Once Upon Time

 While exploring the New England countryside, I came upon a magical herb garden, and on this full moon night, I could not stop myself from wandering its oyster shell and white pebble path. The garden was in full expression of itself--a living tapestry of vibrant hues and ethereal fragrances, each plant articulating an ancient dialect of the natural world. Under the moonlight, the lavender shimmered with an astral quality, as though it had been touched by celestial beings. The rosemary, with its steadfast and wise presence, emanated an aura of protection, its spindly branches extending like the fingers of a benevolent guardian.

Amid the meticulously arranged rows of basil and thyme, diminutive fae creatures darted about, their laughter interweaving with the gentle rustling of leaves to create a delicate symphony. The mint, perpetually refreshing, infused the air with an invigorating essence, while the sage stood as a solemn sentinel, a repository of ancient wisdom.

Walking through this garden, I could feel the earth's pulse beneath my feet, each step forging a connection to the primordial forces that sustained this verdant sanctuary. It was a realm where the mundane seamlessly converged with the mystical, where each herb encapsulated a secret, a spell, a narrative waiting to be unveiled. Tending to this garden was akin to engaging in a sacred dance with nature, requiring a profound respect, keen intuition, and a touch of magic.

This enchanting path led to the kitchen door of an old manor house, once stately, now humbled by time and years of mindful use. A copper kettle, dented and dulled with patina, gently whistled an invitation to tea. Stepping across the threshold, the worn floorboards creaked beneath my feet, announcing my presence. An unseen charming voice, mellowed by wisdom, called out, "Do have a chair. And share the cream with Celeste."

With that, a large white cat with knowing yellow eyes rubbed against my leg, her purrs harmonizing with the garden's symphony. The scene was one of timelessness, where the garden's magic extended seamlessly into the warmth of the home, inviting a moment of serene presence and the opportunity to form a new friendship. 

A Writing Odyssey

The Journey Begins

Picture this: a cluttered desk, a fresh cup of coffee, and me, staring at a blank screen like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Starting a new writing project is like setting sail on a vast sea of ideas. You've got this mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling in your gut. It's like being at the edge of a diving board, ready to plunge into the deep end of your imagination.

First things first, research. Now, I'm not just talking about Googling random facts (though that's part of it). It's about immersing yourself in a world that doesn't quite exist yet — gathering snippets of history, unraveling obscure mysteries, and falling down rabbit holes of information that might just lead to that golden nugget of inspiration.

So here I am, flipping through dusty old books at the library like a detective on a case. There's something strangely satisfying about the smell of old paper and the weight of knowledge in your hands. It's like each page holds a piece of the puzzle, waiting for me to connect the dots.

Enter, the digital age. Thank goodness for the internet, where a few keystrokes can transport you anywhere in the world or back in time. It's a treasure trove of anecdotes, photos, and firsthand accounts that breathe life into your writing.

Of course, it's not all smooth sailing. There are moments when I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of information overload. Ever had that feeling of chasing a lead only to end up in a Wikipedia vortex about something totally unrelated? Yeah, been there, done that.

Yet, amidst the chaos, there are those moments of pure magic. When you stumble upon a forgotten story that sends shivers down your spine or uncover a detail so bizarre it couldn't possibly be made up. It's these gems that make the whole journey worthwhile.

And let's remember the characters. They're like old friends waiting to be discovered. Each one has a story to tell, a voice that demands to be heard. Sometimes they come to me fully formed, whispering their secrets in my ear. I must coax them out at other times, like coaxing a shy cat from under the bed.

So here's to new beginnings and the thrill of the unknown. Whether you're starting a novel, a screenplay, or diving into non-fiction, remember this: every writer's journey is unique, but we're all in it together, chasing dreams one word at a time.

A More Meaningful Present

    My partner, Callie, first spied the chair on an early morning walk. It lay discarded by the roadside, weathered by time and neglect. Knowing my sensitivity to energies attached to wood furniture, she hesitated, then decided that this chair was worth carrying home. Fifty years of stories and secrets lay hidden beneath layers of dust and grime. It called to me, whispering, hinting at the past, and begging for another chance. I knew I had to reclaim it, not just as a piece of furniture, but as an artifact of living history--its stories deserving of honor and respect.

The process began with a smoke cleansing ritual, to purify and renew. As the fragrant tendrils of smoke curled around the chair, I could almost feel the weight of its history lifting, each wisp carrying away the years of being ignored. With each pass of the smoke, the chair's energy shifted, becoming lighter, and more vibrant. 

Next came the gentle sanding, a meditative process that connected me to the chair's past. As I worked, the wood began to reveal its story. Psychic visions filled my mind; an older woman, chic with age and happily non-conformist, sitting gracefully in the chair. She lit a pipe, the aromatic smoke mingling with the scent of fine bourbon and warm wood. An orange cat and a black dog lay contentedly at her feet. The soothing sounds of Miles Davis drifted from a spinning LP, filling the room with a mellow, timeless melody. Nearby, a kettle announced its readiness for coffee, adding its soft whistle to the symphony of home.

As I worked oil into the dry wood, it was as if I could hear the chair sigh and stretch with relief. Its grain began to glow, revealing the beauty hidden for so long. With each stroke, I could feel the chair returning to life, its spirit blending with mine. I know from where this chair came, though other than a magnetic pull to the beautiful old structure, nothing else referring to the residents of a large, gable-roofed farmhouse, built in 1912 could be sensed. Unoccupied for over 20 years, it still stands atop a hill overlooking the wooded lake where our home now sits. At times, I felt as if I were in the woman's body, seeing what she saw as she looked out arch-paned windows to the trees and water below.

Callie reinforced the back slats, and finally, I applied a light coat of varnish. The satin gloss brought out the chair's shine, highlighting its once-golden accents. It now stands proudly, a testament to its resilience and the love that had been poured into its construction and its restoration. As I gave it a final touch-up, I could almost hear the old woman's laughter, and see her contented smile.

Now, the chair and I share a bond that goes beyond the physical. Each gentle rock is a dance of gratitude, a celebration of the present moment. The rhythm of the chair becomes the soundtrack to my musings, inspiring stories to share. Together, we blend our spirits, creating a harmony that speaks of the past, present, and future.

In reclaiming this old rocking chair, I have also chiseled a new facet of myself. Its herstory and my own have intertwined, creating a tapestry of memories, dreams, and possibilities. As I sit in the chair, I am reminded that every object has a story, waiting to be told and that sometimes, in reclaiming the past, we find our way to a more meaningful present.