More Annie

 

Today is Annie's birthday. No wonder she was so persistent in my thoughts yesterday. If she were still alive (as we say) she would be caught up to me with those five months between our ages, and we'd be celebrating her 66th birthday. There will be at least one shot of whiskey in my future today. Irish, if I've got it, that much is clear in the ol' crystal ball of my third eye. Annie loved life. And her life was remarkably blessed, despite the illness that nibbled at her toward the so-called end. She loved life, and she did not fear death. I mean, hey, she talked to dead people.

Yeah, she loved life. She loved corn chowder, too. In those lingering days of hers, whenever I'd make a batch, especially when the corn was in season, I'd bring her a pint carton of the stuff, even when her appetite was fading. Now, whenever I make corn chowder, she's with me. When I'm enjoying a bowl of corn chowder, I think of Annie, in unison with thoughts of my mom, who would so often say, "We'll offer this up to So-and-so," while sitting down to enjoy a meal. Enjoying food on behalf of and for the dead was a regular mom thing. So now, whenever I have a bowl of corn chowder, I offer it to Annie. It's a sweet little ritual rooted in the familial, one that shows up more frequently as my years and mileage tally.

I made other dishes, too. After all, I'm part kitchen witch. I remember making polenta for her once. It wasn't my best effort. I felt bad about that, even though her appetite was quite unpredictable by then, and I'm confident she didn't eat much of it. As already noted, I made other things, too. It was always a good reason to visit. Not that I needed one.

When COVID descended my visits diminished, side by side with her appetite. I neither wanted to be responsible for bringing the pandemic to her, nor bringing it home to my spouse. I was so cautious then. Still am. I may have already been sending her occasional cards at the time, simple love notes, but I know that gesture picked up after COVID landed. All the love notes were my own, handmade, artful expressions, and each offered a personal message within the fold. I have them somewhere, and *knock wood* I'm gonna look for them today. Not long after her passing her widower mailed them to me, tied together with a ribbon, along with a gift of tumbled crystals that are resident in one of my Tarot boxes. No wonder I think of her so often, there are carbon-based reminders all around me. Those crystals, the bedside lamps mentioned yesterday, pieces of jewelry that I rarely wear anymore, wicker baskets, aloe plants born of the single, giant cutting she gave me when she was still feeling pretty good. The salt 'n' pepper shakers that belonged to her grandmother, Rose, that say on them, "Rose's Kitchen." I don't use them, but I love them, for multiple reasons. And, of course, there's her books, and other assorted physical reminders. Not to mention her carbonless spirit.

Those salt 'n' pepper shakers conjure the countless, often intense conversations that we had about her grandmother, Rose, and my mother, Rita. They were, we concluded, some sort of spiritual sisters, especially in their less desirable behaviors. In their kinder behaviors, too. But it was in their less benevolent habits that we'd harvest the most meaningful, if not harsh, and sometimes cruel wisdom. And laughter. Lot's of laughter. I'm convinced that wisdom - true wisdom - is always accompanied by humor. If you think you've gleaned some wisdom, but it doesn't inspire a chuckle or more, think again. It ain't wisdom. Of this, I am confident. And I might not possess this confidence, dare I say wisdom, without those exchanges with Sweet Annie.

Ah, Sweet Annie. That's what I called her. I remember that spring before she died. I had purchased some Artemisia annua seeds, Sweet Annie, and started them in the late winter months. I was able to plant them in the earth before her passing. After years of unsuccessful attempts to get this plant to grow somewhere on "our" little acre, I was hoping this would be it, despite the plant's non-native invasive reputation. It was a well-established self-seeding annual in her earthly realm, and she had even given be rootlings over the years that just never took up residence for me. But those seedlings that I started... I planted them in a garden section, rather than a wild section, in the hopes to tend them into flourishing. It was May, the lusty month, that those precious roots took to the earth. I told Annie that they would be a living reminder of her after she left. She died later that month, and those seedlings prospered that year, and returned the next. I was hopeful, and delighted. And then... they followed their namesake into the Big Mystery. I still grow Sweet Annie on occasion just so I can nurture relationship with the plant, as well as replenish her spot on my apothecary shelves, and to continue a rooted relationship with Annie's spirit. I mean, hey, whenever I catch the fragrance of Sweet Annie, there she is. Again. Like the plant, Annie was big Medicine, often too much for some. Possibly many. And just right for me.

It's morning as I write these words, and I'm still sipping coffee. I smile with the memory of Annie saying she drank coffee as an excuse to drink cream. Her coffee mug typically held a 50/50 ratio. As one who drinks her coffee black (as it should be), I'd lovingly scold her by saying, "That's so wrong." And, yep, you guessed it, we'd laugh, clinking our yin yang mugs.

In my world, Annie's still alive. Methinks I'll dab a touch of Sweet Annie extract onto my pulse points today, conjure a batch of corn chowder to share with her at suppertime. And I look forward to raising a glass to her, with her, as well.

PS Here's a wee Sweet Annie contribution made by Sweet Annie to an old, shared blog.

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A World-to-Fool Honor to Annie

 

This morning I got totally distracted by thoughts of my friend Annie. The thoughts were so persistent that I said to myself, "Fuck. These aren't thoughts, you Fool. This is Annie."

And before you judge me for engaging in negative self-talk (or whatever the kids are calling it these days) I offer you a glimpse into my relationship with the Fool. I adore the Fool. The big zero, the blank slate, the blind frolic, the porter of obtuse wisdom. "The empty fool who knows what he doesn't know," as Annie used to say. The one who - in the end - says, "Fuck it. Let's do this thing." And, ironically perhaps, because as the Tarot card conventionally considered the start of The Heroes Journey, it’s the card that Annie placed at the goal line, the "end" point... that is, when it came to writing. In terms of Tarot, she considered her stories as starting with The World and ending with The Fool. Heck, she taught writing workshops using this model. The process was organic for her, a process that came to her conscious awareness after writing for years.

Annie was a natural storyteller, and a published author. I remember sitting at her dining table, bathed in natural light, sipping tea, tossing cards, talking magic and relationships. She'd start talking and I'd sink in, ready to be mesmerized by her words that laced together in ways that caught me like a fish in a net, trapped in a delight (or doom, or something in-between) that I knew was forthcoming. She spoke in storyteller language. She spoke like a writer, I suppose. I wouldn't know. I'm not a writer. Yet that doesn't keep me from writing. And Annie encouraged me to write. "You should write, Rose." Words that continue to echo all these years later.

I feel her with me. I do, I do. She's with me in my new-found daily ritual of writing 1000-words-a-day. I can't help but smile when I recall my attendance at one of the informal writing workshops held at her home. And by one, I mean one-and-only. If memory serves me, there were four of us in attendance. Five, if you count Annie. She required us to bring a 1000 word sample of our work (image that: 1000 words). The others in attendance, all writers in their own way, brought snippets of story in progress. I brought an adaptation of a meditation I had written, a journey of sorts, open-ended as such meditations tend to lean. She gave us a writing exercise, and set to reading our words. She read like the wind. But more on that later. Maybe. When she was finished devouring our words, she called us back together. One by one she offered input (as well as blue pencil edits), candid and honest, as was Annie's nature. I was intrigued as I witnessed her speaking tempered praise and critical truths to each in attendance, waiting in a shaggy ball of anxiety for my turn. My turn went something like this, "The words are strung together nicely, poetic, but there's no story. You need a story. Take this and keep writing until the story emerges. It's in there, just keep writing. When you discover it, write that story." I don't remember how I felt in that moment, but I do remember the moment. It's a multi-faceted gem of a moment.

I kept writing meditations, because I enjoyed it, and was able to leverage them in my healing practice, and that was good enough for me. Somewhere in this story of words, such as it is, I started a blog. On December 29, 2004 I engaged a daily practice to convey something of meaning, or folly (thank you very much, Fool!) for me, not for an audience. Perhaps this was my way to honor Annie's "You should write, Rose" prodding. For a good while I wrote every day for that blog, sometimes a hand full of words, sometimes more. Times came where daily writing faded, followed again by an insurgence of daily inspiration, and so on in that rinse 'n' repeat kinda way. But now, since the last quarter moon in Capricorn, I've been writing every day, most every one a minimum of 1000 words. This little tangent being the second one I'm sharing. I hear that word, "sharing," and I hear the harmony of Annie's correction, "Publishing. If you're making it public, it's published." She's right. She usually was. Still is, it seems.

And I smile at my memory of her unfettered honesty. That's probably a major factor in why she was such a good storyteller. Stephen King mentions honesty, on repeat, in his masterpiece, On Writing. These mentions of honesty give me encouragement to write, whether the words are for me or for you, because I possess a capacity for honesty that I know is real, partly because so many of my spoken truths have lost me "friends" and other assorted relationships over many decades. A bittersweet realization. Well, in some cases. Truth is, I'd take my own candidness over the majority of those relationships any day.

This brings me back to Annie, as she was one of those rare people I felt safe to express myself sans filter. I could say anything to her. Even knowing that her judgement was at the ready, I was - likewise - ready to speak my truths with her. She was one of those rare people that I could share the meanest, most vile, frightening and absurd parts of me. And more. Sometimes we'd agree, sometimes not, but again - if memory serves - we always ended up laughing.

Laughter. Maybe it's laughter I need to seek. To take the elevator down to those deep, dark mines of creation. Annie used to say that uncovering story and their characters was like going down into a mine, blind and uncomfortable in an entrenched darkness that is - or was, for her - the belly of creation. I recall a time sitting and sipping, this time in her writing corner, talking about this, her process of creative excavation. I conjure that memory in an active way, like the magic that it is, to this moment. I invite myself to the deep-dark, pick in hand, to explore for deposits of poetry 'n' story, laughter or not, and whatever else may be discovered within those dark walls of potential expression.

Yeah. She's here. Right here with me... write here with me? *snort* And so, too, another thousand+ words to practice the mining, and the potential journeys from The World to The Fool.

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PS   If you’d like to discover more about this Annie of which I speak, I invite you to visit her goodreads page, or engage your search engine using Anne (or Annie) Kelleher, writer.

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What I know... and what I don't...

 

I know it's Friday, the first Venerdi of spring. The wind is whipping around out there in the pre-dawn hours. There's a chill in the house - our little hut, as I tend to call it - inspiring me to pull my wool shawl up and around shoulders and neck. I do this and I consider the fire that needs to be started for the warmth that will carry us through the day. I think of the trays of pea seedlings outside, hardening off, and feel glad that we covered them last night before relaxing into the evening. I'm reminded that they'll have their roots in the earth soon enough, and that peas are badass, tough as fuck, and are likely just fine our there in the dark of this March morning chill. I count my blessings, and feel mighty glad to be surrounded by the foundation, walls, and roof of our humble abode.

I know this little-shit cat, sweet and silky Sam, is sitting on the bed within petting distance. It's the first time he's curled up so close to me. The past two years, plus some, that we've know one another, he's stayed to the foot of the bed. This is special, this closeness, and I'll carry that magick into the day with me. Yes, I will. In the meantime, I'll pause from this keyboard to reach out and pet him for no other reason than he's so damned silky. And, yeah, I love him beyond reason.

I know I have list of reminders and ToDos for the day, but I haven't looked at that yet. I'm doing my best to express one thousand words before I commence any former morning routines. I'm doing this in the hopes of creating a new morning ritual. It's behavior modification, but I'm calling it morning ritual. That's sexier. Or something. I know that.

I know this morning. I know this moment. That's what I know.

I know some stuff. After all, one would expect to know a thing or two about a thing or two after sixty-six years of living.

All that said, I don't know much. I know that. I know that because for decades I've been of the mind to learn something new every day, and I do my best to invite that verve into my world every single day. There's so much I don't know. Some of it, beautiful, some of it not so much. When I look around the world these days, I find myself beyond grateful that there are things I don't know... experiences I've not had. So grateful. It’s a privilege. You know what I'm talking about.

This thread of thinking, which could easily stitch its way to mind 'n heart numbing depression, reminds me to do something good and decent for someone today. It also reminds me to do something good and decent for myself, so I reach out to stroke that silky fur of that little-shit cat, Sam. It's a stroke of love.

I don't know when these winds will pause. I don't know that it matters. For me, anyway, tucked under the bed covers, shawl wrapped around me, sipping hot coffee. I mean, hey, I'm comfortable. And tucked in this comfort, I consider those that lack the foundation, walls, and roof that offer me protection, comfort, contentment. I mean, everyone deserves protection, comfort, and contentment. Right? And a whole lot more to my way of thinking.

It's the stuff I don't know that seems to needle me. You know, the stuff I don't know, but know about. When I consider the moment, I consider the present world in which I live, the one we share. From my view, it has grown increasingly cruel throughout my lifetime, despite liberal views of declared improvement. I look at it all and consider it nothing but window dressing. I look at actions taken by leaders over the decades and see them - despite any sincere intentions of compassion that may have been a part of their creation - as the performance pieces that they are. Oh, don't get me going.

This thread of thinking, which could easily stitch its way to mind 'n heart numbing depression, reminds me to do something good and decent for someone today. I will. That's a promise. It also reminds me to do something good and decent for myself, so I reach out to stroke that silky, silky fur of that little-shit cat, Sam, who's sitting closer to me than he ever has in our shared existence. It's a stroke of love... protection, comfort, and contentment. And a whole lot more.

I see the light growing outside through the vertical voids of the bamboo blinds. I know the day is breaking. And with that, I know all the pieces are there for me to put together as I am able, and - if I'm lucky - as I choose.

I sit with the pieces of the day scattered around me. Beautiful bits and shards from which to create this new day. I'll do my best to choose carefully, and use discernment to take care not to cut myself, or anyone else with those sharp bits. I see them as tools of creation, these shards of daybreak. I can employ them to etch the other bits into something fresh and new, or use them to cut and create the facets of this new day, all the while doing my best to do no harm.

The gods know the world needs that. No harm.

I know a bit or two. Sure. And yeah, I sit here watching the light increase through the windows knowing that I'll have to rise from this warm and comforting place to start the next phase of the day. I'm grateful for these days. I'm grateful that spring has arrived. I'm grateful for these early morning hours that afford me this bizarre luxury to make these silly 1000 word rituals.

So now I look at these words, nonsensical though they may be, and see potential in them for more 1000 word rituals. I read through them again and figure hey, what the fuck, I think I'll share these words with you.

For whatever they may be worth. Or not.

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