What is the condition of my relationship to the Instinctual Self?

I am learning.  It is not a process of re-learning.  I am learning for the very first time.  How to be myself.  Who I might actually be.  I have a set basis for the ethics and morals with which I live, whether the rest of society agrees with me or not.  Society is irrelevant.  My soul is the only relevant thing.  My soul is my salvation.  I am not whole, but I am working towards that goal.

I listen more every day, some days better than others, to the tales my heart has to tell me.

For too long I have tried to be that quiet little thing that stayed in the background.  The perfect wife.  The sensible girlfriend.  The virgin whore that all men claim to want.  I tried to be the worker bee, taking care of my family, when the only children I had were dogs.

I gave birth to my children.  Even as I accepted the yoke of responsibility that comes with motherhood, I gained an amazing sense of freedom.  I saw myself, yoked by society, held down, pinioned, unworthy of the gift that my children brought to me.  I set about putting things in my life to right.

It is a long hard journey.  There is always so much to learn.  So much I didn’t know, didn’t realize, pieces I keep putting together as we go along.

At least I am trying.  At least I am working towards my goal.  At least I have stopped fighting.  I am trying to re-piece my soul, gathering all the lost shards, knitting them all together.  I want to be whole, even though I know not what that means.  I am not certain where I am going.  All I can say for sure is I am not stopping.  I may hesitate, but I do the best I can.

I listen to that swelling still voice, calling to me, showing me the way, guiding me along my path.  I rely more upon my instincts, day after day, to save my very soul from the endless pit I see sprawling before me that Man continues to call Society and Progress.

What Has Happened To My Soul Voice?

What happened to my soul voice?  What did happen to my soul voice?  Did my soul ever have a real voice in this lifetime?

Where did I learn to swallow my voice, to keep it inside, to allow myself no genuine expression?  When did I not only stop talking to others, but also to myself?

I know as a child I was to be seen and not heard, or terrible consequences would follow.  Terrible things often happened when I was neither seen nor heard, but that is another matter all together.

As a child among my peers, I may have been the joking laughing one, but it was mainly out of fear.  No one ever really heard the real me.  Or if they did, they didn’t listen.  Not to the real me.

I have spent my life, it seems, teaching people to reach into themselves, to honor themselves, to speak their own truths, but what have I done for me?

It took me too many years, too many men, bad relationships, well fine, two extremely horrible relationships that encompassed more of my entire life than I care to admit.

It took having children, not one but two, to rip my voice from my throat in defense of them.  Yet that was not my true soul voice.  That was the protective mama bear voice, defending her cubs from danger and harm.

I had to endure years of hatred and anger, not only at others, but at myself as well.  I had to battle my way through, fighting myself more than any other, blaming myself when I should have stood up to others.  I cried my way through the pain and the hurt and everything else.  I wallowed in fear.  It swept me up and over and swallowed me whole.  I had to learn to let go, let go, let go.  Trust in the Universe until I could trust in myself.

I am just now coming to that point where I am becoming able to have faith in myself, to believe in myself, to actually trust myself, my gut, my intuition, for myself.

It takes many years, or at least it has for me, to find that lost soul voice.  Having gone on unused for so many years, the only thing I can do now is slowly build up my voice again, until I can sing out loud, belt out a melody and bellow across the stars.

I am working my way there, one day at a time.  That’s all I can tell you for sure.

What Are Buried In These Bones?

What are buried in the bones of my life?

Happiness.  Joy.  Pure bliss.

It seems such a shame I have to burn and crack open these old bones in order to find that which I have hidden inside for so very long.

Inside these bones lies the heart of a true artist, one who writes and paints and sculpts and beads and welds and pours and presses.

Inside these bones lies the body of a dancer, a Yogini, a belly dancer.

Inside these bones lies a wicked story teller, gifted with the gift of tongue as only a Celt could be.

Insider these bones lies a songstress and a hunter and an athlete.

Inside these bones lies a woman of unique perspective, with a wild heart, a manic laughter, and the happiest of songs in her heart.

Inside these bones lies a solid teacher, a confident mother, a green thumbed herbalist, an ambitious lover.

Inside these bones lies the beginnings of a life left unlived, but only now starting to send out the microscopic tendrils and threads that will become the roots and the foundation of much greater things to come.

Opening The Door To That Bigger House

I am tired of not dreaming big enough.  I didn’t realize I was dreaming small.  All I know now is I want I must dream BIGGER.  And that begins right now right this minute.

What I really want is a big kitchen.  With a double sided sink, a garbage disposal, a sprayer.  Big double sinks, not small ones.  Something I can set the pans in to soak and the pans fit.  Lots of countertop space.  Lots of cabinet space.  A hanging rack for pots and pans.   Room for a butcher block.  Room for a big kitchen table.

A breakfast nook would be good, just somewhere for the family to meet and to be together.  A dining room would be nice, but is not necessary.  So long as there is space for the family dining table, I am good.   If we have room for a hutch or china cabinet or two, that would make it even better.

I want an actual separate laundry room.  It can be in the basement or whatever, but I don’t want to have to look at my washer and dryer or have them be part of my kitchen experience ever again.

I want to have a working fireplace.

I want a big bathroom, for the master bath.  A huge claw foot tub.  Something I can lie all the way down in and stretch out.  Something where the ceiling is taller than I am, so I can stretch and turn while I am under the spray.  I want there to be enough room in the shower for at least six or eight people.  Not that I ever want to have that many people in the shower with me; I merely want the space so I can dance or stretch or do yoga under the shower’s spray.  Or anything else that comes to mind.

It would be nice to have at least two bathrooms, what with all the kids running around.

I want tall ceilings.  I want plenty of headspace.  Vaulted ceilings more like the living room in the house in FS.  I want tons of windows in every room.  I want lots of natural light.

I want at least four bedrooms.  I want a full basement.  I want more than enough room for an office.  I want space for the exercise equipment.  I want space for my art studio.  I want plenty of storage space for all the yarn and fabric and other supplies I tend to collect.

I want big closets all over the house for everyone.  I want everyone to have plenty of space to grow and evolve and be themselves.

I want a big family room.  I want a decent living room.  I want lots of space for books and movies and anything else we need to have lots of room in the house.

I want an actual garage, a two car garage at that.  I want a patio in the back, all wooden and with a screen overhead, with plenty of room for a table and chairs.  I want a covered, maybe even screened in, front porch too.  It would be awesome if we could have a sun room somewhere too.

I want a big fenced in yard for the dogs and the kids.  If we could have a swing set or fort or something for the kids built in the back, which would be incredible.  I want the yard landscaped and wonderful.

I do not care for carpeting.  I want hardwood floors In every room except the kitchen and bathrooms.  There I would prefer tile or slate of something stone-like.

La Loba Part 4

I had a dream, not too long ago, that I stood beside an old woman and I listened to her sing.  I helped her gather fire wood, while singing.  We built this huge bonfire, this pyre.  I sat down at her feet and silently we shared a meal.  She took my hand and kissed my cheek.  I walked into the fire all by myself.  I was smiling, blessed out, when I did this.  I burned, in the sweetest agony imaginable.  I had to burn away the me that was still left-over, the me I no longer desired to be, the me that no longer served my needs or met with my approval or sympathy.

This morning, when I awoke, I knew I had dreamed of the old one again.  My eyes were nearly crusted shut with tears shed in my sleep.  There remained a bitter taste of sand and ash upon my tongue.  No amount of brushing or gargling could send it away.  My back ached terribly, as if in my sleep I have wings and I spent the night high flying and carrying unimaginable loads.  I awoke feeling almost blinded when I was able to open my eyes finally, after wiping the dampened crusts away with a warm wet rag.  My thighs were tight and tense, as if I had spent the night climbing mountains while shoving rocks ahead of me the whole trip.  At least going down the other side doesn’t seem to have hurt me, too much.

I sat down to write my morning pages, something I do not always do.  In fact, I very rarely do it.  I set out this morning intending to program my writing to be about that unknowable dream.  I can do this, sometimes.  It is similar to lucid dreaming, only I am awake.  Somewhere between lucid dreaming and automatic writing.  Here is what I came away with at the end:

She was there again, the Old One.  She comes to me sometimes.  More often than I think.  She teaches me in my dreams.  It is more than the only time I can listen; it’s the only time I can hear.  She takes my hand and leads me out into the fields.  We walk for a very long time.  She sings.  She always sings.  Her songs seep into the pores of my bones, deeper even than my subconscious.  This goes deeper than my soul.  This is generational knowledge, history passed from one century to the next, almost beyond genetic coding.

I see a field of animals approaching.  It is a strange herd.  Not animals I would put together in my own field, for their own safety.  There are goats and sheep and vicuna and llama and alpaca and camel and ponies and donkeys and horses and yak and cattle and so many other animals.  ‘Choose.’ The old woman tells me.  There are so many colors and textures, so many different personalities.  Which one is right for me?  I ponder.  I look at them; I look at her.  ‘Can I choose more than one?’  She nods, smiling.  She hands me this pair of shears and a basket.  I take it I am to fill the basket.  I go here and there, clipping a lock here, taking a few ounces, as discretely as possible, from there.  I find this huge fat tortoiseshell rabbit, gnawing on what to me looks like a dog’s chew bone.  I don’t use shears on the rabbit.  As I have no comb, I use my fingers to gently tease out bunches of the long silky multi-colored hair.  It all goes into the basket.  I cannot believe the basket holds so very much, even though I know I am tamping each stand into the basket, without doing it as hard as I can.  I think the basket should be overflowing, but it is not. I do not know how long we spend there.  The time comes when I want no more of it, docile and pleasant as all the creatures are.  The smell of timothy grass is tickling my nostrils.  I feel rain coming in the air.

I hand her back the shears, but carry the now burgeoning basket myself.  She sings us back to her house.  The smell of warm freshly-baked bread welcomes me in.  I am Home; nothing else says home like bread made from scratch, much less having it fresh out of the oven.  She bids me help myself to the fresh bread, and even to freshly churned butter she made herself that morning.  Ice cold water from the well captured in a metal cup completes my fulfilling meal.  I have never felt so good, so safe.

The old woman has been busy.  She is separating and cleaning the wools I cut.  I watch as she busies herself, always humming, singing under her breath, as she washes and combs out, begins carding the wool.  I sit at her feet, a devoted student, once she threads the fiber into her spinning wheel, I have no idea how.  All I know is first there is a pile of fluff and suddenly her feet are thumping, her voice is ringing out, and she is spinning the most beautiful glittering yarn I have ever seen.  All for me.  I am so humbled, so honored.  It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not burst into tears.  No one has ever shown me so much love before, not since I was a young child and my mother made me piles of doll clothes for Christmas.  All by hand.  Well, by machine, but still.  She even made me outfits from the same material, so my doll and I would match.  That was the greatest and best holiday I ever had, because she worked so hard to make me those clothes, because she loved me.  That is the feeling threatening to cascade over me now.

I cannot tell you how long we sat there like that, her with that rollicking voice and pumping feet just going to town, while I sat there spell-bound the entire time.  I knew that it took a great deal of wool to make a small amount of yarn, but when she was done, there was a huge fat spool of thick bumpy homespun yarn.  In so many different colors, all blended together in a great harmonious strand.

She sent me out to pick up some twigs from the ground outside.  She said to trust my heart and my instinct.  I did as I was told.  I brought in six sticks, each roughly eight to ten inches long.  ‘Perfect!’ she cried when she saw them.  She whipped out a little pocket knife, sharpened the end of a couple, scrubbed sand up and down their lengths and, much to my amazement, she settled into knitting.  She sat in her big comfy rocker, swinging back and forth.  Me she had read from a this tremendously wide book, with thick pages, hand-written with the most amazing and delightful tales, none of which can I retell now, even though I know they live on within me as well.

I had to stop several times to fill her cup, or mine.  We had gone from the crisp clear well water to darkly brewed black tea, along with yummy slices of bread, slathered with more butter and sweet nearly black honey.  She still hummed, even as I read.  It was the most incredibly nourishing time I have spent anywhere, more than food or nutrition.  This fed my soul, my heart, my tiny little child hidden so far away inside for too long.

After I had read enough of the stories in the book, she and I shared conversation, described relatives, discussed herbs and flowers. Talked about clothing, animal husbandry, personal security.  The actual meaning of true love.  She knitted with amazingly fast hands the whole time.  She somehow managed to eat, even the sticky bread, as she continued to knit.  It was a wonderment to me.  I wish I had such talent.  Maybe I do and I simply do not know it, or recognize it.  Not in myself.

‘Done,’ she announced with a joyous cry.  She had me stand, wrapped this stunning cloak around my shoulders.  It was long, luxurious, so simple, so elegant.  It trailed along the ground a good three or four inches.  There was a hood to draw up over my face if the weather grew inclement.  There were twisted yarn tied to secure it shut at the throat.  There were even pockets, a series of pockets, large and small, some inside the other, hidden on the inside, within easy reach of my over-eager paws.  I was so happy, I was bouncing up and down, laughing and teasing and so marvelously grateful.

She took my hand and out the door we strode.  She walked me along, through the woods, into the hills.  She whispered some secrets in my ear, things I cannot here recall, and she gave me a nudge in the right direction.  There was no path, per se.  Maybe an old deer run, if that.  I decided to make my own way.  The cloak of so many colors blocked the thorns and the brush and the normal entanglements.  Even my hair stayed leaf and twig free, for once.

I awoke long after my journey Home ended.  I don’t know for certain what that means to me, or where that journey took me.  Hopefully, I shall recognize it when I find the way once more.  My cloak is still with me, in the light of day.  I can feel its safe heady warmth, smell its woodsy outdoor smell.  I feel it protecting me.  I know I can do anything.

I Am No Longer Angry

I am no longer angry.

It is sort of a strange feeling.  I expected to feel anger, rage, seething resentment.  I have none of those emotions.

There is none of that.

I have a leaking roof.  Not just a roof, but a ceiling.  My bedroom ceiling leaks in no less than two places, one of which is right over my head.  After the last storms came through, the ceiling began to sag and grow interesting spore.  I called the man in charge of maintenance.  I did not expect any action to follow his words.  In the year we have lived here, he has yet to do anything even remotely close to keeping his word.  I am no longer surprised.

The Universe is speaking to me.  I know She is.  I hear Her.  She is quite persistent.  She is not loud or raucous or obnoxious.  She is merely consistently there, always telling me the same thing: this place is no longer right for me.

Last time I received that message, I was afraid.  I was more than afraid; I was terrified, mortified, insane with never-ending bouts of fear, and helpless anger.  It took me years to overcome that fear, and anger.  Letting go of anger is not easy for me.  It is an emotion that I know all too well.  I am used to it.  I wear my anger like fuzzy old slippers, carry it around with me as if it were my security blanket.  It’s true; my anger has been my security blanket for  far too long.  I am not really certain why that changed, other than the fact that I have changed, that I not only see things differently, I now look at them differently as well.

This time, I am hearing, move on, woman, move on.  I am not angry.  I am not afraid.  I still worry, oh yes.  Please do not get me wrong.  Nevertheless, the worries are not my main focus and obsession.  They are merely a fact of life.  There is always stress related to any move.  It is just a matter of course.  There is nothing I can do about that.  The only thing I can do is change the way I react, change the way I deal, change the way I metabolize and internalize things.  I have been working on that for years, for years.  It seems all my hard work really has begun to pay off.

I am more concerned about how to get to where we are going than I am worrying about where we are.  I am doing the best I can where I am, handling things to the best of my ability, working on the things that I can work on and letting the rest go until I can manage them.  I feel far more secure in myself, in my abilities, in my talents.  I feel far safer this go round.  I feel more grounded.  I know I am blessed.  I know when I truly have need of something, it will appear before me.  I am confident in my ability to recognize the opportunity when it comes before me and to grasp it with both hands, without greed, without jealousy, simply with acceptance and gratitude.

The journey to this space has been long and hard.  Too many years have gone into this moment.  I would be overjoyed and overly proud of myself, but I am genuinely not wired that way.  All I can do is take a step back and stare with mouth agape, in awe, and wonder if I can manage to maintain this attitude, come what may.  I certainly hope so.

The Best Banana Bread I Can Make

The Ingredients:

To make it Faery banana bread, add 4-6 droppers full of lavender spirits compound (liquid herbal extract-I use Herb Pharm).  It’s roughly 40-60 drops per dropper full.  You can add more or less as you like.

To make it delicious, but not necessarily strictly faery, although faeries will still eat it right up:

¾ cup softened butter

1-1/2 cup white sugar

1-1/2 cup brown sugar….or you can do 3 cups brown sugar, omitting the white sugar, or any combination thereof that appeals to you

4 eggs

6-8 ripe bananas, all squished and mashed and yummy

16 ounce sour cream

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 teaspoon maple syrup….or you can do 2 teaspoons vanilla, or 2 teaspoons maple syrup, either way, so long as there are two teaspoons of vanilla/maple syrup

4 teaspoons ground spices * of your choice (see below for more on this)

½ teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons baking soda

4-1/2 cups all-purpose flour

A note on spices:  I use a variety and combination of Chinese 5 spice powder, allspice, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom.  I often use a very scant pinch of tea masala as well.

The Assembly:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.  Grease your loaf pans.  I have two large glass loaf pans and one smaller metal loaf pan.  This recipe fills all three right up.  You can make four smaller loaves, two larger loaves, as you see fit.  Usually, I make up the three loaves and we are good.  This all depends on the size of your pans.  I never fill ours more than ¾ of the way up.

First, I combine all the wet ingredients and use an electric beater to pretty much liquefy everything as best as I can, to make sure all the lumps from butter and banana are combined.  Then I add the spices, salt, baking soda and stir it some more.  Next, I add the sugar, beat that in well.  Last comes the flour.  I try not to ‘over-stir’, but since I have no real idea what that means with banana bread, where I want to make sure everything is very well-combined, I make sure everything is combined and then keep mixing until I feel confident there will be no pockets of spice, or butter, or flour or anything that didn’t quite make it into the batter.

Divide batter into loaf pans.  Fill pans between ½=3/4 of the way full.  This bread does rise, although not amazingly so.

Bake for roughly an hour, an hour and twenty minutes.  When done, a knife through the center will come out clean.  Depending on your spices, the loaves may be rather dark, so do not always use that as a determining factor in doneness.

The Story:

When I was first married, I bought a copy of Fannie Farmer’s cookbook.  I didn’t really know much about cooking or baking or anything else, but I wanted to learn.  I wanted to be a good wife.  There was a recipe for banana bread in that book that when I made it, with very little tweaking, the banana bread was the most amazing, moistest, most delicious bread.  Everybody loved that bread.  After I got divorced, I tried to make the bread, using the same recipe, using all my normal tweaks.  It didn’t turn out.  Now, I’d made the bread all those years in AR.  We moved to MO and the bread didn’t bake right.  I tried again in MD, as well as WV.  It still didn’t bake right.  We think it may have something to do with the altitudes and humidities, as I had an issue with pancakes not fluffing up right in MO either, but as soon as we moved, the pancakes, made the exact same way in every state, were suddenly tall and fat and fluffy.

My children love banana bread, even if it is not tall and fluffy and overwhelming prize-wining delicious.  I make it often.  My daughter is known for buying bananas by the bunches, and letting them go brown on the counter rather than eating them.  For these kids not to eat a banana sitting in front of them is quite the trial.  I collect recipes.  I receive cookbooks and whatnot from all over.  I’ve been working for years to find a way to ‘fix’ that once wonderful banana bread recipe.

Then I found it, by fluke.  I was doing research on something else entirely (vegetarian samosas actually) and I found myself printing out a series of banana bread recipes.  I did what I normally do, combined them together and added my little tweaks.  Then I tweaked a bit more, changed things up a bit.  And bingo!  I found the right combination, which is the recipe you see above.

It is true that banana bread that sits overnight develops a more complex and interesting taste.  This is one reason I have to make at least three loaves.  The smaller of the three loaves never makes it til morning, unless I am baking at midnight.

This bread is light, fluffy, decadent and amazing.  The sour cream adds that whatever it is we’ve been missing all these years.  I have yet to find a better recipe.

A Note on Faery Food:

We love faery food in this household.  If I can say, this is faery whatever, I increase the likelihood of my ultra-finicky daughter eating it by a good ninety-nine percent, instantly.  My lavender spirits compound is a most amazing elixir.  I can drop a dropper full of lavender spirits into an instant pudding mix—voila, faery pudding.  I can drop a dropper full into a pre-made cupcake mix—voila, faery pudding.  You get the picture.  I have a recipe for candied lavender I plan to use one of these days.  I can’t wait.  In place of plain water or, some days, even milk, I can use jasmine tea, or chrysanthemum tea, or rose tea.  I use rose petals and lavender petals fairly interchangeably.  I’ve made plain old shortbread cookies, with ground lavender and/or ground rose petals.  I first talked the girl into trying taco meat by adding ground lavender to the meat as it fried and cooked.  Whatever it takes to entice the wee faery in us all, as well as those around us, then I am happy to oblige.

La Loba Part 3

The tiny earthen figure lay silently upon the beaten ground.  A radiant light seemed either to hit the figure or to emanate from the figure.  It was difficult to discern which it was.  The old woman was nearby, squatting back on her haunches, rocking to and fro as her fingers moved through the threads as she wove.  She chanted as she wove and rocked, a high keen wailing noise yodeling forth from the depths of her chest.  The staccato rhythms of her voice did not quite match the movements of her fingers, but a definite simpatico shone forth quite clearly.

The sun burned down upon the elder as she worked diligently.  The piece she worked so deftly did not seem to follow any particular pattern.  The cloth bore a myriad of flashing dancing colors, interspersed throughout a variety of intricate patterns.  The woman did not pause.  She stopped not for food nor water nor even to catch her breath.  As the sun reached out to begin its final descent in order to close the day, the woman finally set down the fabric she had created.

Then and only then did she take a small amount of water, eat a few handfuls of grain.  She was a patient woman.  Sitting alone in the dark did not frighten her.  As she awaited the appointed hour, many voices came to her.  Many spirits sought her out.  Each one trying to win her over, to plead their case, to prove themselves worthy.  The old woman knew better.  Those who deserved her rare gift were not among the ones heckling her at this moment.  The ones most in need of her gift were the ones clinging to the shadows, praying she would pass them over, begging to remain hidden and untouched.  It would be an unforgivable waste to allow those few to continue to turn their faces from what was possible for them.

The moon rose, round and full, pregnant with a queer golded silver light.  The woman smiled.  She knew what that meant.  She raised her head, raised her voice, and sang out, loud and clear and without hesitation.  Long sweet guttural ululations, low pitched to carry long distances.  A mist slowly drew out of the ground, rising up at the feet of that nearly forgotten clay figure.  The woman did not change her tone, did to change her tempo.  She continued along solidly and soulfully.

Shadows gathered within the mists, different shadows than before.  Only one specific soul was being called forward at this time.  The little clay doll waggled, wriggled, as if there were some blind naked thing inside attempting to be free of its carapace.  Lightning cracked mightily, shaking the foundations of the earth, as the clay covering of the doll erupted into fissures and shattered outward.  A frail wispy fragment of soul shard stood shivering, unsure, and ready to run without hesitation.  The old mother again did not falter.  Her pacing never changed.  She neither looked toward nor away from the bitty soulling in front of her.  She made no move at all, acted as if nothing unusual were happening.

Abruptly, however, the mist and shadows converged upon the little soulling, and the screaming shrieking tearing shredding wending winding terrorizing moments struck, faster than an enraged sidewinder.  The old woman then sang louder, only out of compassion for the lost soulling.  Birthing processes are never easy, not for either party involved.  Just as suddenly, there was an extreme silence from the soulling.  The mother lowered her voice only slightly, re-establishing her former volume.

Laying there in the dust, quivering and nauseous, the now larger taller stranger-looking soulling gasped, drawing breath haphazardly.  There were bones to be seen, with flesh stretching its way thinly out from the heart to the extremities.  Now, the grandmother picked up her rattle, shaking it as she gave voice to the process of re-emerging flesh.  Stars soared above in the sky, glittering pieces of other envious ones, hoping their day too would come.  It took a great deal of time to finish this soul’s journey into flesh, for singing over the bones is not an instant process, but in time, closer to dawn, the soulling became again the woman, not the same woman as it had been before, but a newer, a better incarnation.  This woman saw she was blessed, knew she was blessed, knew she could—and would—live a better life this time.

The old woman wrapped the woven cape around the younger one’s shoulders.  For such a small looking garment, it covered the woman from throat to ground.  It even had a hood to cover her head in times of need.  The young woman clutched it around herself tightly.  Then the elder gave the younger a kiss before walking away.

The old one walked out into the Night.  The young one crouched, alone but happy, in front of a newly lit fire.  It was her turn, her time, to sing now.

La Loba Part 2

The fire died down long ago.  It is all ash now.  The hearth is not completely cool, but it is warm enough to tolerate.  The old woman gathers ash into her large stone bowl.  There are chunks of debris, maybe wood, maybe bone.  The old woman doesn’t seem to bother.  She sifts through, gathering bits of all, placing it into her bowl.  When the bowl is full enough to suit her purposes, she sits down, squatting alongside the fire pit, pours a small amount of water into the dust before her, then takes up her pestle.  She begins to pound and grind down the bulky substrate in her bowl.  Ever patient, she grinds and pounds and stirs, adding a touch more water from time to time.  She does not seem to mind the boring repetitively of her task.  Her body moves back in forth rhythmically with her work.  She sings, a glad sound pouring out of her heart through her vocal cords.  All is good.

She has worked all day.  Now it is time to sleep.  But the old woman is not yet done with her task.  The ash now turned into a smooth clay, the woman works quickly but with concentration as she shapes and molds and forms the clay into the form she wishes it to have.  She wipes a bit of her own tears and saliva and blood along the framework of this creation.  It happens so fast you’d almost miss it, if you weren’t looking for it.  She digs a shallow hole at the edge of the fire pit and places the figure tenderly inside.  She rubs ochre salve all over the form.  Then covers it back over with dirt.  Her job for now is done.

Younger men from the tribe come, building up the fire, stacking wood, adding tinder, starting the flames.  Many come to dance and sing that night, free from the gaze of judgment.  Many feet stamp and stomp atop that little buried clay base, completely unaware of its existence.  The old woman bides her time until the festivities are all over.

The moon is full and gone and heading home to hide for the day before the old woman rises stiffly to her feet.  Her old joints complain mightily, but she pays them no mind.  Again, the ashes are hot, but she uses a branch to shove them aside.  She knows exactly where she buried her tiny figurine.  She heads straight for it unerringly.  The earth has absorbed the heat from the fire, the sweaty energy from the dancers.  The old woman hisses as she snatches the figure out of the ground and cannot set it down fast enough to cool her raging fingertips.  The old woman smiles in triumph.  This task then is done.  All it lacks now is the reconnection.

La Loba Part 1

What is She re-making?  What is She re-making?  As She stands over me, with her basket strapped to Her back.  With that bowl in Her hand.  With that translucent transcendent smile playing over Her lips and burning out through Her eyes.  What is She re-making?  Why, She is re-making me, of course.

Do you not know how broken I have been in this lifetime?  How broken I am right this very moment?  Can you not look at me and see how I am truly all in pieces inside?  Do I hide it that well?  I don’t think so.  I can’t even sleep beside the man I love without spending half the night awake and pondering the moment when he will see how terribly shattered I am within and he’ll get up and walk away because there is too much damage for him to comprehend.

First, She builds a huge bonfire.  Piling stick and log and branch.  whatever She can carry.  I am willing to help her.  Neither of us carries tools.  We both use our hands.  There is no talking, although She does tend to hum quite a bit, softly, under Her breath.  I find it to be very soothing.  I would be lying if I told you I was not anxious or afraid.  I have an idea of what happens when the fire is lit.  I do not exactly look forward to that.

In time, the stack of wood is high enough.  Things are arranged properly to entice the flames to burn high and hot and thoroughly.  I myself gather the dried grasses and leaves that will serve as start material.  This time, it is my turn to hum, only I am not quite so steady, although I do try to be respectful and keep things quiet.

I sit beside Her.  She takes what looks to me to be two rocks and claps them together at the edge of our fire pit.  Sparks immediately leap forth, like little red and gold dragons flying through the air, feasting upon the bounty we have set before them.  We wait for the fire to grow strong, to grow big.  We wait side by side, me sitting by Her feet.  I know I am crying.  She strokes the back of my head as if I were a child.  I know it is coming.  I know it is a release.  I do not seek to run away.  Not from this.  Not this time.   She sings to me, as we sit there.  I don’t hear the words.  I only hear Her voice.  I have heard it for years, calling to me; I simply never paid it any mind.  Now it seems as if that is all I have left to hold on to in this place.

She stands, brushing off the seat of Her skirt.  I rise too.  I don’t bother dusting off.  Soon, it won’t really matter.  I know what I have to do.  She takes my face in Her hands and kisses me, both eyes, my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.  She pats my arm.  I do it all myself.

I turn to face the pyre.  I step inside.  I must burn until I am gone.

The Heartwood Tree-A Painting

for a wee bit more information about this painting and probably better pictures, please visit:

http://knittingjourneymanredux.blogspot.com/2009/09/september-full-moon-dream-board-in.html

Peeling The Onion

As I read Women Who Run With The Wolves by Clariss Pinkola Estes, I have been having a great deal of ’stuff’ come up.  I haven’t been certain until today exactly where to post some of the ’stuff’.

Since every step is drawing me deeper into myself and making me more aware of what I want and need in my life, I am going to classify it as “Home Work”, so I will be storing it here, along with the rest of the things I lay at Hestia’s Feet.

My search through my self is also my search for my Hearth.

These are some very rudimentary sketches I did before writing the next few pieces I will be posting.

Trying To Capture That Feeling

I spent about an hour, playing with markers and pencils, trying to recreate the one image that for some reason means Home to me…that red tree in the picture there…I had scribbled it mindlessly a couple years ago in a notebook…probably doodling while on the phone or something…..here are the prototypes…some have gone on and become finished pieces that will be displayed…elsewhere…but here is my Dig Tree Progress….and part of my journey towards finding Home….

New Art Journal Begun

I am in the process of taking so many journeys that I need guide books for each along the way, or so it seems….here is the start of my Hestia’s Hearth Journey as we search out our new abode….there is not much in it….yet…but I plan on it being filled…one of these days…as we find our Home…as we create our own rituals and happy places….and I look forward to that as well….

Restoring The Dig Tree

prompt found at:

The Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree.  I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad.  I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful.  I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care.  I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it.  I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches.  Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far.  And yet, it obviously had been.  I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree.   I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.

The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt.  I see shriveled blackened roots.  So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust.  However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances.  Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive.  I cannot and will not take that from any of them.

I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree.  Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here.  Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own.  I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk.  A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality.  My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals.  Here I am.  Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.

With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball.  The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care.  All I know is I must protect this baby.    I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it.  I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch.  I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.

I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core.  I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil.  I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed.  I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability.  Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home.  Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.

Behind The Red Door

Am I listening?

Am I listening

To that loving voice

On the other side

Of that big red door?

I can hear Her

Whispering softly

Gentle encouragement…

Reach out to me,

She tells me.

Let me guide you.

Here, take my hand…

I can show you,

Show you the way,

Let you see

How very easy it is

To just let go,

To just dream big,

Bigger, dear.

Dream bigger.

You must let go of all these fears,

These worries about lack,

You must truly see,

You must understand,

You must believe

Completely,

You are fully supported here.

Things will fall into place.

Simply tell me what you want.

Pull away the cobwebs.

Push away the dust.

Stop wondering what someone else

Might think or do.

Know your own heart.

Everything else will then

Follow through,

Easily and without havoc.

Because, my dearest,

I do love you.

Let’s Make Faery Bread

Let’s make faery bread.

Here’s why we are making faery bread today.  We are in the process of trying to find a new Home.  When I think of Home, the first thing that comes to mind is my mother pounding away on the dough of a loaf of homemade bread.  Making bread was her therapy, not to mention everyone in the family loved it.  From the smell that invaded every corner of the house, to the melt in your mouth sinfulness as fresh from the oven slathered with butter slabs of bread hit your tongue.

I invoke the goddess Hestia with every meal I cook, even if it is to throw a can of soup in a bowl and stick it in the microwave.  I am a Hearth-Crafter.  I prefer to make my meals from scratch, even when it seems there is not enough time for a full-blown ‘to do’.  My children, as yet, have no appreciation for the things I love to cook and to eat.  I love to bake.  I love to make chili.  I love to make thick rich stews and traditional soups.  I even love to pan fry potatoes and serve them up with every meal you can think of, just as my grandmother always used to do.

Today, as we invite the goddess Hestia to sit with us, to help us as we seek a new abode, as we give thanks to all Her blessings that have touched us thus far in our journey through life, we make the one thing that always makes me think of family, that everyone in my family will eat without griping or argument or quarrel, other than to make sure they get their fair share of things.  That alone is worth making my own bread.

Now, usually I use a bread-maker to make my bread.  Technically, I use two bread-makers at the same time, because bread goes that fast around here when I make it.  This recipe can be converted to a non-machine recipe.  I will tell you how at the end of the bread machine version.

First, the ingredients.

When I was a young girl, I asked my mother how she made her bread.  She frustrated and stymied me by saying she’d been making bread for so long she just knew.  There were no measurements for what she did.  There was flour and sugar and water and yeast and salt.  There was nothing for me to follow, except the flow of her hands and arms as she kneaded away.  I learned to cook and to bake and to make bread from books.  Although the desire to be as good as my mother and to never need a cookbook always spurred me on, and still does to this day.

Here we are in a place where I sort of do the same thing now as my mother when it comes to a basic white bread.  Although I will do my best to give you more guidance.

You will need 1-1/2 cups of lukewarm, body temperature water.  The kind of water that when it hits the skin of the inside of your wrist, you barely feel it, or it might be just a little bit warmer than your skin.  About the same temperature as a baby’s bottle before you feed the baby.  Depending on your room, since it is summer here and is almost too hot for me to say this, room temperature is normally good.  We have also made rose tea and used the tea in place of water.  Any flowery tea works well here and only adds to the faery aspect of the bread.  Chrysanthemum tea.  Jasmine tea.  Feel free to experiment.

You will also need a tablespoon or two of sugar.  It can be white sugar or brown sugar.  We’ve used cubed sugar, cane sugar, even confectioners sugar one time-although I don’t remember why now.  Probably at the behest of one child or the other, just to see what would happen.

Roughly two tablespoons of olive oil.

Roughly a teaspoon of salt.

Lavender or other derivative of any and all flowers.  Before I had children, I would use rose petals, frequently from my own garden, which I processed in the food processor before adding to my dough.  If using dried lavender, I normally use about three tablespoons.  These days, with my children, I use lavender supplements.  I take three capsules, empty the powder into the machine, and toss the gelatin capsules away.  Although we have done it, with children helping, where you simply throw in three capsules as is and walk away.  That turned out fine too.

I also have a bottle of ‘lavender spirits’ which is a blend of lavender oil, cinnamon oil, clove oil, and so on.  It is a tincture.  I usually use 30 or so drops of this when I use it to make bread.  I try not to mix tinctures with dried herbs or fresh herbs.  I try to stick with one or the other, rather than combining them.  But please feel free to experiment.

Roughly four cups of plain white flour.  You can mix this up by doing half wheat, half white, or any other number of combinations with different flours.  So long as there is about four cups all together, you should be good.

I have a daughter who will not touch a piece of bread if she can see anything in it…not a seed, not a speck, not anything that looks ‘un’bread-like’, like oats dappling the crust or flax seeds in the bread itself.  So, lately I tend to use white flour—although when I get the chance I prefer oat flour mixed with the white.  I love to use flax, but it has to be ground into a flour too before I can use it with my daughter.  Think outside the box with your flour combinations.  Do keep in mind, different types of flour have different qualities. Some flours are heavier than others and produce a weightier loaf of bread.

Roughly a teaspoon and a half of yeast.

If you are using a machine, dump everything into your machine in the order stated: water, sugar, oil, herbs/flowers, salt, flour, yeast.

If you want your machine to do all the work, set it on your favorite basic setting Light, medium, dark-we usually use medium ourselves, so my daughter is sure where the crust starts and stops.  She is not a crust eater either. At least, not usually.  If you are using wheat flour, or anything that needs a different setting, please do what is best for that flour.  My machine has wheat settings, so that makes it easy for me.

If you want to do some of the work, which I do fairly frequently, you set your machine to the dough cycle and let it go.  Once your machine beeps, you pull it out, knead it, punch it down, all that happy stuff.  Grease your bread baking containers and go to town.  Sometimes I will braid the bread.  Sometimes I will make long thin loaves, like baguettes or thicker Italian loaves.  Sometimes I make round loaves.  It depends on the mood.  You have to cover and let these loaves rise until nearly double in size before baking.  Anywhere from an hour to two hours, depending on your flour and technique and everything else.  Then you put that into an oven at 350 degrees F for roughly an hour.  This is for white flour bread.  You may need to bake it longer—or maybe even for less time—depending on your flours used.  Or not.  Keep an eye on it as it bakes.  Bread is done when you knock on it and it sounds hollow inside.  Although with different flours, you still need to be careful, because that doesn’t always work.

If you want to do everything yourself?

Combine the water and the sugar and stir.  Add the yeast and let it bubble.  Add flour, oil, salt, herbs/flowers into a big bowl.  Add the water/sugar/yeast mixture.  Combine.  By hand here is usually best for me, but it is not the only way to do it either.

Here is a note for everyone though:  keep an eye on your dough.  It should be slightly tacky to the touch and have a satiny smooth appearance by the time you are done combining all the basic ingredients.  I tend to hover over my machine to make sure the consistency is correct.  Add more flour if you need to – or add more water.  Water it takes to make the dough work for you.  The dough should be smooth and elastic.  Once that is achieved, set your dough in a large bowl and cover it.  If the space is slightly warm, that’s good.  Once that has double in bulk, anywhere from an hour to two, depending on various factors, dump it out onto your work area and knead the dough down.  You can separate this into two loaves, or more, or less, or braid it or twist it or whatever you want.  See the above directions for baking.  A 350 degree F oven for roughly an hour, depending on the flours you used.

My daughter loves to have her bread, as hot from the oven or machine as she can get it.  Real butter or margarine dripping all over the place.  We have some lavender honey here, which my daughter finds most fascinating.  I will eat the honey on my bread.  She prefers to eat hers with a spoon from a bowl.  We like to have tea with our bread.  If you used flowery tea to make the bread, sipping a cup of the same stuff while nibbling your bread is lovely.  We always set some of the bread, with butter and honey, outside on a plate for the faeries to come partake.  This does include a small saucer of sweetened tea as well.

Enjoy.

If I have been unclear, or if I have left out any information, please contact me and I will correct things immediately.  Thank you.

While We Are Looking

We have the basics set down and drawn out.  Now, where do we go?

Our current job is to be patient while my boyfriend runs the numbers, while he talks to his real estate person, while he talks to his financial person.

So, while he runs the practical side of things, while he handles the logistics, I am here running the energetic side of things.  Pushing the energy into finding us the right spot.  Attracting the right building, the right neighborhood, easy financing.  Reaching out to find things that appeal to and satisfy all of us, to the best of all our conjoined abilities.

However, I am not one to just sit still and do nothing while someone else handles the ‘big work’.  Or even if they are handling all the little details.  I am already in let’s prepare to move mode.  I am actually having a great deal of fun with this.

One thing that came from the accident last November is that I have been much more willing and able to let go of things.  I am letting go of the sense of needing to hang on to things because ‘we might need them some day’.  Over the past few months, I have managed to get rid of more than half the garbage in our house.  I have plenty more yet to go.  It’s not as if the things I have had to buy for the house don’t off-set the size of the moving truck needed to move out, but still…going from four closets cram packed full of clothing I probably never wore to owning a refrigerator…a big forward step that, yes.

I hate to move.  It should be very clear after last year.  I just hate it.  I cannot and will not drive a truck of any size again.  Not so long as I can pay someone else to do the driving.  I am fine with packing and unpacking, but no more loading or unloading if I can help it.  I might even be ok with unloading at this point, I want out of this place so badly.  But the loading of the truck?  I really want to leave that in someone else’s hands for a change.   Getting out of here as quickly and as problem free as possible is my goal.

One of my other goals, even if we weren’t planning to move, is to go through everything in this house and get rid of the things we have in over-abundance.  Last night, I went through my kitchen drawers.  It’s not as bad as it sounds.  There are only three drawers in the entire kitchen.  I filled a paper grocery sack full of unnecessary cooking utensils and no less than two sets of unwanted silverware, among other little bits and pieces.  I had four pizza cutters in my possession.  I have no clue why, but I did.  Now, I only have two.  I feel the need to keep a back up, just in case.  The same with the vegetable peelers.  I had three last night.  I only kept two, one for each child.  Or one for me and one for the kid who is helping at that time.  I have a plan, really I do.

I have sorted and purged and purged and sorted almost all of my clothes.  I still need to go through my every day sweaters…but right now they are in the storage room, behind things, since it’s summer and they aren’t needed.  That is on the list of things to do.  I have to purge and sort my daughter’s clothing, as well as  my son’s clothing.

I have a great store of magazines and catalogs that I draw from for my collage work.  I think I have saved most of these long enough.  The national geographics I am keeping, of course.  The rest, however, can be glanced through to grab anything that catches my eye and then tossed out.  I have a file full of images with which to work on collages.  If I haven’t used all this stuff in the year we’ve lived here, there is no need to continue to carry it along.  I will buy more magazines and/or receive other catalogs or whatever when I set my mind to collage work from here on out.

I have a box of random paperwork and other miscellaneous stuff that I had no clue what to do with once we moved here, so I just sort of shoved it aside.  I need to figure out what to do with that.  So many things.  So many things I have already gone through and gotten rid of—so many more things to do the same thing to again.  Paring down.  Down sizing.  Letting go of the fears and the sense of impending lack.  This is freedom on a level I didn’t expect.  I knew without genuinely acknowledging it that I kept a lot of this stuff simply because I was afraid that on down the line I wouldn’t be able to afford to replace anything, or wouldn’t be able to afford to get the things we need or want.  All of that fear is gone.  I simply ‘know’ better now.

I recently let go of a job that was crippling me, and my family as I am still seeing evidence of, and holding me back from too many things.  I let go of a world that wasn’t working for me, outside of work.  I let go of so many things, ideas, people, places, expectations.  The change may not be swift, even though from the outside it may seem that way, but it is still in process.  I am pleased with the continued progress we are making.

This move is merely another side of the process of letting go of things that hold us back.   My family and me.  Of letting go of things that do not embrace our current trend of betterment and advancement.  Now, I know, I trust, things are going to be more than all right.  Things are going to improve and to continue to improve.  I do not have to worry anymore.  When the need is there, we will be able to provide.  Every time.  There is no need to have all these fears of inadequacy anymore.  It’s a huge lesson for me.

So, now I go from one task to another.  Not from room to room, because I must take my steps in small manageable bites, to mix up some metaphors there.  First, there was the kitchen drawers, which I had been planning to do for months upon months.  Next comes the sweaters in the storage room.  There are the magazines.  There are boxes of half-started sewing projects.  Mending in need of finishing.  I have to decide what we are taking with us when we do move.  What I am throwing away.  What I am leaving for the people who come after us.  What can be donated and where.  And how to get them there too.

I have plenty to do on this side until my boyfriend says, ok, let’s go pick out a property.  Then I have to set to packing and organizing the truck, the men to load and unload.  All of that.  I am most giddy now.  So much to keep me busy, even though I wish I were working more on the whole let’s pick a place out side right now.  There is a lot to be said for having faith in your lover.  This is me, being patient, and trusting in my lover’s abilities at the moment.  Even though patience is so not my virtue.

Back to work.  Much to do.  Much to clean.  Many lists to make.

Looking For A New Nest

One thing that I do every time we look at moving is involve my children.

My son’s involvement this time, thus far, has amounted to giving us permission to look for a house, permission to move into the house, and acknowledgment that he wants his own room still in the new house.  I do believe he said something along the lines of wanting a playroom too.

My daughter always makes a drawing of our new home.

When we left MO for MO a couple years ago, she drew a lovely big house, with a dad and a mom and two kids,  and a baby cradle for her baby sister visible in the upstairs window, and a dog  playing out in the front yard under the apple tree with the tire swing in it.

We haven’t gotten that house yet, but it is still an option for later on.

I asked her to draw out the house we should be looking for this time around.

Here is what she drew:

She seems to have used a combination of techniques here: water colour, pencil, crayon and marker.

I especially love the four dogs in the picture.  All on tie-outs in the front yard because it’s not fenced in.

Her drawing has inspired me to start an art journal of the process here towards finding us the “perfect’ house to turn into a Home.

I will keep you updated as we go along.

Setting The Base From Which To Spring

In order to begin to move forward, I must figure out where it is I want to go.

We have already decided that we want to be closer to my significant other.  North County.  We like it there.  I have always liked it there; I have always preferred North County to anywhere else in the area.  There are plenty of places to go, wilderness speaking, right in the heart of things there.  This is what I need.  It is also close to where my son lives with his father, so we have that angle covered.  Not to mention, it is a lot closer to the cousin’s house, which means my daughter can go play more often, if circumstances allow.  We have the location parameters set.

Mandatory inclusions: each person needs their own bedroom.  Period.  End of statement.  This means no less than three bedrooms, although four would be preferable.  Lots of space, lots of air.   Tall ceilings everywhere.  Windows are always good.  The more light coming in, the better, even though there may be drafts.  I am willing to work with drafts.  A decent and roomy kitchen, with plenty of countertop and cabinetry.  A living room.  A dining room.  A full basement.  It doesn’t have to be a finished basement, but a full basement is mandatory.  A good-sized yard.  It doesn’t have to be a huge yard, just comfortable.  We would like it fenced in, of course, but we are willing to fence it in ourselves as well, if need be. If we are talking preferences here, I would prefer a privacy fence, but that’s just me.

Here are some new things I require.  Really good neighbors.  They don’t have to be all Mary Tyler Moore.  Even Gladys Kravitz wouldn’t be too bad, although I would prefer Mary over Gladys.  I want neighbors who have decent well-behaved kids, kids that don’t throw rocks on the roof of my house, who don’t throw trash or break bottles in my backyard, who don’t mistreat my dogs, or my kids for that matter.  I want people that you can talk to, but not someone who is going to come over every morning and camp out all day either.  I want to be able to get up at six in the morning to drag my dog out on a walk and not have to worry about am I going to make it home in one piece.  I want to be able to feel safe enough to take a walk around the neighborhood, with kids and dog, at all hours, since I am never on a stable schedule of, say, up at six, walk the dog, write, blah blah blah.  Although I really should be, when I think about it.

My daughter’s requirement is a fireplace.  Although, as I keep saying, it is not a mandatory requirement.  We can buy a false front and put that up.  My mother bought an electric fireplace awhile back, so that too is an option.  My daughter would prefer being able to watch flames, be they real or artificial.  It doesn’t matter which to her.  I like having the hearth over the fireplace to display things, like the family altar.

I would like a two story home, but that is not mandatory.  My daughter likes to point out that if we have a basement, we have an upstairs and a downstairs, and shouldn’t that count as two stories?  I want to feel safe inside my home, and outside.  I want to live far enough from the river, or any water source at this point, that river insects do not feel the need to encroach on my space.  I want space for the herb garden, the flower garden, the rose garden.

Solid construction is now also a must, for the entire house.  If the place starts falling down around my head in a year or less, we are going to have some major issues. I am not about to go through that again.  I want electrical outlets that actually work, without overheating the wall and without having to flip all sorts of switches to make certain outlets that shouldn’t be on that breaker work. I want a roof that doesn’t need to be repaired, that doesn’t leak, that is in good shape.

I would like a brick house.  I want to have a house with a big red front door.  I am willing to paint the door myself.  I am thinking white for the rest, although a yellow house would be good too.  Part brick and part siding.  Not wood siding, no.  That requires too much work.  Scraping paint and whatnot.  The vinyl siding, or whatever it is, would be perfect.  Hose it off now and then and we’re all good.  Sounds perfect.

A carport would be fine.  A garage would be even better.  If we have a garage, we don’t need a shed.  A paved driveway would be nice too.  Although we would still be ok if it were gravel.  I have learned that I prefer a paved driveway.

I also have discovered that I love the whole back porch patio thing.  I hadn’t realized how much I liked patios or having them.  That is something worth having.  I do think if we don’t have one, we would have to build one at some point.  I prefer to buy a house that already has one though.  Room on the front porch for a couple chairs, no, for my daughter’s bench that she wants, would be terrific.  She also wants to have a porch swing, so we will have to keep that in mind as well.

I do not want to be physically close to my neighbors.  I would like some space between lots.  I don’t want to hear their music from their cars or their tv’s blaring from inside their house.

I do want lots of space inside the house, as well as around the outside of the house.  Inside, I want room for the bookcases.  I want room for all the art supplies, and the yarn stash and the fabric stash.  I want room for my kids to spread out and grow.  I want room for my office, for my writing, for my artwork, and for all the artistic endeavors that I currently have sitting on a shelf waiting for me to have room and money to do things that I want to do.

Some things I like, but that we can add later on are wainscoting, molding, decorative light switch plates, chandeliers, ceiling fans, paint.  I take it back.  We should be looking at a place that already has ceiling fans, at least in the main living areas of the house.  I would prefer them in the bedrooms as well, but we can add those later on as we go along.

This is the basic concept we are working with for our new home.

We would change only a few things if we were planning to combine households with my significant other.  We are currently looking into several options.  Do we just rent a house outright?  If we do that, we can bee more lenient about some of the features, because then we would know above all else that things are very temporary.  Do we do the rent to own angle again, so that the house is mine and mine alone?  That way when we do combine households with my significant other, I have my own stream of income from renting out that house.  The next option is going in together with my boyfriend to buy a property we know will be my temporary residence until we all move in together.  That way we will have two properties between us to use as rental properties while we buy a third larger house as our main domicile.  Another option on the table is foregoing the whole house in the middle and looking for that bigger house where we can all move in together right now and not have to worry about moving up or moving on after any certain amount of time.  The last option, which I am not really wanting to consider due to lack of space, is moving in with my boyfriend in his current house and recreating things there to our desires and satisfaction.

All these possibilities.  We have to start somewhere.  This is my start.  Establishing a base and moving on from there.