Honoring the Art of Creative Living
Perhaps I’m planning a diagram of a family structure.
Here is the beginning, a dot on a page, and what to call
this dot? Here.
Lisa Zaran is the author of eight collections of poetry including Dear Bob Dylan, If It We, The Blondes Lay Content and the sometimes girl. She is the founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices. When not writing, Zaran spends her days in Maricopa county jails assisting women with remembering their lost selves.
There are so many ways to celebrate this blessed life we have been gifted. Looking for the ordinary moments that are so special and celebrating in your own way creates beauty. I have always adored moonlight. I love how it lights up the night with a beautiful magical force. It’s as if the heavens turned on the most crystal bright chandelier just for us. It is with great anticipation that I await the new moon, the full moon, the healing glow in the sky.
Collecting a variety of crystals and learning about the energies they bring to us is part of my world that I love and share with others. I believe by placing your crystals, rocks, shells, written prayers outside on the night of the full moon (new moon) extra blessings with wash over your precious items.
Perhaps the moon water gets charged with energy we cannot capture other ways?
Water has always been a source of energy in my life. Just being in water can give me a force of clarity, ideas, calmness, true focus. Perhaps, this can be true for you too?
Some write it is a blessing water. I believe it is.
The water can be used to drink and heal (if you believe) it can be used to bathe your crystals before bringing them inside as a source of bringing new energies. You can add the water to your bath water, light candles and relax with a new clarity.
I believe with my whole heart that magic, a love for living is found where we seek it and plant it.
Everyday is a new chance to make special to honor those moments that we love the very most. You can celebrate anything you want (secretly just for you) or sharing with others to help bring inspiration and love into this big world.
I celebrate the new moon, I celebrate so very many simple moments knowing that these are the sacred gifts I have been given. Just listening, looking and knowing anything can be beloved.
We are all beloved souls. Love more.
Kelli May-Krenz is an award-winning graphic designer and illustrator with more than 20 years’ experience. Her ability to capture, express and visually communicate the needs and visions of her clients has produced designs and promotional materials for everything from independent boutiques to Fortune 500 companies.
Her new stationery line, Pearl Button’s World, recently debuted at the National Stationery Show – where two of her designs were selected as finalist for Best in Show – and she has been featured in an array of print publications including Somerset Studio, Art Journaling, Somerset Life, Somerset Memories, Somerset Apprentice, Room to Create and Uppercase magazine.
You stand in front of the mirror, muscles tired, and watch your own skin.
You flex and stretch and watch your body move, like some force of biological magic.
Then, you see it — tendrils. Creeping roots. Pale blue and branching. Your veins under your untanned skin. This is what they mean by “translucent.”
You cup your breast up, away from your ribs and twist slightly, stretching your side-body to observe the thicker vein descending from your hip into your pelvis. To memorise it’s limbs, branching, reaching up toward your ribs. To see the tendrils weaving over your ribs, latticing about the Cage. Lacing across your chest, under your collar bone, from your shoulders, like wadded spiders’ webs.
You imagine my fingertips running over them. Tender touch. Gentle breath. Whispered kiss.
You feel no shame in your pale state. You are beautiful in your biology. Your blood flooding to tired muscles.
Should you break the skin it would flood out.
I want to remember it.
Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.
What do we need as people for nourishment? Food.
What do we need as authors for nourishment? Inspiration.
What do we need as fans for nourishment? Good stories.
These are the three reasons I like writing the Cookbook Nook Mysteries.
The first: they’re about food, so I find myself writing about food, thinking about food, coveting food, and taste-testing recipes.
The latter happens to be the most fun. If my recipes don’t work for me, I won’t share them with my readers. As I pick a theme for my next book and pour over cookbooks searching for ideas for recipes, I find myself nourished at a whole other level.
The second: whenever I do research for my Cookbook Nook mysteries, I find so much inspiration.
Why? Because I gave Jenna’s father, Cary, a fun quirk. He loves memorizing quotes so he can turn to words of inspiration when in need. He shares this love with Jenna and her pals. As I look for pithy quotes, I find I’m inspired. I’ve printed out many and have posted some around my workspace.
“The primary sign of a well-ordered mind is a man’s ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company.”
–Seneca
[This sign hangs in Cary’s hardware shop.]
“Courage is not the absence of despair; it is, rather, the capacity to move ahead in spite of despair.”
—Rollo May
[Shared when Jenna had to move forward with her life.]
“Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.”
–George Bernard Shaw
[This one made me laugh!]
The third: Like you, I’m a reader, too. I love a good story. Because of that, I try my best as an author to give you, my fan, a good story!
This means that whenever I’m writing, I try to think like a fan. What would I like to read? Yes, I write about murder because I love a puzzle. But I also write about family. I think that’s why my readers like my books. I delve into these complex relationships. Family matters to my protagonists. Also I explore the depths of friendship because my protagonists have so many “extended” family members.
“People need dreams; there’s as much nourishment in them as food. ”
–Dorothy Gilman“The nourishment of our souls comes from the smiles of others. ”
—Steve Maraboli“Food brings people together on many different levels. It’s nourishment of the soul and body; it’s truly love. ”
–Giada De Laurentiis
Nourishment. We need it. We crave it. We love it.
My dear readers, may reading good books fill your souls. May reading about food inspire you to cook and/or fill your tummies with tasty treats. Savor the mystery!
So…what nourishes you?
Agatha Award-winning and bestselling author DARYL WOOD GERBER ventures into the world of suspense with her debut novel, GIRL ON THE RUN.
Daryl also writes the Cookbook Nook Mysteries, and as Avery Aames, she pens the Cheese Shop Mysteries. Her latest Cookbook Nook Mystery: Grilling the Subject publishes August 2, 2016.
Fun tidbit: as an actress, Daryl appeared in “Murder, She Wrote”. She has also jumped out of a perfectly good airplane and hitchhiked around Ireland by herself. She loves to read and has a frisky Goldendoodle named Sparky. Visit Daryl at www.darylwoodgerber.com.
we all go drifting from a dark bedroom
to a sunlit porch. even when a day feels
flattened and depression seems like the
only open door, hope abounds.
maybe it’s a skirt turning in summer sun
catching refractions of yellow light
maybe
it’s the gentle phrase of a stranger saying
have a nice day
maybe it’s just the afternoon
God’s mid-day break, sighing.
Lisa Zaran is the author of eight collections of poetry including Dear Bob Dylan, If It We, The Blondes Lay Content and the sometimes girl. She is the founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices. When not writing, Zaran spends her days in Maricopa county jails assisting women with remembering their lost selves.
Whether traveling domestically or internationally, I go to farmer’s markets to feel the pulse of the region. There I can begin to understand the local people, indigenous crops, handcrafts, economy, and pace of daily life.
Hong Kong markets were a cacophony of unfamiliar sounds, smells and products, which whirred with crowds that carried me along. The large street markets that stretched on for blocks in Chiang Mai, Thailand were an amazing experience. One can purchase everything from live frogs to tiny peppers packed with heat or dried fish by the barrelful. There is even an entire market devoted entirely to bananas. However, I discovered I much preferred the small markets in the northern rural areas of Thailand where I communicated with farmers, fishermen and artisans in a pantomime exchange, as they offered me food to taste or used gestures to convey information about their wares. I tasted everything that was offered.
Almost everything…
When an English-speaking man strongly urged me not to eat the chunk of greenish gray gelatinous stuff handed to me by the fish lady, I thanked her graciously, pretended to take the tiniest of “no-thank-you-bites” and heeded his advice. I once even witnessed a flash mob dance through a market in Frankfurt.
There is no need to leave your hometown to take a veritable field trip for your senses. Local farmers markets are one of my favorite simple pleasures and I try to go weekly. Fruits and vegetables remain in the field until ripe. Colors are more vibrant. Grapes taste grapier. Freshly harvested herbs and spices have a sensual, earthy quality that is traded for the convenience of dried grocery store herbs.
I buy handmade pasta, breads, cheeses and juices as well as local seasonal produce, flowers and honey. I like to be proactive and know where my food comes from, that it is sustainably farmed and is organic.
Farmer’s markets broaden my culinary horizons as well. In Maine I bought fiddleheads at a small market from the woman who picked them. She happily taught me how to prepare them in her favorite manner.
Ojai California’s market has an amazing fromagère who produces the best lemon quark I have ever tasted… Okay, it is the only lemon quark I have ever tasted but it is, in fact, stupendous!
When I asked about watermelon radishes at a market two miles from my home, the farmer was only too happy to cut one in half, revealing a lovely pink sunburst inside, and shared several recipes as we munched the crisp treat. His son said that his favorite way to eat them is roasted, which I discovered is also my family’s favorite as well. The caramelization on the outside is a wonderful contrast to the savory fuchsia middle.
If you too strive to be a traveler, not a tourist, and want to eat like locals, don’t only dine in restaurants. Visit the local markets as well.
Julie Terrill is a photographer and writer with a passion for travel. For ten years, she’s told stories of empowerment through the lens of her camera in an array of unique landscapes, environments, and projects – from a shelter for children rescued from trafficking in Thailand to Faces of Courage, complimentary portrait sessions she offers to cancer patients in her community. She is a photographer and facilitator at Beautiful You and Soul Restoration retreats.
Connect with her at: JMTerrillImages.com
solitude
filled with books and bird song
nourishes
quiet
chosen for rounded edges
not lonely
Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.
“Aunt Sissy isn’t going to bring that tired old broccoli and rice thing with Cheez Whiz, is she?” Phyllis’s daughter Marin asked her as she snuggled her cell phone between her chin and shoulder. She plunked a Keurig coffee pod into place and set the machine in action. “We’ve got free range turkey and organic vegetables and she brings freakin’ Cheez Whiz, for Pete’s sake.” Marin continued her plea.
“Well, I’m not telling her, if that’s what you think. That casserole is one of her proudest creations. She takes it everywhere. It’s Thanksgiving after all. Thankfulness is in order, not snobbery.”
“Yada. Yada. Yada. Please, Mom. You know she worships you.”
“She worships me because I let her bring her broccoli and Cheez Whiz any place she darn well pleases. And you should, too, young lady.”
Marin laughed with the confidence of a daughter who got just about everything she ever wanted. “Please, Mommy.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it, but I’m blaming you.”
“Coward.”
“Yeah, look who’s calling who a coward.”
***
Phyllis loved Sissy. They’d stuck together during their parent’s divorce, during both their husband’s deaths, during the trying years of squalling infants, stubborn toddlers, and smart-ass teenagers. Besides, Phyllis kind of liked the broccoli casserole. The dreaded free range turkey was dry as dust and didn’t have much more flavor. Give her a Butterball any day. Looked like the day of thankfulness was turning into an exercise in diplomacy even Henry Kissinger would find challenging.
She might as well stop stalling, she knew she’d do whatever Marin asked. Pressing the home button, Phyllis called forth Siri to help with her dirty work. “Call Sissy cell,” Phyllis said with resignation.
“Hi, Phyl, what’s up?” Sissy’s voice was chipper, making Phyllis’s job even tougher.
Phyllis paused, thinking how to begin, but Sissy knew her too well, the pause gave Phyllis away.
“Okay, little sister, what gives?” Sissy didn’t wait for an answer. “You won’t go with me to that Tupperware party. I know you hate that kind of stuff. ”
Phyllis jumped in. “Marin wants you to bring something instead of your casserole to Thanksgiving.” There, the cruel words were spoken. She almost heard Sissy’s feelings get hurt right over the phone. A moment’s uncomfortable silence, and Sissy said, “Thank God. I’m sick of that old thing, too.”
Had Phyllis heard right? Sissy was faking it. “Oh, come on. You can’t fool me. You feel bad and you’re just being noble. Come on, make me feel guilty. I deserve it.”
“You think I can’t be all trendy? I’ll bring something with keeeenwhaaaa in it. I bet Marin will even ask for the recipe.”
***
On the big day, the decorating at Marin’s house did Martha Stewart proud: bowlfuls of fall fruits and vegetables spilled out artistically on the sideboard and the coffee table. Pumpkins in descending size marched down the front steps in puddles of fall leaves; and place cards sat in tiny branches covered in berries. Not a fold out Hallmark tissue paper turkey in sight.
“Mom, Aunt Sissy, Happy Thanksgiving!” Marin gave them each a sweet-smelling hug and a smile as real as her decorations. It was easy to see why people went out of their way to please her. Her husband Bill, a handsome guy whose brilliant technical mind hid inside a guy who was happiest playing touch football with the kids, relieved them of their dishes.
Sissy whispered to Phyllis, “I bought it ready-made at Whole Foods.”
After a few glasses of wine, Marin announced the turkey was served. Sissy and Phyllis sat next to each other prepared to boost each other’s courage in the face of a tough bird. The platter circulated, and Phyllis put the smallest piece she dared on her plate. The quinoa followed, and again Phyllis served herself a dainty portion. When the mashed potatoes she had brought made their appearance, Phyllis heaped a small mountain on the bare expanse of her plate. Let Marin believe mashing potatoes with the skins on was brand new, Phyllis knew differently. Her grandmother used to do it to save time, saying, “The skins are where all the vitamins are, anyway.”
Phyllis watched as Sissy cut off a minute piece of turkey, and said, “Wish me luck. Here goes.” And she put the bite on her tongue. Her wary expression turned to surprise. “This is delicious. How did you fix it?”
Marin said, “I thought it was kind of dry last year, so I Googled this honey mustard marinade.”
The platter passed a second time and had to be refilled half-way round.
Phyllis watched Bill take a bite of quinoa, and with a full mouth, he said, “Good work, Aunt Sissy.” Phyllis followed his lead. Not bad. Kinda nutty. The funny name had made her suspicious, but quinoa was really pretty non-threatening.
“I’ll have to get your recipe,’ Marin said.
At that, Phyllis and Sissy sputtered and elbow-nudged. Sissy nearly choked, suppressing her laughter, and reached for her water glass.
To their utter bewilderment. Marin served Pepperidge Farm heat-and-serve rolls with her chemical, preservative, additive-free feast. Sissy and Phyllis and even Bill shared a look, the women rolled their eyes, and Bill refilled their wine glasses to the brim.
Marin and Bill’s three boys, who had shared their own table, cleared the plates under Bill’s supervision. They returned from the kitchen walking as carefully as if on a high wire bearing dessert plates holding cranberry clafouti with real whipped cream. Both Sissy and Phyllis knew that clafouti was just a French name for cobbler. They also knew it would be to-die-for, and were grateful it was not the rubbery pumpkin pie their own mother had always served.
Bill placed cups of coffee next to each place, and they all nibbled and sipped like bears preparing for hibernation. Bill shooed the boys into the family room, the women into the living room, and he insisted on tackling clean-up duty on his own.
Amid the clatter and splash of cleaning up, the women heard the announcer and crowd noises and Bill’s occasional cheers and curses while he watched Vanderbilt’s game on the mini flat screen in the kitchen. His clean-up offer had included a scheme to catch up on his alma mater’s game.
Phyllis, Sissy, and Marin collapsed on the living room’s comfy furniture. The sisters told Marin about the Caribbean cruise they planned to take after the holidays.
Marin listened carefully and then, her eyes twinkling, she smiled and said, “Well, I hope you’ll both be around in May. I’m going to need your help.”
“What are you talking about, Marin?” Phyllis asked, a little concerned in spite of Marin’s smile.
Marin pointed to her stomach, holding up four fingers, she said, “Number four.”
Phyllis and Sissy gasped, then all manner of tears and hugs and laughter broke out. “Another baby. Oh, I love babies. Of course we’ll help you, honey. We’ll be your slaves.”
Bill picked that moment to join them, and the three boys came crashing through the room with toy laser weapons, shouting, “Pitchoo, pitchoo,” The youngest fell behind and climbed on his grandmother’s lap.
Phyllis gave him a cuddle and a kiss. “Didn’t your mommy fix the best Thanksgiving dinner ever?” she asked her grandson.
“Yeah, it was really good, but where was that Cheezy Wheezy stuff? I wanted some of that.” Then he hopped down and ran off in search of his brothers.
Marin looked surprised, then caught her aunt’s eye, and blushed. Phyllis and Sissy did not hold back their laughter this time. They exploded. Bill joined in, but seated himself on the arm of his abashed wife’s chair. He put an arm around her and pulled her close.
Marin buried her red face in his shoulder, and then joined in the laughter.
Phyllis watched her much-loved son-in-law plant a kiss in her daughter’s hair, and knew she had much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.
And Henry Kissinger got the night off.
I live in Raleigh, NC where I write, read, and watch birds. My stories have appeared in several magazines, most recently Modern Creative Life, Indiana Voice Journal, and Watching Backyard Birds.
I am a Writer in Residence at the Weymouth Center, which is the perfect spot to work on my novel-in-progress.
A few years ago, I was exploring a social media platform, and that thing happened where they suggest that you follow/friend/connect to someone from your past. In this case, the suggestion was that I connect with a woman I knew in middle and high school years ago.
Now this individual was what we would call today a “mean girl” and also a “frenemy.” She would be nice to your face, super nice in front of teachers and parents; and yet, when you were alone with her, you knew that not only was she totally sure that she was better than you, but she was plotting how to take you down so that you would know it too.
So there I was, staring into the abyss of my laptop screen and looking at her profile. She had placed a single sentence in the “bio” section, and it read:
“If you think you can, then you can. And if you think you can’t, then you are probably right.”
That sentence has stuck with me ever since. But it has only been recently that I’ve really begun to understand it for what it is: an excellent example of a saying that sounds true, real, and hardcore…but is actually just a big pile of BS.
Because, of course, the truth is more nuanced than that. You and I are not binary creatures. We are not a 1 or 0, on or off. When it comes to life – but especially the tough stuff, the gut wrenching, down on your knees at 4am stuff – that’s definitely not how we work.
More often it’s a case of thinking that we cannot do it, but knowing that we have to try anyway, and so we just go for it even though we are totally scared. That, by the way, is called courage.
Sometimes it’s a case of thinking that we can do it, trying our best, and falling flat on our faces. That, my friends, is what we refer to as learning.
At times we feel numb and dumb and frozen in place – unsure of what we think or feel – knowing that something has to happen and hoping that we can summon up enough of something to take one little step. That, by the way, is what faith looks like.
And of course, on occasion, we are 100% sure that no way, no how, can this be accomplished or achieved – not by us, not today, not ever. But then…lo and behold: we do it! Imagine that.
No, that little statement couldn’t be further from the truth about who we are and what we really need to handle the tough stuff.
When we talk about enchantment and magic it is really easy to assume that we are talking about some airy-fairy, Vaseline coated camera lens way of looking at life that ignores all the sharp angles and tough punches we encounter in the “real world.” That assumption is really anemic. We’d do better to look at history and myth where those who have, since time out of mind, practiced the ways of enchantment: Priests and Priestesses, and Witches, Wizards, and Prophets — who do so in the name of better understanding and engagement with life right here and now.
To live an enchanted life is not to run away from life, but to gallop towards what is most real. Enchantment is what allows us to see that catty, clever, sentence for the BS that it really is because enchantment will always show you not only what is most possible, but what is most real.
And what is real is that sure, sometimes we do feel like we cannot do it, and sometimes we think we can’t, and as it turns out there are lots of things we think and feel that at the end of the day don’t hold water.
What is also real is that there are always choices, always options, always fresh starts and new pages to turn, and new roads to travel and – thank the heavens – many ways to travel them.
What is most real is that you have ways and means available to you that are 100% unique to who you are – they cannot be repeated or replicated by anyone – and for that reason alone no one gets to determine what you can or cannot do.
Those of us who think we can’t are not probably or otherwise right. We just need to think a little harder, dig a little deeper, and see with a little more clarity, feel with a little more heart. That is exactly what living an enchanted life helps us do – enchantment is not afraid of the tough stuff. It is made for it.
Hi, I’m Briana! I am a writer, teacher, and spiritual counselor, and I am part of a growing community of soulful seekers, people who are looking for wholeness, holiness and healing – for better, more rewarding lives.
The best way to work with me and begin living an enchanted life right here and now is to register for my year long course of fairy tales and magic – Spinning Gold.
One day he just shows up,
sweet and quiet at first
with a poem. An electric charge
builds like a coming storm
vibrating up my spine.
I gulp mouthfuls,
While you slept,
I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
Night after night
I devour Billy Collins,
a chocolate truffle
on my tongue.
Next one holds me close.
We float down afternoons
on slow rivers of margaritas
and conversations. I become
a descarada woman
with Jimmy Santiago Baca.
Flick my ruffled skirt, flash
the butterfly tattoo on my ankle,
challenge him to Flamenco.
Later, slurp the last bits
of Immigrants in Our Own Land
from my plate with red-chili lips.
Each time with Sherman Alexie,
a hollow sensation hovers
low in my stomach
like on a carnival ride
beside people on the Rez,
not depressed victims,
but the most joyous Indians
in the world. I rise and fall
with his metaphors
sweet as cotton candy,
caress his long mane of hair
fanned across red satin sheets.
Lemons, artichokes, eels, love
and despair. Another all-nighter
with Neruda. Odes to objects,
foods I pass in life without any (No stanza break)
attention. Tonight the onion
and tears I don’t even know
wait inside, seep from my eyes.
Then Pablo starts in about socks.
Pat Phillips West lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, San Pedro River Review, and Slipstream, and some have earned nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.