Turkey Talk!

I am walking toward my writing cabin as fast as I can, holding my computer in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. A darkening sky and blowing wind accompanies me this morning, and I can hear thunder in the distance. Yanking the door open, I slip inside, closing it tightly behind me. I'm safe, dry and snug in here, I think.

Through the wall of windows I can see lightening break across the sky, jagged and powerful. Tree branches are whipping wildly against each other as the storm arrives in full force.

Ten wild turkeys are running through the ferns, heading for my pile of brush. I put it there for the ground animals to hide under during thunderstorms and blizzards. The turkeys climb on top of the mound tucking their feathers tightly to their bodies, and lower themselves on the rough dead wood. I don't think they like to get their feet wet. They preen a little, and then drop their heads.

Loud thunder...gobble gobble gobble. Louder thunder...gobble gobble gobble. With each roll of thunder comes the turkey talk. I'm guessing they don't like being interrupted from their ground scratching and pecking, but what do I know of turkey talk?

For a decade I've witnessed many storms in these woods, and the turkeys always squawk after each clap of thunder. A private joke perhaps? Laughter? I'm not sure, but it never ceases to amaze me.

Turkey talk! Who knew?

My writing group....my friends.

I have the most amazing writer's group. We critique each other's work, write stories for our newest anthology, and laugh at our own mistakes. We've been together five years and all of us are dedicated to becoming better writers.

For example, after I've spent weeks or months writing and editing a new short story, I go back to my group with ten copies of it tucked into my briefcase. Unwillingly, I pass the stapled copies around and ask if someone would read it. Out loud! I listen. I watch the faces with curiosity while they mark up their copy of my valued work.

After the reading is finished, I reluctantly ask for comments. What they say, you don't really want to hear. You do not want to be told that the first sentence is off the mark, or that there's not enough dialog, or the protagonist is not described well. Even worse is noting that someone is writing furiously in the margins of their copy before they pass it back.

When I return home, I leave the ten copies in my bag, and don't look at them for two weeks. I don't want to read their 'additional' comments. Three weeks later, after bringing them to my writing cabin, I turn them upside down on the floor by my table. The pages talk to me as they sit at my feet with their corners flipping up in the breeze from the open wall of windows in front of me, and I feel their urging to be looked at.

Finally, enthusiastically, I grab one. Then another. Now I'm on the floor with all the copies forming a circle around me. The comments are helpful, but I wince when I see the obvious mistakes I've made.

I've a long way to go as a writer, as you can tell because this blog has not been edited by my friends, but I get better with each piece I submit to my group. I'm proud to be a member. And when it's my turn to write a comment on another writer's story, I'm honored. Really!

My cabin!

A new friend came over to visit this week, and in the process of walking around my woods I introduced her to my writing cabin. Her oooooh's and ahhhhh's, surprised me and we sat within the cabins soft walls for an hour or two. We spoke quietly with each other and watched the deer, birds, and wild turkeys play by my windows.

My cabin sits proudly on its stone foundation, one that I built with my own hands. And as I sit inside I am humbled once again by the distinct loving feeling it gives to all that enter.

Later, on the way out to her car, we walked by my tool shed and I told her how my housemate and I lived in it for six months while we built our home. Our two Maine Coon kitties came along with us for the adventure, and we lived in it until the cold and snow drove us away. This comment drew raised eyebrows and a frown, followed by disbelief. Then she laughed and said, "only you!"

Friends and family come to my home often, but few realize the agonizing efforts of construction. We built a house 'from scratch'...two women, one crazy-cool opera-singing contractor, and hammers tucked into our tool belts. The experience was exhausting, exhilarating, and exciting. I'll cherish those months and carry them in my heart forever.

Pecking order?

Early this morning a raccoon knocked my bird feeder to the ground, and helped himself.

A red-tailed hawk grabbed a squirrel from the largest of my oaks, and flew away.

The resident red fox unearthed a mouse, and ate it in front of my window.

A catbird flew by with a butterfly in its mouth.

An ant carried a dead stink bug over the stone step to my cabin.

Is this called a 'pecking order'?

White spots make me smile!

I'm in my cabin trying to pound out a short story for the Bethlehem Writer's Group anthology, coming in 2012. I keep hearing noises under my open windows but I've been attributing them to the rustling of dry leaves being pushed around by the gentle breezes of the morning.

But, now I hear a sneeze. Okay, that's not a trick of the wind! Standing slowly and quietly I move to my wall of windows and sneak a peak. Oh my, a fawn! On the ground and nestled in dappled sunlight, he looks up at me with sleep filled eyes. No fear yet, and it seems I present no imminent danger. Perfectly aligned spots cover his back, and are the color of snow.

I fade back and out of sight so he can rest again. And, so can I.

Compassion....

We do best what our heart tells us.

Gazing out my cabin window this early morning, I feel compassion within. It gathers strength as I watch two fawns frolic in the dappled sunlight, then run through the ferns at the edge of my woods.

As I watch I melt with grace at the beauty of these two babies, and I make a commitment to non-violence in thought, word and action. Compassion is the reason I'm a vegetarian, and I have a difficult time understanding the 'need' to kill anything this beautiful. Or any other life form, for that matter.

This Earth will live on after I leave. The question I ask myself is; have I done my part to sustain or offset other's carelessness or non-caring? If the answer is no, then I must try harder with the life I have left. All living things need our mercy, sympathy, and kindness. I can challenge myself to do better.

Life is a gift. And love? It connects all of us....

A new beginning

Spring is arriving in my woods. Green tips on underbrush, peepers at the creek, and birds singing their songs of love.

At dawn, on the path to my writing cabin, I look up between the oaks to watch two red-tailed hawks circle one another. Soon they'll make their nest high in one of my trees and I can only hope its close enough to watch with my spotting scope.

Spring brings with it the opportunity to start again. You are the master of your own fate, create the space for that reality and stand strong within it. Bring a piece of the light of yourself to everyone you meet. Take responsibility for the space you hold here, and make a difference within that space.

What is real and what is lasting is who you are.