Sourwood Sunday with Swallowtail

Did you know that woodpeckers whine? I didn't either. This morning I was sitting on my deck soaking in the morning shade and semi-coolness before the heat of the day chased me inside. Close at hand, two woodpeckers whined.

I found one in the chestnut oak to my right. There it was, a Downy on a limb. Whining. Dude was looking right at me until he lost interest. Then he attacked the thick bark with his thorn beak, sending it flying.

The other was in front of me, hiding behind a veil of leaves. Whining. I spied her when she hopped on the trunk and hammered away. From her looks she was a Hairy Woodpecker. Interesting that both subspecies would whine.

The cicadas are chorusing. I had forgotten what it was like to live in the south and and experience their rhythmic song. Last week I started taking the time each day to just sit, close my eyes and let my body feel the the sound of the cicadas singing the earth's rhythm.

A couple of weeks ago I noticed scores of butterflies partaking of a blossoming sourwood tree about fifty yards from our deck. The sourwoods have been blooming for weeks and are waning. This lady still blooms, though the blossoms are fewer. So are the butterflies, mostly tiger swallowtails. They flutter then light, clinging to blooms that curl forward to receive, like hands in supplication.

Eric, in answer to your question, this is one way I create. I sit still, I watch, I listen. I hear. I feel. I see. When I'm feeling, senses engaged, the voices cease and my head quiets.

I let my mind be quiet. Or wander if it wants to.

I be.

Now for some pictures of me be-ing yesterday.

This is me.

Sun kissed.

Be-ing.

Somewhere down that lazy River.

The Chestatee outside of Dahlonega.

Floating on a 'catamarran'.

With an oar.

Spinning stories in my head.

My two companions, Carolyn and Beau. Waiting patiently on moi.  

There were five turtles just before I snapped this, but one plopped off in to the water.

Notice how muddy the water is? We had heavy rain, two days in a row. The water is about two feet higher than usual.

It was a leisurely float, no real paddling other than to steer. Several class one rapids of the pre-K variety. Two class two. Maybe first grade. Nothing more strenuous.

Just a lazy be-ing day.

This looks like a black swallowtail, only it has no tails. So hmm...Anyone know?

She was hanging out on a sandy beach along the way.

We stopped here to stretch.

And eat an apple.

She graciously shared her beach.

This is Bugsy under my 'new' wicker thrift store chair this morning. He's always in to just Be-ing.

This song was stuck in my head as we floated down the river. I had never seen this video. My my. Would you stand in line for a kiss like this?

And who knew Robbie was such a hunk?

No More Goodbyes, Please

Raymond Chandler made a guest appearance on my friend, Roland's blog. (If you don't believe me, click on over. You'll know from the writing that it's Chandler himself.) During this eloquent writing lesson, Raymond offered this little tidbit:

"The French have a saying that to say good-bye is to die a little."

If this is true I must be mostly dead.

My life has been a series of goodbyes. I even wrote a post about it last year, The Yellow Wood, in which I put a pretty spin on goodbye.

I understand why old people are ready to go on to the next plane of existence. They're sick and tired of saying goodbye to people one at a time. Better, maybe, to just get it all over with at once and be done with it.

Somebody killed Roland in the Shadowlands. And while I know it's only fiction (and darned good fiction at that) my heart is heavy over what feels like another goodbye. Damn you, Roland.

I want to write emotion like Roland. Like Elliot Grace. Between the two of you I was boo-hooing.

But dang, Roland. Stop killing yourself off. I'm tired of losing friends.



If you want to read "Ghost of a Chance" by Roland D. Yeomans, click Marlene Dietrich's picture. It will take you to Chapter One and you can follow from there.

~Olivia J Herrell

Has Anybody Read Norman Mailer's "Ancient Evenings"?

"...and I believe...that the borders of our mind are ever shifting, and that many minds can flow into one another, as it were, and create or reveal a single mind, a single energy...and that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself." ~ W.B. Yeats

Has anybody read this book? I bought it a while back. According to the cover it is 'The National Bestseller'. Circa 1983. The above quote is part of an excerpt at the beginning that is attributed to W.B. Yeats in "Ideas of Good and Evil". It called to me so I bought it.

But daaaang. I read five or six chapters and still don't know who the mc is, whether he is dead or alive, and who all the people, dead and alive are that he keeps talking about.

If you've read it, should I pick it back up and slog on? Is Mr. Mailer going to make it worth my while? Or should I leave this on the dead pile?

On to picture #2.

This was taken at the top of the pass on Hwy 129. The Appalachian Trail crosses here, just 30 miles north of the southern terminus and a mere twenty-five miles from my cabin. This is my current favorite weekend jaunt.

We're going to 'raft' down the Chestatee River this Saturday. No whitewater, just a nice lazy float on a hot day.

Picture #3.

Sweet William peeking through the log fence at Walasyi-Yi.

Picture #4

Black-Eyed Susans dancing on the side of the road, somewhere on my meanderings.

Picture #5

A fern coming to life after losing all it's fronds. Not sure if it got too much sun, not enough water, or too much water. But thank goodness Nature is forgiving.

That's all. I just felt the need to share a little beauty.

And to get your opinion on "Ancient Evenings".

Hope you had a glorious day. I'm still hatching a new story so no writing (or much of anything else) is getting done at my house.

~Olivia J. Herrell