heartlands

Today is my birthday, and as I walked barefoot through a storm, I thought a lot about my life, as tends to happen on birthdays. I realised that, although I may not necessarily love where I am at the moment, I do love the choices which brought me here. I would not change those choices (although I'd plant more trees in my garden if that was possible.)




I also had to acknowledge that there are some choices I've made which haven't been real. They've been reactions, rather than authentic decisions. For example, I've worn certain clothes because they present an image of the kind of woman I admire - which isn't actually the kind of woman I am or even want to be. I'm old enough now to simply want to be myself, whatever that means.

Knitting the Wind has been for years now a reaction to audience opinion, common sense, brand imperatives, and tangled thoughts. I've long wanted something quieter for my online diary. Today, for my birthday, I'm giving myself what I want.




Between the woods and the watersIt actually describes my prosaic reality as well as the secret poem in my heart. It's a woman in a cardigan and white cotton blouse, chiffon skirt, hugging a book of stories and waiting for the storm. I did consider more melodic titles, titles which I'd personlaly like to click on if I found them in someone else's blogroll, but there's a spirit to this one that feels right for the moment.

I have redirected the url of this weblog to the new one, but I don't know if that works with feed readers or not. So if you are coming over from bloglovin or feedly, you may like to update your links.

I can guarantee everything will change again. That's fine by me, so long as its my true decision to change it.

Where ever you are, and who ever you are, at the beginning of this new year, I hope your feet and your heart got you there out of love and hope - and that you have all you need to stay, or to keep going onward.


the first footer at my house

This first day of the new year has been beautiful, so beautiful. A cold wind brought rain. I opened my door to it and sat drinking tea, listening quietly for all the poetry of the far away wild.




The old year went swiftly out my door last night, looking like a ghost goddess, trailing white dreams, white memories; blurring fast into the midnight. She left behind a pile of aches and murmurings I wanted to sit amongst, sorting them into silence, but the front door was opening, so I left them for the while. I went to be with the future.

And the future brought me the rain that I love.

ps, I have a new url ... this weblog redirects automatically, but I haven't figured out how to redirect every post yet. So in the meanwhile, here is the address. This old diary will remain online, however all the posts and pages are also at the new space.