When the Ancestors are too Close

Today is the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death. Anniversary sounds like it could be a day of celebration, “day of remembrance” is a more appropriate expression perhaps, but anniversary, commemoration, I guess those words work too. The bottom line is she died, and it wasn’t until then that I truly saw her as a human being with a life; with hopes, and dreams, fears, foibles, and shortfalls beyond those in her role as mother, my mother, my sisters’ mother, a person in her own right, separate from me, even though obviously there is probably no greater connection than that of a mother and child.
I don’t particularly like going to the cemetery where she’s buried, that’s one of the advantages of cremation, burial at sea, or a family plot I suppose. I enjoy visiting my grandparents, aunts, and uncles in the shady cemeteries where they rest, but my mother? She’s an ancestor who still feels too close to me. I’d rather remember her when I catch a glimpse of her in one of my expressions, remembering one of her sayings (when she was livid with anger she’d say “I’m on the warpath!”), or when her face would light up when a kid or grandkid visited her. How about you? If you’ve lost a parent, how do you feel about visiting their grave? I love cemeteries for many reasons, I just don’t love my mother’s.

Important Announcement

Subscription Update: After much deliberation I have decided to scrap the subscription service idea. I expect paying customers to be respectful, and while many of you actual gentlemen are, there are several Neanderthals (no disrespect to Neanderthal humans intended, it’s merely a colorful expression) who aren’t. There’s a right way and a wrong way to speak to a fellow human being, regardless of gender, and when I feel a person is capable of learning and understanding that, I give second chances, but with restrictions. Then there are those who simply aren’t able to grasp the concept, and I block them immediately and forever. This is not a sex site. I am not your mommy, auntie, granny; and I detest sexual slang. However, I appreciate intelligent Shakespearean sexual innuendo and fun, flirtatious repartee.

So, without further ado here is what will be on offer this Fall:

*One censored photo at a time on my artfoodsoul blog, along with a price. Prices will range between $10.00 and $35.00, depending on the photo. Photo will be available for one week or a set number of purchases for that photo, whichever comes first.

*If you are interested in the non-censored, you will contact me via IG.

*If you’re someone I’m familiar with and trust, someone who has been respectful, I will allow you to purchase the uncensored via Paypal. I will then email you the photo.
If you’re new to IG, you will not be allowed to purchase for several months (kind of like a probationary period).
Photos will be of an art or erotic art nature. If you’re looking for playboy-type or, “smile for the camera” while nude, there are 1000’s of others out there to suit your needs. This is not about the money, otherwise I’d be doing an Only Fans. And I do not disparage anyone who does OF or Patreon. I actually seriously considered Patreon, but I really want to be able to control who sees my more intimate photos. And there are many of you whom I will be comfortable sharing with. It’s about knowing the person I’m sharing with.


Good Reads for Pride Month

Earlier this month I finished “Sometimes You Have to Lie,” Leslie Brody’s excellent biography about Louise Fitzhugh, the author of one of my favorite adolescent books, “Harriet the Spy.” It has occurred to me how appropriate it was to be reading this during Pride Month. Louise never hid her sexuality, well aware her money, privilege, and talent allowed it. Most of her long-term romantic partnerships were with women, and while she may have had a few “gentlemen” friends, they were never a serious interest. She was an outspoken social justice advocate, and I was thoroughly absorbed in her literary world of the 60’s and 70’s. Her gender fluid fashion sense had me captivated and a quote from another author’s novel sort of clicked into place for me how I feel about identity and sexuality.
It’s from Carson McCullers book “Member of the Wedding,” another story about a pre-teen tomboy, Frankie, in whose ideal world “people could instantly change back and forth from boys to girls, whichever they felt like and wanted.” Sounds good to me, Frankie.

Sweet Rolls

The wind here doesn’t cooperate with garden plans, but somehow we manage. At least there was sunshine and some warmth this weekend. After Saturday’s gardening, we ordered Chinese for the first time since the  Christmas before the pandemic — what a treat!  — then watched the rest of the Murdoch disc. Sunday morning was quiet and slow. Before heading out to the garden, I listened to classical music while making sweet rolls, this time orange ones, inspired by those from Marian’s Pie Shop down in Chatham. My mum used to love to drive down there for their pastries and they are still as good as ever — they’ve been here for years, one of those rare bakeries that offers truly old-fashioned goods reminiscent of a grandmother’s kitchen. I use my old Betty Crocker cookbook for sweet rolls and stumbled upon a recipe for orange rolls that I’d previously overlooked. Sharing it here. Happy Monday!

In the Garden

Today was the perfect day to get started on the garden cleanup. Spring is always touch-and-go weather-wise (and health-wise) here, so when all the conditions align — warm sun, but not blistering hot, no wind, and no rain; no aches and pains, allergy fatigue, headache or any other obstacle in the way — once I get started out there, it’s hard for me to stop, but I am trying to pace myself better these days so I don’t fall into overwhelm with little accomplished. Cleared out along the border fences, and spotted asparagus (already a couple pickable stalks) peeking out. Rhubarb, violets, poppies, coneflowers, lupines, bee balm, coreopsis — once it gets going, there’s no stopping it — especially now that we have it protected from Oonagh. Mugwort grows outside the perimeter of one of the fence lines — an herb for boundaries, protection and dreaming. Good for smudge wands, in smoke blends and tinctures. The violets are a gentle reminder of the simple wonders of just being — and the flowers and leaf, besides use in smoke blends — are also good for tea, edible flower garnishes (candied violets anyone?), flower crowns, simple syrup or an essence. It truly is a garden awakening, and should all the powers align yet again, I’ll be back at it tomorrow. (Photo is from last spring).

History and Mysteries

I love a good historical mystery, particularly those that are set at the turn of the 20th century. I learn a lot from a well-researched novel. My favorite decades are the 1920’s and 30’s, basically the years between the two world wars. It’s uncanny, if you’re a history buff like I am, how you can follow the social, political, economic and scientific events of those years in the last century, and see how they parallel similar events happening now in this one. People really were clueless, dancing and spending their merry way into two world wars. It’s interesting how journalists like Dorothy Thompson tried to sound the alarm, and yet no one paid attention until it was too late. But maybe that was the plan all along?

Journaling and Artists’ Ways

Looking forward to working more with my journal today. I used to do morning pages religiously, as well as other practices that I learned about while doing Julia Cameron’s workbook, The Artist’s Way, years ago. An artist friend I met through dance strongly encouraged me to work with it and when I finally got around to it, it was a joy to work with. It kept me grounded on a daily and weekly basis. I’ve often thought of revisiting it, possibly with a small group, but wondering if I even have the attention span for it anymore. Perhaps it’s a good time to find out.

Magic and the Memories of a Doorknob

I aspire to live in a land of magic and wonder, and occasionally I realize that I already do. It’s just sometimes I forget. One of the reasons I love vintage pieces is for the stories they hold, and I’ve always loved a good story. The excerpts below from Mary Ruehle’s book of poems, “Dunce,” speak to this. They are from the poem “Inglenook.”
“I live in the museum of everyday life,… Open daily, the doorknobs are covered with curated fingerprints and pass on the latest news.”

Bone Deep

“The strange antlered language of phantoms” (quote from Mary Ruefle’s book of prose, “My Private Property”) and flickering shadows playing in the corners of your simple mind…the one that’s in tune with your body and what your body knows from centuries of carrying this knowledge in the DNA that flows from ancestors through their descendants. It’s the more powerful of our two minds, for it is pure instinct and sensual knowing before language steps in to confuse an eternal and universal consciousness.