An Anniversary

A bit more than six years ago, I was reading an article about some famous blogs that had turned into book deals and thought Hmmm...

One of them was Girl with a One-Track Mind, the other one Wife in the North. There were others too. I didn’t think I could find something constantly interesting to write about, in my life or in the place where I live, nor have the stamina to do it daily, but the idea of writing a bit of my soul and let it float away on a tiny paper (or rather, electronic) boat on the river of the World Wide Web, felt kind of exciting. Scary, but exciting.

So, exactly six years ago today, I took the plunge. (Or maybe the first shaky step.)

A link from Wife in the North had taken me to the Inner Minx, the blog of Minx, aka Kate Bousfield, author of “Coven of One.” Minx was just blogging about some lions (not just any lions, but lions of Lyon) up for adoption at Seamus Kearney’s site. Go take a look, they’re still there and they are beautiful!

(Seamus is an Irishman from New Zealand living and working as a journalist in France. Also a short-story writer, novelist, musician, blogger…)

One could “adopt” a lion, name him, write a short poem or text about him, and become a member of the group of writers called The Shameless Lions WritingCircle, initiated by Seamus. Got it? Seamus – Shameless :-)

At the time, Seamus believed –I’m sure that he still does- that powerful writing can be found in many places on the internet. The Circle and the award “A Roar for Powerful Words” were developed by him to put forth that belief and to encourage writers to roar. I completely agree with this.

I chose my lion, which you can see on the right side bar of my blog (yes, go lower, much lower), wrote my poem, actually I wrote two because the first one was too long (also on the side bar, below Alexander’s photo) and Seamus very gracefully accepted me into the Shameless Lions Circle.

This is how I met a bunch of great people. Some have since retired from blogging, some have become successfully published authors, a few are still going on.

I guess I’m one of those still going on…

The Shameless Lions Writing Circle was the first leap for me. The second was The Clarity of Night. In fact, it was Minx again who suggested to me I should check it out. I’m so glad I did.

Jason Evans’s blog, the beauty of his writings, and the high quality contests that he held on his blog have all meant tremendously to me. The blogosphere is certainly poorer without them. I surely miss them. But although Jason’s isn’t an active blog anymore, the goodies are still all there, just a few clicks away.

It is, in a way, mind-boggling to see how paths open one from another, taking you to wonderful places where you can meet wonderful, incredibly talented, like-minded people, and how unbelievably enriching this experience, this communion can be. Not to mention the exceptional quality of the poetry, prose, photography, etc. –art in one word- that these people are posting on their blogs.

This is why I’m still here…

Merry Christmas

It is almost Christmas again.

I’m listening to “The Birds Are Singing Christmas”, a CD of Christmas and classical pieces arranged with chirps, trills, caws, hoots. Sweet, sweet, sweet!

My heart is filled with bitter honey because at this time for joy, and warmth, and lights in children’s eyes there are so many, too many beings on this Earth –human or not- who suffer, who are hungry, cold, afraid, desperate, lost. And while I’m in my warm home, with my family, ordering last minute things from Amazon, packing presents, trying to write on my new laptop, baking wonders, getting all Christmassy, I cannot and do not want to not think of these less fortunate beings. I ache for them.

Since childhood, I’ve had this daydream/fantasy. I wanted magic.

I wanted it for a very specific purpose: to help any being that needs help, to be able to give them one surprise moment of sparkling joy that would make their life more bearable.

I still dream about it when, let’s say, in the supermarket’s deserted parking lot, on a freezing, grey December afternoon, I see a flock of gloomy seagulls, sitting around. What if, I think, I could just snap my fingers and each one of them would have his own little fish for dinner? Would that make them happy? And, of course, it would have to be some sort of “replicated” fish (from Star Trek’s replicators) otherwise my heart would break for all those little fishies…

Or, what if I could just snap my fingers again and that squirrel and that sparrow shivering outside in February would suddenly be surrounded by their own little sphere of warmth? Wouldn’t that be nice?


And of course that homeless woman and her dog, lying on the street, in front of that big, nice, bright store. They could do with a little warmth and a little food, couldn’t they?

Childish, of course. Indeed, because some people are doing more than just dreaming about it. I’m trying, too. But in the mean time, it is also a nice Christmas wish. Maybe Santa will grant it one day.

If I have a soul then so does every creature, big or small, and bless them all.

Merry Christmas to everybody! Be good! I love you!

Beautiful

“Look at her,
she’s beautiful like a Gypsy,”
he told my mother,
right in front of me,
this twice-removed uncle of mine,
and my cheeks turned into red roses
at the compliment that I found then
outrageous
and now
outstanding.

It was at his older daughter’s wedding,
in a white July
a July of silver
and white peonies.
I had a blue dress,
a blue like a single tear
of some distant sea,
a blue like the sky
reflected into a single drop
of dew on a white petal.
I was twenty-three,
but I could’ve been eighteen
or sixteen,
just the same for me.

He no longer breathes
the air of this world,
this twice-removed uncle of mine,
but these particular words of his
still sing to me,
at the most unexpected moments,
always bringing
a whiff of summer with them,
of that summer when I was a young rose,
beautiful like a Gypsy.


“Beautiful like a Gypsy,” he had said
and I knew he meant the ideal Gypsy,
the free soul,
the one that dances flamencos in her
ruffled colourful skirts,
on the scapes of our hearts,
to the clicking of her castanets
and the tinkling of her gold,
not the one that begs on street corners,
or steals,
or kills.

I wonder if that beautiful Gypsy
exists anywhere other
than in the exotic notions
of romantic people
like Fleetwood Mac,
and Van Morrison,
and the likes.
But I know what he meant,
and I will always remember his words
because, for me,
she exists,
that beautiful Gypsy,
in that exquisite summer of long ago,
and in all the summers of my heart,
where I will always be,
twenty-three.