Category: inspiration

It’s all about perspective

I’m sick. And when I get sick, I get maudlin. I got a notice that I was getting a deposit from Amazon for the books that I have available. It is the biggest deposit yet, a whole $2.77. That amazes me. It is a sign that people are buying the books that I have written… Mostly poetry, but I have some children’s books and a novella (as Serena).

When I told my mother that I was published her first question was if I had made any money. At the time I stumbled with my answer because I had only made thirty some cents. The fact that I had made anything was a miracle to me, but I knew that would not be what she wanted to hear.

For me, publishing is only a way of being heard. Still, making enough from my writing to buy a drink…. Well it humbles me. Would I like to be able to pay the bills through it? Well of course. I am not stupid. I just choose to be thankful for the small things. How often does changing the perspective change the way something feels?

Small miracles lift up the downtrodden. I choose to see this as a small miracle, so that I am uplifted. What perspective can you change to adjust your view?

Poetry

©2017 by Patricia Harris

Tumblr is calling,
Porn and poetry,
Pitching me closer
To ecstasy.

Social media with no
Social anxiety.
The ability to hide out
From reality.

Though I am there
For all to see
I can hide inside
My own anonymity.

Productivity Faeries

So I am on almost all of the social media outlets…. Though it is hit or miss on some as to how often. Tumblr is not something that I am on quite as often…. And yes I use it for poetry not porn…. Lol. It has been the best for poetry prompts. I really like prompts, as it gives me a focus to help the muse.

I finished writing Word Petals, my latest volume of poetry. However, editing and layout will be putting the likely release in January. Still, It meant that I needed a new volume. So I put in play one of the titles that I have in reserve, Soul’s Door. The new volume is already started.

Rust, Gore, and the Junkyard Zombie is still in the first round of edits. We just moved in a new home so I have been very busy, and the edits have been back burnered a couple of times. It is a priority but I have to have things like coffee and clean clothes for my editing time.

The blog/newsletter that I am doing with my sister is up and doing well. We post at least four times a week, often more…. Makes me feel like I am neglecting this one, though I have even gotten better at keeping it up.

If you are wanting to find me on the various social media outlets…. I am pattimouse nearly everywhere. Or just comment and I will answer.

Faery Playtime

dreams-300x300_300

So my Sister Redbird and I are doing a secondary Blog, We attempted this before…but it fell apart due to various factors. So we fixed those and are trying again. It is a blog to discuss ways of improving one’s outlook on life. Faeries, recipes, DIY and more… go check us out.

https://mindfulfaespiritualgardening.wordpress.com/

Preparing New Year goals

I Know it seems early to consider my goals for the new year…but I am not one who does well with “new years” goals. I do have a lot of changes coming for 2018. I have been asked to assist my sister doing a new blog/newsletter that we may try to turn into magazine later. It will be posting weekly(thankfully I am not the only blogger on this so the schedule should be able to be depended on)

Spiritual Gardening with the Mindful Faeries

Life is also settling down for me some, so I am hoping to update this blog at least twice a month as well as doing that.
I am well over half done with Rust, Gore, and the Junkyard Zombie…and the poetry volume Word Petals. So there will be some book releases that can be expected from both Serena and I. Serena has a couple of stories she is working on, and a couple of stories planned. I have two children’s books in the works as well as my poetry volumes.
This time of year tends me towards self doubt and introspection, as it does many of us. So please be patient with me and I will hopefully be able to give you more to ponder in the days ahead.
In the meantime, Go check out the Spiritual Garden and be prepared for the Mindful Faeries to help your knowledge grow!

Writers

©2017 By Patricia Harris

We write because we must,
Lest insanity set in.
We write the snarls
Emotionally,
Lest the outside world
Cave in.

The words each a monster,
Deep inside our heads,
Tearing down our psyche
Demanding to be heard.

We write because
Without it,
We are but simply
Star dust.

Energy sapping Monsters

zoffttttlyyyy

 

With so much requiring our attention, this time of year is not always a productive time for us writers. Well at least in a personal sense. Between Nanowrimo and the November PAD challenges, and other writing, there is more than enough people looking for our attention. Add in normal Seasonal blues that many have, and it can be overwhelming.

Personally, I find myself an anxious mess about the amount I am expected to join in. I chose not to do Nano this year because of the amount of stuff I have going on in my personal life…still I am finding that other writers are looking for me to join. I am so glad that I have friends that include me. There is always something to be said for that.

I have been doing the PAD challenge. I also have managed to get a bit farther in Rust, Gore and the Junkyard Zombie.  I believe that 2018 will be a wonderful year for book releases. Many wonderful writers are doing Nano this year. I am cheering them on.
However, with all that I have going on, life is weighing heavy on this girl right now. It means that I am finding my spoon supply a lot smaller. Forgive me my sweet ones if I fail to post more that a couple times during the next two months. I will do my best to keep all my balls I am juggling in the air, but if one falls…I will just have to dust myself off and try some more.

November Pad challenge

Just wanted to let y’all know….I am doing the Pad Challenge. I will be sharing a few more of my poems in November than usual….keep an eye here!

Kindness and cruelty

I struggle to see myself as others do. I can list my flaws innumerable. I logically know that I am not what my mental gremlins say. I am not selfish, nor cruel…not intentionally anyway. Still there are those days where I expect more out of people simply because it is something that I can do. I am a poor uneducated woman who is more than a little crazy. I am in constant pain due to physical issues. Still I show up, I do what needs done, and I move on. So on the occasion that I need to remind myself that I am not normal….well I find myself also reminding myself to be kind.

Kindness is not just for the rest of humanity. Sometimes the person who needs your kindness most is yourself. My writing coach, the Amazing Debbie Burns, gave me a couple of methods of dealing with the negative thoughts. One involves listing 100 words about yourself. You then relace negative words with positive ones. This is meant to try to get the brain to replace them when you think about self. We have to try and train ourselves to keep the mental gremlins at bay. Still after a lifetime of self abuse, it is not terribly easy to see the good that everyone else does.

So I will continue to do my word lists to help me see the bright light shining. I will start with the words I did above. “poor uneducated crazy” are all three replaceable. Yes, I have money woes but I have food, I have clothes, I have shelter. So I am content. There see one word replaced. Uneducated is not true. I have my high school diploma. I have taught myself computer programming in c#. I have studied several other things independently. So I can replace that with self educated. Now only one word remains. Crazy. Ugh it is the hardest. After all, I am struggling with mental illness. I am aware of the stigmas. I think perhaps for that I should use the word Unique.

So what words do you say about yourself that perhaps you need to change? I would encourage everyone to examine the labels we use to define ourselves, and in turn the labels we call others.

Winter wishes

*picture not mine used for inspiration*

A short story

By Serena Mossgraves.

Another job, too many this year. It seems like I have taken so many bright lights across the river. Each one so unique, but all humbled by the sight of my river craft. It is never what they expect.
Some expect a religious experience, heaven or hell. That is not my domain. I am a simple guide. Taking each one from the last moment in physical form to a transition point in a more spiritual place.
The river that divides the two is my home. Glistening, it is the tears of grief that the gods cried when their children forgot them. A proper divider in my opinion. Myself, I have been called many names… Reaper, Charon, Death… Or my favorite is Apocalypse.
I am not a god, nor even a mortal creature. The name for what I am has been forgotten nearly as long ago as I was created. And I am fine with that. For naming something gives you power. I have grown accustomed to the freedom of anonymity.
Once the mortals pay for the journey, we move quickly. No, it has never been as the stories about me go, my payment is not coin. I have survived on either story or true emotion. Some are too afraid to give me their stories. Those are the ones who end up trapped. Haunted by the stories they cling to. Innocents, they pay with the grief of those who are left behind. I prefer not to take the joy of life from them.

Still even though each is unique, I didn’t expect what I found that day! Most of the other creatures left are mortal…. Mostly human. The angelic blood that is left is so watered down that most have forgotten that it even existed. The few actual angels remaining are immortal, so I am not supposed to see them. Yet, there one was. Somehow an immortal being had died. Angels are genderless, not in the absence but instead because they are true Hermaphrodites. I found myself staring into her beauty and feeling a sense of impending disaster. Her snow white hair, ashen skin and ice blue eyes were all so very compelling. Add in soft white wings and she seemed almost unreal.

If one of the immortal beings could die, what did that mean for me? For the first time, I considered refusing to ferry a soul across. There was nothing to force my hand, the choice was always mine. Finally, I sighed. “Tell your story to cross between, or do not, and here remain!“

It was the same thing I told everyone, though at that moment I found my desire waning for the story that was about to flow. I remembered every story, from the first to the last. It felt like I was doing a disservice by hearing the story of this soul. It was my catastrophe. For in her story I lost my self and the will to be impartial.

The angel hesitantly looked up at me. I believe that she was as worried about what her death meant as I was. Immortal beings were not meant to be able to die. Their bodies healed themselves more quickly than most were able to be injured. Her story would be one that would shake my world.

“I was given to protection of the innocent. It was my nature, so when the divine stepped back… It was what I decided my job was. I have served as caretaker for thousands of injured innocent. The children called me Frosty the Snowman. The ones who sought to harm the innocent would face my wrath. The children sang songs about me.

I had created a safe place for those who had been hurt. I was pleased that I was able to use my magic to freeze those who would hurt the children. They would try to run. Lock themselves in panic rooms and the like. It didn’t matter. I could see them and their guilt, no matter where they hid.

I have been doing this since society began. I became so very overconfident. I did not count on the pieces of faith that still remain. The last child I sought to protect was being chased by a creature who understood darkness. He has demons in his employ.“

I saw the sudden fear as the Angel trailed off. The fog that passed across her face. “Only the divine can kill the immortal… And demons are but fallen angels. Each of the immortal are shards of the divine. I had forgotten that. And it cost me… And those who I was protecting.“

She was lost in tears. She did not want to leave the children… I could see it. For the first time in my experience I was torn. Though I was nothing more than a guide, I wanted to play god. The river was divine in origin, a connection to the creators.

“How much are you willing to give up? What is most important to you? There is a way, but as with all magics… There will be a cost.” I warned.

Her reaction was knee jerk and emphatic. “Anything! For the children.“ I sighed, knowing what I was about to offer would be a regret for her later on.

Still, having warned her I offered her an option that I would never have offered to another. “Take this cup, and scoop out some of the divine tears. Drink, and should you be found worthy, then your life will be returned to you. Though it will not be as you expect it. The cost will be paid.“

There was no hesitation as she reached the cup down into the dark water. I couldn’t be sure what was going to happen, but I could guess. I was no longer an active participant in this tragedy, and for that I was grateful.

As she drank, she began to change slowly. First, a warmth to her coloring, then the air about her began to chill. There was a growing luminescent glow around her. Growing to a crescendo much like an orchestra, peaking with her turning a crystalline white, then in an instance she fell apart in a pile of snow on the deck of my ship.

The pile sat there, unmoving, for what seemed like an eternity. Then almost lazily a small wind funnel started lifting the snow. I watched the snowman form. I was not sure where the hat and pipe came from, but with magic it was not something that I really needed to know. “The magic returned the life to you, it granted the wish in your heart to return to being Frosty. Be cautious, for you are still vulnerable to that which the divine made. I wish you good stories, until we meet again.“ I dismissed her to return to the world of the living.

Every now and then I hear about the snowman, and the protector of the lost and broken children. Whether she regrets that choice, that I will only discover should she again come to me for the ride into the other side.