Conjuring Halloween

The thing that I’ve always liked about Halloween is that it temporarily demystifies evil, giving us permission to laugh at, and perhaps even celebrate, the dark side of everything. The common bat with its leathery wings, hyper-flapping against the tranquility of twilight, becomes a prop for hauntings and mayhem as we mimic devils, zombies, and vampires, sucking up their dark powers and using them for sport.

We get to poke fun at our greatest enemy, death, by dressing as ghosts and skeletons, ha-ha-ha-ing the night away, puncturing our fears through with laughter—leaving them in a powerless puddle like deflated lawn ornaments.

As a kid Halloween was a fantasy holiday, not only allowing me to imitate my favorite villain, but also providing a sugary booty, fit to inspire tooth decay and belly aches. What more could a kid ask for? So, in honor of our spookiest holiday I have composed a short poem and also painted a couple of pictures to go with it. I hope they inspire you to smile like a jack-o-lantern as you conjure some of your most memorable Halloween celebrations. I would love for you to share them with me.

Trick or Treating

Witches on brooms, haunting the sky
While spiky black cats stand in fright mode
Jack-o-lanterns aglow, there is mischief about
As the beggars push out for their pay loads

Sweaty masks hide, the fear in their eyes
As they tread through the darkness with giggles
Apparitions delight, in the juvenile fright
While their mothers hold onto their fingers

Bags weighed down, with chocolate and yums
Their reward for an evening of pleading
They have braved the dark night, swallowed their fright
And will never forget trick or treating
Leah Griffith

Daring Soul Gypsies

Photograph by Bruce Dale

I haven’t been blogging lately, because I haven’t really had the energy or the urgency to speak. I’ve been in an "in-between" place of questions and guesses, venturing into the now, with now stories to hold my attention, and now beliefs to cushion the path…just me looking and pondering—asking the big questions: Who am I? Who is God? Why am I here?

I may not be able to define God/Truth, but I recognize it when I see it, for my God/Truth is my own—like the fingerprints of my soul.

Most of the time I believe myself to be lost. Not lost in a forever sense, but momentarily lost in the past or future, my mind jetting me back and forth like Judy Jetson, lost in the crowded cosmos of thought, scanning the written pages, and the crystal future of dreams and dreads to come.

One day I’m a laughing puppeteer—a genius creating situations that suit the sunshine, rolling down soft green hills—a dizzying burst of giggles, bumping into nothing at all because the possibilities are endless!

Another day I believe myself to be a colossal screw-up, stuck between an instinctual urge to soar and my bone snapping insecurities—a loser, measuring a tad lower than the brown water stains snaking along the baseboards of my self-imposed expectations. But this is what you get when you cross deity with dust, a hybrid human being with a propensity for immense error and epic love.

Like a tribe of wide-footed gypsies, my thoughts travel from state to state, carnival to carnival, toting my stories along with them, often convincing me that the fun-house mirror image of me is accurate. “Is that me?” I ask my closest friend. “No”, she says, as she stares at her wavy reflection, sucking in her midsection, trying to correct the uncorrectable. And isn’t that what friends do…remind us of who we are lest we get lost within the chaos of erroneous beliefs and unbridled thinking?

Sometimes, against my better judgment, I’ll mount the Carousel of Remembering, enjoying the sensation of movement, as I travel in small circles. It’s the colors of the carousel, the music and the horses, which bid me to ride, and even though I’ve done it a thousand times before with the same fruitless results, I still fall prey to this temptation, leaving behind my real life for a blurred tour of indistinguishable places and events from the past, creating a hesitation in my life—a lapse in Leah.

Our hesitations often become our limitations, the places in life where we doubt ourselves until we become stale and stuck. What are limits really but fear’s suspenders holding up our insecurities. Bull shit on fear.

So here I am today, a smidge bolder…and hopefully a bit badass too, still sorting things out, but coming to you with my mask off. I used to feel pretty much alone, but now I know that we are all here together—riding and jetting, thinking and being, creating and destroying. We really are daring soul-gypsies, forsaking the familiar for the uncontainable collision of right now. I love that.

The Long Halls of The Morning

I’ve been rising early lately, walking the long halls of the morning, not certain where to put myself. My thoughts are what cause me to pace. Invasive little buggers that hijack me on my way to my pre-dawn pee, unsettling murmurs with spikes and spears, finding the softest places in my heart—piercing the pinky folds where wonder, love, and moonbeams are hidden. I never wear my breastplate to bed—that brassy brassiere that guards my heart—I lay it aside in slumber; after all, a girl needs to rest unencumbered by fear.

These early risings have caused my schedule to shift. What I normally do at 10:am I find myself doing by 8, making my day seem like a long train with endless cars rattling by—leaving me waiting for that bright red caboose to end the sentence and lift the gate. Oh wait a minute. That doesn’t sound inspiring at all. It makes life seem like an endurance test of sorts.

Precisely.

Most days rise and fall with events and thoughts, some self-inflicted, some random— the inner and the outer workings of me coming together to create a life consisting of unanswerable questions, nagging have tos, and yes, bliss. Of course the bliss part of my people pie is relatively small—a sliver of sweet aside a platter of boiled liver and cabbage, and somehow I know this is my fault, but hello! I could barely deal with a 17-hour day and now I have 19 hours. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; but can I really be trusted to carpe diem when I can barely vacuum the carpet?

I’m certain that these early risings have been sent as loving teachers to guide me on yet another divine adventure of how to live joyfully in the moment without judgments and expectations, and I am grateful for everything, no matter how mushy the texture or bitter the taste, but I hope I learn whatever lesson this is quickly.

It just seems I can never get away with anything. It's like my father's the principal or something. Some people skip through life with clean socks and new sneakers, zippidy-doo-da-ing through their day. Why do I always have to have a lesson on something? Oh wait…that goes into the unanswerable questions pile.

Please Universe… send me some fun tests next time, like proving to you that winning the lottery won’t ruin me. I don't mean to whine but I need my sleep!

Giggles Girls and Ghosts

Writing a blog after more than a month is like coming home after a long trip and wondering if the dogs will still remember me. Of course they always remember me, but there is always that sliver of tension between the opening of the front door and the first wag of a happy tail.

As most of you know, I've been traveling for the past month. Over the years so many miles have passed beneath these brave feet of mine, now cracked from wear and time, yet still carrying me to the end and back…and back again, because it never really is the end now is it?

In the past month I’ve kissed soft cheeks, tickled shy toes, checked in with the tribe—the youngest member, my granddaughter, with her sticky hands and determined spirit, reminded me to chill out–have fun and never EVER give up! I like to think that she got that from me, but it’s her mother’s hard-earned tenacity that has seeded within her cotton candy heart.

Trying on hats

And then there were the many sets of eyes—smiling eyes—happy to see me, pulling up a chair deep within my heart, sitting down with me, taking the time to connect. Loving me. Thank you Lano, Kathy, and Ruth.

I’ve met some new faces too. Friendly Facebook faces reaching out to me with long arms — excellent huggers who smell good—Debra and Megan, who up until that point had been comment makers on FB, but were now in a booth at the Laughing Owl with me, sipping cocktails, slowly revealing their sweet selves—getting to know one another was magic!

My friends are my angels.

Beth was with me all along. She usually is. One-shoe two-shoes, we fit with each other like a comfy pair, and I’m more than grateful for her presence in my life. She carried me south to Savannah—she and Alison, a new friend with a quick British wit and a kind heart. We were giggling girls on a road trip, forgetting the have tos and all the bullshit that chokes out the sun.

We stayed with a friend—a pragmatic woman, not given to any bibbidi bobbidi boo. She apologized about the enraged ghost occupying our bedroom, a farmer from the eighteenth century who refuses to let go. She told us the medium couldn’t budge him, and I wonder if this is his face in the photo, mocking my friend as the shutter snapped. I slept with fingers and toes carefully hidden beneath a blanket of false bravado, insisting that ghosts do not exist— yet jumping at the slightest noise.

And here I am now—home. Tucked back into the nest like a speckled chick cuddling with the twigs and feathers, the familiar scent and the softness—feeling a little larger than before I left, perhaps a bit cramped, evidence of my growth over the summer and perhaps the need for a change in digs—and diet;). But I’ll let life flow in that direction on its own as I occupy this nest and this moment.

It’s good to be home.

They Wouldn't Dare Drop Me!

Vacation laundry;)

I know it’s been a while since I last posted a blog. It’s not that I intended to stay away for so long. Let’s just say that life has guided me down some new roads. Roads snaking through bombshells, beauty, and blind corners. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath because of the steady stream of—look at thats!—WTFs!—and could it bes? Yes it could be, and I see it, and here I am trying to write about it.

Like the fizz inside a bottle of Perrier, there is so much going on inside of me that I want to tell you about…but I’m not sure how, so I’ll sum it up with a quick metaphor. You all know how I love metaphors;)

Recently I went on a vacation to Orlando with some friends and we visited The Animal Kingdom in Disney where they have an attraction called Mount Everest. Somehow I allowed my thirty something year-old buddy to talk me into going on this ride with her and her mom. She assured us older gals that it was just a train ride to the top where one could get a panoramic view of the entire park. Okay. I knew we were in trouble when our rickety, half-shell of a bucket seat, clickity click clicked up a seemingly endless ninety-degree incline. We braced ourselves, anticipating a quick plunge down the other side, but what we got instead was a drop backwards into a hot dark tunnel filled with the shattering screams of the newly traumatized. As we continued backwards my stomach began to bubble like a vat of fermented pea soup while little beads of panic dotted my green brow.

I had no idea what was coming next or how long the torment would last, so to keep myself from freaking out I focused myself with self-talk: “It won’t last forever. They wouldn’t dare drop you! You WILL NOT barf.”

And I was right.

I held my lunch and the hell didn’t last too long. Just long enough for me to coin the phrase: “Well scare me shitless and turn me green!”

Susan and me shortly after our ride on Everest. Our gills were still green.

So there you have it. My life (and perhaps yours) is like a roller coaster ride. I’m being thrilled one moment, and terrified the next. I’m learning numerous lessons. One of which is that I am not in control and that the uncertainty of each moment is God.

I’m also seeing some things for the first time. Things I thought I knew but didn’t really. Things about others and myself—freeing things that give me wings, silencing assumptions and judgments, leaving the measurer behind, teaching me what love is and what it is not.

Love doesn’t rise and fall with each emotion, nor does it cling or reject, but stands steady and strong. Love doesn’t blame or run away in fear. It is rugged and abiding and wears practical shoes, always ready for the climb. Love trusts me with the truth—no matter how painful that truth may be, and communicates in a kind and direct manner. Only love is real—and it kicks fear’s ass.

Lately I’ve been moved to make some external changes as well. I’ve quit my lifelong addiction to nicotine and left off drinking my daily round of Diet Coke. I miss them both, but have acquired a new appreciation for Chiclets and slightly sweetened iced-tea. These changes were inspired by nothing more than my desire to have better health, plus I’ll never have to feel the pinch of those annoying FB posts: “Aspartame puts the die in Diet Coke.” LOL!

I’m still painting. My art is very Peter Pan-ish, coming from a place inside of me that believes it can fly. It makes me happy. Thank you Julia Fehrenbacher, my dear friend for inspiring my exploration with paints.

Making Leah happy.

And of course I’m writing my second novel and loving my first, Cosette’s Tribe. As a matter of fact, Karen Wojcik Berner, a gifted author and blogger, nominated Cosette's Tribe for Best Novel, and Best Mainstream Fiction, at the eFestival of Words annual competition! Thank you Karen!

If you’d like to vote for Cosette’s Tribe you can do so below. First you need to complete the initial registration. After you submit, there's a “What’s your zip code” message trying to get you to sign up for additional offers. The best way to get around this is to close the page and relaunch the link to vote. Be sure to vote in both categories. Thanks so much for your support!!

Click here Then click on Awards Hall and vote both categories.

I guess that’s it for now. Consider this a “catch up” blog. I have a feeling my blogging is going to be a bit scant for the rest of the summer as I shall be traveling in August. I will check in, but in the meanwhile give me a shout out and let me know how your summer is going. And remember to kick fear’s ass because only love is real!!

Surrender to Your Nakedness

I’ve kept clear of writing lately opting instead to dip my brush into tiny puddles of primaries and pastels. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge to write, but rather I’ve grown tired of my own words. For me writing is a reflective vocation where my words spell out the contents of my heart. If my heart is heavy, my words are heavy, and quite frankly I’ve been in such a state of introspection lately that my writing has become an extension of this self absorbed circuitry.

This negative energy has been trying to drain me of my strength and pallor for some time now, so when my friend, Julia suggested that I splash my life with color; I jumped right in. Actually she made me take up painting as a homework assignment for her Getting Naked Class, that I attend. The class has been huge help in pointing the way to the things that really matter. So thank you Julia for giving me an artistic nudge.

This morning I’m writing because I miss it and I’m hoping to discover some tiny treasures, perhaps a clue as to how to navigate beyond the limited default settings of my mind to a place of freedom and intelligence, a place where the past is tucked in and understood and doesn’t rule the day. A place where the future needn’t mirror the past but holds infinite possibilities and endless surprises. I want to be rid of all the senseless gloom and doom and skip off into the land of perpetual tra la las.

By making the writer paint I’ve stepped off of my predictable path. My artwork is childlike and two-dimensional, bespeaking naivety and a clear lack of formal training, yet it is honest and untainted by the measuring madness of the ego or the shortsightedness of ambition. Painting, when I’m not certain how to paint, has taught me that control is an illusion, as are security, perfection, and time, and that I need only be myself—my rag-tag, bedraggled, silly, somewhat gullible, grumpy, and overly-deep self in order to be happy. I am enough.

Surrendering to this truth is like stripping naked in a fabulous boutique. The silks linens and cottons call to me from the racks, but I must remain naked until I’m certain that I’m not using the clothing as a form of disguise or surrogate security. I must surrender to my nakedness as surely as the evening must surrender to dawn, spring to summer, autumn to the callous cold of winter, and finally life itself must surrender, like a startled zebra seized by the committed jaw of a lioness, to the relentless grip of death.

I am convinced that until I can consistently determine the difference between the conditioned voices of yesterday and the compassionate and intuitive words of today…right now, I will continue to get trapped within the webby inertia of identity-dementia, and waste my days looking backwards for the road ahead.

Transcendent Tango

In recognition of the close of Poetry Month I have revised an old poem I wrote. I'm dedicating it to April, a pretty month, honoring her devotion to hope, awakenings, and vibrant new beginnings.

Transcendent Tango

The sky is a moody companion
driving calm white billows
into foamy currents over blue
piercing thunderous cliffs
with jagged lines of silver
and sending the sun into exile.

I skip.
Not really.
But I have the mind to
for the wind has revived the fallen leaves
who thought their days had ended,
yet now believe themselves to be graceful birds,
with preened feathers
and focused beaks
slicing through the air like winged messengers
eager to tell the tales of love.

I long to keep up with them.
But no.
I reserve my energy
and watch
as my quickened spirit takes flight
twirling with the resurrection.

All are present
yet there are no witnesses
to this transcendent tango
bequeathed by wasted poets
teased by passion's hallowed flames.

Dip me my immortal
kiss the white line of my neck.
Visit me
till evening bows in sated surrender
and morning sings anew.

Leah Griffith

An April offering.