On Broken Bones and Broken Hearts.

I mowed my yard on Sunday and spent the rest of the day with my left ankle in an Ace Wrap. I broke that ankle horribly eleven years ago and every step I take on it is one I’m thankful for. My ankle is intact and my foot is attached, but, it is not the same as it was before the break. In spite of that, I keep going.

Broken bones heal, but there is a scar. The bone scar, the callus that forms at the site of the break as it heals, is stronger than the rest of the bone and is difficult to break. The bone around the scar can break with the same ease as the first fracture. The callus is a reminder of the injury. While it is the lasting monument to the ability to heal, it can limit movement and send painful reminders of the original injury to the brain.

Heartbreak is similar in that the psyche heals but scars remain. With every heartbreak, the gash that spills our very self eventually closes with a seam in the fabric of being. The pain fades to the background but is never truly gone. A word, a look, a memory brings the wound back to the forefront just as mowing the yard reminded me of my broken ankle.

In both bones and hearts the person with the scar will either do whatever it takes to get past the pain, or avoid things that cause the scar to send messages screaming through the system. There is physical therapy to help get back to using the body after a break. Would that there was the same for broken hearts. But, the truth is, the wounds of the heart are healed only by the one who has them, when they are ready.

I never thought I would write a romance novel, but I did. In Ash on the Stairs, overcoming the scars of life is the backbone of the story. Both main characters have to step beyond the comfort of hiding from the pain in their lives.

Spinster, a New Definition.

Spinster: A woman past the common age for marrying and unlikely to marry. A woman whose occupation is spinning.

Both these definitions fit me. I was married. It didn’t work either time. Not likely to do it again. I spin. I spin using a drop spindle. What I spin is not the normal fodder for yarn. I have a couple of long-haired cats. I have balls of cat fur yarn that I am crocheting into a scarf.

New definition: A woman who spins stories out of the very fiber of her being.

Every story I write has part of me in it, in every character, good and bad. I do not know any other way to write than to draw on my life and experiences to build the stories. All that I have learned goes into the spinning of the tale, even the fantasy tales. Every day I add to the stockpile of fiber for these tales. With all I have and all I gather, I should be spinning yarns for quite a while.

Mother’s Day from a Non-Mother.

This is the fifth Mother’s Day since my mother died. I had no children. I will never hear a child call me mom or grandma. At the time I didn’t have children, I thought it wouldn’t bother me. On this one day a year, it does. This is not to say I have not been involved in the lives of countless children. I have. I have my genetic nieces and nephews and almost as many others who call me Aunt Maggy. I am into the great-niece/nephew range now. I take delight in them. I spoil them. I make them behave when they are with me. I love them.

In truth, it is probably best that it is this way. No child had to see the darkest side of me. I did not pass on the genetic flaws I have. I am here to see to the betterment of the lives of the children who come to cross my path. I am always surprised to meet an adult who remembers sitting on my porch, eating freshly baked cookies and listening to the stories I made up. I was just being me. It made a difference to them. I am part of the village. MRJ