Writing Life

Though it hasn't been obvious here on the blog lately, I am first and foremost a writer.  In fact, I have been writing more over the last year than ever before in my life.  Regular readers of The Magpie's Fancy might be puzzled by this statement, as there has been little evidence of any real writing activity here during that same period.  The cupboards have been bare.  Not a can of beans or a box of saltines for you to nibble on as you wait for me to get my act together and bake some cookies or whip up a proper pudding.

I promise that will happen soon.  Once we are in the new house at the end of August, you won't be able to get rid of me!

In the meantime, one half of my brain is thinking gardens and French doors and room colors and bead board, even as the other half writes and writes and writes.  What I am writing is still top secret for now, but I can tell you that its presence has taken up so much of my existence that there has been little room for much else, including blogging.  That is a good thing, though, for as a beloved professor once told me, "Write every day, even when you don't feel like it, even when you have no time, even when it gets in the way of the rest of your life."  She was right, and I do.

Even as I type this, I recognize how slightly crazy and selfish it sounds, but I don't care.  A writer writes.  A writer also reads--maybe even more than she writes.  And this writer takes very long walks.  Walking helps me write.  So does washing the dishes by hand.  So does daydreaming--not worrying or obsessing, but real daydreaming of the sort that allows for surprises and possibilities.

I hope some of my writing students--both past and present--see this post, because I often give them this advice about the writing life, and I want them to know that I don't take it lightly.  The writing life is uncompromising, demanding, and difficult.  It also brings moments of great joy among the soap suds and reveries.  For me it comes down to this: discipline leads to discovery.  It is that simple, and I wouldn't want any other life.

Home

Come August 30th, this is the 1937 Cape cottage that Mr. Magpie and I will call home.  We found out on Monday that the offer we made on it was accepted, and we've been scrambling all week to finish the loan paperwork and get the ball rolling on the million and one things that need to happen before we close.    

All that matters to us now, though, is that we've found our little corner of the world, surrounded by gardens and grand old trees.  This is the the third time we've bought a home, and as the old saying goes, the third time's a charm.  We looked at several houses, and bid on a few that we failed to get, but the moment we stepped into the backyard of this house, we knew why.  This was the place we were meant to find.  Yes, I believe some things are meant to be, and I don't question those things.  A little faith can go a long way in a wicked world.  

It feels right to be closing during the same month that Mr. Magpie and I will be celebrating our 18th wedding anniversary.  During all those years, we have called ten different places home, and I've loved each house, apartment, and condo where we've laid our heads, but honestly, I just feel blessed that every night we've had a roof to keep us dry and walls to keep us safe.  Home for us will never be a mansion.  It will always be the place where meals are shared and memories made with each other and with the people and animals we love.  As the English poet Robert Southey wrote, "There is a magic in that little world, home; it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits."

I'll be sharing much more about the house in the weeks and months to come.  It has been a long wait for this place, and I feel like Dorothy after far too long a stint in Oz.  I can't wait to kick off my ruby slippers and leave them by the kitchen door.  

xo Gigi  

Enchanted Weekend

I have been wanting to catch up with you here for ages, but my life is so full of writing and of changes both little and grand, that even when I've had a few moments to sit still with the blog, the words just haven't come to me--me, the girl who writes.  And writes.  And writes.  

And then this past weekend was an enchanted mix of the old and the new: a new favorite brunch haunt discovered, an old favorite store rediscovered in a new place, wonderful new friends met, bags of old books scooped up at a library book sale, and the gift of a mystery packet of flower seeds.

On top of it all were the hours spent working in my mother's garden.  She has a wonderful yard smack dab in the middle of town, but with the sense of being out in the country.  Here's a shot of part of it below: 

Because there are no houses behind hers, all you see are trees and fields in the distance, a vista especially magical just before sunset.

Over the years, Mr. Magpie and I have spent many happy hours digging, weeding, and pruning in my mum's gardens.  One favorite spot is a shade garden we planted the year my grandmother passed away, using plants and flowers we'd dug up from Gram's garden.  It has come into its own now, overflowing with hostas, ferns, wild ginger, lamium, astilbe, and hydrangea.

In another section of the yard, my mother's roses, daisies, peonies, and irises bloom beside a rock wall.

And everywhere you look, blue and white balloon flowers volunteer, popping open among the phlox and the poppies and straight out of the pile of tree and hedge clippings behind an old stretch of fence.

The peonies have nearly passed now, but they are graceful even as they fade.

After a long afternoon of mulching, deadheading, and pruning, the reward was a large handful of blooms to fill up jars and vases and scatter from room to room. 

Some weekends transcend their two days, and remain etched in our minds as something more--a sense of possibility, a joy in the moment and the promise of more joys to come.  For even as one rose blooms and drops its petals, others wait to open, one by one.