tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59924173607141803482024-03-13T17:54:59.130-04:00Splendor In A Plastic WorldBecause a life unexamined is lived without intention.Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-28554744740420310322019-04-14T17:52:00.001-04:002019-05-23T10:53:25.661-04:00The Authenticity of Bones and Waves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I haven't written here since 2017. I find this a bit staggering to say the least. <i>(I write constantly, just haven't posted here, mind you)</i> Disquieting how the days become weeks and then months and suddenly you have young men rather than boys and there is this mesh of delicate lines woven into the skin on the back of your hands that implies a fragility I don't yet feel.<br />
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I've recently returned from visiting my husband who is finishing a project on Nantucket. I went for a time last autumn and came home with pounds of shells collected from still-warm sand, whole and smooth like pregnant eggs spilled from the sea. This time winter hung low, close to the ground; a presence that changed the colors of the sky and the smell of the mist when the sun had fled the day. The sand was cold and the wind had teeth.<br />
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The shells I found now were nothing like the fruit of late October. The beach is littered with just shards of shells, fragments of a whole worn like seaglass into such beauty it took my breath away. I collected piles of them, washed and scraped and then laid them out to dry on the kitchen counter, an ocean boneyard. I marveled. I dreamt of them, drifting lazily beneath the surface of the water as the waves crashed overhead and the skeletal shells danced like drunken moths.<br />
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They're my favorites now, these calcified remnants; having tumbled through the storms and worn away the surface to reveal the swirl and sweep of the loveliness inside. I find this a disconcerting parallel - how we spend so much energy preening and polishing our exterior only to have the hurricanes of time and the sands of age wear off the brittle edges, peel back the flesh, and expose the majesty that is the unadorned soul. Beauty has become a misled quest for a particular color of paint, when what is truly of value lies there, inside the tendons and cartilage, the marrow of us.<br />
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I've now begun dreaming of the sea almost daily. I'm sketching and thinking of creating a small group of paintings inspired by these shells. I think I will call it The Bones of the Sea.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-32565550518043433932017-11-01T14:43:00.001-04:002017-11-01T14:53:50.972-04:00Pathways<br />
It appears that November has arrived cloaked in mist beneath granite skies. The rain has washed away the gaiety of last evening's zombie parade through my yard; a handful of scattered candy wrappers in the lawn the only evidence of the gleeful dancing made slightly awkward by sweetly full sacks and overflowing pockets. I watch as silver drops chase each other down the glass of the window now, loving autumn's temperamental moods.<br />
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I adore rain. Despite how it makes my bones ache, I have some kind of connection to the elemental weeping of the heavens. I know when it's coming, plan accordingly, and often paint my best work on these damp days. Yesterday, I had one of my sons help lug the large canvas from the entryway of our home up to my studio.<i> (it's four feet tall and five feet long and I'm not nearly coordinated enough to maneuver that up the split stairs alone)</i> This painting, while hanging for several years now, has nagged at the back of my mind for months. I've studied it, scrutinized it, contemplated it, and flatly glared at it - the nagging becoming nearly a howl before I figured it out.<br />
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My paintings are me. I know this. Frankly, it's probably the reason why nearly every canvas I sell has 2 or 3 other paintings beneath the one I finally accept as finished. There is much in me still under construction. Days when I am not my best, days when the edges unravel and the threads untie....these days are sometimes caught in the pigments of my brush. Later, I can see them plainly laid out as clearly as if intended - and thus, I love gesso. That milky thick eraser of such a record. Thirty minutes and that canvas sleeps, buried gently and deep, only visible in my memory.<br />
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This is the painting. It scratched at me. Most of my work, whether planned or not, ends up with a path in it. I paint my dreams and apparently am traveling quite often. But then again, isn't life a journey? Always in motion, we move ahead, turn around, choose a direction, sometimes stumble...sometimes spend entirely too much time looking back. It finally occurred to me, this path is dark on both ends. Life can be dark, choices difficult, and at the time I painted this - I can now see how trapped I felt. My path wasn't going forward, but sideways - and either way I turned, I wasn't heading toward the light.<br />
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And so, on this drizzly slate day, I chose the music, <i>(<a href="https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=ludovico+einaudi&&view=detail&mid=B4D25E67AEFF562A034AB4D25E67AEFF562A034A&&FORM=VDRVRV" target="_blank">this</a> is what I painted to)</i> and I began again. Five hours later, paint smeared in my hair and across my cheek...<br />
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It's only the first layer, just the beginning. I will dream tonight. I'm not sure yet where exactly I'm going, life is always a wonder and often a surprise. I'm looking forward to the quiet that comes when summer's golden rush has faded and winter puts the world to sleep. I will paint....and see where it leads.<br />
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Happy November, my friends.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-12779026475846015722017-10-24T15:17:00.001-04:002017-10-24T15:33:17.102-04:00Smelling Like Dirt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently the café where some of my paintings are hanging hosted a “Meet the
Artist” event, a lovely evening of wine and <span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;">cheese; laughter, art, and fascinating company. I sold several copies of my
book over the course of the night and was asked to sign one for a stunning
young woman from Turkey – and thus began a conversation that has lingered in my
mind for days now. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;">I have a long-term, passionate
love affair with the written word. Meanings and nuances swirl through my mind - I think in pictures and in doing so, turn and move words about like things;
examining, dissecting, diving into them. I titled my book “Season” as the three
definitions of that word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(a period of
time delineated by weather and daylight, to harden or temper, and to add
flavor)</i> directly reflect my experience in life. The book is divided into four seasonally minded sections and each begins with
several of my favorite quotes. The first includes this one:</span><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"In the spring, at the end of the day,
you should smell like dirt." </i><br />
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Margaret Atwood</div>
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The young lady I mentioned before is studying literature and given cultural
and language challenges, inquired what it meant. While the first literal sense
of the words is simply<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (to the gardener
who lives through the dark months of winter plotting, planning, and longing for
the tender blush of the first thaw)</i> that in planting a garden, you will smell
like dirt by the end of the day. However, the more we spoke, I explained that I
also believe deeply that this applies to so much more than petunias and basil. <br />
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Beginnings. They are the root of us. We begin relationships and jobs and
marriages. We begin parenting, new chapters, adventures, projects, penance. And with each
beginning, the success of the thing, no matter what it is, I believe to be
directly correlated, even possibly umbilically connected, to the effort we put
into it. As was said today in a fall planting lecture I attended, “If you plant your
bulbs two inches down, you are merely feeding the squirrels.” (Susie Lobdell) You need a
shovel, not a trowel. Put your back into it, wear clothes you don’t mind
tearing, plan on sore muscles. Exhaustion is an ingredient, not a side effect.
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Do you smell of dirt? Are you putting the effort, the thought, the planning
into your life to make it the one you desire? Are you weeding out the
destructive elements that you know are gnawing around the foundation? Do you
spend time thinking – simple reflection – about what has been successful and
what has failed? Research and intention and bloody knuckles….do you smell of
dirt? <br />
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The world is tucking in its edges now, curling up for a long nap beneath the
hoarfrost and ice. I moved my summer plants inside this afternoon anticipating
the freeze coming tonight. I’ve purchased whiskey and made soup and fetched the
down comforter from the attic. I have some things in my life that need
attention. Winter is good for that. May we each contemplate our lives, work at our
lives, sweat and heave and celebrate our lives like the stunning gardens they
are meant to be. <br />
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At the end of it all, I thoroughly intend to smell like dirt. <br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-52499364630115456902017-08-07T18:43:00.000-04:002017-08-10T12:31:06.073-04:00Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I keep dreaming of the rain. A week ago....<br />
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From the kitchen window I watched the darkness swallow the evening, damp grey-green trees fading to glistening black silhouettes against the clouds that tumbled about the sky. There is something about summer rain...that sultry humidity that builds for hours like a lover's flirtation and then the rush of pounding release infused with the scent of freshly mowed grass, distant bonfires, and hot pavement. The drunken flight of brave fireflies as they attempt to dance despite the deluge, the sway of branches filling the night with the sound of wind and leaves and thrashing.<br />
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I hesitated in the doorway to the back porch, the storm louder than the house behind me and everything inside of me. I stepped out till the rain was just skimming my arms, softly...another step and then one more and I slowly sank down to sit on the top step. Closing my eyes, I let the day slip away and focused just on the rain. It was heavy - not a sprinkle or shower - but that drenching wetness that ran thick fingers through my hair and traced paths across my scalp; slipping over my cheekbones, under my jaw and then down my neck to slide along my sundress. The sky cracked and I could feel the thunder inside my bones.<br />
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I remember playing endlessly in the rain as a girl. Now? Now I keep an umbrella in the car and plan ahead and shorten errands when the clouds gather...I skirt around the edges and watch through glass as the world rinses the dust away. But not that night. That night I let the rain pull the worries from my mind, wash the doubts and the fog and the uncertainty from my soul. It scoured the shadows from the corners and left me soaked and somehow...clearer. <br />
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I stood. I was astonished at the weight of my dress - so easy and loose, now it clung like an unwieldy second skin; wrapping about my ankles, the thin straps digging into the flesh of my shoulders. I left wet footprints and entire puddles behind me as I climbed the stairs. Suddenly chilled, the shower's heat permeated the room while the storm still raged in the night and I slipped silk over my head, braided my hair... I felt lighter. Rather than launder it, I hung the dress to dry in the shower and the next morning it smelled of rain. <br />
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I wore it again.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-60755818349575261122017-07-18T21:26:00.001-04:002017-09-07T11:24:26.196-04:00Unrestful Rest<br />
Sleeping, for me, is an attempt to dive into an ocean...made of Jell-O. Rather than the swan-like move one envisions, there is much awkward thrusting and some jabbing elbows. A franticness that is alien and undesirable in such a moment...bruising. I've watched my husband and sons drift off casually, so easily as if sleep were the natural conclusion of an offhand breath or finished sentence. For me, it is a battle; sometimes edging closer to a war complete with bloody casualties - a war against the clutches of my waking mind. That vast indigo sea of rest and rejuvenation eludes me for wretched hours. <br />
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Often, rather than sinking into its silky depths, I seem to drift mere inches beneath the surface, watching the memories and fears and faces of my conscious mind ripple before me as if I'm lying on my back viewing the world through a translucent aqueous lens mere centimeters thick. The images have lost their crisp edges and begin to blur...I can feel the vacuum beneath me and attempt to plunge away from the surface only to feel tethered by invisible threads that tangle in my hair and flesh.<br />
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Sometimes I wonder after day three or four of sleepless unrest, if my judgement, my temperament, my ability to write and cope and paint and cook-more-than-noodles is in permanent peril. For it is within our dreams, our hours of unconsciousness, that our souls are reborn. Our humanity is solidified against the robotic tendencies of routine and repetition. This is what sets us apart....<br />
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Do you dream?<br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-46003002161406982017-07-07T01:11:00.001-04:002017-07-10T18:42:58.001-04:00Investment<br />
Midnight has flown. The shadows that live only before the dawn are draped about my room, arguing with each other. Yesterday is merely a memory and tomorrow barely a wisp of a dream. Today I spent hours investing in things that perhaps I need to reconsider. One of the joys/gifts/freedoms of the young is an abundance....<i>of everything</i>. Of laughter and time and energy. The very things that seem more difficult to find later on when life complicates like some mad scientific experiment that has reasons and factors and elements - and still exponentially explodes beyond rationalization. While the crowds applaud philanthropy and sacrifice - <i>they are crowds</i>. In real life where hours matter and exhaustion is palatable, one must do the math.<br />
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Have I mentioned....I'm not good at math?<br />
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One plus one should always equal two. But when it's time + the past + memories + hope + maybe + investment.....but the = is missing? When the explanation is always up for the task, to immediately squash any question, but the answer feels dreadfully hollow...<br />
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I find myself at a place of introspection. Please....how do you shuffle or recalculate? How does one rearrange or prune or merely adjust the friendships that are changing, sliding sideways...pausing? I'm an idiot. I will be the one still standing there when everyone has left the room....I know this.<br />
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I hate this.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-25940339294922913852017-05-17T18:24:00.001-04:002017-05-17T18:26:51.949-04:00Cable Boxes, Broken, and Thinking<br />
6:40am and I've pulled furniture from the wall and crawled through 4+ years of dust. I can feel it sticking to my palms, my arms, the back of my neck. My left hand is completely coated in the drab grey wonderfluff that is Hazel's hair, unvacuumed corner crud, and spider waste. I'm fumbling through the power cords, flashlight clenched in the crook between my neck and shoulder, swearing like a sailor in my favorite black nightgown - the one with the lace about the edges...which is now furry. *shudder*<br />
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<i>There it is.</i> I snag the cord and pull it from its socket. I count...28, 29, 30. Pushing the shiny silver prong back in, I wiggle out from where dust bunnies go to perish and sit disheveled and disgruntled on the floor watching the cable box whir back to life. Perhaps it was over-heated or over-worked or over-everything. Scrambled. Debilitated. Like some long forgotten magician's trick, there was a flash of light and the flicker of two-dimensional company joined me in the duskiness of dawn, rattling on about predicted weather and expected rainfall.<br />
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And it occurred to me (not a crash of thunder occurrence, more like a dribbling faucet of realization), that I am that cable box. I feel a bit scrambled, off-center, slightly broken. The electronic universe we are surrounded by - when something goes amiss, it needs a reboot. Not for just a moment, this will require time, some counting, and possibly a little breath-holding. A pause to let the circuits reset and the wiring cool down. <br />
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I need to unplug. So if you notice I'm missing, trust me - it's not you, it's me. I'm going to clear my calendar for bit. Make room to read something other than a list, sit in the sun and think a while. Just for think's sake.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-36175433472661371502017-04-20T11:00:00.001-04:002017-04-21T19:09:58.912-04:00Night Thoughts<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The world is sleeping. A side effect of my husband traveling so much is the loosening of my grip upon time. My fingers are unlaced, detached. Reflexive clock watching has been replaced with distraction and sudden paranoid moments when I fear I've forgotten something immensely important. The days bleed into evening and I've lost track of their passing. Often I climb into bed after the boys do, exhaustion giving in to the call of soft sheets and a novel; but I'm also becoming rather familiar with this 3am discussion held beneath the blackened sky - wind and clouds and night murmurs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My hair tangles about my shoulders as thunder stumbles across the heavens and the cat claws at the door behind me. I ignore him. Sitting on the top step of the back porch, I lean into the storm - huge and dark and somehow bigger than the one in my mind, dwarfing my fears and insecurities until they are the pebbles beneath the deluge. Washed clean of detritus and debris, the rain rinses away the clamor of the day. How is it that mere drops of water can be so deafening, so all-encompassing? </span><br />
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I'm painting now. More than I have in years. I agreed to fill in for a canceled slot in a local museum's line-up and then realized I was committing to nearly a new, completely finished painting every week. Sheer madness. Last night I dreamt I was painting trees that fell off the canvas and sprouted at my feet, their roots tangling about my legs until I couldn't move. I've done the shopping with paint in my hair, picked up the children with paint on my face. I smell of paint.<br />
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I miss writing. Like air. Like cheese. The night thoughts are scribbles in legal pads stacked beside my bed, waiting to be decoded, untangled into complete sentences with punctuation and capital letters. They whisper to me sometimes, echoes behind the music while my brush smears pigment into visions.<br />
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Just a few weeks now. Wiring and naming (seriously, naming a painting is a calamity of my dreams where it was born - a thing of feelings and emotions that is quite difficult to distil into a word or two) and stacking them on the landing outside of my bedroom until they will be driven to the gallery and strung up for all to see....and judge. <br />
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The storm has moved on now. I can see lightening etching new patterns over another sky, another life off in the distance. Perhaps God is laundering the world leaving night thoughts everywhere damp and shiny and clean.<br />
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Addendum per Mary's comment. Painting vs writing...?<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-44023518413163827122017-01-04T16:14:00.001-05:002017-01-05T14:16:07.972-05:00Lists<br />
<br />
It's 12:27am January 1st, 2017. I stood outside for 20 minutes listening to the firework thunder and echoes of enthusiastic lungs laughing as they shouted into the night. A new year...what exactly does that mean beyond the turning of the calendar, the passing of a date? The air was crisp and pure and smelled of Spring four months away, snow and ice guaranteed to coat the world until then. My heart longs for warmth but is astounded at how quickly this season seems to be passing. <br />
<br />
I'm now curled in bed with feet tucked beneath the down comforter, Hazel on the floor at my side, and the boys left gaming in the basement with a 2am curfew - even now their laughter ricochets up through the ancient ductwork and faintly ripples in the air. Jase slumbers beneath the covers <i>(he's fighting an early winter head cold I am fervently hoping he does not share)</i> and the Twilight Zone classic marathon paints my bedroom with wavering black and white shadows.<br />
<br />
This year had a different list. Older birthdays and boys learning to drive. A position that has massive promise but that took my husband away for weeks at a time on a regular basis. A book published. Paintings finished. I resigned. These notes on a list look different but the year felt...hard. How does life feel? Does your year spill across your mind in a list like mine does? A series of triumphs and failures, laughter and sorrow? The boys are nearly men and the dog no longer a puppy and I find the lines about my eyes are faintly deeper. I sleep less <i>(who knew three hours could be enough?)</i> and dream vivid dreams that make my husband laugh out loud with their absurdity. <br />
<br />
A new year. A human year. Right now, my bedroom draped in flickers of grey, I am promising myself to <i>feel</i> it. To taste and laugh and cry and rage. The wind rattled my window just now, promising a storm before dawn. I turn off the light and watch the branches dance beneath the stars.<br />
<br />
A new list begins. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-79053013397092510922016-12-11T19:45:00.001-05:002016-12-12T06:07:42.834-05:00Winter and Water<br />
The night seemed heavy as it closed about the house. I could hear ice tapping against the windows; frozen rain beneath dark clouds outside the window frame, a virgin winter's storm. The day had been full of uncounted trips up and down the steps, silent lugging of laundry and Christmas décor and a somewhat heavy heart. My elder sister is in California, her mother <i>(she is my half sister)</i> battles after cancer related surgery...a friend of mine is struggling to tread water with her son, and another contemplates life-altering changes to his horizon. The holidays seem to amplify life - in all of its loveliness as well as its agony. <br />
<br />
Two weeks ago I was taken to court as my ex-husband petitioned to quit paying child support. In his words, "the eldest child is quickly approaching emancipation" (<i>Sawyer's 18th birthday is in June</i>) and he no longer wanted to provide for Sawyer or his 15 yr-old brother <i>(who happens to be 6' 8" tall and wears a size 15 shoe, just imagine the grocery bill alone).</i> The story is tangled and long and personal, but when the line of questioning from the Judge went a particular direction pertaining to his ethics in business - he angrily withdrew his petition. I left relieved, strained, exhausted...and when I discovered he'd retaliated by leaving an anonymous scathing review of my book on Amazon two days ago...angry. <br />
<br />
The spray from the shower head is heavy rain at the end of a drought. My dry shoulders hunch against the torrent, the tight muscles slowly relaxing as heat penetrates through sinew and bone. I watch the water swirl about my feet and bend to push the plug into the drain. I hear voices in my heart. Beyond the closed bathroom door I listen to one of the boys on the stairs...I slowly kneel in the tub. This claw foot monstrosity was one of the reasons we bought the house off Craig's list seven years ago, and I fervently promised it was going to be worth it despite the living room ceiling falling in four years later when there was a leak from the plumbing.<br />
<br />
Tonight the tears stream down my face, mingling with the water that now rises against my waist. I turn, slowly sinking back, letting the steaming warmth envelope me. I take a breath, and pull my head beneath the hot, wet silence. <br />
<br />
The hush. That moment when your heartbeat is louder than your thoughts.<br />
<br />
Several weeks ago I found myself in a conversation about our virtual selves vs our concrete. Our ideals vs our handshake. Please don't tell me you're for $15 minimum wage if you don't tip your waitress well or that we need more kindness if you cut off people in traffic on a regular basis. I took the boys Christmas shopping yesterday and thus commenced a lesson in rude behavior, dangerous driving, and terrible manners. <i>Who are we?</i> In real life - not online where we debate policy and morals and supposed integrity; where we can attack without consequence. Who are we...who are you? What kind of neighbor are you? Employee? Parent? Spouse? Friend? In real life where the scent of you is as palpable as your words...<br />
<br />
My lungs burn as I clamp the muscles in my throat and keep my head beneath the water, my heartbeat furious thunder against the rage within my flesh. Gasping, I surface...my quiet house seems so loud. My soul shouting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-19777919352767077132016-10-06T19:35:00.000-04:002016-10-07T11:58:29.818-04:00The days pass and the clocks tick and it's a new......Season. <br />
Sometimes I feel as if the sky is another shade of blue than before...but I fear it is I that has changed, not the sky. I'm not exactly sure how to pick up where I left off here - how does one play 'catch-up' and attempt to describe the color of the sky? <br />
<br />
I resigned from my job. <br />
<br />
A week later one of my clients shot his girlfriend in the head. <br />
<br />
I made up my mind not to wait for permission or time or the right moment, but to finish some of my dreams. I'm painting again. And I've spent late nights and later midnights and even some very early before-dawns....and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Season-C-Clickett/dp/1536876828/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1475795963&sr=8-1&keywords=clickett" target="_blank">this</a> happened. (my head is still spinning - please take a look, feedback?) <br />
<br />
Some of it is here, some not. Parts and bits and the sinews that knit my soul together. <br />
<br />
I'm at loose ends, looking to begin once more. I may stumble some, and trip over stones and roots and the dark lumps that sneak up on us all in the twilight that hovers before the day....but I am determined to write my future, as much as live it. <br />
<br />
I will be back...please, what have you been up to??<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-85808581566338008602016-03-13T20:37:00.001-04:002016-03-13T20:37:52.174-04:00Spring
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The lilac trees in the neighbor’s yard are tipped with soft
green….I feel as if I’m holding my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although, if truth be told, I’ve felt this way for months now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last year didn’t end with confidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve just reread that sentence four
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its simplicity somehow is satisfying
while it falls chasms short of describing those months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are moments in life that absolutely
have no words.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I don’t believe I could live in a climate that didn’t have
seasons like this part of the world – for the sheer and basic reality of
emotional stability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every year Summer’s
igneous heat pummels the grass of our yard to a faded yellow pulp; and then
Autumn arrives with her glorious cloak of nutmeg and ocher leaves that scatter
in the smoke-scented wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My soul soars
those months.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The frost appears, tracing icy lace along my windows,
reminding me to pull out the sweaters and Christmas garland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The holidays are magic; twined with music and
mulled wine and the glitter of starlight on snow….and then Winter creeps in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swear he steals beneath the trees when we
sleep, his claws so hard and dark and cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The air burns just to breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
slush and grit of winter invade me; cling to my feet and drag upon my soul…and
then the lilacs bud. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Life has such seasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m rather tired of winters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Have you ever had a dream that when you awoke, you didn’t
know whether to be relieved or sad?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
in such need of Spring that I fear I am reckless this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve torn the plastic from the kitchen window
already….there are hyacinths on my dining room table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve painted my toenails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please Lord, let Spring be near.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fear my heart cannot keep up this mad pulse
without sunlight and warmth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Hope is a season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
spring renewed that is astonishing in its ability to reappear after the
dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the storms have passed and
the wreckage is left, how amazing are the glimmers of green that forever persevere
between the fragments of our humanity.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span> </div>
Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-8960783047023592182015-11-10T22:07:00.001-05:002015-11-11T21:54:05.912-05:00Shadows and Seeds and Thoughts on a Rainy Day<br />
Sometimes I park on the street behind my office. The ancient church that spans the block beside us clangs the hours as they pass, stained glass vibrating with the resonance of time. There is a sidewalk there that I traverse; concrete and nature collide beneath oak and maple boughs.<br />
<br />
Today was filled with rain. Skies grey and damp sluiced the world with autumn's wet embrace. Have you seen the shadows yet? Ghosted leaves along the cement, the tannins of life leached out as decay breaks down the cellular walls that gave summer its emerald hue. The essence of fall bleeds for a time, leaf stains that paint the world in shades of bronze and rust. <br />
<br />
I wonder, as life is both light and simultaneously dark...am I the same? <br />
<br />
The glow of youth glimmers in jade and sage that slowly burns into amber scarlet flames. Months pass and summer wans and ochre shadows now lay along the stony walk. Eventually they will be washed away by the heavens, sifting to soil and sand...the remnant becoming the seed of next year.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-89728531179566675922015-08-04T18:54:00.001-04:002015-08-04T18:54:44.895-04:00Pegs and Holes
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Morning light burns the lingering mist from the trees as my
white <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Toyota</st1:place></st1:city>
company van trundles over rickety brick streets, thumping to a stop at the
light. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The red disk glows with a thin
damp halo, summer’s humidity already dragging hazy fingers across the cobalt
sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spinning tires hum over grey
pavement, weaving through the meandering pulse of the radio and my mind wanders…</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’m headed to a client’s apartment. In her 50’s, she has
curly grey hair, twinkling childlike eyes, and no one. Her family abandoned her
to an institution decades ago and there is a staggering story of her mother
throwing her down the stairs when she was six, resulting in the brain damage
that altered the course of her everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Years on the street, raped, transient, she has lived through a hurricane
life I shudder to think about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now she has a small one bedroom
apartment in a building that used to be an elementary school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wide hardwood doors and long hallways still
seem to echo with the voices of children when I’m there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loves Elvis, he’s all over her walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every Monday I come; she waits for the
electric buzz of my finger on the button marked 104. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watch while she methodically fills her pillbox
and I double check, counting the pastel colored marbles that equal stability to
her. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As I drive, I can see her smile in my mind and my lips curve
in response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll make a list of fresh
veges and fruit and I will run her to the corner market and help carry her
cherished mushrooms and sweet tea inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I will wish her a lovely afternoon and she’ll thank me and hold the door
open heartbeats longer than necessary to watch me leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will wave and promise to come back
Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then more pavement and
another buzzer and another pill box.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
All of this quite seriously changes the fabric, the weave of
another life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right and strong and…good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As I drive my eyes trace the telephone poles connected by
waves of black wire, a strange aerial sea that swoops and dips up over the
hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a sense of wrong so thick
within my car I nearly choke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My throat
closes, muscles spasm and my hands clench the wheel, white knuckles rigid knobs
of bone and flesh. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In a world that spills out entirely too many movies that
have themes of “she felt out of place, like she was missing her calling, until….”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I caught up in such a delusion, such
selfishness?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That while in the very
midst of doing so much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right</i> – it feels
so wrong?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel out of place, like I’ve
crammed a literal square peg into a round hole, shaving off the corners; a pulp
of sinew and mangled skin left behind.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My co-workers are wonderful, my boss is funny and
compassionate. And I am writing nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have oceans inside…instead I drive and smile and help and hug and
drive and count and smile and drive…</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I am doing such good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But sometimes the weight, the palpable taste of what I am <u>not</u> doing is
thick and heavy inside my mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
coats my hair and drips into my dreams at night, reeking like tar and
sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This wrongness…how can it
be so dense in the midst of such right?</div>
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</div>
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Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-5463337677619328132015-04-15T21:57:00.001-04:002015-04-15T21:57:08.343-04:00Enthralled<br />
It's strange to become a creature of steel and glass. I've spent months inside windows and siding, panels of wood or plastic or stone. I guide. I encourage and help and persuade. At the end of the day I plainly ache for the feel of sun on my skin as a man thirsts for water itself. I return home - love and welcome and it's worth it....<br />
<br />
But after the boys shower, I step in. Above the sluice of the water, I can hear their teenage prattle and laughter down the hall as I wash the day away. The dust and depression of lives lived entirely too alone; it saddens me, chagrins me. The soap slides down the drain....and the sky outside the window splinters. <br />
<br />
I've never been able to resist the siren call of a thunder storm. I've now tucked the boys in and find myself sitting, wet hair and nightgown, on the back porch in the dark. I sit at the very edge, warm rain soaks my calves and drips off my toes. The scent of spring redolent in the saturated air. The wind surges and I can almost feel the caress of the rain sliding down the blackened bark of the huge tree in the rear of the yard. Undulating and curving over the knobs and divots like a lover's wet touch...<br />
<br />
The house is still behind me. The trees have become fingers of ink against a charcoal sky. Dawn will arrive all too early and yet still I linger. Spring is a lover supreme, is she not? She seduces with promise and teases with the fragrance of lilacs and loam...<br />
<br />
I revel in her. <br />
<br />
Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-20834571727228410742015-03-29T10:14:00.000-04:002015-03-29T10:14:55.254-04:00Identity Crisis<br />
It's been so long I'm sure I've fallen off many reading lists, but this is not entirely by chance....you see, I've begun to lose myself. The coherence of my voice has faded, my selfhood feels unraveled, my identity threadbare and fraying about the edges. <br />
<br />
The delusion of youth is that life is a quest that leads to some grand epiphany of self-discovery. A moment of clarity, long sought after when the "aha" of recognition floods the senses. Limbs tingle, tiny hairs stand on end, and a river of peace surrounds your soul. <em> "This is who I am."</em><br />
<br />
And then life fucks with you.<br />
<br />
You see, there is no constant. The you looking back from the mirror when you're 22 is such a different creature than the you holding the 8lb wonder of breath in your arms a decade and a half later. You, the heart and soul, the collection of scars and stars that sails the ocean of experiences, weathering the storms, beaching for a moonlit bonfire to dance and sing--and then off again only too find oneself on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle. This you is a thing of reaction and response and flux. The dancing construct of you no longer applies when the hurricane hits. After divorce. After terror and loss. The waves of the world change you. Whittle and shape and mold you....the joys that paint the universe with sunlight. The agony that dims the shadows beyond black. <br />
<br />
Defining ourselves, learning ourselves....distilling? We all know a guy who claims to be an athlete but hasn't touched a ball since college. The musician who doesn't even own a guitar. Is there an expiration date to delineation? A margin of error for a resume? If paint is required to be a painter... <br />
<br />
I'm a social worker now. I spend my days helping disadvantaged, sometimes damaged souls learn to live independently in an often hostile world. This is good. This is right and what is needed and I'm rather good at it......<br />
<br />
...and I am missing me. <br />
<br />
Shit, so selfish that sounds. I drive between clients, the virgin rain of spring dragging lazy fingers across the windshield, my mind a tumult of canvas and pigment and brush strokes that will never occur. I haven't touched a paintbrush in months. My studio is cold and dark and my days are filled with the frantic exhaustion of forty hours of caregiving, on top of three teenage boys and a husband who needs understanding and love now more than ever. I'm wiping tears as I type this, smearing them away with the back of my hand as I take deep breaths and pray the boys wont come upstairs until I can spill this out and pull myself back together again. <br />
<br />
Rather ironic that just when my website was finished, the number of completed works froze; an unmeltable block in the midst of season's change. You can see my work <a href="http://studiochantel.com/" target="_blank">here</a> and should you be interested in one, call me quick as they may be the last. How morbid I sound. I know there is no absolute, the future is unwritten--dear Lord, I know that better than most, but I cannot seem to find the strength to balance these me's. I fear one is replacing the other. <br />
<br />
And I am missing her.<br />
<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-51899057028154311382014-08-31T14:58:00.000-04:002014-09-01T20:20:59.588-04:00Intimacy and Fear and Twinness<br />
It's been an odd summer for me. Begun with such a visceral rampage of emotions, chasms so deep and dark, skies painted with the prism of fragile faith, paralyzing anguish and livid relief. I think, in a way, I overdosed on introspection. Facing some of my most unspoken fears forced an excavation of the soul; broken bits and lost bits and forgotten ones were found. In these moments, we discover much about ourselves. I curl in. Disengage. I'm not one to ask for help even on the best of days and this was so acutely displayed these last few months as to be painful to my friends and family. My sincerest apologies for this. Communication was impossible for me....hell, even the thoughts within my own skull were agony.<br />
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Recently I've watched in surprise as someone I know has gone through a similar season and yet, in complete juxtaposition of me, has publically announced every step of her journey; fears and hopes, updates and disappointments, all published via social media to hundreds, if not thousands, of people. I'm awed... amazed...terrified. That level of intimacy with so many is unthinkable for me. And yet a great deal of my life has been spent in a quest for intimacy; an attempt to fill a cavern so vast that held only shadows. Some might hazard this was a result of a rather isolated childhood and a family that I was never close to until ten years ago; but frankly the Why is so much less important than the Now. The Here is more relevant than the How. Forty years on this planet has taught me that one of our greatest mistakes is getting caught up, trapped within the Why and How, missing out on the gift of choice, forgiveness, and potential that is Now.<br />
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But it is true that my Now had a beginning. Everyone's does. In that quest for a soul mate I lunged toward the nearest hand offered--and thus the tragedy of my first marriage commenced. A man that would order me not to breathe on him, that didn't like touching. I was a fish thrashing about in a desiccated death valley of a relationship. Which brings me to the story of my second husband of six years now. His How is something that twists my soul every time I think of it. Oh, to be grateful for such heartache is a terrible thing...yet our Now is chiseled and sculpted by our Hows and Whys, is it not? This is his story, which has become my own.<br />
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Four and a half decades and our medicine has advanced in a miraculous way. But there was a day back then, when a young mother was told at eight and a half months pregnant, that her unborn baby had perished. There was no heartbeat to be found. She would have to carry the stillborn to term and endure labor while planning a funeral that included an eighteen inch coffin...she nearly shattered. Returning to the doctor, she insisted she could still feel movement and was assured this was merely a manifestation of her grief, and thus she wept and fragmented until the contractions began. Hours later a beautiful lifeless boy was born....and fifteen minutes after that, my husband Jason was also. <br />
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Can you imagine the sorrow and the joy of that moment? An excruciating combination that stained everyone in the room with the colors of despair and wonder. The world turned and life happened and Jason didn't discover he was a twin until he was fifteen years old. This suddenly explained his feelings of perpetual aloneness, an internal 'missing' that never ebbed, no matter the company. He dreamt, almost nightly, of sleeping wrapped around another. Entwined. His first marriage also, was full of echoes and emptiness. <br />
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And then we found each other. <br />
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I know few who sleep as we do; a knot of limbs, flesh against flesh, where one ends and the other begins unknowable. His face on my neck, my lips against his arm, our breathing syncs and we slumber. Intimacy beyond my understanding at times. <br />
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Twins bound by life.<br />
<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-13550469536528312792014-06-06T12:01:00.001-04:002014-06-06T12:58:17.026-04:00Missing<br />
The grim tang of irony lingers in the back of my throat as I type this. My last post in March was laced with hope of a new season....and one arrived. Please forgive my silence these last months--some things require the curling in of the soul in order to survive. <br />
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At any rate, my missing months are <a href="http://livinginthetwopercent.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. You know the blog drill, scroll down to April's first post: "April Fools" and read backwards from there. Only ten posts. I feel as if I penned them in blood. <br />
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Love to you all....<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-48600207756324058602014-03-04T10:36:00.001-05:002014-03-04T13:00:27.167-05:00Seasons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Another grey day. As if the sky has melted the clouds and become an ashen soup of slush and grit. The crystal flakes that drift about beyond the window have lost their glitter, the magic of the holidays buried beneath the leaden weight of frozen snow. It always seems that Winter becomes a petulant child this time of year, vacillating between tantrums and exhaustion, dragging his feet and clutching at the world with claws of fractured ice.</div>
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I dream of spring. I hear delicious whispers of warmth in the night and wake grumpily to the same arctic world I kissed goodnight the eve before. I want to nap. I want to sulk. I want to move south. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a climate without the radical seasonal changes of Pennsylvania. The pale green of spring that gives way to the lushness of summer that burns itself out in a rush of copper and ruby and gold before the ivory silence falls. The calendar flips, the clock ticks, and if you endure....hold your breath and pace and wait...another season is just weeks away. Trust me.<br />
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And such is life, really, isn't it? Some seasons gloriously grand....some barren. There are islands of paradise and deserts hellishly dry; monsoons and hurricanes and floods that threaten to drown. Fields of topaz that stretch as far as you can see. Days of darkness, days of bliss.<br />
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Sometimes you can anticipate the season ahead. Sometimes it slams you to the ground with enough force to crack your bones and knock the air from your lungs. Seasons of love, of despair, of passion or pain. Seasons of stagnation and ones of spectacular bloom. Some cause permanent scaring, some heal. Some strip you naked and bare.<br />
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Some teach you to fly.<br />
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2013 was one of the most difficult years of my life. There are more lines around my eyes now, more shadows in the periphery. <br />
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But it's nearly spring....can you feel it? As if the earth is stirring, the ground thirsty, poised on the brink of something new. I'm here, crossing my fingers, holding my breath, and hoping....<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Here's to a new season, my friends. May yours be lovely indeed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em> Hope is the dream of a soul awake.</em> <br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><em> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">French proverb</span></em></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-55756882635665838862013-10-29T11:28:00.000-04:002015-10-22T19:14:11.907-04:00Appetite<br />
I stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, reveling in the beefy goodness saturating the air and condensing into damp whirls upon the kitchen windowpane. Nina Simone crooned from the stereo while the rosemary and sea salt bread crisping in the oven tinged the house with that hominess that I swear only comes from baking something with yeast inside of it. The chaos of the day was slipping slowly into the shadows, dinner was moments away...<br />
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"Mom, I'm <em>starving</em>--can I have a snack?" My fingers clench for a split second on the wooden handle and my spine stiffens. The woman who has spent two hours on her feet to produce this masterpiece of a meal is slightly offended, but a glance at the six foot two, twelve year-old lanky boy in the doorway restores my sense of humor--seriously, the boy has <em>always</em> been hungry. However...<br />
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"Do you know what the most important ingredient is?" I ask, my head tilted slightly, eyes shining, a smile on my lips. He sighs, he's heard this many times. Grinning back, he turns to leave with that resigned slouch of the shoulders, capitulating as gracefully as his growling stomach will allow. "Ten more minutes!" I call after him, chuckling softly to myself. My friends, do you know what the most essential ingredient is? <br />
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Appetite. <br />
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My mother used to tell me this as I too, hung about the kitchen, drooling over the scents escaping the blistering oven. The pots that simmered upon the stovetop, the pies cooling on the sideboard. Ahhh, the delicious joy of aching anticipation. Feeling positively <em>hollow,</em> it seemed as if the blessing was going to last till dawn, but then that first bite....oh, sweet heaven! Eyes closed, mouth full...utter bliss. <br />
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With this holiday season creeping closer, candy stuffed fists knocking on our doors, programs dripping gravy and cheese seeping from our television screens, hypnotic magazine pictures of the ultimate festival of cakedom strewn about our coffee tables--may we take a moment to pause. To evaluate....<br />
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How hungry are you? <br />
<br />
I fear the truth of that question may surprise you. For if one is excruciatingly honest--for many of us, it has been years. <br />
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It's the latest diet fad, hanging about a while now--the idea that the standard "three meals a day" motif of life was actually straight from the Satanic bible. It's solely responsible for that cushy tush and those darling love handles we all seem to sport....GET THEE AWAY FROM ME, YE SPAWN OF HADES!! <em>(ok, I am actually laughing as I type that line...)</em> Rather you must eat six small meals spread throughout your day, peppered with "healthy snacks" and tiny treats all in the name of: <strong>"Never let yourself get hungry because you lack the self-control to not gorge until reaching the point of belt-loosening expansion."</strong> *sigh*<br />
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But I ask, have we lost more than the odd pound in this quest? We are becoming, in oh-so-many ways, such a society of the moment--waiting for <em>anything at all</em>, a thing of the past. On-line shopping, instant downloads, fast food, drive through restaurants<em> (NOT to be confused with fast food, mind you)</em> automatic-importunate-split second life. We multi-task our existence and waiting is a terribly un-vogue ritual spoken of only by those that actually know how to dial a rotary phone.<br />
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Desire and yearning. Thirst. Longing...needing....craving. The friction of a fingertip along the soft skin on inside of your elbow, the absolute most perfect Christmas gift ever found, a love letter written by hand and sprayed with scent that lingers in the mailbox for days, making you smile.....butter melting into the dips and divots of a piece of hot bread, the oven still spilling it's yeasty warmth into the kitchen behind you....each of these, made so much more splendid....<br />
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By the wait. <br />
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<em>By the appetite.</em> <br />
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So this year, as your life amps up into overdrive and your schedules begin to collide like planets knocked out of orbit, I challenge you. Don't snack on your way home. Don't indulge every whim--for the very definition of a whim is just a passing fancy....wait for desire. <br />
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Be hungry. <br />
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Life will taste better. <br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-77700420082797766452013-10-23T14:21:00.000-04:002013-10-23T14:44:43.232-04:00Pointless Pants<br />
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I have a love/hate relationship with pants. Jeans, in particular, have frustrated the hell out of me for decades. Mainly because I am a woman trapped in a mad gorilla's body. <em>(for more information on this, go </em><a href="http://splendorinaplasticworld.blogspot.com/2010/05/gorilla-girl.html" target="_blank"><em>here</em></a><em>)</em> So when I stopped in at the local Good Will and did a "drive-by" of the men's jeans isle <em>(see, as I have a 36 inch inseam, I don't really have to look at sizes per se, I just cruise by looking at the bottoms of the legs, if there happens to be a pair dragging on the floor, I'll stop)</em> and there was indeed one such pair--I damn near did a happy dance right there when not only the waist size was a match, but they were Rock & Revival jeans! <em>($158 online, $7.99 at Good Will. The world is a marvelous place) </em><br />
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I shimmied out to the car and grinned like a crazy Cheshire Cat the entire way home. Chucked those suckers in the wash, and pulled them on that night for a "fitting" before heading out with my husband. You know when you um...well, these are button fly, so I did all that; buckled my belt, and then what do you do? You slide your hands in your pockets, right? Gotta get all that material sleek and flat for that perfect fit. I slid my hands into my pockets....and ran smack into my undies. <br />
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Yessir. <br />
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I wish I could have seen my own face. I whipped them puppies down and discovered that someone had "altered" them--cut down the entire length of BOTH front pockets! WTH??? I am speechless. I am stunned. However, when I redressed and went down to stand with my back to my husband and invited him to check out my front pockets, he was quite impressed and grinning like a goof as we left for dinner. <br />
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So this is my question, so far I have one vote for this dude being a professional pocket-pooler. Any theories on this cat? Personally, I've worn them twice since <em>(they do fit awesomely)</em> and nearly died of mortification when I distractedly dropped a handful of coins in my pocket--only to have them roll out all over the store floor. The guy behind me at the grocery was totally confused. Seriously--what good are pants without pockets?? <br />
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What the heck do I do with my keys?! Dear Lord, please don't let me slip my phone in there in mixed company....<br />
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I'm going to get a needle and thread right now.<br />
<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-83744518657153035432013-10-03T12:23:00.000-04:002013-10-03T12:23:22.455-04:00Heartbeat<br />
The air smells like spring seduced late summer and drenched the night in promises. Somewhere between possibility and substance, the evening hovers. A strange shade of autumn.<br />
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But the clouds seem darker.<br />
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I nudged his knees apart as he sprawled on the creased coffee brown leather couch, remote in hand. The speckling of pin pricks over his shoulder a silent reminder of the Christmas kitten that filled my heart with joy and, years later, with grief as I buried him.<br />
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"What's up?" he murmured as I sank down, my hip fitting into the space between his. My shoulders dropped slowly towards his chest. I swear the night paused as my abdomen curled...my head dipped...<br />
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And his heartbeat became the universe. <br />
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The thud that embodies tomorrow, no matter the anxiety of today. The literal fading of 'to do' lists and apprehensions and doubt.<br />
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Thump, thump, thump...<br />
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Breathe.<br />
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Footsteps on the stairs, my fourteen year old son coming down for a snack before bed. I lay there, the muscular drum echoing in my ear; my hair, uncut since January, tangled about us. Footsteps retreating. Recognition of a moment that, while he may not understand, my eldest knew I needed. <br />
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Amazing...astounding what fifteen minutes surrounded by the throb of another's heart can do for the equilibrium of a soul.<br />
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Storms arrive and abate.<br />
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The planet spins.<br />
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And hearts beat.<br />
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Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-52442253342060547302013-08-19T16:25:00.002-04:002013-08-19T16:25:47.612-04:00Blurred<br />
End-of-summer rain traces the outline of the window panes next to me; damp trails glimmering beneath the slate clouds that seem to hover close enough to touch, should I stretch out my hand. September appears in a rush this year, invading August's heat with a wave of chilly nights and cool breezes that have me reaching for a shawl when I retreat to the porch to read. Such a change is quite welcome after the igneous days of July, though I do hope Winter doesn't jump the gun as well. His frozen claws can surely wait for the new year to begin, I pray. <br />
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It's rather staggering that the school day routine will be returning in mere weeks to our home. My, how the summer has flown--so cliche, yet so true. If I force myself to concentrate I can snap a frame into focus--<em>the taste of fire-boiled coffee clutched in the blue enamel mug, my feet tucked beneath me as I watch the morning mist and breathe in the scent of bacon and smoke...</em>marvelous, the escape of tents and fireflies and non-electric entertainment. But then, I turn my head and the months are murky again, indistinct. I feel....hazy. Vague. <br />
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I've been arguing with a canvas. Days now. It began as any other, shifting dreams that float through my midnight mind, lingering in the morning until I fill the broken teapot with water and smear pigment onto my pallete. Damp brushes dried on the old sundress I wear to paint in the summer, the open window whispering rumors of season's end in my ear. A large work, this one--three feet long and two high. Burnt umber and ocher and saffron, topaz and crimson and and gold....autumn dreams spill into my tangible world. <br />
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Painting, for me, is a known animal. The beginning: shapes and colors and place. As if you viewed such a scene through an unfocused camera, bleary and undefined. Then it's as if I slowly turn the lens in my mind, a line here, leaves there, and gradually the world shifts into view. <br />
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But not this one. <br />
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I cannot seem to....find it. Hours spent and it stares back at me, shadows and light and color. I can hear the wind when I look at it, smell the damp leaves that have piled around the rocks....but I cannot see it. <br />
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Granted, these last weeks have been....unnormal. (<em>is that a word?)</em> Unordinary? Atypical. Plans made have shifted with a phone call that involved the sentence, "...taken to the emergency room..." The seizure of one's heart these small words can cause, the tilting of the planet. I'd rather not discuss the particulars, if you don't mind, but I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that I am blurry. The details muffled with emotion.<br />
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Perhaps I just need time. Set it aside and wait a bit. I think I will take it down to the dining room in a few weeks, welcome September as she arrives. Sip wine and share a meal with it....let it rest as we live and love and weep and laugh. Do you think life might seep into it? Permeate the fibers with the vision I do not seem to have?<br />
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For now, I must be content with blurred. For now.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-45954800552050861222013-07-18T22:55:00.002-04:002013-07-19T09:43:14.035-04:00Heat<br />
We hit 92* today. Molten lava, the sun was. Melting the clouds from the sky; searing the green from the dogwood leaves leaving crisp, curled brownness behind. Pouring coffee this morning, the warmth of the day teased me; its breath stirring the wisps of hair on my neck that had escaped the knot, whispering promises of fever.<br />
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Uncomfortable. Sticky. Complaints and wishes and visits to the pool. The eastern sun blazes and the day slowly boils.<br />
<br />
And yet.....another heat.<br />
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3pm and walking to the kitchen I am aware of the silky slide of my thighs against one another. I fill my glass with ice cubes and take one more. Its frozen kiss almost burns as I run it across my lips, down my neck, across my bare shoulder. Shocking how quickly it melts, leaving dark trails dripping down the fabric of my dress.<br />
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Lovely, how such an...unpleasant warmth leads to another, more delicious one. Damp skin and breathless lungs. I sit on steps of the porch, Hazel stretched out across the boards beside me. I shiver as the sweat tracing its way down my spine pools in the small curve at its base. <br />
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And I wait.<br />
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We will eat with our fingers. After the sun has fled and the house has gone to sleep. We will drink from the same glass and I will lick the sauce from the edge of his lips. For it is summer... <br />
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May the world ignite.<br />
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<br />Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5992417360714180348.post-78926137580228981512013-07-12T11:34:00.001-04:002013-07-12T11:34:24.958-04:00Soul Ink<br />
The tumult of summer storms has blown through, leaving last night's window fans to fill the house with rain-washed air and tracing chills down my bare arms this morning as I stand in the kitchen contemplating the nine and ten foot branches now lying in our backyard. Such a powerful thing, invisible wind. The lip of the porcelain sink is cool beneath my fingers, I wait for the coffee to finish. Voices murmur from the radio. I pause...<br />
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"What was the hardest thing about my cancer for you, Daddy?" <br />
<br />
"Seeing you there, so swollen, so many tubes connected to you...."<br />
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She'd had bone cancer. Her ten year-old voice strong and sweet now, filling the room with a nearly inaudible whisper of victory. The tremble in his makes my heart stop. Those thoughts that your mind skitters away from, an agonizing flame of a fear too terrible to even touch upon. Parenthood is the ultimate state of vulnerability. <br />
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You could hear the smile on her lips though, as she remembered one of her favorite things. He would buy tattoo pens at the gift store...<br />
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And turn her scars into a garden.<br />
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The long one that ran from her sternum to her pelvic bone became the stem for roses, her favorite flower. The one from her feeding tube, a butterfly. He drew over the monsters. He drew her beautiful.<br />
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Standing there, tears sliding down my cheek...so convicted. Every life has joy and pain. Some more so than others. But the secret is in the ink of us. How we approach and confront and forgive and leave behind the monsters. <br />
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How we make gardens from our scars.<br />
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Chantelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10324845550553743658noreply@blogger.com10