love letters from the forest
By Molly Meary ©
The Art of Walking Away
Welcome.
Come on in.
Thank you for coming today.
To the tour.
To the show
To the art of walking away.
Please…
gather round.
Follow one. Follow all.
First stop?
Perfect picture wall.
Take it in, family vibes.
Nordic frames cookie smiles.
Moving on. Moving forward. Moving fast.
Warren of to-do rooms. Imagined future past.
Children’s wing.
Eternal chaotic mess.
Some other mother’s dreams living some other mother’s stress.
Shiny display
Bluish-grey.
Ultimate unlife. Unhome –
swatches of walking away.
It is time. Show stopper – highlight if you please.
crystal ball visions birthed home amidst the trees.
Who would leave these million dollar views? – forward, front, behind.
Clean air. Clear living. Clean stuff. Clear mind?
Ruse. Broken. Ghost theatre. haunted smiles.
Foundations rotten, pipes clogged. resentful bile
Tried. Fought. Forgave. Forgot. Fell.
Lost in pursuit of dreams
Cactus carcus shell.
“You have everything! Everything!
What more do you need?”
Just Me.
New paths partnered
Fresh earth to sow a seed
For my children
For my soul
No longer swayed to stay
The show is over
Time to leave
The art of walking away
Quarantine Poetry by my boy x
A Cinquain is a 5 lined poem with the following syllable sequence:
2, 4, 6, 8, 2
Systems
(2 syllables)
With my bone works
(4 syllables)
Not crumb(a)ling good thing
(6 syllables)
Of course my body knows whats right
(8 syllables)
Thats right
(2 syllables)
Awesome
(2 syllables)
God of thunder
(4 syllables)
Son of mighty Odin
(6 syllables)
Strengths well he has the mighty ones
(8 syllables)
Hell yeah
(2 syllables)
First writers Skype group tonight since corona crazy laid its ugly rotten egg over us all. Little glitchy here and there – but all in all – an awesome night. Didn’t realise how much I would relish seeing familiar faces. It’s all very weird and surreal and I’m grateful for the lot of it.
We swapped our individual covid experiences and got stuck into the writing. Hopefully going to put some of our efforts toward the Perth Museum who are looking for a collection of insights into this weird ass sci fi movie we all suddenly find ourselves a part of.
Everyone was a little flat, and I found it pretty hard to get into the swing of things, so nothing too groundbreaking or remotely deep tonight. My last 2 offerings are from the perspective of my dog. Actually the animal POV’s were the best. Karen has a bitch of a cat with a really shocking attitude. Twas gold.
Don’t drink anymore.
Reconsidering this decision. Rapidly.
“What’s in there Mum?”
“Clay.”
“Ooh. What’s clay?”
“Ay? Well… it’s just clay.”
“Yeah, but what is it?”
“It’s what your yoga teacher told us you needed for the online session today.”
“Oh. So I’m not doing yoga?”
“Yes, you’re still doing yoga.”
“With clay? That’s weird.”
“No, silly. You’re gonna make something with the clay after you’ve done yoga… or before… or whenever.”
“Ah. Like the breathing jar.”
“Yes, like the breathing jar.”
“Right. So what’s the clay for?”
“Did we not just go through this?”
“Not really.”
“I think it’s for making a mandala thingy.”
“Mandala thingy?”
“Yeah. Mindful, creative stuff to help calm you down… during… all this…”
“Corona stuff?”
“Not just that.”
“I’ve seen it. 2000 died… somewhere.”
“What? Where’d you see that?”
“BTN.”
“Please stop watching that show.”
“It’s for kids! It’s on 23.”
“Back to 22 for now. What happened to Bluey?”
“I keep missing it.”
“Well watch it on playback, or watch something else. No more news.”
“You sound funny, Mum. Want me to get the breathing jar.”
“No thanks, love. I’m alright.”
“I know what’s going on you know. I am 8.”
“It’s because you’re 8 that I don’t want you to know everything that’s going on, lovey.”
“If we stay inside we’ll be fine. Step out – boom. Dead.”
“What the fu…”
“Can I look at the clay?”
“Um, yeah, sure. I got you terracotta. The white looked naff.”
“I like white. Shoulda got white. This just looks like clay.”
“Thought you didn’t know what clay was.”
“Well, I see it’s just a brown orange lump of mud.”
“Yep. Fifteen dollars worth of brown orange mud-lump. Maybe you should go get the breathing jar.”
“Really? Yay. I’ll show you how to use it.”
“I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“So, Mum – first you shake it, then you breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth until all the sparkles reach the bottom.”
“Righto.”
“Oh and say ‘Ommmm…” Cranberry Candy says Ommm a lot.”
“Cranberry Candy says omm into her bong a lot, I reckon.”
“Ay?”
“Nothing. Alright, hand it over. I’m gonna be shaking that thing for a while.”
“What’s a bong?”
“Give me the jar. Now.”
Two hours later – one hand printed chunk of clay with split pea spiral mandala pattern done. Child more stressed out after supposed mindfulness experience fails to transcend peace loving vibes via the modern miracle that is Skype – aka – glitchy cluster fuck of the multiple screen sessioned variety. Om indeed.
Twelve hours later – on attempting to drown ones morning gullet with a bucket of coffee – said clay mandala reduced to rubble. Violated by vandals. Pesky possums pulled all nighter – clearly off their heads on clay and split peas. Cheeky little shits left their grafitti tag scratchings all over mandala middle finger. Child more distressed than after back to back BTN binge.
Today’s crisis schooling – cancelled.
Kids – Ipads, YouTube, whatever the hell. Screen it up.
Mum – Pottery, Ghost, Chocolate.
Eff you corona. And eff you crayola for the price hike on a clump of earth I could have got at the local creek if we were aloud to go to the local creek without being handmaided back into our homes for going near supposed non-social-distancing creek. But they roll the red carpet out for overpriced dry clay purchasing in an aisle the width of a beetles dick. #coronaconfusion
Smells good. She always smell good in the morning. Warm and sweet. Like muffins. Not him. He smells like socks and bum. Dags all the way. Don’t get me started on the man child. His scent wafts like stale pizza box farts. In the he-humans defence I do nuzzle deep into the more pong prone crevices. Where they are most warm. Sacrifice I’m prepared to make. Not her though. I know not to delve where I’m not wanted. The small of her back is a happy compromise and I count my blessings she’s even letting me sleep on the bed. They’re all a bit needy lately. It’s nice. I like having them constantly around. Can’t get enough, especially the drama. Humans really are useless. They can cope with shit-all. But I love it. Meltdowns are the best! Every bastard looking for a support animal then. Nobody loves a best friend more than when in the grips of a freaked out apocalyptic frenzy with eff-all idea when it will end. Who’s your puggy now, bitch. Ha. I jest. I dig their crazy crap. I dig it all. Actually, I haven’t dug for days. Reminds me I have some work to do on an intrusive bush. What are the odds – I snack on one pissy little tomato that may or may not have been ripped from its stem and it fricken re-seeds itself. Now I’ve got a full bloody tree in my shitter! What a joke! So that’s on me to do list today. Dig. Up. Bastard. Tomato. Out. Of. Shitter. First I’m gonna get this lot up with a bit of soprano. Everyone’s been sleeping in lately which is balls because nobody is getting my breakfast at the time I’m accustomed to. This doggy brunch wank is nothing but some A grade tardy bullshit. I can’t be expected to live off shit-matos forever! Nuff said. I’m over it. Time to warm up the vocals. Me me meeeee…. wolf.
You let me sleep beside you.
I’m getting extra hugs
You pick me up and hold me close
When you need extra puggy loves
Don’t know what’s caused the change in you
Don’t understand or really care
All I know is you’re here with me
Instead of leaving to go out there
I sense lots of crazy feelings
From every one of you
Not sure what’s been happening
to make you all so blue
Just know that I am here now
Turn off the panic station
I’m your loyal loving fur baby friend
For as long as there is bacon
Covid19. What an arsehole.
Here is today’s thoroughly uplifting efforts.
Not your view
I walk
As in a tomb
Live-in ghost
room to room
I feel
Each cranny
Every nook
I trace
I look
loving place
loving Home
warm meals
Navigations
Mediations
grey business deals
I walk
Through my tomb
Every memory
Of every room
Babies
Milestones
Height charts
Chalk walled mantras linger
Memories reduced
to monetary figure
What got us here,
forgotten
Petty rants
heated
conversations
display preservation
done with
Irrelevant, irritating blips
Of a time
Of a quartet
Of long sailed ships
I watch
Ay me
Always these Juliet dreams
From my balcony
Floral green
remember
nineties Gypsy
She told me
Touched my palm
Crystal ball scolding
You’ll get your tower
decking amongst the trees
But… she paused
…won’t be what it seems
WTF?
sighed the unseeing me
Now
Well…
I have lived.
(privileged)
I have seen.
(brokenly appreciative)
Sad mourning mountains
Heard sorrows and fears
Patient forest trees
caught podium tears
High amidst the blue
always had you
But
Now
No longer my view
No longer my hills
Achingly swallowed
the tartest of pills
Long, relentless battle – surrendered to conceive
And now
FINALLY
I can’t fucking leave?
Can’t heal
Can’t walk away
Corona calling
chains dragging
In this tomb
Every day
This is a quick little poem I was compelled to write. I’ve just been for a checkup and as I walked to an impromptu blood test – the woes and worries of the world had a field day in my head. But the second I saw the Blood lady tapping away on her ipad, playing a quick round of candy crush whilst waiting for her next patient – all that ridiculous anxiety disappeared.
Ironically, Blood lady has the same name I called every one of my dolls as a child and one of my all time favourite Brady Bunch characters. However, she is far from that groovy little lisping pigtailed cutie or any of my seventies Barbies.
This woman is a quietly spoken warrior with an awesome backlog of stories and a devilish twinkle in her eye when she relays them. I’ve visited her tucked-away-corner in every state imaginable. No matter the circumstances from sorrowful, to standard, to a sick looking plague monster – she has been a comforting presence every time.
It’s not until I’m having blood drained that these memories between we two return. So I thought I’d immortalise her before her lovely vibes are replaced with dog shit, kids complaints and all the sweet vibe overrides of realty.
bold white hair
kind warm smile
jab so gentle
talk awhile
tells me all
i need to hear
of her bolder life
void of fear
once a plumber
in era of scorn
female tradie?
lesbian-sex-fiend
addicted to porn
she quietly giggles
as i beam at her tale
doc martin phlebotomist
married a
“women should only wear heals“
kind of male
candy crushes in breaks
no fuss nor ceremony
crushes in real life
only 39 – hysterectomy
while i frizzle frazzle
a panicky frenzy
she soothingly shares
a life worthy of envy
empathetic smile
through checkups and tragedy
I am in awe every time
of this walk-her-talk majesty.
You were my friend, ever so briefly. A defo soul-spirity connection, a woo-woo being who the second I laid eyes on, felt like I had always known you. Admired you.
One of those gentle gems that draws all to your light. It’s impossible not to be drawn in. You radiate – from within to without. Gorgeous, kind, stunning, intriguing.
A mentor for the ages.
A lovely twist that my Mum visited one day to buy a gift for her dear friend, but there was a postponement of sorts and the gift-giving opportunity missed.
So she gave her offering to me.
Incense.
A ritual I had once done every day, lost – had again made its way back into my life via dance. I adored it.
With my new writing habit I wanted to create a space that was unique to me and re-introduced this as my own ritual to clear, create and not just mask a smelly room.
I lit one of your sticks and fell in love. My clove burning immediately felt so harsh and overpowering compared to the subtle air yours created. It was light, lovely… clean.
So I burned with abandon, never reading the box or the name of this gift – until today.
HAND ROLLED INCENSE CREATES AN ENCHANTING SOURCE OF CONSCIOUSNESS. BURN TO PROMOTE SOFT, GENTLE, CALMING BREEZES FOR YOUR SCARED SPACES.
Even with the typo I was impressed. To finally read the actual meaning behind the product when I have literally been hiding, scared in my very un-sacred, isolated, fear-fueled space – was fitting.
I burnt all 19 sticks save one and today I rediscovered it. I save it for the day I finally hit the dreaded button I put off for nearly 2 years –
Your angelic energy was here with me throughout this journey and now, will be here at the end when courage, strength and belief is what I need most.
As I look out on our deck at the fairy garden you created with my daughter (now a re-purposed bird bath) and recall your brief involvement in my life, I thank you for entering and being someone I admire, respect and revere. Just writing this post makes me feel the joy and light of you.
Today – I light my old clove sticks and all the thoughts, power, self-love and belief I had when I begun my journey last year – came flooding back. This book sent me down a few dark turns and with one flick of the lighter I am starting to remember what it was all about and more importantly – who I am all about.
If a shitty $2 stick from our local grocer can drag out that level of good stuff – imagine the powerful manifesting goodness yours will create!
I cannot wait to light the final stick and step through the next doorway.
Meraki.
Such a light.
Truly.
Thank you.