artful shape shifter viewed from every angle redefined each time
Weekly Photo Challenge: From Every Angle
Shape Shifter
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Author Archives: Maggie C
Dog Day(s) of Summer
The “dog days of summer” actually have nothing to do with dogs (they refer to the Dog Star Sirius and its position in the heavens during a portion of the summer). This summer day, however, is all about dogs.
It’s National Dog Day, an “unofficial” holiday established to acknowledge the benefits and needs of our canine companions. Seeing as how it is unofficial, I’d say it’s open to celebration in any nation.
So hug your dog, adopt a dog, send kind thoughts to the neighbors’ dog whose barking woke you up at 2 A.M. this morning… there are as many ways to celebrate as there are fleas on a dog.
Here’s a shout out to the special dogs in my life:
Chihuly
Bella
Finnigan
And lest I get clawed to a bloody pulp, I’ll just toss in some love to one of the cats in my life. She’s not a big fan of National Dog Day. She’s not a big fan of much anything, really. But I’ll leave her story for another day. Like maybe National Curmudgeon Day.
Happy National Dog Day!
Wordless Wednesday 8.26.15
Community Garden
Haiku Twelve ~ Flawed
some say love is blind true love perceives many flaws and loves nonetheless
Brain Dump
For a few months now, I’ve been writing “morning pages,” a concept introduced by author Julia Cameron In her book, The Artist’s Way. Basically it involves filling three pages of a journal each day upon first awakening with “stream of consciousness” writing, moving your pen (or pencil or crayon) nonstop to record whatever pops into your mind.
Morning pages are intended to circumvent the “inner critic,” that voice inside your head that judges and picks apart whatever you think or do.
If you listen to your inner critic and believe all the negativity it tries to heap on you, eventually your creativity gets blocked, and you couldn’t write a decent sentence or draw a decent picture or perform a decent free form interpretive dance – or whatever your creative bent is – if your life depended on it.
Cameron recommends that you don’t go back and read what you’ve written in your journal so you won’t be tempted to edit or censor yourself.
You know how as soon as you’re told not to do something that’s exactly the thing you want to do? Okay, maybe that’s just me. And most five year olds. But of course I just had to reread my journal entries.
I’ve culled a few of my thoughts to share with you. If you are a psychiatrist who’s reading this, feel free to list your diagnoses of my mental state in the comments below. Or not.
Here’s a sampling of my journal entries:
It’s funny how old sayings get truncated and then end up making no sense. “Sweating like a pig.” “Happy as a clam.” Then you can’t remember how they’re supposed to go. Am I sweating like a pig at high tide, or am I happy as a clam in a butcher’s shop? Maybe I should just clam up and stop sweating it.
I’m still curious as to why birds don’t interbreed. You know, like a hawk and a rooster. You’d end up with a hawk-a-doodle.
I set a couple of goals for yesterday, maybe more, and at first I totally forgot about them. Then I remembered that I had set them, but couldn’t remember what they were.
If something is misspelled is there really such a thing as misspelling it worse?
Birds probably don’t dwell on rejection.
Who knew ampersands could be so interesting?
I had it figured out once, but then I got confused again. That happens a lot. Well, maybe not. Just sometimes. I don’t know… I’m so confused.
I sure have a lot of things to not worry about. That worries me.
I bet doggie heaven has lots of things to bark at. And smelly things to roll in. And it’s probably right next to kitty heaven so the dogs can sneak over there and eat cat poop. ‘Cuz they sure do love to do that!
Surprisingly, rereading my journal has not invoked that critical voice in my head. In fact, my inner critic seems to just be shaking its head, with that “I don’t even know where to begin” look of dismay.
For once, my inner critic is speechless. Maybe I’ll go do my interpretive dance now.
B&W: Flowers
blossoming flowers stripped of color and fragrance still express beauty
Wordless Wednesday 8.19.15
Pink Feathers
“Go in search of pink feathers,” commands the channeled spirit, “and you shall find them.” Indeed I did find them. They were on sale at a store right around the corner. Manifested just for me. Must be a common directive for this mystic.
“Don’t just ask the Universe for a thousand dollars,” advises one motivational speaker. “Be specific.” So I asked for one thousand two hundred thirty-two dollars and fifteen cents. I’m still waiting for the fifteen cents. Universe, do you hear me?
I don’t know when manifesting became akin to ordering from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. Don’t get me wrong. I believe wholeheartedly in manifesting.
My concept of manifestation, however, is the good old-fashioned kind. The kind where what one sends out vibrationally into the ether comes back in the form of self-fulfilling prophecy.
Henry Ford was on board decades ago, long before the “secrets of the Universe” crowd showed up (or did they manifest?). His oft-quoted words sum it up nicely:
Whether you believe you can do a thing or not, you will be right.
Perhaps a bit less mystical, but no less powerful. You are what you think. You attract what you think about. You are limited by your limiting beliefs. And yes, there is a vibrational field that holds your vision and works on your behalf to help make manifest your intentioned outcomes.
There, I said it. So I am a little woo-woo “out there.” But I’m comfortable with that. And I don’t need a pink feather to prove to myself or anyone else that manifesting “works.” And if – at the end of the day – I come up fifteen cents short, so be it.
It’s a beautiful morning, and I’ve sat at my computer long enough. I think I’ll head out to see what I can manifest today. No matter what order we place with the Universe, the Universe has an uncanny way of surprising us.
I like surprises. Sometimes.
In response to The Daily Post prompt: Community Service
B&W Photo Challenge: Motors and Engines
Old, new, work, play…
a quartet of engines and motors.
In response to Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Things with Engines or Motors
Weekly Photo Challenge: Creepy
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: Creepy
“This week, share an image of something creepy. Unsettling. Eerie. Disgusting.”Okay, I’ll try.
It all started late one afternoon. I had gone out for a walk, hoping to get a little fresh air before the sun went down. I headed for the nearby woods, my favorite place to go when I wanted peace and solitude. As I neared the forest, I noticed something strange.
Some of the trees appeared to have been bent sideways. Not broken or blown over, just contorted, as if some unseen force were pulling the tree tops back toward the ground.
Several of the trees were oozing a thick substance from their trunks. I moved closer to inspect it.
The bark on the trees appeared to be bubbling, turning to a dark sludge that clung to the trunks,…
…writhing beneath some kind of acid that ate away at the bark. It smelled horrible.
Suddenly the sky darkened and a powerful wind thrashed the treetops.
I felt something tugging at my feet, and looked down just in time to see a black vortex opening in the ground beneath me. I was sucked violently downward, right through the forest floor.
I found myself in a dark cave. There were stunted stalactites protruding from the ceiling of the cave, emitting an eerie light that cast a strange hue about the cavern.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw something glowing at my feet. Was that a skull?
Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my arm, as a shadow flitted past me and away into the darkness. Something or someone had slashed a hole in my denim jacket sleeve. I could feel warm liquid trickling down my arm.
A green eye gleamed from the shadows, …
…and other strange creatures shifted in and out of view. I screamed.
The ceiling of the cave cracked open, and I was suddenly sucked upwards in a shaft of bright light.
I must have fainted, but when I came to, I was relieved to see that I was back on the lawn just outside my home. It was just beginning to get dark. Had this all been a dream?
A voice shouted from behind me.
“There she is!” Two men, dressed all in white approached me, and grabbed my arms as they began dragging me toward a nearby building.
“How’d she get out?” one of the men asked.
“I don’t know,” replied the other. “But it won’t happen again!”
I felt a sharp poke in my upper arm, and everything faded to black.
When I awoke, I was back in my room, lying on the bed, with the bare light bulb overhead glaring into my eyes. I sat up. I must have dreamt all those strange experiences.
Everything was just the way it had been when I had gone to bed last night. My denim jacket was lying across the foot of the bed. I remembered that it had been torn in my dream.
I picked up the jacket and began examining the sleeves. Nothing. So it had been a dream after all. I sighed with relief.
Then I felt something in one of the pockets. I wasn’t allowed to carry any personal possessions, so I couldn’t imagine what it might be. I reached in and touched it, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I pulled it out of my pocket.
A vacant eye stared at me from a still warm skull. Was that a shred of denim in its beak?
I dropped the skull and turned to run from the room, but the door was locked from the outside. Pounding on the door, I shouted for someone to come let me out. The door opened suddenly, and a white-clad orderly stepped in.
“Good evening, Maggie. It’s time for your medication. We wouldn’t want you having any more of those nightmares, now would we?”
What Rhymes with Stanza? 