Rain Writings

Perhaps I wrote this, inspired by the water drenched, gray windows I woke up to this morning. Or perhaps this was told to me, word for word, by someone I met in a doorway where no doorway should have been. I'll let you decided.

~*~

The fae be angry today.

Raindrops scatter against my window, racing each other t'wards a finish line only they can see. Together they paint over the outside world, leavin' me only witness whispers of the white capped waves just past the pane. It be better that way.

Safe inside, I wonder what 'tis that's riled the old ones so; throwing down dark clouds to smash against our world the way they do. We, too busy hiding inside 'neath our dry, warm blankets or scurryin' about 'neath muddy umbrella caps, aren't looking up. Let me tell you, it ain't no coincidence those plastic caps be shaped like mushrooms. No. We not meant to see the white wings flutterin' crazy like a hurricane's scream. An' our ears be formed so as not to know the gusts of wind for what they truly be, bellows of rage. So foolish we are, an' always have been.

What has happened, I wonder. Be it a rift in their court or a cut in the earth? Either one will set them stormin'; anger so hot in their blood the world must turn to icen mist less we all taste flames. They will settle, I be sure like the thousands wars afore this one. Without even a pinprick of awareness on our mortal skins o'course. Yet my heart can't help but lie with the cold, wrapped 'round the knowledge that, dagger like, our fates are held in their hands an' all lives could cease should they choose to continue this destruction.

Perhaps it be best we don't. Know the reason for the drops I mean. Human souls lack strength enough to bear the weight of such wild magic. We like our worlds to be packaged, bundled 'round safe beliefs an' ideals. We cling an' clasp to the concept of truth an' cannot grasp that what truth be lacking is existence. Our world is a spirit of a different sort. Chaos; unbridled an' entire. Truth be a false word.

The fae know this. The fae are this. Gallant are they for taken up their swords an' armor an' power to clash against each other, sos we do not 'ave to. They 'ave chosen to allow our shelter of lies to remain an' per'aps this be the greatest mystery of them all.

So I sit an' watch the raindrops glisten like flattened diamonds upon the glass. I be grateful for the wind gusts that sing to me only of air. Happy that the waves seem to bow by their will alone and not the sirens I know be lurking 'neath the blue. I turn from the shadows, for it be inside them that mine eyes will see other dark eyes of stone staring back. I don't want that an' you shouldn't neither. There be some myths that are meant to stay swirling in smoke.

~*~*~

Two Weeks In - Bellingham Update

Two weeks I've been in Bellingham. I've stayed busy, seen as much as possible. I've begun to feel a little more comfortable. Do I love it yet? No. However...

I do love the trees here. Tall, silent watchers, guardians of the land. Each one covered in an intricate pattern of green moss and spiderwebs, the two battling for their spots like dancers on a palace floor.

I do love the Saturday market. The bustle of vendors and visitors combine to create an invigorating aroma of joy and community.

I do love the bookstores. There's the well known Barnes & Noble, the local staple Village Books and the delightful used bookshops Eclipse and Hendersons.

I do love all the parks, lakes, ponds and footpaths I've happened upon to date. All have a beauty of their own, that blends into the overall splendor of this area of Washington.

I do love the wild blackberries. The way the sunlight flickers like memories along the ground. How the sunrise gives way to a sky that looks like soft, gray pillows of cashmere.

And I do love that, without warning, I'm hit with a sound, sight or smell that makes me feel - for a second - like I'm in Alaska or Maine or Norway. That's amazing.

I may not yet love Bellingham butI love enough of it's parts to stay awhile.

Last week I accepted an employment offer and I Monday is my first day. Finding a place to live that is simultaneously affordable and pet friendly has proven tricky, so I've made an arrangement with my AirBnB host to stay through December. The monthly cost is more than I can afford long term but I have enough to manage until the end of the year, and I prefer to do this versus jumping into a situation that I don't feel comfortable with. I feel safe here, Faelina is safe here, the house is quiet and I have a stunning view. Plus, I can actually walk to work (a first for me), thereby saving me some money on gas.

It is my hope that things will only fly upward from there. That I'll enjoy my new job and coworkers, that December will bring me into an new home, that friendships will form and new hikes will continue to awe. They might not and I'm still experiencing fears and nerves about that, deep enough to rattle my core. On top of that anxiety though is excitement, and a path that is leading me back to the person I want to be. I feel more like myself than I have in a very long time. It's a good way to be.

*~*~*

Trains

Trains.

Bellingham has them. Tracks snake throughout town. You can be just about anywhere and hear them call. They run right by my AirBnB, passing at any hour of the day and nigh, rattling the house and sending a thunderous roar through it's rooms. Some might find that tiresome and disruptive. I don't. I like the trains.

Years ago, before I was even born, my dad was an engine driver. He didn't speak about that time often, but when he did it was always with happy nostalgia. For years, Christmas decorations were not complete without dad setting up our mini-train village. My sisters and I would often find new tiny trains under the Christmas tree to add to our collection. At the time, I wasn't able to muster quite the same level of enthusiasm as my dad did, but they were fun. Now it is I who smile with sweet recollections any time I see toy trains chugging through a Christmas village. The same goes for the sight of real trains cutting their way through the country. Trains remind me of my dad.

There is another reason I love trains. I am not quite sure I'll be able to adequately transform the emotions I feel into words but I'll try.

Trains have a mystery. They are full of secrets they'll never share. Their tracks lay a path in which it's possible to step into another time; where once they were only means to 'quickly' get from New York to California, or filled with luxury they pushed their way through the snow laden mountains of Europe. Circuses were possible because of trains. Their miles of cars - making up the tightrope walkers nest, the clowns reprise, the homes (albeit horrid ones) of the show's lions, tigers and bears - the only way they were able to jump from town to town.

Trains saw the world. They still do; roaming steadily amidst cities, cutting through mountain tunnels, crossing roaring rivers and trickling streams. For decades they've tasted some of our most exciting stories and felt the sorrow of some of our deepest tears. They were hope to all the runaways who risked their lives by jumping aboard, counting on the train to carry them into a better life.

The trains running past my window aren't bringing people closer to adventure, but there is still in their depths something that calls to my wandering soul. I can't help but listen for them and, one day, I just might answer their call.

~*~*~

The Art of Asking

I am 40 minutes away from finishing the audio version of The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer, and I have to write about it.

~*~

Until March of this year, the entirety of my knowledge regarding Amanda Palmer was that she a) was married to Neil Gaiman and b) did something with music. Then in March, she interviewed on one of
my favorite podcasts (Reading Glasses) and I was intrigued, extremely, by everything she said. I decided I needed to read her book, but couldn't get access to it until now.

As the title suggests, it's about learning to let yourself ask for and receive help; whether that is in the form of a couch to crash on for the night, funding for a new album, or a tampon in a public bathroom (all examples in the book). She talks about the need to disband the stigma that asking for help is shameful and/or a sign of weakness, and instead frame it with the view that it's a way to collaborate with the rests of the world. There is a gift, she says, in the act of one asking and another helping.

She shares examples of how this philosophy has worked for her time and time and time again. The years she spent busking as a Bride Statue in New York. The countless fans who offered up their couches and spare beds for her band The Dresden Dolls so they could afford to go touring. She's a big fan of Twitter and often tweets out pleas for help - for herself or others - and they are almost always answered. Many people - reporters, artists, musicians - ask her all the time how she's acquired such generous fans. Her response; - it is because in return for their help she has given herself to them completely, and not just with her songs. She's held dozens of free, impromptu concerts all around the world, sending out a tweet announcing the time and place and that all are welcome. She's sat in closets, bedrooms and out in fields listening to the secrets and heartaches of any person who wants to tell her. She's bared her whole body and offered up paintbrushes or markers, allowing her fans to draw whatever they want on her skin.

~*~

I encourage everyone to read this book and by read I mean listen because the audiobook is incredible. Amanda Palmer narrates it herself and I feel like the listener can more deeply understand the emotions and delivery of all the conversations she relays versus reading silent words on a page. Plus, interspersed through the words are songs sung by Amanda. I don't love them all but others are magnificent, I almost cried by the end of one of them. And I sensed the love she carries for each of her fans, her friends and her family. In away she sees them all as one in the same. Listening to her speak doesn't make me feel as though I'm merely taking in a book, but rather deep in conversation with a friend.

I've mostly listened while walking the footpaths in Bellingham, pausing at times to pick a few delicious, wild blackberries. About halfway through the book it occurred to me that perhaps it came into my life at the exact right moment. I am not good at asking for help. In fact I suck at it. I have stuck deep in my psyche the strong conviction that to ask for assistance of any kind, particularly on a large level, is to admit that I am weak, lazy, and not enough. It's one of of the reasons my eating disorder was so able to flourish so vibrantly. I came to Bellingham largely to prove to myself that I was strong enough to figure life out completely alone.

Perhaps I need to rethink that philosophy.

Not to the degree that I throw myself to the mercy of the world and expect people to provide for me. I fully understand that I am ultimately always responsible for landing on my feet. Maybe though, it wouldn't be such a bad thing to sometimes ask if anyone knows/has the best spot for my feet to touch the ground.

~*~

I don't see me completely changing. Learning to ask for help will likely be a lifelong process but here's a small beginning: If anyone has, or knows someone who does, a tiny place they'd be willing to rent fairly inexpensively to a quiet person and inquisitive (but well-behaved) cat in the Whatcom County area, I'd love to speak with them. If not no worries; I'll figure it out (or I won't and go home), and as I'm doing that I'll keep reading, writing and - now - listening to the music of Amanda Palmer.