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Category: Personal

Clockwork heart

I have a clock work heart. In the morning when I wake up, all the gears tick, spin and whirr. They turn without protest as I swing my feet out of bed and go about my morning routine. Slow and steady, spokes touch spokes, turning the great machine that is my body and brain into a slide-show of normality. I wash my face. (That looks like my mother’s if she were fat.) I brush my teeth. (That are crooked like hers but not like hers.) I brush my hair. (That darkened from a daisy-blond, like my mothers. That is thinning as I…

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Just give me one moment more.

My mother. What do I say about my mother? What can I say about her? “She was beautiful.” Of course she was. She was my  mother after all. What child who does not love their mother think their mother is anything but? Even when crows feet begin their slow, inevitable climb at the corners of their eyes. Even when their hair starts to go a little grey at the temples. “She was strong.” Any woman who gives birth to a child and doesn’t give in to the urges to go utterly mad with sacrificing her own life to the raising of a little mini…

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If the walls where I got my Mammogram could talk.

Today I had a mammogram. A lot different from my first mammogram at 13 in Canada, where I had lumpy boobs and the Doctor just wanted to make sure it was natural breast development and nothing else. I had to go to a hospital then–down white hallways and across pale chilled floors. I distinctly remember the glaring white of a large hospital room; florescent lights and five or six people–one or two men– in light colored uniforms, masks and hats. The machine was massive and I had to stand on a stool and wear a hospital gown and nothing else…

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Finding some way to smile about it.

I love the holidays. Specifically, I love that as I am on my own I can celebrate the holidays–within budget–how I see fit. I can’t understand how celebrating in your own way, where it harms none, becomes a point of grumbling to some. Yesterday I begged Shawn to take me to the Dollar store to see if we could afford a few more decorations for Halloween/Samhain/All Hallow’s Eve. We spent less than $10 and I was able to walk out with 2 head stones, orange pumpkin garland, spider webbing, creepy cloth, a jack o’ lantern lamp and two black ravens.…

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Do you know what grows Under the Stairs?

Despite what people tell me, I don’t feel like a writer. There are stories in me that muck about swirling and whirling and flicking their tails at me from the surface of my mind-water. But they’re awfully fickle. Hard to grab onto. Most often when I think I have a story to tell something in my life pulls me away from it–either my own self-doubt or something else shiny that is far easier than writing. (I’m sorry, but writing is hard. Please ask all the very talented writers who force themselves to do it everyday because they have too or…

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I will come to your house and fondle your mugs.

Last year on my live journal, I wrote a post about my growing obsession with tea cups and mugs. I’m one of those women that will turn her head nearly all the way around in the glass or kitchen ware aisles at stores–like men spotting a set of endless, toned, shimmery legs they just need to look at twice–if I find a mug or cup that tickles my fancy.  My cupboard in our modest little apartment has an entire shelf dedicated to mugs already. I definitely have more than one, less than twenty; so more than I need. And yet…I…

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Letting go of perfect.

My first home happens to be a one bedroom apartment. For Shawn and I, we who have children that are feathered and furred instead of human–this fits us perfectly. For the longest time, with our bad financial decisions when we first got together + the way the economy was going, I dreaded that we would become one of those couples. Stuck forever living in a room within his parents house feeling ridiculously uncomfortable for living in a home where two people should not be having to live with their son and his wife at this age and please put some…

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Making new Christmas Magic from the Old.

When I was a little girl, bright eyed and possibly more hyper-active as well as touch more naive than I am now, Christmas Eve and Christmas day was always spent at my grandmothers. My grandmother lived in a farmhouse that was at least more than a century old. Two stories tall, it was a proper square of a house. It had a pitch roof and it did not have plastic siding anywhere on it. It was covered in wooden shingles painted bright white. It weathered Nova Scotia’s winters as stoically as it waited through the yellow warmth of its summer.…

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Death thought about it. “CATS”, he said eventually, “CATS ARE NICE.”

The cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon, The creeping cat, looked up. Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon, For, wander and wail as he would, The pure cold light in the sky Troubled his animal blood. Minnaloushe runs in the grass Lifting his delicate feet. Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance? Raven. What can I tell you about our cat, Raven? I think first, to understand why I am wasting your time telling you about a cat—about a creature that licks its own pewp and…

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