Seriously forgot about this page or thought that I deleted it, perhaps??
And then there were emails saying things like “your professional email has been renewed.” Professional email?? Okay. “Your domain has been renewed.” Alright. I guess I’ll look into this thing, again. To see where it wants to go.
Apparently there’s a badge I received to say this thing has had 500 views. wow! And there are “likes” on posts. I had no idea I had an audience here at all.
And I’m not sure how to format this thing so that engaging photos entice people to visit. I remember trying to do that in the ‘ber months of last year, when I was oh so bored, once the garden finally gave its last harvest. I was looking for ways for this page to be more enticing. Before I believed that I had deleted it, that is. Just as I had deleted my social media page. I had amassed more than a thousand followers there. Most of which were bots, I think. But for some darn reason I erased all of that lovely garden and home and story content just to start back up again this spring. So, look at me being a cliche; going under in winter only to re-emerge in the spring. Or maybe it’s better to say, look at me mimicking the cycles of nature.
I’ve grown bored of writing now, As I often do. Tired of my own voice in my own head. So I’ll just leave this here. As unedited as can be. As I ponder what to do with this thing, this website, this page, this blog. Whatever the hell it is.
Will I add recipes?? Nah. Kind of hate writing recipes. Will I write random ramblings of my dark winter musings? Will I put some of my memoir here, as it comes to me? In little clips? As I attempt to write some grand epoc/grimoire/autobio of my life and ideals and philosophies? Might I talk about my journey with my intuition and universal energy as I reconcile that I am but one tiny drop in a grand scheme of a greater collective consciousness??? but also about how I am learning to understand my preceptions perceptions and communication with things that can’t be seen??
Might I bore you with the angst I feel at having been a parent at 17 only to be utterly and completely empty nested with even my youngest married away from me like Persephone stolen in the night, by the time I am 53.
Perhaps I’ll regale you with my search for meaning by scrying in everything from tea leaves to the boiling bubbles of a big pot of chicken soup. Because, yes, I often find myself scrying in the chicken soup. And I do believe that will be the title of one of my books of which I have many. Titles, I mean, not books:
Scrying in the chicken soup
Strawberries and Thyme
Blueberries and Bullfrogs
The Bereft Nest
Mugwort and Rose
The Thanksgiving House
An Ideal(istic) Christmas
Chasing Nostalgia
At the Junction of Mother and Crone
If I Grew a Pumpkin
From Donata’s Kitchen
Desperate for Dinner
Cucina Famiglia
And yes, some are children’s books. And some I’ve started and some I’ve burned along with herb stems I’ve garbled and they go up in smoke, smudging my soul clean of the angst in which they were written.
A professor once said to me to never burn or delete or tear up anything. But I can’t live with the energy that some stories keep. I need to burn them away from me in a fiery blaze. To ashes. Like torching myself, at the stake, or my old self, at least. Only to rise again. As if a phoenix from the ashes. And once I had a blog that I titled “Donata Rose” because I felt I had done just that, risen from the ashes of existential angst. But I had not. I was in the beginning of perimenopause, not within the throes of it. Because within that thing that we call perimenopause, is where all of the flames reside. Burning every thing that no longer serves in its roiling epicenter. And I think that I have not risen, just yet.
Leave a comment