Blogs are often somewhat narcissistic and self-aggrandizing.  However, I’ve decided to attempt one in the hopes of giving myself some daily writing practice as well as sharing with others how it is to live with particular challenges.  The quality of the writing might vary greatly depending on the day; expect this.  I will.

My mix of joy, laughter, trauma after-effects, brain weirdness/mental illness, curiousity, and desire to pursue love in existing and future forms will all color my contributions here.

Tonight, the heater fan is loud, the greenhouse fan is loud, the dog’s toenails are loud, and the air humming with electricity is loud.  The light fixtures are loud.  These are the days/nights I wish to shut off the power.  I want everything to be silent.  I want my house, my block, and the traffic to cease all noise.  Dogs snoring and dreaming?  Yes.  Silent candlelight?  Yes.  Reading in the calm?  Yes.  My senses amp up when my brain is more off-kilter, as it is tonight.  Perhaps everything seems louder partially because my brain is so fussy that it seems to make its own chaotic static.  I’m the girl who wants city-wide power outages accompanied by snow and ice (to deter folks from driving) for my birthday present.

Why don’t I move from town to a quiet place somewhere?  Because alongside my need for quiet and calm are my sometimes-denied needs for human contact,the ability to help out, and prevention of isolation.  Also, regular medical care/visits, my desire to live more lightly on the earth, the hope to reduce costs and pay down debt are all better served living in town.  Harumph.  😉  I will find the quiet within myself, eventually.  The power to live in noise while firmly carrying quiet always, that’s the hope.

Oregon Winter

by Jeanne McGahey

The rains begin. This is no summer rain,
Dropping the blotches of wet on the dusty road:
This rain is slow, without thunder or hurry:
There is plenty of time–there will be months of rain,
Lost in the hills, the old gray farmhouses
Hump their backs against it, and smoke from their chimneys
Struggles through weighted air. The sky is sodden with water,
It sags against the hills, and the wild geese,
Wedge-flying, brush the heaviest cloud with their wings.
The farmers move unhurried. The wood is in,
The hay has long been in, the barn lofts piled
Up to the high windows, dripping yellow straws.
There will be plenty of time now, time that will smell of fires,
And drying leather, and catalogues, and apple cores.
The farmers clean their boots, and whittle, and drowse.