Long, long ago, the ever-lovely lady Shehanne Moore and her hamster brood nominated me for The Respect Award.
Such a reward requires questions answered, which I hope I can take out of order, since the questions led me to think some thinks that aren’t entirely respect-related, and this is a run-on sentence, so I best likely stop, shouldn’t I?
Who do you respect the most?
Now this I can confidently answer: my friend Rachel. She dedicated herself to God’s Calling back when we were teenagers, and had been teaching in a two-room school in a small Nebraska town for ten years when a brain tumor wrapped its tentacles around her brain stem. Again. And again.
Yes, she’s been under the knife three times. She struggles to speak and walk. She may never be able to hold up her head again, since her neck muscles have atrophied. She had to step down from the ministry, never to return.
Now this would be the point where, at least I think, you give God the finger and tell Him to piss off. I gave my life to YOU, and You give me THIS. Fuck. You.
Nope. Not Rachel. She’s still determined to live on her own once the therapists give the okay, and tutor children. She looks to God, and hopes.
To lose your body and mind for months and struggle to find footing outside that which you’ve known all your life…to go through all that, and not lose faith…
Damn.
What is respect and what does it mean to you?
Right, so this question is weird for me to answer, and I’m not even sure why. My initial thought is: 4th Commandment. Honor the elders, and so on. Believe you me, that was instilled in we pastor’s children at a tiny age. I’m 34, and I STILL can’t refer to my friends’ parents by their first names despite their requests. Hell, I called my father-in-law “Sir” until Blondie was born. First names are informal, see. Respect starts with the address.
Listening, too. Listening is respectful. Visiting the old lady down the street because she goes to our church, sitting in a room shaded by thin white gauzy curtains, a room the shade of canned peas with that carpet and furniture that seemed to sap color and spoil it on the spot, the air heavy with cats who died years ago–
–and listen.
Not that I remember what she said. Respect is a lot of show at times. I learned that quickly: situate the body, say the right words, and inwardly back away. Away from the eyes and senses, and fly, over and through the firmament. Land in a world I build one rock at a time. Get back to work.
Nowadays, I DO listen. Hard. It’s the faith in the words of others where respect transforms into a weapon, the most valuable weapon I have. So many of you have only known me through my words. You met me here, befriended me here. For the few who’ve known me before I started this online venture, you know I love you, but you KNOW me. Your friendship and kindness put this syrupy taint on the comments you give on my writing. I’m compelled to purse my lips and think, you’re too sweet, you’re just saying that because you’re my friend…
For those who’ve met me here, your words come completely of your own volition. You would feel no need to say something unless you wanted to say what you really thought. For so, so long, I always took a compliment as “I’m just doing God’s duty,” “you’re just being nice,” “you don’t really know me.”
But you do know me. You have given such outpourings of thoughts and ideas on your writing, and I’m compelled to give them back, and this sharing of sparks sets all the dark woods ablaze, burns away the black fog, sending it hissing in retreat. The stars reflect our sparks, we are the true lights of the heavens–
Respect is what I use to hack at the self-doubt. Because I respect you, I should believe you in what you say. And if you say, in no uncertain terms, that I am meant to do what I do, well then. Time I respect, and therefore defeat, that which holds me down.
What do I respect about myself?
This is the work-in-progress part. One of the reasons I held off on answering Shey’s questions is because I didn’t know how to answer this one. Lucky for me I hit a milestone not too long ago.
In the past few blogs I’ve mentioned my decision to finally try fiction again: a Middle-Grade fantasy story based on Michael Dellert’s Matter of Manred series. I’ve been posting my freewrites on my facebook page to help deal with my fear of sharing fiction. If I can be okay sharing the extremely rough stuff with others, then putting polished scenes out shouldn’t be so terrifying.
Once I finished Michael’s #13WeekNovel protagonist prompts, I started to work on the setting. The first freewrite didn’t go too terribly, even with the history gaps…
When I wake up, I smell old dung and hay. Scratched from the wool. Redo the braid that at least holds some hair back.
I have to share a room with Nutty, who snores, by the way. I’ve asked for a spot in the barn loft. Nope, not proper.
Damnation.
At least I only need this space to piss and sleep.
Speaking of…
Oh…it is so, so tempting to empty it upon her. My hand actually steadies at the thought. But then the whole room would smell.
Ah, well. Not worth it.
Best to dump just after Fiachna passes….There. That’s dumped.
And with Fiachna’s morning curse at my window, it’s time for the kitchen.
Down the stairs—watch it, the third from the bottom creaks, so best to leap down. White walls, we have one large tapestry made by Dud’s mother before she died. Saffir is Nutty’s mom, the one still around. She’s got her own in the works. Funny how each focuses on the kids: baby Dud’s discovery of an ermine nest on this one. How nice of the family to donate their lives and live in posterity as Father’s coat.
Not sure what Saffir’s making, though Nutty’s in the corner. Probably her talking to birds. Or ghosts. They’re both a touch off, if you get me.
I smell elderberries and hyssop from the fields. Hops, dandelions, and yarrow.
Our furniture is simple, for Father’s tastes are pretty functional which, really, is all this thorp can afford. Not that I mind. One thing, though: the mantle over the fireplace tells a story. It’s a battle of ____. My grandparents fought alongside Terrwyn against ______. They all three survived, but I’m told my grandmother was besot by nightmares ever after. Terrwyn had a hand in helping with Father’s upbringing, and in one of my grandmother’s final lucid moments, promised to keep an eye on him ever after. I can’t believe she would have stayed here otherwise as some lowly tinker.
Not that she sees herself as lowly. And no one would be foolish enough to call her that. And if someone did, Cinaedh would slice his manhood off.
Strange how Father came from such strong people, and can surround himself with good people.
And still be such an ass.
But I’m a middler, and the child of no one special in his eyes. My opinion is of little worth here.
So let’s go into the kitchen, where herbs hang from the beams and there’s always water hot for tea. Grab yourself some elderberries. Watch the spout, it’s got a chip there.
Here. This doorway? This, this is the best view of the thorp. The front door just takes you to a wide circle of thatch roofs and buildings that are old, but solid. Aberfa’s pottery workshop’s the newest thing, and even that’s several years old now.
That’s why I always come out from here. Demman doesn’t mind, so long as he didn’t want the bench for himself.
Watch the grass and flowers bend with the breeze downward. Follow with the slope to the River Aurnia. There’s the mill at the outermost point of the thorp, aaaaand, yes, that’s Aberfa with Bryn, the lady miller. You can bet master miller Pyrs is already in there, loading grains. Kids aren’t quite awake yet—you’d hear them arguing.
I don’t really dwell on the mill when I’m out here. I don’t dwell on the thorp at all, really.
I dwell on that, past the River Aurnia. See that? The Woods of Irial. No, it’s not mystical, or full of beasts, or the gateway to Annwn. It’s just far-reaching. Some smaller thorps are even inside it, and its southernmost, according to the drymyn, is this little place called Bailecrwth.
That’s where I’m going to go to find my mother’s family, if there are any left to find.
And south of them is the Beaumains tribe. They are the reason my mother fled and found herself here. They are the reason Father found my mother, took her, and put my creation into the works.
Dour talk for sunlight transforming the field into gold shimmers and diamonds from the dew. You’d think the sweet sharpness would ease my tongue.
Well it doesn’t.
Every day, I look past this thorp to the place I need to go, for I have a blood-feud that must be resolved. I refuse to carry this with me to the grave. They wronged my mother. Their sins drove me into existence.
They have to pay.
Life called: teaching, mothering. It took a few days before I could return to Seosaim. Initially blank, so I opened my copy of Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden and let the flowers inspire me.
It starts with eglantine.
Beautiful, aren’t they? Sweet as apples, and pleasing to the eye.
Banon, Dud’s mother, planted them here along the fence. Not sure why the fence; it doesn’t exactly keep anyone out, being vines and posts, but it’s a fine thing. Gentle, like she was. I’ll see Father out here sometimes, look upon this living boundary, and tear up.
She must have been quite a woman, to make a man like him cry.
So, down the slope. Let’s open the gate. Don’t worry, the vines are flexible.
The river’s quite full of fish—trout, mainly. A few leeches. Turtles—watch for them. Don’t step on the Alkanet—you’ll put Nutty and Saffir out. They insist on it for their faces.
The tumain keeps a few fruit trees on the edge of Irial. I’m honestly not sure who planted them—the trunks have this look of gnarled veins like the jeweler Cranog, but I don’t think pear and cherry trees came along on their own. Once I heard Father telling Dud that his proper namesake planted them to honor the river goddess. Not sure what this fruit has to do with her. Do gods eat?
Further in, when we’re brave, we can get the Damson fruit. I used to enjoy going in there…and then the…
Damn you hands, STOP SHAKING
The Cat-Eyed Man. I’ve told you about him.
I refuse to let the miller’s children go in there anymore without an escort, being me. They know what I did, so they always want me along when they go past the eglantine. Even Dud won’t bother with the woods, and HE is the one who’s supposed to hunt. So Fiachna’s left to scrounge up game whenever Father decides to teach the hapless twit how to hunt.
Me? I go in.
I go in alone. My hands may shake, throw my body into a quake, but I. will. Enter. Part of revenge is fearlessness. One can’t be afraid of meeting one’s own death. One can’t be afraid of looking evil in the eye, and pulling that eye out with one’s own fingers.
Follow me here.
Hmph.
I didn’t like it.
Something felt wrong.
The…voice. DAMMIT, the voice was missing.
I sent it to Michael, and he agreed that the tone had changed. “Maybe you’re exploring a new aspect of her character.”
I read it through again, tried to apply Michael’s suggestion to the feeling around the words, but no. No, it was wrong.
This wasn’t Meredydd. Not Mer at all. Where did she go?
And all the old panic came back, the failed WIPs of the past because the voice never. fucking. stuck. Years of looking, trying, finally getting, and then….gone.
And here I’m barely a month in, and already going tone-deaf with Mer. She’s not pretty with words. She’s 16, and she’s an overlooked, unwanted middle-child in her home. She’s cocky. Stubborn. Angry. Kind to some, yes, but even they can’t always handle her. Such a girl would never, EVER talk like this.
No.
No, I’m not going deaf. Not this time.
Michael suggested going back to the early freewrites, where Mer’s voice was clearest.
I listened to him, listened to myself, and…
Well?
Are you coming?
The damson trees grow a ways in. You carry the basket. I’ve got my dagger, and I keep a staff in the woods, just in case. Easy enough to hide, wood in a wood.
Why should anyone else find it? No one will go in here but drunken men and the miller’s children, and none will go in on a dare, or without me.
That’s right. Me. Ever since the Cat-Eyed Man, everyone else in the thorp sees the woods of Irial and thinks, “Get Mer.” Gods, I think this is the only way I matter around here…Demman likes to call me the Honey Girl with the Barbed Tongue because I give him plenty of grief whenever he asks me to fetch some.
Yes, that’s why I have this bucket. Hush, I can reach my dagger easily enough.
It’s all about duty…watch the leaves, there. And don’t step there, it’s a bit of a small sink hole…the roots of the fruit trees have done strange things to the soil. It’s always moist, ready for planting. Not sure why, the river’s back quite a ways. Could be the trees. Fychan said once that if something ever happened to tumain, we could all live in the woods and never need for shelter. The leaves, you can see them, are as large as a mare’s hooves. You should see this place come autumn, when the green is burned over with reds and oranges, lots of orange. Damnation, but I miss the autumn, and the smell of the sap for tapping.
Sorry. I get very lost in feeling here.
For all the niceness back there…yes, there…with the flower fence and smoking chimneys, it’s not home. It’s never felt like home. At least in the workshops I’ve been useful—Aberfa lets me keep her company, and Terrwyn will tell stories when I help her haul wood for fires. But this…what is Seosaim but a place where I was nursed and let loose, like the runt of a litter?
DON’T STEP THERE. Can’t you pay attention? You’re going to attract the wolves, walking like that. By the gods, just…no, walk on front of your feet. Your toes. Yes, like that. Pish and shit, you’re worse than Terrwyn, and she’s the one with the iron leg.
Yes, there are wolves in this wood. I think some wild dogs, too…Luc saw a pack a month or so ago and insisted they were too small to be wolves. No one listened to him, of course, but I’m a generous soul DON’T TOUCH THAT. Don’t you know poison oak when you see it? Ye gods, you’re dim. Feel like I should have you on a leash.
Where was I? Oh, yes, being generous. I am. I’m a wonderful listener, and let Luc say all he saw. Don’t underestimate those children. For all their bickering, they’re extremely quick, observant, and smart. Braith nearly made off with twenty gold coins from a merchant once because he was too dull to notice his money chest opening and closing. And I’m not even going to start on Drys. He’s either going to be a master thief, or a master…hmm. Assassin, if he ever gets the taste for blood. Either way, he’s never going to stay on the sunny side of the law.
Finally…you can feel we’re in the woods proper now. Everything’s got a touch of water to it. I like that feeling, that life-feeling of water in the air I breathe, the grass I touch. The sun can’t reach here, the trees are so thick. The whole world’s dark and soft. And here, in this place, my hands don’t quite shake as bad. Maybe there’s a dark magic here, and that darkness knows my intentions, and allows me to steady myself and practice.
Care to see?
Pish, we have time, set yourself down. Pick the centaury—that nettle-like plant there—take up a few chestnuts, and let me move.
Ah….I miss having good hands.
What do you mean, stalling? I am NOT stalling. We have all morning to fetch the honey from the Black Glen—Druce named it—no not the Messor, the Constable, the one who actually WENT there—and the name stuck. What a gods-awful name. Oh, no, a black place, how frightful…
They didn’t SEE the Cat Man. They didn’t SEE how the blackness, like this, like a cave the moment after someone blows out the candle. They didn’t THAT seeping out from him or the stag, how it overtook the stag from the inside out, how it transformed trees into serpents, fingers, all a part of him, abiding him, and not the gods of nature.
And you didn’t see it either, so if I want to practice some moves before we go to THAT place, then I’M GOING TO BLOODY WELL PRACTICE. Shut up and eat your chestnuts.
I ended there, and felt different. Strange, a good strange.
I had listened to myself, believed myself, and it paid off.
I was starting to respect my instinct.
I could get used to this.
You never cease to amaze me, Jean. This is a beautiful, intelligent and passionate post. You’ve put so much effort into this that it’s a good reminder as to why I don’t accept awards. I just don’t have the energy. So glad you do!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aw, shucks. 🙂 xxxx
Well, it took me a while this with one, which Shey gave me, um, two months ago? But thanks. I’m trying to learn in this writer-life that it’s okay NOT having the words ready on the spur of the moment. When I saw my name on Shey’s award, my initial thought was to force something out then and there, but that didn’t feel right. I trusted the feeling, and…well. You made me blush and feel a bit squishy when you proved that wait paid off. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Musings upon self-doubt; the finest thing in the quest for excellence. Self-doubt, the rarest of gifts…smooth shades of Ms Mitchell in the writing by the way.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Why thank you, Kind Poet. I’ll never know how to work that form as you do–you’re not so bad at musing upon doubt, yourself. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
As stated self-doubt is the finest thing…it must be awful to be confident without justification as most (yet plainly not all) confident types are.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m not sure which is more awful: the veil of confidence used to distract others, or the lack of awareness of false confidence.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Both as bad as each other I reckon…when one is unsure of anything and everything, I find that that person is blessed with things akin to compassion and realism. By the way I note you are 34 years, same age as my only daughter…boy does that make this time traveller feel so very old!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ach, we’re all old, and we’re all children. I was born a curmudgeon, and only now embrace my childhood loves without shame. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
And I live out my quest to grow old with disgrace…it’s working thus far!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Good God (I guess) I love the way you mobilize language! Very happy to be listening to voices… with much respect. Thanks for sharing these!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, Good God, you skeptic you. 😉 Thank you for walking through the voices. The mixed blessing of this tone deaf fear was that I realized I shouldn’t have the problem of all characters sounding the same. I’ve read some awful, awful stories with that issue…
LikeLiked by 1 person
This was wonderful. You never cease to surprise me.
LikeLiked by 1 person
(blushes) Thank you. 🙂
LikeLike
Goodness…meriting rereads…the muscular, tight descriptions of your writing, and yes what a strong voice – that maybe softens here and there, like a person does. A complexity. May it go on…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well now you’re just making me fidget and blush. I hope it goes on, too. Nathan. I hope so very, very much…
LikeLiked by 1 person
What a beautiful post Jean. You’ve quite brought a wee tear to my eyes, with many of the things you’ve said, about your friend, about people knowing you. Your words are so beautiful. Believe in yourself. Girl, you’re in a class of your own
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Shey, for all the nudges and hugs along the way. xxxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
I left another comment there just now down below. I mean it !
LikeLiked by 1 person
And I replied to THAT one, because that’s what we do. 🙂 xxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Okay, if I didn’t adore you the way I do, I’d be verdant green when it comes to your glowing, writerly talent, my friend.
You write things like the following paragraph that make me wish with all my heart that I wrote it!
“But you do know me. You know me better than most people in my proper life. And you have given such outpourings of thoughts and ideas on your writing, and I’m compelled to give them back, and this sharing of sparks sets all the dark woods ablaze, burns away the black fog, sending it hissing in retreat. The stars reflect our sparks, we are the true lights of the heavens–”
I gave you fair warning I’d write “This is beautifully written” in my comments at Jean Lee’s World not because I like you (I do, I do!) and not because I think you’re the bee’s knees (and antennae and all other bee anatomical parts) but because the writer Jean Lee is truly amazing.
LikeLiked by 2 people
That is the most wonderful piece of writing Jean. Forget twisting yourself re voice and look at it! that is your voice
LikeLiked by 2 people
well now I’m tearing up a bit. It is my voice, but I’ve only found it because of support from you and others here. If not for you, this space would be gathering virtual dust.
So, all the more: I thank you. Deeply, and completely. I thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It is indeed your voice and it was always there, will always be there, Now, no more worrying about it, trust in yourself. Believe in what everyone else sees there and sweep the dust bunnies out. xx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ew, I think some matchbox cars mixed in with the dust bunnies and now they’re driving away! Those scampers. 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
So long as it ain’t with your ideas my darling xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hey, you’ve written of yourself in a way I can only hope to achieve. You are raw, woman. Damn, that’s like your superpower. Your words taste of happiness, anger, fear. That’s why I know your book’s gonna kick ass–because your voice IS you, and you take any reader’s heartstrings and play’em like a ukulele. 😉
Dyane is truly amazing, is my point. xxxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Um, can I please use this as a blurb? 😉 I very well might get “I take any reader’s heartstrings and play’em like a ukulele” 🎵 as my first tattoo, perhaps somewhere the sun don’t shine! 🙀
Love love love that part and of course I love all of the rest – thank you, dear kindred spirit! The word “honored” doesn’t begin to touch upon how I felt when I read this comment…
In the morning I’ll toast my first five cups of coffee to you! ☕️ 💜
p.s. 🍵how it’s going with the green tea? I ran out the past few days but got some this afternoon!
LikeLiked by 1 person
LMAO! Well, ahem, you and, ahem, that tattoo, ahem, sure, ahem ahem, say what’s over here? 😛
But if you’re actually serious about the blurb, YES. I’ll add more instruments to make a band if I get to see an ARC! xxxxx I toast my coffee–already lukewarm, dangit–to you and our fierce mama bear kindred spirits!
I’m low on my tea, too, but our neighbors, who are new, gave US a gift basket of welcome (?!?) which includes a lot of woolong tea. Is that, um, as good as the green tea? (these are the same neighbors my son Biff invaded a few weeks ago. Literally, he, just ran INTO THEIR HOUSE and wouldn’t leave. they took it really, really well, having little ones of their own, but still. SUCH an embarrassing mommy moment. And they’re giving US a welcome basket!!!)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Of course I’m serious!!!! I’ll keep you posted on when the ARC is ready – oh, can’t wait for that day, let me tell you! Your new neighbors sounds incredibly nice, to say the least. The fact they gave you guys the basket instead of the other typical way around did make me smile, and how I wish our neighbors were like that! They’re the total opposite. Ugh. That’s a post right there. Not sure about woolong (oolong?) tea’s benefits – I just did a Google search and found this link, which makes it sound pretty darn healthy & *better* than green tea!
https://www.organicfacts.net/health-benefits/beverage/health-benefits-of-oolong-tea.html
WebMD brings up side effects & interactions (i.e. don’t drink it if you use cocaine…um, okay!) but check the pages just in case…
http://www.webmd.com/vitamins-supplements/ingredientmono-1099-oolong%20tea.aspx?activeingredientid=1099&activeingredientname=oolong%20tea
Too funny about Biff running into their house…..it’s kind of cool, though – that’s how it used to be!!!!! I’m sure they got a kick out of it since they have kiddos too! :)))))
LikeLiked by 1 person
We ARE lucky to have these folks as neighbors, I think. I just wish I could work out their schedule…they wanted our kids to have fun in their kiddie pool, but didn’t set it up until 7pm, when we start the bedtime routine…bugger! Ah, well, we’ll work it out. 🙂 Thanks for the links! Technically, TECHNICALLY, I don’t use cocoaine, so I *should* be fine.
Technically.
😛
Love and hugs to you and yours–KEEP AT THAT BOOK! xxxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
xoxoxo!!!! I will!!!!!!!!!!
LikeLiked by 1 person
p.s. You’re definitely an old soul @ 34! 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
I AM! 23-skidoo, ra ra…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ciao Happy Sunday 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
And to you as well!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sending my love to Rachel. I too have a deep respect for those who remain true to themselves even when their circumstances suddenly change. And it is not a patronizing pseudo respect of the one ‘who knows it all’, but a humble admiration of the weak and inexperienced learner of life.
Your writings are strikingly genuine and intelligent. I wish I could meet you in person some day! xxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aw…aw, you…shucks. 🙂 Thanks so much for your love and friendship. I’d travel across the Pond just to watch you work! And thank you for sending your love to Rachel–she’s a fighter, through and through. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Like it and love it a big hugs from Sweden and me / Mella ❤ 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
Pingback: Pride of Place – Jean Lee's World
Just beautiful, no other words needed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. x
LikeLiked by 1 person