For months I’ve been floating aimlessly, barely skimming my dreams of becoming a published author, a respected spiritual teacher, a darn creative soul simply because I’m afraid to plug my nose and dive deep. I’m fearful of failure and, yes, I am fully aware of how unproductive that is. How will I know how successful and fulfilling my life can be if I don’t takes risks and TRY?

I never used to be like this — lazy, unsure, procrastinating. As a child and teen I always had the verve to go the extra mile and then some. I relished at a challenge and soared when I accomplished a goal. Yet the older I had become, the more I got sucked into what society and what They, Inc. declared should be my priorities: get married, buy a home, have kids, have a career, retire.

Honestly, it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be because I’ve witnessed friends divorce, lose their homes to foreclosure, get laid off, and in the process get screwed out of their retirement. THE OLD RULES NO LONGER APPLY. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Who feels the urge to break the outdated mold and dare to try something different. So, the time has come for new rules and personally, I want my damn drive back. No more brainless, zombie corporate jobs for me. No more of trying it “their way”. It’s time for MY WAY. I want to surge with unlimited creativity. I want to live a fulfilling, prosperous life in body, mind, and spirit. I want to seek within, find my inner divine spark, and toss a bunch of kerosene on it to get the light roaring again.

I want to have FUN. Remember that? Fun? Not sarcastic jokes, not jackass tricks, not shallow entertainment of regurgitated ideas (don’t get me started on Lady Gaga), and definitely not partying until you blackout. I’m talking about the JOY in having FUN. The JOY in doing what you do. To be able to have the biggest, silliest grin plastered on your face while you do the work of your inner flame / spark / child / caffeinated squirrel / what have you.

This is what I seek. This is what I want.

How do you pimp your altar?

One of my favorite LJ communities to watch (and occasionally participate in) is pimp_my_altar. They showcase stunning, creative, and endlessly inspiring altars, shrines, and magickal work spaces. You name the religion, they have it. I’ve seen serene Catholic shrines, vibrant Hindu shrines, simple college altars to the elements, elaborate Samhain altars, expansive Voudoun / Hoodoun work spaces, elegant Etruscan altars, and so much more.

They have been as small as a bedside table, to one altar taking up the entire width of a living room with numerous shelves and fireplace mantles to boot!

So with that in mind, I thought I would share with y’all my current working altar. Because I just feel like it and on some level I hope it inspires you to create a little altar in your home. It doesn’t have to be magickal “perse” or even religious. I know of folks who have a small shrine set up for a departed pet, or a simple stone next to a pen for a writing altar, or candles and flowers near the bird bath outside to honor the coming of spring. Whatever works for you because that is the essential factor: what works for YOU. Not the neighbor down the street, not your MOM, not even your spouse / partner in crime.

16/365

What I love about altars is they can be so eclectic and so original. No two are alike. Altars and shrines help connect us to energies we wish to have in our lives. Think of them as conduits. The more energy, thought, and intent you put into them, the greater the benefits.

For me personally, I have several altars all through out my home. I have two traveling altars (one for writing, one for magick) made out of Altoid tins which I wrote about last month. I have a small shrine to my Embers Grand Dame. I have an outdoor shrine that is simply a fae statue and a bird feeder to honor the creatures of Air. I have a goddess shrine set up in my closet due to lack of space, but She doesn’t mind.

My working altar is comprised of an old wooden china hutch an ex of my best friend gave me. Of course, when they split the bastard demanded it back (I use the term “bastard” politely because this guy was a true piece of work and deserves a much harsher moniker), I advised him it had become part of my altar and was infused with four years worth of magick. He changed his mind. Smart man. Atop is some black shelving innowen handed down to me and it fits perfectly with my hutch.

Along the top is my Universal Life Church Clergy Certificate, yes I am a legally ordained minister. A certificate I waited to get until I completed my 3rd degree of tradition studies and was earned the title Priestess. I figured it would have more weight for me personally if I waited. There are also candles (real and LED), a wooden Spirit egg I got on Ostara, Dark Mother statue and picture, images dedicated to my totem, objects I’ve found in nature, a firebird figurine / card, and an incense bowl.

Within the hutch is all my magickal supplies right there for my convenience. Last year I did some spring cleaning and, WOW, I had no idea I had accumulated so many items. I placed the ones I use on rare occasion (but still need) in storage, and the rest I donated to the pagan community.

On the second shelf is where I house my current tarot deck, ritual jewelry, and shamanic items. The lower shelf is where I house my BOS, lighter, and incense bowl when not in use.

To the left are tokens I have received at all the festivals I’ve ever attended. And to the right are my drums, a brass cauldron full of incense, walking staff, and a chest full of powdered incenses and herbs.

My altar has grown and shifted along with me over the past 14 years as I’ve walked (stumbled) on this path. Once it was only a little coffee table. Then it was a three level shrine in my living room as I used an old gardening work station to create it. Now I’ve pared it down to the bare essentials and so far I’m really liking it. I know some who have even smaller ones and those who have GINORMOUS ones. Yet I love checking them out all the same (with permission of course).

So tell me. How do you pimp your altar?

I Left It Around Here Somewhere…..

The rain started to soak through my rain “resistant” hoodie by the time I made it to the front door. Huffing underneath the cold clouds, I took pride I was able to accomplish another 2.7 miles in my morning ritual. Alright, every OTHER morning ritual. As I breathed in the wind, I felt exhilarated that I could accomplish just about anything I set my mind to today.

Inside the cozy blanket of my house, I brewed a cup of caffeinated ambrosia and began shifting through the emails. I received notice that yet another person had removed me from their Friends List. Earlier this week it was on Dreamwidth and that person was more of the dark, artistic vibe. I was cool with that, but apparently she wasn’t cool with my day to day sundries.

Today’s came from LiveJournal and whereas I was initially bummed, in the long run no harm, no foul. She was well within her rights to take me off her list because, let’s face it, she was very into writing about her shamanistic experiences. Me not so much. Our interests diverged and whereas I read her entries, I never commented. I did leave her a comment wishing her well and that I completely understood.

Then I started thinking about my blog and the entires it contains within its virtual pages. Lately, I have NOT been writing about my spirituality or shamanism because I’ve felt there’s really been nothing to write about. I feel like I’m in limbo. Not dead, mind you, I still have some amazing dreams. Why just recently I’ve experienced some with me climbing up hills, soaring / flying down hills, opening doors / portals to other realms others in my dreams are unable to to, etc. It definitely has been interesting, so why have I not been sharing?

Somehow, somewhere, I have misplaced my Voice. I want to share, but I’m conflicted as to how. In my mind, I want to manifest my blog into something truly magickal and inspiring. But unlike other blogs which have a running theme (crafty, shamanic, opinion, political, etc), I realized mine lacks one. My interests are all over place and I have several fingers in different pots. I possess no masterful expertise in simply ONE thing; just intermediate know-how in dozens.

Jill of All Trades here. Pleased to meet you.

Do I wish to write my blog with “Slice of Life” pieces or opinionated rants? Quirky humour or deep intellectual thinky thoughts? My day to day shamanic stumbles or my inner revelations which I’ve finally grasped? Some blogs are scholarly, others are artsy, many are hilarious, and a few are quite the hidden treasure chests only if you know where to dig.

I spoke of this limbo to a dear friend of mine and she confessed to be inflicted with the same dilemma. Where is our Voice? I laughed and being the smartass I am said, “Great. We are both experiencing metaphysical / creative laryngitis. Do they have a lozenge for that?”

We laughed.

“Do they make an app for that?,” I asked, “Perhaps turn an iPhone into a dowsing rod so we could find our misplaced Voice? Like looking for one’s car keys?” We laughed some more and, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if some genius out there does program such a nifty tool.

In closing, I suppose all I can say is bear with me. Some days will be dreadfully dull to read my blog, yet others will surprise you as I continue to search for my individual Voice. Perhaps I left it in the icebox?