Suleika and Mr. Stewart, both of your offerings today, have given me the only Quiet Place I have had recently. The gift of those few minutes to read and soak in both has been a cocoon of solitude. Thank you both. As this community knows, my mother died March 5. My father died March 31...he had told me he was "staying alive to take care of your mother." And when that final "mission" (he was Army) was complete, his heart went with hers. I will return to The Quiet Place Post again and again. I am simply tears, my mind, my soul, my corporeal body, a twisted hollow. Thank you both for giving this lost soul, a bit of rest today.
I'm very thankful to wake very early in the morning. Since my brain surgeries in 2006 and 2015, my energy levels get me through the day until about 7:00 PM, and then I'm often off to bed and asleep within 30 minutes. This means that even if I get a full eight hours, I'm up by 3:00 am (like this morning)!. After I push the button on the coffee maker, I build a fire in the fireplace, and put the living room back in order so that from my view, everything is perfect. Then I sit in my favorite chair, a 1950s naugahyde recliner unlike any recliner I've seen...black, with pecan wood trim with thin wooden legs on wheels. It's hip! I grab my book on "thin places," and begin to read while sipping my first cup of coffee, then scan emails, and then get out my iPad to do my drawing lessons in Procreate. It's hours before my husband gets up, and as much as I love him and enjoy his company, these quiet morning hours are my favorite.
The horizon is vast at Back Beach. That’s why I like it. Sometimes seeing the sea stretch on forever makes me feel small (but never insignificant). The way the vivid blue ocean reflects the gold streaks of the setting sun makes me feel at peace. I often wander down there and dig my toes into the warm black sand before entering the glassy ocean to float. With the water in my ears noises become muted and I can lie weightless, lifted gently up and down by the swell. I can swim in the Tasman Sea again and again and learn something new each time I duck under the surface and stroke forwards. I often think about the intricacies of Mother Nature and how she is the greatest artist and storyteller. I try to watch and listen. I feel heard and seen when I am in the sea at Back Beach. When I leave the water and wander home I feel as if I can see and hear life more clearly.
Honestly, my favourite place right now is my porch in the early morning. I live in a historic villa, and the porch is kind of a bit ramshackle. My front door is bright blue with a cloth fabric wreath of pretty pink flowers I bought at a local market.
The sun rises right where I’ve placed my chairs. I plop my bum on the big white chair with cushions, my hot coffee, and my notebook. There is greenery, flowers, and the street is close by. I like hearing the passing conversations, or little dog legs trotting past. There’s an apartment block opposite- I like that too. Having a hum of life, wondering what everyone is doing. Sometimes I take my morning coffee for a stroll down the street, and ask for guidance for the day. Sweet, loving words always come back.
This morning all the shutters and curtains were closed on the houses I passed. It’s one of the seven oldest street in our city.
I love having a sneaky peak, seeing which houses have lights on, which houses are still snoring.
Feeling the neighbourhood at rest.
It’s in this quiet I can stop, notice, feel, and ask for whatever I’m needing. This morning I handed everything over. The kids, the work project, the love life…all of it gets given over. ‘I’ll take it all” a little voice says. Thank goodness! Yay! And if I remember to during the day- if something doesn’t go my way, the way I planned, or imagined- it’s getting easier to go “oh well, that’s how it is” - such a relief to let go sometimes. This has become part of my creative practice, but more than that, my loving, quiet, rich, simple little routine. And I miss it when I miss it.
Ps gosh Intimacies in borrowed light!! 🙏🏽🤍 loved it , thank you! made me really miss those tender moonlit sweet times though!
I'm stopped in my tracks. I haven't done a prompt in weeks. My ruminating prison of a mind won't let me have a quiet place. Except for yesterday at noon when you, dear Suleika, granted me that quiet hour of listening, hearing, questioning and accepting. A reprieve and hope.
A quiet place: in the full engagement of photographing a calla lily, nestled midst eucalyptus leaves, I am drawn deeper and deeper into the stillness of this flower's Beauty. I am asked to step around, gaze from a different vantage point, let the light and shadows enchant me, and they most surely do.
My "quiet place" though it isn't actually quiet is, listening to music on my headphones, while I am working from home. I have two dogs who want my attention, but when I put on my headphones and listen to music, they let me be. I usually cry while I am doing this. Lately the pain in my back has been getting worse and despite my usual optimism, It wears me out. When I listen to music I allow myself the luxury of feeling sad. My art (dolls,) sit next to my desk on pedestals. Silent witnesses to my sorrow and my joy. Lots of little joys!
As a storyteller, sometimes writing at 5 or 6am. The absolute quiet in my hood in Harlem. Lifting my ballpoint pen with my left hand to paper to write a true story from my life, without censoring or judging—just allowing my creative process to “let her rip!”. It feels freeing and gives me a great beginning and always a joyful feeling, no matter if my story is happy or sad. I’m writing! Creating! And my heart is full of love and joy!
For years I swam for exercise. Soon, I hope, I can begin again. I miss the burn in my muscles, the blood thumping through my ears, the whole-body thrill of flying like a fish. But the memory that is powerful in my body is the expansive privacy of submersion. Before pushing off from the wall I plunge or gently lower my whole body beneath the surface - and hold. Air bubbles race for the seal of my swim cap, my ear canals and nostrils establish where my insides and the outside meet, the seal around my goggles either holds or doesn’t, and my lungs honor this non-native condition. I float just below the surface, listening with wonder - every time! - to the remote clicking, tapping, and splashing of other bodies pushing through water around me, or voices calling on the ledge around. I listen, too, to my breath and my blood, those twins of vitality taken for granted. When I look up the sky, or ceiling, wobbles and I let go of whatever it is I am holding from the dry, fixed land. Then I am ready, I push off, and in three strokes I take my first long, steady breath over my slender deltoid. Nothing silences me in my body like getting ready to fly like a fish.
In 2001, a few of my siblings and I, along with our spouses, built a cabin in the mountains, to share. Over the years, two sisters decided that they wanted out, so my brother bought out one of them and my son bought out the other one. I decided to stay because the cabin has so many treasured memories for me. But it is also a place I can go to alone for complete solitude. I can be alone to resolve whatever is troubling me. Quite often it is family members. I eat what and when I want, sleep when I want and read, watch TV or go for walks. I even cry if I want without explaining to anyone what it is that is wrong. I pray as often as needed. I still enjoy being there with my husband and family members, but it is my go to place for serenity often too.
Reading books. The view of my backyard garden from my kitchen windows. Walking in Prospect Park. Seeing a movie on the big screen of a movie theater, all by myself. My watercolor paintbox, and painting with them at my kitchen table. Completed paintings taped onto the hallway wall where I pass them coming into and leaving my house. The sacred act of preparing food.
First of all, I so love that photo of you, Suleika, on the couch with your sweet canine friend. And the paintings that adorn you are so beautiful, and exude that quietness and peace you're inviting us to share in today. Thank you for that.
I live in Washington state, and in the particular area where our home is, gigantic conifers surround us. There are wilderness trails that stretch for miles around and I often walk these every chance I get. There is one in particular that is exactly 2 miles long, and I used to walk with my beautiful dog who so loved this trail, but she died last September 11th, so now I walk it alone, but every time I do, I look for her, try to feel her energy. Because this is what we do. This is one way we remember and pay homage to those we have loved and who have graced our lives.
So many people it seems are grieving right now, for so many things, and not only someone who has died. But I think every single person alive is wrestling with some kind of force, something tearing at them that they can't work out alone. This is why this amazing journal is so valuable, too, Suleika. It provides a place where we can find community. That's been the one thing that has saved my sanity in the darkest of times.
I have a friend who is undergoing an 8 hour surgery on Tuesday at 7:15 am. Stomach cancer. They will be removing part of her stomach, and she will lose 20% of her body weight. She will have to sleep sitting up or at an angle for the rest of her life. She is scared out of her wits, has a toddler she desperately wants to live for, and a husband who must be half crazy by now. I wanted to put this out, so that if anyone has a prayer or meditation group, you might include thoughts of her. She will need all the help she can get.
When you’ve had cancer, when you’ve faced the gruesome truth about your body’s ability to suffer, and the shocking reality about your mortality, you find comfort in positive imaginings, or you perish.
I live from day to day with a wish for stability, that time would stop. Please let my life stay as it is now.
Like this moment: A cold spring morning, a warming fire against the chill, sunlight glowing on the distant green hills, the tannic taste of perfectly brewed tea, the neat balls of yarn in a basket waiting to become my new sweater, my husband’s gentle snores coming from the bedroom, all telling me of the gifts in my life, letting me imagine a future that is only this.
And words—on the screen and floating around in my head. I imagine them built into something tangible, something I can read and marvel that I put them there, my own creation. Doing that gives me a sense of power, that I can rise above the threats and worries and find wonder in this scarred but still excellent life I’ve been given.
It is all good to travel, to leave this warm cocoon and be in the world, talking and laughing with friends, seeing all there is that exists beyond the confines of home. I won’t give that up.
But I’m most grateful for this gift of a quiet place, to knit and write and dream, to imagine how perfect my life could be if it only stayed like this moment.
First of all, that POEM. It's ethereal. So many beautiful lines, I had to copy and print it to read and reread . Thank you for the gift of it, Suleika. Secondly, those jelly fish I see in the background, in your work are VERY cool. Thirdly, the moment from last week I want to hang onto was seeing my only child's face as she emerged from the fitting room in her brand new bridal dress, that is ready to be hemmed. "What do you think, Mama?" I could barely speak. And finally, I live in a quiet place on Cedar Ridge Farm, but life is emerging now, peepers, wax-wing cedars, meadow larks, blue birds are all waking up, and sounding off. The horses next door canter to the next spot of new green grass, hooves thumping the still hard ground, the fox cry out at night. Nature's voice only enhance the beauty of the natural quiet that surrounds me. It's a different kind of quiet. A seasonal kind of quite, I guess, and as you said, its a creative quite that inspires me this time off year.
Any moment I have in nature to soak up the magic of my surroundings (which, for yesterday was a rocky climb around Ink Lake and the sea of wildflowers at every turn), but I also have to say that I love the quiet of these Sunday mornings. That first sip of coffee, being under my weighted blanket on the couch, the view outside is of a normally busy city (Austin) but right now, it too looks tranquil at this hour. Hubby still in bed, so I have the solitude to just read, ponder, reflect and dream
One of my quiet places is my small painting studio. Whenever i go there, i spend at least an hour without realizing the passing of time. I visit my other quiet place when i occasionally meditate. There, i always imagine either a cabin in the woods or a house overlooking the beach (i don't know where they are because whenever i wanna go deeper, i'm thrown out and can't continue meditating).
Suleika and Mr. Stewart, both of your offerings today, have given me the only Quiet Place I have had recently. The gift of those few minutes to read and soak in both has been a cocoon of solitude. Thank you both. As this community knows, my mother died March 5. My father died March 31...he had told me he was "staying alive to take care of your mother." And when that final "mission" (he was Army) was complete, his heart went with hers. I will return to The Quiet Place Post again and again. I am simply tears, my mind, my soul, my corporeal body, a twisted hollow. Thank you both for giving this lost soul, a bit of rest today.
I'm very thankful to wake very early in the morning. Since my brain surgeries in 2006 and 2015, my energy levels get me through the day until about 7:00 PM, and then I'm often off to bed and asleep within 30 minutes. This means that even if I get a full eight hours, I'm up by 3:00 am (like this morning)!. After I push the button on the coffee maker, I build a fire in the fireplace, and put the living room back in order so that from my view, everything is perfect. Then I sit in my favorite chair, a 1950s naugahyde recliner unlike any recliner I've seen...black, with pecan wood trim with thin wooden legs on wheels. It's hip! I grab my book on "thin places," and begin to read while sipping my first cup of coffee, then scan emails, and then get out my iPad to do my drawing lessons in Procreate. It's hours before my husband gets up, and as much as I love him and enjoy his company, these quiet morning hours are my favorite.
The horizon is vast at Back Beach. That’s why I like it. Sometimes seeing the sea stretch on forever makes me feel small (but never insignificant). The way the vivid blue ocean reflects the gold streaks of the setting sun makes me feel at peace. I often wander down there and dig my toes into the warm black sand before entering the glassy ocean to float. With the water in my ears noises become muted and I can lie weightless, lifted gently up and down by the swell. I can swim in the Tasman Sea again and again and learn something new each time I duck under the surface and stroke forwards. I often think about the intricacies of Mother Nature and how she is the greatest artist and storyteller. I try to watch and listen. I feel heard and seen when I am in the sea at Back Beach. When I leave the water and wander home I feel as if I can see and hear life more clearly.
Honestly, my favourite place right now is my porch in the early morning. I live in a historic villa, and the porch is kind of a bit ramshackle. My front door is bright blue with a cloth fabric wreath of pretty pink flowers I bought at a local market.
The sun rises right where I’ve placed my chairs. I plop my bum on the big white chair with cushions, my hot coffee, and my notebook. There is greenery, flowers, and the street is close by. I like hearing the passing conversations, or little dog legs trotting past. There’s an apartment block opposite- I like that too. Having a hum of life, wondering what everyone is doing. Sometimes I take my morning coffee for a stroll down the street, and ask for guidance for the day. Sweet, loving words always come back.
This morning all the shutters and curtains were closed on the houses I passed. It’s one of the seven oldest street in our city.
I love having a sneaky peak, seeing which houses have lights on, which houses are still snoring.
Feeling the neighbourhood at rest.
It’s in this quiet I can stop, notice, feel, and ask for whatever I’m needing. This morning I handed everything over. The kids, the work project, the love life…all of it gets given over. ‘I’ll take it all” a little voice says. Thank goodness! Yay! And if I remember to during the day- if something doesn’t go my way, the way I planned, or imagined- it’s getting easier to go “oh well, that’s how it is” - such a relief to let go sometimes. This has become part of my creative practice, but more than that, my loving, quiet, rich, simple little routine. And I miss it when I miss it.
Ps gosh Intimacies in borrowed light!! 🙏🏽🤍 loved it , thank you! made me really miss those tender moonlit sweet times though!
I'm stopped in my tracks. I haven't done a prompt in weeks. My ruminating prison of a mind won't let me have a quiet place. Except for yesterday at noon when you, dear Suleika, granted me that quiet hour of listening, hearing, questioning and accepting. A reprieve and hope.
A quiet place: in the full engagement of photographing a calla lily, nestled midst eucalyptus leaves, I am drawn deeper and deeper into the stillness of this flower's Beauty. I am asked to step around, gaze from a different vantage point, let the light and shadows enchant me, and they most surely do.
My "quiet place" though it isn't actually quiet is, listening to music on my headphones, while I am working from home. I have two dogs who want my attention, but when I put on my headphones and listen to music, they let me be. I usually cry while I am doing this. Lately the pain in my back has been getting worse and despite my usual optimism, It wears me out. When I listen to music I allow myself the luxury of feeling sad. My art (dolls,) sit next to my desk on pedestals. Silent witnesses to my sorrow and my joy. Lots of little joys!
As a storyteller, sometimes writing at 5 or 6am. The absolute quiet in my hood in Harlem. Lifting my ballpoint pen with my left hand to paper to write a true story from my life, without censoring or judging—just allowing my creative process to “let her rip!”. It feels freeing and gives me a great beginning and always a joyful feeling, no matter if my story is happy or sad. I’m writing! Creating! And my heart is full of love and joy!
For years I swam for exercise. Soon, I hope, I can begin again. I miss the burn in my muscles, the blood thumping through my ears, the whole-body thrill of flying like a fish. But the memory that is powerful in my body is the expansive privacy of submersion. Before pushing off from the wall I plunge or gently lower my whole body beneath the surface - and hold. Air bubbles race for the seal of my swim cap, my ear canals and nostrils establish where my insides and the outside meet, the seal around my goggles either holds or doesn’t, and my lungs honor this non-native condition. I float just below the surface, listening with wonder - every time! - to the remote clicking, tapping, and splashing of other bodies pushing through water around me, or voices calling on the ledge around. I listen, too, to my breath and my blood, those twins of vitality taken for granted. When I look up the sky, or ceiling, wobbles and I let go of whatever it is I am holding from the dry, fixed land. Then I am ready, I push off, and in three strokes I take my first long, steady breath over my slender deltoid. Nothing silences me in my body like getting ready to fly like a fish.
In 2001, a few of my siblings and I, along with our spouses, built a cabin in the mountains, to share. Over the years, two sisters decided that they wanted out, so my brother bought out one of them and my son bought out the other one. I decided to stay because the cabin has so many treasured memories for me. But it is also a place I can go to alone for complete solitude. I can be alone to resolve whatever is troubling me. Quite often it is family members. I eat what and when I want, sleep when I want and read, watch TV or go for walks. I even cry if I want without explaining to anyone what it is that is wrong. I pray as often as needed. I still enjoy being there with my husband and family members, but it is my go to place for serenity often too.
Reading books. The view of my backyard garden from my kitchen windows. Walking in Prospect Park. Seeing a movie on the big screen of a movie theater, all by myself. My watercolor paintbox, and painting with them at my kitchen table. Completed paintings taped onto the hallway wall where I pass them coming into and leaving my house. The sacred act of preparing food.
First of all, I so love that photo of you, Suleika, on the couch with your sweet canine friend. And the paintings that adorn you are so beautiful, and exude that quietness and peace you're inviting us to share in today. Thank you for that.
I live in Washington state, and in the particular area where our home is, gigantic conifers surround us. There are wilderness trails that stretch for miles around and I often walk these every chance I get. There is one in particular that is exactly 2 miles long, and I used to walk with my beautiful dog who so loved this trail, but she died last September 11th, so now I walk it alone, but every time I do, I look for her, try to feel her energy. Because this is what we do. This is one way we remember and pay homage to those we have loved and who have graced our lives.
So many people it seems are grieving right now, for so many things, and not only someone who has died. But I think every single person alive is wrestling with some kind of force, something tearing at them that they can't work out alone. This is why this amazing journal is so valuable, too, Suleika. It provides a place where we can find community. That's been the one thing that has saved my sanity in the darkest of times.
I have a friend who is undergoing an 8 hour surgery on Tuesday at 7:15 am. Stomach cancer. They will be removing part of her stomach, and she will lose 20% of her body weight. She will have to sleep sitting up or at an angle for the rest of her life. She is scared out of her wits, has a toddler she desperately wants to live for, and a husband who must be half crazy by now. I wanted to put this out, so that if anyone has a prayer or meditation group, you might include thoughts of her. She will need all the help she can get.
Her name is Lara.
Thank you, all.
Life for me is all about imagining.
When you’ve had cancer, when you’ve faced the gruesome truth about your body’s ability to suffer, and the shocking reality about your mortality, you find comfort in positive imaginings, or you perish.
I live from day to day with a wish for stability, that time would stop. Please let my life stay as it is now.
Like this moment: A cold spring morning, a warming fire against the chill, sunlight glowing on the distant green hills, the tannic taste of perfectly brewed tea, the neat balls of yarn in a basket waiting to become my new sweater, my husband’s gentle snores coming from the bedroom, all telling me of the gifts in my life, letting me imagine a future that is only this.
And words—on the screen and floating around in my head. I imagine them built into something tangible, something I can read and marvel that I put them there, my own creation. Doing that gives me a sense of power, that I can rise above the threats and worries and find wonder in this scarred but still excellent life I’ve been given.
It is all good to travel, to leave this warm cocoon and be in the world, talking and laughing with friends, seeing all there is that exists beyond the confines of home. I won’t give that up.
But I’m most grateful for this gift of a quiet place, to knit and write and dream, to imagine how perfect my life could be if it only stayed like this moment.
First of all, that POEM. It's ethereal. So many beautiful lines, I had to copy and print it to read and reread . Thank you for the gift of it, Suleika. Secondly, those jelly fish I see in the background, in your work are VERY cool. Thirdly, the moment from last week I want to hang onto was seeing my only child's face as she emerged from the fitting room in her brand new bridal dress, that is ready to be hemmed. "What do you think, Mama?" I could barely speak. And finally, I live in a quiet place on Cedar Ridge Farm, but life is emerging now, peepers, wax-wing cedars, meadow larks, blue birds are all waking up, and sounding off. The horses next door canter to the next spot of new green grass, hooves thumping the still hard ground, the fox cry out at night. Nature's voice only enhance the beauty of the natural quiet that surrounds me. It's a different kind of quiet. A seasonal kind of quite, I guess, and as you said, its a creative quite that inspires me this time off year.
Any moment I have in nature to soak up the magic of my surroundings (which, for yesterday was a rocky climb around Ink Lake and the sea of wildflowers at every turn), but I also have to say that I love the quiet of these Sunday mornings. That first sip of coffee, being under my weighted blanket on the couch, the view outside is of a normally busy city (Austin) but right now, it too looks tranquil at this hour. Hubby still in bed, so I have the solitude to just read, ponder, reflect and dream
One of my quiet places is my small painting studio. Whenever i go there, i spend at least an hour without realizing the passing of time. I visit my other quiet place when i occasionally meditate. There, i always imagine either a cabin in the woods or a house overlooking the beach (i don't know where they are because whenever i wanna go deeper, i'm thrown out and can't continue meditating).