if I am storm clouds rolling across the horizon fluffy and pregnant you are a hungry plant waiting to grow from my gentle release
if I am driftwood carried through the moving waves slimy and hallowed out you are a small child building a fairytale castle from my bones
if I am a weed dying in the sun drained and tired you are a wild bird pulling me free to line your nest
if I am muddy water pooling near the shore unclear and ugly you are a vast undercurrent diluting my darkness until I can see
if I am a rock on the lake bottom lost and afraid you are a sea monster pocketing me as your good luck charm
if I am teardrops falling down soft freckled cheeks hurting and remembering you are a golden light reflecting your beauty into my broken heart
NOTE: This poem was inspired by reading fellow poet and friend Neil Reid’s poem “if I Am.” Both our poems are influenced by Derek DelGaudio’s “In & Of Itself.” You can watch it on Hulu if you’re interested. It’s magic.
“A lake is a landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.” —Henry David Thoreau
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to capture water. My daughter and I visited Folsom Lake at sunset on a chilly Thursday. We spent about three hours wandering, sitting on rocks, and taking in the healing nature of being near a large body of water. It had rained all day and we lucked out when a ray of sunlight burst through the clouds.
Let me know what photo you think I should submit this week for the challenge and if you have an overall favorite. Have a wonderful week!
#1#2#3#4#5#6#7#8#9#10#11My spot on the top of a rock.
Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com
With callooh quickness sidestepping his blade I cry out “nobody outgrabe’s me”— Gimble circles me.
Eyes locked together two lost-raths in the night frabjous moon laughs— Gimble sees me.
Beamishly he stares eyes dripping tears remembering our love gyre kisses lost— Gimble flees me.
Trailing behind him whiffling white fluff swirls softly around my tulgey toes— Gimble forsakes me.
Again. Coward.
Note: This poem uses neologisms found in Lewis Carroll’s famous Jabberwocky poem and was started as an assignment for a poetry class I took from M. Todd Gallowglas last weekend. It’s got a bit of a different tone than I usually write and I’d love to know what you think. Thank you!
“There is no logic that can be superimposed on the city; people make it, and it is to them, not buildings, that we must fit our plans.”—Jane Jacobs
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge is behind the scenes, which means we need to include something about how we took the shot. This could be a tripod setup or a photo of us in action. A dear poet friend suggested he’d like to see more black-and-white photography with people, so I went downtown with my daughter. She agreed to be my model again and we took photos in one of my favorite parts of Old Sacramento.
The photos of me with my camera were taken with my daughter’s iPhone. I hope you enjoy these images and let me know if you have a favorite! Have a wonderful first day of May.
#1#2#3#4#5#6#7#8#9#10#11Behind the scenes #1
Behind the scenes #2
Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com
Bradbury calls upon writers to “go panther-pawed where all the mined truths sleep.” Lately, I’ve been rather horse-like; clip-clopping through knee-high weeds which itch, burning my skin toward a fake sunset. “Wake up, dummy,” I say each morning, but somehow my eyes don’t hear. Instead, I close them tighter; stumble, trip across briar patches again and again. “Wake up,” the bluejay mock calls while diving beak first at my lips. I kiss away pain by pressing my palms hard across thin eyelids so I can’t see even a tiny speck of light. If I don’t look maybe they will go away. But then the doves sing from their nest. Tiny white eggs might be under them now; new life waiting for a chance to dive and fall from branches into an uncertain world of cats and clovers. “What if I do open my eyes when I sleep?” I ask rabbit jumping across my yard. His ears twitch which means he hears me. He knows plenty truths, I think. Maybe I can hop wildly like him.
Note: The poem I’m referring to appears in “Zen in the Art of Writing,” by Ray Bradbury. It’s called “Truths Sleep.” The photo is of our pet rabbit named Bun-Bun.
“Hark, now hear the sailors cry, Smell the sea, and feel the sky, Let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic.” —Van Morrison
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to create something with a flat-lay setup. It’s supposed to be an image where you lay objects out on a flat surface and photograph them from above. I wasn’t thrilled about this idea, especially since I was spending the weekend along the beautiful California coast. So, you will see the first few images are sort of my attempt at this (the sand is a flat surface, right?) #4 might be the closest I got and it’s not my favorite.
Instead, I offer you mostly shots from my weekend away. Let me know if you have a favorite and thanks for the birthday wishes. I’m feeling full of saltwater kisses and ocean breezes.
i’ve been to this beach before but i’m thinking of that one time when i cried into the wind begging spirits to save my trapped soul and something answered. not mermaid
goddesses wrapped in shimmery light, but a sea hag draped in foggy sadness. “you want out?” she hissed through cracked lips. i nodded feeling the air leave my lungs. slippery
quick, an eel through water, my knees buckled as knarled hands placed a rotted seaweed crown upon my matted hair. “i deserve nothing but pain,” i managed to say. manic
laughter roaring with the waves, calling me a liar. red-bearded pirates pointed rusty blades at my pale neck. i ran. and ran. for years. and years. jellyfish growing fat
within my belly. sharp spiny barnacles grow under my breasts and between my thick thighs. ice forming heavy around my heart, protecting soft starfish memories from spilling. but now
oh now
my seaweed crown is slipping. walking in my old footsteps, i sing “you are special” under my breath wondering if i believe. a lilting voice joins mine and I follow
into a narrow rocky cave. here a siren gently whispers seashell songs which vibrate through my body, rocking me like golden sunset waves. warm fingers find my face. “you are
loved,” she sings. “time to forgive yourself.” salty tears fall from hazel eyes as slimy seaweed slips onto the cold sandy ground. i see not her beautiful garments nor her
phosphorescent glow, but feel her spinning me around. and around. strong hands pluck hardened crusty foulers from my body and smashes them hard onto the uneven stone walls. powder turns
powerful. light burns brighter. i shudder as the foggy vines the sea witch weaved deep within me unwind faster. and faster. healing. releasing. forgiving. without a word, the siren leaves.
lavender flowers fall around me. “goodbye” i say under the golden sky. four sandpipers watch me walk across the beach. lighter. they don’t run but i do. time starts again.
sandpiper friends.my cave.the view looking out from the inside of the cave. do you see the siren?
Note: I celebrated my birthday today by spending hours wandering the beach taking photos and writing poetry. I hope you enjoy this poem of healing and that it helps you too.
The song I was singing is “Special” by Lizzo. Watch the music video. It will do your heart some good.
he climbs tall swaying trees all the way to the top. i eat handfuls of unsalted almonds with bites of banana while reading book after book. sun-kissed, my toes press into the soft green grass. freckled shoulders out. “hi mom,” he calls. i wave back all smiles. my naive trust easily covers fear. i lean into
full moons, rainbow wishes, fairy protectors. i believe my love will shield him from harm. but it doesn’t. once. and then twice. i drink sugary coffee in hospital rooms while staring at tiny bright screens. shoulders slumped. “hi mom,” he calls beneath many bloody bandages. with a fake smile i tell him everything will
be okay. home. darkness. healing comes. i sneak candy nightly hoping it will shrink fear. it doesn’t. my body swells. aches. i pull away from everyone. hiding panic with manic activity. secretly building giant blame barriers. “hi mom,” he calls but i don’t hear him. i don’t want to. walls protect right? but i am lonely in my padded
cell. sunshine bursts through swaying trees. they miss him too. but fear stopped the climbing. we circle each other arguing. forgetting nose kisses but not bloody faces. time moves so fast. too fast. his blue cap and gown sits on my dresser. “hi mom,” he says. i listen. we eat seedy crackers while our shoulders touch. can trust regrow after fear?
Note: I’m attempting to use poetry as part of my healing process. I will return to short stories and the Shoebox Poetry series soon. Thank you for reading and supporting me during this transition time. It’s long overdue.
“She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: Winter is dead.” —A.A. Milne
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to create a series of images that went together. I do this every week and so I decided to try and tell a story with my images. My daughter and I went to a creek by our house and took a nice stroll together with our cameras.
The light was harsh and the animals scarce. I did get a few bird shots and one of a turtle, but nothing I could turn into a series. So, I walked along the trail and took pictures of the flowers for a bit. I started thinking about when we sprinkled my grandmother’s ashes in the Oregon mountains and how butterflies followed our truck. I sort of jokingly said, “Grandma, could you bring some butterflies my way. I can’t do just flowers.”
A few minutes later about a dozen butterflies arrived. I chased them around the field. The light was bad and I couldn’t get the shots I wanted, but I was in heaven. Chasing butterflies in a field of wildflowers is how to spend the day. I put the images in order from far away to close up. Let me know what you think and if you have a favorite.
Also, to everyone who commented on my last post, thank you. I’ve been overwhelmed by the love and support. It means the world to me.
#1#2#3#4#5#6#7#8#9#10
Bonus photos:
Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com
“When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready.”—Paulo Coelho
I’m quitting the #100DayProject.
It hurt to type that sentence. I don’t like quitting. When backed into a corner I usually double down on my efforts to prove all the shit my internal critic says about me is untrue. In fact, my plan for the week was to work my ass off catching up on everything.
But something happened.
I was reading a book in the early morning hours when I heard a terribly loud sound—a lot like a gunshot. It sounded like it came from upstairs where both my teenagers were sleeping.
My body went into complete panic mode.
“No, no, no…” I chanted as I ran up the stairs.
I threw open both their doors screaming, “Are you okay?”
They were fine.
I woke them up.
I scared them.
But they were fine.
After apologizing and reassuring myself nothing bad had happened, I went into the backyard and fell onto the ground sobbing. Hard. Harder than I have in years.
I started replaying the worst moments. The phone call. A woman found my son laying on the side of the road and called me from his cell phone to tell me he’d had a skateboard accident. The cop at our front door. He told us our son was hit by a car. He was holding his shoes. Yelling at my daughter for wearing a sweater in summer. I pulled up her sleeves to see her arms covered in cuts. The look on her face when she told me she didn’t want to be here anymore.
You are a bad mother.
You have made too many terrible mistakes.
It’s all your fault.
My body wouldn’t stop shaking. I could barely breathe.
I called my mom and told her what happened. I needed to say all my fears out loud. I needed to acknowledge the elephant sitting on my chest. I don’t want my kids to die. I feel like a failure. I don’t understand why this is our story. I’ve tried to be the best mom I could be.
I’m supposed to be watching the fruits of all my hard work pay off—proms, graduation, getting their driver’s license, first dates. Instead, it feels like one tragedy or obstacle after the next. Mountain after mountain. It’s all so horribly unfair.
She cried with me and said I’m the strongest person she knows. I didn’t want to listen, but I did. Eventually, I calmed down, but I was left knowing I had to face what I didn’t want to.
I’ve been living in a constant state of stress for many years. Too many. It’s been boiling under my skin like lava—hot, churning, angry.
A few weeks ago, facing the move of my mother out of state, the lava erupted in the form of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad rash. The doc gave me meds, but they didn’t work. It got worse. Much worse. I went on the trip anyway.
I tried to ignore it. It’s just a rash. I’m strong. I got this. My mother needs me. My daughter needs me. There’s simply no time for my nonsense.
But the rash got angrier and angrier.
I wanted to ignore it forever, but then the loud sound came.
Maybe it was an internal gunshot or a car backfiring on the road behind our house (the road my son had his accidents). Whatever it was, it forced me to stop lying to myself. I’m not okay and I need to take better care of myself.
Something has to change.
I got busy doing research and made the decision to cut out sugar, caffeine, and carbs—all things this rash needs to thrive (and I use to cope). I got different meds. I rode through the waves of migraines while sipping bone broth and taking naps. I oscillated between feeling like I’m doing the right thing and feeling selfish.
I didn’t feel strong.
I finally took the anxiety pills I’d been scared to take. I’m talking more openly with my family about my stress level. I’m not cooking for my family right now. I’m still taking naps.
It feels a bit like I’m doing nothing, but that’s not true. It’s important. I need to feel better.
I’m healing my skin, my gut, and my heart. I’ve got so many wonderful things to look forward to and I need to be my healthiest to enjoy them all. My teenagers may not look like the typical ones, but they are remarkable human beings. Extraordinary. They are the light of my life. They need me to stop simmering in the lava.
The reason I started this #100DayProject was to tackle my perfectionism and to think more abstractly. The guidelines I set for myself were:
be messy and imprecise
have fun with the process
don’t overthink
don’t plan
don’t judge the finished painting
be brave
Quitting fulfills these objectives quite nicely. It’s brave and messy. It’s not perfect. I can’t really plan what the future holds for me, but I’m taking the right steps to get healthy.
I’m proud of myself.
NOTE: I’m not quitting my blog, but I am taking some time to heal. I may be a bit less active for a few weeks as I start to feel better. Please don’t go anywhere. I appreciate you all so much.
Bridgette Tales 