a new era

On the 1st of February I launched a new era in my life. It was the first day of the Lunar New Year, the year of the tiger. I am that tiger, and I felt on that day an explosion of possibilities I have wished for years.

On the first of February Emerald House Publishing began, just with a piece of paper from the county clerk, but in my mind, in the space that holds dreams, I witnessed in myself a hugeness such that I have never experienced.

I am learning what it means to be a publisher. I am learning how to do this. I am learning things I never thought I could learn. expanding in myself waves of delight as I move from task to task, as I prepare for the book launch in July of this year.

Please join me in this adventure, in this coming out as a publisher, in this voyage towards making dreams happen….

A Habit of Freedom

— Dedicated to Virginia Woolf

With the transparency of the door that lets in all that she needs, she is the master of her own life, and when she ventures into that room, shutting this door, she creates all that she knows, and all that she wishes to know. In that space she sculpts, she paints, she writes, she forges new meaning with the world, as she inspires and is inspired in every breath, in every glance outside, in every particle of her brain that sees and knows.

Yet, it has not always been like this.

For she, woman, has been taking care of other's minds, other's hearts, since the beginning of time.  She has thought of herself last; after all the others have bathed in that small tub, she finally gets her turn in a barrel whose water has become dirty and cold. She has given and given, an eternal flow, an elixir of everything for anyone. Yet, she has screamed inside, wanting to run, with nowhere to go.

Ah, the cacophony of a woman's life. She must listen to cries and hurls and gasps, the constant noise of children and a husband, her role to calm these cries and soothe the savageness of the human condition.

And through it all, everything is exposed, walking naked, her breasts hang down, dragging to the earth, for they have been torn and pulled at, and the milk in them has run dry generations ago. Woman has come to expect that her body is not her own, that her thoughts are stolen away, that her desires come last, and that her privacy masks as a tiny glimmer at the end of the day when no one wants and no one needs and no one has a voice, for all are finally asleep.

  It is then that she finally lets herself enter into her own room, locking the door.

 Freedom, when unleashed, can create endless joy, an exuberance in mind and body, a loosening up of what has been tightly woven. A habit of freedom sinks into her every pore, little by little working away at the calcification that has resided for generations.  A habit of freedom is like an endless massage, freeing up the spaces that were once held together by duty, allowing for a flow of blood to circulate continuously, giving life, giving mobility, giving power. When woman is no longer a prisoner of her own society, her thoughts become her own. Her heart beats only for itself. She is hungry, and she feeds herself her own sustaining nourishment.

Creativity is the child of this freedom, for in this life where she is her own person, there is no lock to her imagination, to her windowed soul, to her passion in finding meaning just by looking out the window at a flower, blooming...

When woman can hold the pen, grab the paintbrush, push the clay, when she can think for herself, then she is truly free, expanding from this room of her own to many rooms, all adorned with tapestries that tell the stories of not just one woman, but all, of an ancient history that has been known for centuries, finally revealed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Firsts

Firsts.

 

They are always so important, so vital to our sense of self, to our souls, to our humanness in the face of everything.

Our first breath, our first gasp of air out of the womb, from that sheltered place to the world of endless possibilities…

Our first steps, that toddling into infinity, that glow from our faces as we, the upright souls on this planet, verge towards our own ecstasy…

Our first friend, that look, from one face to another spelling out and spilling out acceptance…

Our first lover, orgasmically folded around the who of who we are…

Then there are the other firsts…

The first time we ever heard the words “I love you,” spoken to our hearts, presented on a silver platter.

The first person we ever told our real truths to.

The first time someone handed us a bouquet of flowers and told us that we mattered.

The list goes on, doesn’t it?

For me, today, this is a first. My first book published. I wrote this for you, dear souls, my dear readers, for a book that is written that stays in the archives of one’s computer is just wasted space. Truly, I feel that the reason for writing is to let others know how important we all are on this planet.

 If I could give you each that bouquet of flowers, reminding you how much you matter, I would.

Instead, I give you this book. I will give you more, if you want. But one must start with the first word, the first breath out of the womb.

Thank you for celebrating with me. I truly hope you enjoy The Four Seasons.

 

Warmly,

 

 

Heidi

 

PS. As you will see, The Four Seasons has multiple references to pieces of music. For your listening enjoyment, and for you to be able to integrate the musical experience into your reading, I have compiled two separate playlists for you. One, on you tube, and the other on Spotify.

 

The Wild Horse

THE WILD HORSE

by Heidi Harrison

...As time moves farther and farther away from that day the winds announced the end of things, I notice more and more that, like the pier, the path is never straight and never curved, but a mixture of the two, and these trails converge, somehow they always do. Our lives depend on this, from the rattlesnake call to the whisper of the breeze to the knowing of the heart, and to the boulders we stand on that continue to shift with time, and always will.

 

Published in Still Points Arts Quarterly, Spring 2018 Edition, Number 29

 

Go to page 95 in this beautiful online magazine for the full essay.

https://indd.adobe.com/view/76ae3e82-d1e0-4085-a3c7-2baa183c6718