Review. Reflect. Rejoice.

I sat down this week and made a list of all the photography workshops I attended this year. I included the excursions that I took myself on--alone--without other photographers. The overall results surprised me. In 2021, I managed to photograph nearly two dozen locations, from an abandoned 1929 hotel in upstate New York, to a rural field of rocking horses in Massachusetts, to country barns and winding back roads in Tennessee. Why am I telling you this? 2020 and 2021 have been years of great isolation for many of us. Our hearts are heavy. Some of us have lost loved ones, jobs, health, friendships. In short, it's been a time of great transition. The one thing that has held and kept me steady is my art. The one thing I have been uncompromising on is getting out (sometimes just in my own backyard), with my camera, and doing the one thing I can control: my creative life. 

So I am asking you, I am imploring you to consider this question: what do you love to do? (Not who do you love; there's a big difference.)  What is the one pursuit, the one passion, that without, you simply wouldn't feel whole? Perhaps it's writing poetry, songwriting, painting, photography, design, culinary arts. If you don't know the answer, take out a piece of paper, or your journal, and allow the answers to come. We are all gifted, but some of us never open our package.

(Perhaps consider joining me in 2022 for one of my creativity courses. See link below.) 

As we tiptoe lightly into 2022, I am grateful for the opportunity to review, reflect, and rejoice in my God-given talents. 

https://www.carolmossa.com/on-the-road

Good Eye

When my son played Little League youth baseball, I'd often hear the other parents shout, "good eye!"  when he wisely chose not to swing at a bad pitch. I receive similar praise as a photographer when I capture an image that resonates with my audience. Whenever I receive this compliment, I am reminded just how true this statement is. Since birth, I have only had one good eye. 

Born with an ocular coloboma in my left eye, I depend solely on my right eye for my sense of sight. According to Wikipedia, "a coloboma is a hole in one of the structures of the eye, such as the iris, retina, choroid, or optic disc. The hole is present from birth and can be caused when a gap called the choroid fissure, fails to close up completely before a child is born." 

My coloboma is hour-glass shaped, and every now and then I'll meet a stranger who will point, peer deeper and exclaim, "Oh, my God; your eye!!!" Sometimes I'll play along and feign surprise, but more often than not, I'll smile and fill them in on the nature of the malady. I am acutely aware, each and every time I pick up my camera, that I am blessed to have that one good eye. I don't sit around lamenting the eye I never had use of. Instead I protect the good eye by wearing safety glasses when doing yard work or any activity that could compromise my sight. 

I throw up a silent prayer each time I venture out with my camera, aware of how fortunate I am. As I sat in the ophthalmologist's office for my annual eye exam last week, I was reminded just how blessed I am to have that one good eye. 

Weather Warnings

I listened in horror earlier this week as my cycling coach told our class about the recent loss of her Subaru, and almost her life. It happened on her way to the gym in the early morning hours while the wet and windy remnants of Hurricane Ida were being felt here in southern Rhode Island. My coach took the exit off the highway and made her way down the main street and took a right towards our facility. It was darker than usual because the power had gone out and along with it, the street lights overhead. Without warning, she began floating, flood water began to fill her car, and then the unspeakable---the car shut off. Unable to roll down her windows, and with the water rushing in, it was a miracle that a police officer appeared out of nowhere and helped her open her car door where she then stood in hip-deep flood waters. 

I took a driver's education course decades ago. At that time, they didn't teach us about climate change, global warning, flash flooding, or the dangers of intense weather. They should now!! That education could save a life, which is what I am endeavoring to do here. So to my adult children, friends and family, near and far, please pay attention. Don't venture out in uncertain conditions, and if you do, please don't take chances with the power of water, even if you drive a big SUV. My coach could easily have drowned in her vehicle that morning. Blessedly, all she lost was her car.

Less is More

When I checked in at the ticket counter this morning for the 9am ferry to Monhegan Island, 12 miles off the coast of Maine, the woman who handed me my roundtrip tickets inquired about my luggage. I explained that I only had the backpack, and that most of the stuff in it was camera equipment and I wished to keep it with me for safekeeping. 

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "You're here for the whole weekend and that's your only bag? I'm impressed!"

"Yup," I beamed with pride. 

"I've seen overnighters come with steamer trunks," she laughed.

I thought long and hard about what and how to pack for these 2-1/2 days on a pedestrian-only island. I started by paring down the contents of my camera bag, choosing my lenses and accessories carefully. In my roller suitcase, I packed a pair of jeans, sandals, four tops, toiletries, my beloved laptop, journal and a novel. 

However, I grew concerned reading some of the literature describing the crossing and the island terrain. The word "hills" came up several times. Intuitively, I knew flip-flops weren't going to cut it, so I purchased an inexpensive pair of yellow Topsider sneakers at my local consignment shop. I had time and opportunity on Friday night to consider my options as I was staying in a quaint cottage about a mile from the parking area. Did I really want to drag my roller suitcase behind me from the parking lot to the dock and then from the dock to my Airbnb? 

I decided to splay out the contents of the roller bag on one of the double beds in the cabin, and in doing so, I opted to consolidate. Ever-present in my mind was the burning question: "How much do I really need this item?" 

So, in addition to my two camera bodies and 1/2-dozen interchangeable lenses, here's what I selected: my laptop, my hotspot, my charging cables, my journal, my comb, my toothbrush/paste, meds, one sleeveless top and a lightweight hoodie. I left behind the current book I've almost finished reading, shampoo, a pair of jeans, flip-flops and all the extra tops.

Was the pack on my back heavier? Well, yeah, because I added my laptop to the mix, but I'm grateful that my minimalism kicked in, allowing me to lighten my load on this very hilly island paradise.

A Nonet

( The nonet is an awesome 9-line poem whose syllables trickle down in descending order until they are done. The first line has nine syllables and the last line has one.)

It's a mystery still when and why

an entire clan disappeared

into thin air as they say. 

Here today, gone 'morrow.

Contents still in tact.

Clothes, dishes, and

One long lost

baby

gone.

Hotel Adler

Rispetto is a short poetic form of Italian origin comprising of 11 syllables per line. 

It has 8 lines. Rispetto uses the ababccdd rhyme scheme. 

However, you can apply other variations of the rhyme scheme.

Room service cancelled, the switchboard long silenced.

Sulfur baths, live theatre, history condemned.

Vanderbilts, Renssaelaers, there for the finest.

Five splendored stories, an Adirondack gem.

Now a repository for mold and mice,

An investor comes looking to roll the dice.  

Defaced with graffiti, vandals with no clue.

Time has come calling, extracting her cruel due. 

Cinquain

("Cinq" refers to the number five in French suggesting the properties of this type of poem. The cinquain consists of one stanza with five lines. The first line has two syllables and so does the last line. The following lines have even number of syllables by adding 2 more syllables as you go. Therefore, the second line has 4, the third has 6 and the fourth has 8 syllables. How fun is this?)

A boy 

kneels, bows his head,

turns away from my lens.

Tears fall in boots vacated in

battle. 

Treasure

"The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek." ~Joseph Campbell

What frightens you? What thoughts keep you awake at night? If earth is our schoolroom, and mastering love and banishing fear is the curriculum, what grade would you give yourself? Over the last decade and one half, I have done the hard work on self. I have excavated buried trauma and come to terms with my part in the painful memories. In short, I have become the best version of myself thus far, but make no mistake, I still have a cave to enter, to explore, to make peace with. For me that cave represents financial insecurity, but why? I own my own mortgage-free home, drive a new car without monthly car payments, live debt-free and have safe, long-term investments and holdings. Those family-of-origin tapes are difficult to silence, to mute. I was born into a lower middle class Connecticut family. My father, a roofer all his life, went off to work everyday, but at quitting time could be found throwing beers back at my uncle's bar across town. My mom often worked a factory night job to fill the gap left by my father's alcoholism. While we always had clean clothes and food on the table, I recall an ever-present sense of lack, an undulating fear. When I left home for a state college (financed by my own student loans because my parents failed to plan for my higher education), my head and heart were filled with a fierce determination to do better than my parents, and I did. I got great jobs, married, bought luxury property, and I often sent money and gifts home to my mom. When my marriage ended, I made the decision to navigate life solo, and I have remained single-by-choice. It's just me, and I am wholly responsible for my own financial health and well-being. I long ago rejected a 9-5 existence, choosing instead the life and path of a solopreneur. 

I know that cave of financial insecurity is an illusion. Financially, I have nothing to fear. It's when those demons come knocking in the middle of the night, whispering that I will run out of money before I run out of time on this planet, that my tender heart wants to seize. Instead of hiding, I can look those demons squarely in the eye, throw my head back, laugh, and say, "not today, fear!" 

 

When I saw the man's outstretched arms in Every Picture Tells a Story, I saw exuberance and excitement! This memory popped into my mind...

ALLELUIA

by Joanie Crocker-Pfeiffer

I could hardly believe what I heard that day! Could it be true? The excitement increased my heart rate, and accompanying happiness soared into the air like beautiful bubbles blown by a delighted child!   My dated Datsun bounced along route 195, as I headed home after a hard day’s work at WMYS FM where I, a woman, performed the weekday Morning Show since 1980.  That in itself was a miracle, as only the other gender was ever hired to handle that prized spot in radio. And now two and a half years later, I had been informed there was a strong possibility I’d also be offered the coveted Program Director’s job as well.  Alleluia!    

I can still picture me in that Datsun driving along with this thrilling possibility sprinting around in my head!  Intense exhilaration lifted my spirits and danced beside me all the way home!  You might wonder, what was the big deal?  In 1974 I had been in the right place at the right time ambling down the hallway one day at WJAR TV-Radio when the General Manager of the radio station inquired, “We have a part-time opening for a music personality.  Interested?” My speechless inner voice did cartwheels while trying to avoid a boxing match with fear.  Finally, cool me lied, “Let me think about it.”  

Thanks to the FCC who was putting pressure on media to hire women, that first offer came and I accepted.  My muse was ready!  I was determined to succeed in spite of negativity expressed by a few male peers, in spite of being blackballed by the CEO of a broadcasting company, in spite of my own ‘me, too’ experiences.  My supervisor even let me know, “I don’t believe women should be on the air, but if we have to have you, you’re going to be good!”  With robust effort, four years and three radio stations later, resolute me landed the plumb morning job on a 50,000-watt FM in a medium market station—a big deal in those days!  And I was the market’s only woman!

In addition to my on-air job, was I offered the Program Director’s job?  You bet I was!  And did I do a good job?  Oh, yes, I did, and I kept it going for seven more fruitful years until it was time to move on again!!!  Though now long ago, that memory of exuberance and excitement heading home in my Datsun that day brings comfort and a warm smile and glow.

Good News

 Overwhelmed India running short of COVID-19 vaccines.

Rare chunks of Earth's mantle found exposed in Maryland. 

Dozens killed amid chaos at religious festival in Israel.

These were the headlines I read when I signed on to receive my email on the last Friday in April. If those messages weren't enough to sink my tender, open heart, a pop-up warning appeared, uninvited, on my laptop screen.

Every 2 seconds someone new becomes a victim of identity theft. Don't be next.

Fear. Destruction. Chaos. Geez, Louise, the whole world has, indeed, gone mad. I have a split second to respond to the toxicity of today's headlines, and so do you. Be honest, do you devour the blow-by-blow details? Do you bristle at my implication? If you are giving extended attention to these headlines, you are participating in the darkness, the madness. News is a big industry; it can't exist without your participation.

I get it. Shit happens. Good people become victims of random violence, but do you really need to read about, and watch, another vehicle, in the same week, plow into innocent bystanders? Here's what I fervently believe. We invite, absorb, and become what we put our attention on, and every minute counts. Do not waste a single one of your life's precise moments focusing on negativity. Have you ever had a strand of hair land on an exposed layer of your skin? You can feel it, right? A thin, lightweight piece of hair. Imagine that. Imagine then what dark and negative thoughts can do to you at a cellular level. Food for thought. (Check out medical intuitive, Caroline Myss, if you don't believe me.) What images, messages, and thoughts do you want your body, your cells, to absorb?

Choose the newsmakers who are genuinely making a difference. GoodNewsNetwork.org shared these headlines this morning.

Artist takes twigs and turns them into dancing figures.

Twitter swoons over Biden's romantic gesture.

19 of the most gorgeous small towns on Earth.

These are some of the people and issues worthy of making headlines, and the more you focus on them, the more of them you will see. Dig deeper. Your body and world will thank you.

Inside Out

There was a time, not that long ago, when my outside---those external things that the world recognized me for---my marriage, my residence, and my job, looked pretty impressive indeed. Successful, handsome, entrepreneurial husband. An award-winning, historically-restored homestead with a center chimney for Santa to slide down every December. A circular drive with a new luxury vehicle parked in it every year. Exotic vacations to faraway lands. Boxes of designer clothing that would arrive weekly on the backs of rumbling UPS trucks. Shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. (Ironic, considering that I've been a barefoot/sandal kinda girl all along.) A freeform, in-ground pool. Professionally landscaped and manicured acres. A potting shed with a wood stove hook-up. A second home in the mountains. Horses, barns, pastures, and a riding ring to rival any Olympic arena. All the trappings of an upper middle class, successful married life. To any outsider looking in on the charmed world I actively built and inhabited, it looked like a modern-day fairy tale. But like the alcohol I used daily to self-medicate, self will had run riot, and in reality, the stuff just created a bigger wall between me and God. My inside suffered mightily. My family imploded. My marriage failed. No amount of home improvement, world travel, and fancy parties were ever going to fill that God-shaped hole deep within my heart. 

For me, recovery didn't come because of the things I lost. Recovery came because I could no longer deny the fact that my inside and my outside worlds simply did not match. Today, I bring my imperfect, spiritually evolving and authentic self to every part of my life. What you see is what you get. That smile on my face? The way I am willing to look you in the eye? My eagerness to engage with you, grab a coffee, listen deeply, share heart-to-heart?  Yup. It's the same honesty and openness I extend to all--trusted friends, family members, clients, and here on the page. If you are willing to bring your authentic self to the table, I promise to bring mine. And if you can't, or won't, don't be surprised if I see through your outside to the inside waiting to be released and recognized. 

The Urbex Bug

I'm not sure when the urbex bug bit me, but I do know that I am absolutely obsessed with discovering and exploring all things abandoned. If you're not familiar with the term urbex, it's shorthand for urban exploration. According to Wikipedia: 

"Urban exploration is the exploration of manmade structures, usually abandoned ruins or hidden components of the manmade environment. Photography and historical interest/documentation are heavily featured in the hobby and it sometimes involves trespassing onto private property." 

Nothing in my childhood, college or childrearing years---no distant-long-lost-memories---provide any clues as to why I am so deeply moved by these explorations. As a young girl growing up in Bristol, Connecticut, I wasn't enamored by my weekly history class, nor did any field trips hold my interest. 

A few years ago, I happened upon a Facebook post by a regional pair of photographers who were offering a photography workshop at the vintage Victory Theater in Holyoke, Massachusetts. That Saturday morning outing became the first of many more explorations. Since that time, I have journeyed with them to old abandoned mill buildings, schools, a state hospital, nightclub, boys' detention center and one homestead (contents still in place). And it's not just abandoned buildings that steal my heart; I love photographing vintage automobiles like the ones I discovered at Old Car City USA in White, Georgia in 2015 on my cross country book tour. Old Car City USA just happens to be the world's largest old car junkyard on 34 acres with more than 4,000 old cars. (Special thanks to fellow photographers and explorers, Hazel and Dave Meredith, who tipped me off.)

I go out, not just to explore, but to document my discoveries digitally. And while not the norm, I confess, I have on a few occasions trespassed onto private property (state property in the case of the Norwich Hospital in Connecticut). But generally, my outings are with other urban explorers and photographers, and while not all locations are urban, we are there legally, with the permission of the owners, and in the age of a worldwide pandemic---Covid-compliant. 

As a writer, as an avid reader, perhaps my fascination lies in the stories abandoned properties and relics hint at. After all, every picture tells a story.  

Going Out Onto the Limb

 

Going Out Onto the Limb

There seems to be much talk these days of courage, specifically the kind of courage that it takes for me, a 66-year-old woman from New England, to embark on solo day, weekend and longer trips around this great country of ours, taking pictures, meeting new people, designing and embracing my single-by-choice life. I wish I had a coin for every time I hear the incredulous query, "You're going alone?" What does courage mean to me, and how do I manage courage, because certainly the flip side of courage, for me, is fear. How do I practice fearlessness in the world?

For a young girl growing up in Bristol, Connecticut in the 1960s, fear commanded my life. I had great difficulty even going into the market. This fear of walking into places followed me for some time into womanhood. (The early manifestations of agoraphobia, perhaps?) Today, I can walk into rooms full of strangers, buildings, new communities, and smile, introduce myself with confidence, and extend a hand. Is that courage?

Traveling up and down interstate 95, with speeds of 75 miles per hour, with tractor trailers all around me, and having to pass. Is that courage?

Signing into a virtual meeting of business people from around the globe who don't look, or talk, like me. Is that courage?

Embarking on a month-long trek cross-country with nothing but a map, a camera, a few changes of clothing. Is that courage?

The answer to all of those questions is yes. And the only way I learned to be courageous was to practice fearlessness in all aspects of my life daily. When I learned to lead with love, courage grew exponentially.

Wherever you are today, go out on a limb, onto the limb that is your life. You don't need to travel across the country to practice fearlessness. Practice it right where you are. Do one thing today that scares you, and then do it again tomorrow.

When you lead with love, fear vanishes.

Reflections on a Legacy of Love

My mom, Rose Mossa, turned 91 years old this past November. I turned 61 in December. We were born 30 years apart. Sometimes I forget how old I am, but I always remember her birthdate, and I just subtract 30 years to remember mine. I've been lucky to have a mother in my life all these years. Some of you may have already lost your moms. Rosie is a tough cookie. She's had an adversarial relationship with her life. She's known great joy, too. She's watched her two children bring children into the world. She's attended two grandchildren's weddings, and she's been in the joyful company of her first great grandchild, aptly named Grace. She's buried her husband, her one-and-only, her soulmate, her greatest heartache.

My mom may make a full and solid recovery from a fall in her home a few days ago. She may not. I'm not delusional. She's in ICU as I pen this. Providing she leaves this hospital in a day or two, she will spend weeks in a rehab facility learning to walk with the rod and pin in her left leg. She may return to her humble home here in Connecticut. She may not. I looked around her home last night and I recognized objects that, while meaningful to her, will hold no sway over me or the rest of her family. A window ledge lined with milk glass. Soaps, wall hangings, souvenirs, from many moons ago when I was lost in my own fantasy world. A bowl of beach glass. Dried flowers tied with faded ribbons. Photographs of my father that must have sustained her, preserved his memory since his passing in 2004, Objects that have followed her throughout her married life, childrearing, and widowhood. They say we see our lives pass before our eyes when we depart this world. I wonder if it's the same experience for the ones left behind.

Life is short. You hear it often. Occupy that idea fully, folks. Let the knowledge that your time on Earth is limited permeate your consciousness. Let it awaken, not frighten, you. Let it guide you, move you to pick up the phone, pen, brush, lens, whatever makes your heart sing. Please, do it today. Don't wait for tomorrow.

Smile. Rejoice. Love. Live your life with all the fervor, zest, and joy you have. Do it for your mother, for yourself, for the rest of us. Make sure your legacy is one of love.

Postscript: My dear mother passed away three short days after I wrote this blogpost, on Wednesday, January 6, 2016. I miss her terribly. 

It's Your Life

 It's Your Life

In 2014, it occurred to me, in a stunning and humbling moment of clarity, that I was waiting for someone else to show up with the key to my life.

As a single woman, I was seeking a partner with a big life. In my mind, big life was not necessarily synonymous with big money, big house, or big car. Big life meant that I wanted a partner whose life was filled with passion, purpose, meaning, and depth. I wanted to be transformed, and carried from my own so-so life, into someone else's purpose-driven life. What the Universe provided me with, however, was an opportunity to experience, and utilize, my own sense of lack as a vehicle for transformation. In short, so long as I sought, outside of myself, that for which I desired, I would continue to attract that missing piece in others. And while I never thought of myself as a woman seeking rescue, that moment of clarity was a game changer. I discovered that in order to find people who led deeply passionate and purposeful lives, I had to become a vibrational match! 

The Universe wasted no time delivering direction. Almost instantly, I was given an opportunity to attend a class at the Rhode Island School of Design, aptly called, "Become the Art Director of Your Own Life." From the first class, I began a process that continues to this day, of creating my own big, rich, passionate, purposeful, meaningful life. And lo and behold, now that I have taken responsibility for that creation, now that I am an energetic match to all that I seek, I no longer have to look outside of myself for the key. 

Brazen Little Hussy (Not)

Brazen Little Hussy (Not)

My oldest daughter, Katie, texted me Monday morning to say my soon-to-be-six-year-old granddaughter, Grace Amelia, had asked for makeup. Having come of age in the 50s and 60s when the messaging was clear and emphatic, "Good girls don't wear makeup," my response would have been a soul-crushing, "Hell, no!" or "Over my dead body!" My prudish Italian mother never wore makeup, nor did she give me lessons on the proper and appropriate application of foundation, rouge, eyeshadow, or lipstick. Consequently, I grew up a pretty plain Jane, and was clueless when my own daughters came of age. Therefore, the whole idea of makeup as something innocent, lovely and welcome is complicated in my mind. Especially when, in the language of my youth, makeup, bleached blonde hair and short skirts earned you the title,"brazen little hussy." 

With those old tapes playing in my head, I was surprised to learn that my daughter cheerfully offered my already beautiful granddaughter a hint of blush, eyeshadow, and lipgloss. I admire my daughter for the balance she brings to parenting and the raising of her three awesome humans. Of course she found sensible solid ground to satisfy Grace's curiosity, without crushing her spirit. 

Only recently, at sixty-six, have I begun dabbling, playing around and experimenting with makeup and color palettes. For Christmas last year, Lindsey, my middle, gave me a gift certificate to Sephora, and she graciously accompanied me the day I decided to redeem it. So now, if you catch me on a Zoom call, or a live Facebook video, you're apt to see me sporting a hint of tinted moisturizer, a brush of blush, glitter eyeshadow and red lipstick. All of which just goes to show, we're never too old to record over the old tapes. 

 

No Regrets

(Rose Mossa and baby Grace)

No Regrets

 "talkin' 'bout sweet time." ~Tim McGraw, Live Like You Were Dying

 

I spent last weekend at a virtual 3-day business event. On Friday afternoon, our host invited us to take stock of our last decade, to rewind the reel 10 years to 2011, to journal about our wins, our struggles, to capture our lives in the rearview mirror, as we prepared to vision for our next 10 years. At 66 years old, it's a strange and surreal exercise to imagine the next 10 years, knowing that sweet time is indeed sweeping me towards that final act. 

Two thousand eleven into early 2021 was a BIG decade for this solopreneur and mother of three. I embraced a life of sobriety. I spread my wings as a newly divorced woman. My oldest daughter graduated early from UConn, while her younger siblings attended private school in Providence. I graduated from massage school in Worcester and began my private practice. My creative life began to evolve once I moved into a Soho-style condominium in the heart of downtown East Greenwich. In 2014, my 60-year-old gypsy soul caught fire, and I embarked on an epic, solo, 30-day cross country trip. Upon returning, I found a publisher for my third book, Linger Longer: Lessons from a Contemplative Life, and in 2015, hit the open road again for a whirlwind, 60-day cross country book tour. Once an agoraphobic child, scared of my own shadow, I returned with a fearless spirit and fierce determination to live my no-strings-attached-single-by-choice-debt-free-life with vigor, passion, and purpose. 

On top of all these musings, my 29-year-old middle, my daughter Lindsey, got engaged on Sunday. Her older sister, Katie, who is already a fabulous mother to three beautiful humans, chided, "Kids, kids! My babies need cousins." I was 33, 37 and 38 when I birthed my children--a late bloomer by most accounts. My mom was 30 when she had me. When she died in 2016 at 92 years old, she'd had the pleasure of watching me and my younger brother grow up, marry, and raise children of our own. Blessedly, she got to meet and hold her first great grandchild. 

With time on my mind lately, I began to wonder. How many more miracles and priceless moments await me? Will I see my grandchildren marry, have and raise children of their own? Will the baby of the family, my only son, marry and discover the joys of fatherhood? Will I achieve my dream of owning a private retreat center for all who wish to pursue their creative visions? I want to look back in 2031 and know that I lived and loved this decade to the fullest with no fear, no regrets. Full steam ahead, baby! 

Less is More

 Less is More

I took my artist date on Wednesday this week because I was scheduled for my second Covid shot on FUN FRIDAY. The IKEA store in Stoughton, MA is always a source of inspiration, and it's been a year since I visited. A friend and I used to drive up every few months to browse and feast on their famous Swedish meatballs. Even without in-store dining, I felt drawn to immerse myself in a lifestyle I am passionate about---minimalism. If you know me, even virtually, then you know my mantra is, less is more. Less baggage, less stress, less attachment. More freedom, more connection, more memories. 

I've had the big house. I've had all the stuff. Over the years, I've lived in a 3,800 square foot reproduction Colonial with four other members of my family, and I've enjoyed a second home in the White Mountains. Now, I live in a 750 square foot vintage cottage with my sweet cat, Carla. My happiness could be due to several factors. I am single-by-choice (that means I'm not waiting for someone to show up with the key). I live debt-free. My adult children have lovely lives of their own and they welcome me often into their worlds. In short, I live an uncluttered life. Only the people, places and things that I love occupy my time, my home, my life, my world. 

I experienced a convergence of thoughts on my drive back to Rhode Island on Wednesday. With several IKEA room dimensions dancing around in my head (all under 500 square feet), I caught the tail-end of an NPR segment about the boom Amazon has experienced since the advent of Covid, as more and more people seek to fill their homes and empty hours. Finally, I drove by one of those metal storage facilities that people rent to store the stuff they don't have room for, and I flashed on our landfills chock full of waste. 

As a woman in long-term recovery, I have a pretty good understanding of addictions and the compulsions that drive them. My drug of choice was alcohol, but make no mistake, alcohol and drugs are just one distraction. People also use food, shopping, sex, gambling and relationships to fill their despair, their longing, their dissatisfaction. But the stuff just adds another layer between you and your higher self. 

I used to provide in-home massage therapy to a 90-year-old artist in her assisted living apartment. It was warm, cozy and inviting. Upon moving in, she had selected memorabilia and furnishings that she loved most to decorate her new home. She passed away last week and I thought about her adult children dutifully cleaning out her apartment. She only left what she loved, and I hope that made her childrens' task easier and more poignant. 

The next time you feel you can't live without that new pair of shoes, or plush home good, or fancy kitchen gadget, consider some quiet contemplation instead. Consider the possibility that now, and in the long run, less just might be more. 

(The pantoum is a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which 

the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as 

the first and third lines of the next stanza. 

The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.)

 ACCESSORY

by

Carol Mossa

Color and motion are on parade 

as she sashays down a cracked city sidewalk.

The teal backpack is careless in both content and style,

but it’s paper stuck to a boot bottom that steals the show.

As she sashays down a cracked city sidewalk

her sweater swings to the beat of her steps,

but it’s paper stuck to a boot bottom that steals the show, 

and that tells you all you need to know.

Her sweater swings to the beat of her steps,

but there’s a stowaway on her sole,

and that tells you all you need to know, 

as she hoists a bursting teal backpack.

But there’s a stowaway on her sole. 

On a free ride down cracked city streets, 

As she hoists a bursting teal backpack. 

Color and motion are on parade. 

POLL

 

Friends:

The Footloose Muse has turned four! In order to keep content fresh and members engaged, I would LOVE feedback on the features you'd LOVE more of. 

Feel free to respond to these questions in the chat below, or private message me if that approach works better for you. 

1.  Do the daily quotes resonate with you? Are they readable? How are you making use of them?

2.  Which of the daily themes are you most engaged in? (Mindful Monday. Tuesday Tools. Wednesday Whispers. Thankful Thursday. Fun Friday. Showcase Saturday. Soulful Sunday) Are there other themes you'd prefer? 

3.  Do you intend to participate in the Mindful Monday LIVE group meditations? 

4.  Do you intend to participate in the monthly muse book club? 

5.  Do you intend to participate in weekly writing prompts? 

6.  Would you be interested in any of the following educational workshops? (How to Live a Debt-Free Life. The Chakra System for Beginners. Single-by-Choice: Living Your Best Life Solo.) Which additional topics would you like added?

7. Once it's safe to travel, would you be interested in private multiple-day artists' retreats at Sweet Caroline's Vintage Cottage in Charlestown, Rhode Island? 

8.  Do you envision yourself engaging the 1.1 services of a creative midwife or creativity coach to help you birth your creative vision/dream in the future? 

9.  What other features would you LOVE to see added.

10. How has your participation in The Footloose Muse group changed your outlook and output creatively? 

Let your voice be heard!  

Thanks,

Carol

Creative Midwife

The Footloose Muse

BLACKBIRD

(The nonet is an awesome 9-line poem whose syllables trickle down in descending order until they are done. The first line has nine syllables and the last line has one.)

BLACKBIRD

by Carol Mossa

A fierce and crafty old bird known to 

haunt humans in dark dreams and death,

perches atop stone watchful 

and ready to pounce on 

prey without a prayer.

The circle of

life and death

here and

now.

 

 SINGLE-BY-CHOICE

It's the middle of Valentine's weekend, and I am enjoying a blustery three days on Block Island, off the coast of my Rhode Island home. Friends who know me well, didn't question my decision to book an Airbnb room, secure a car reservation on the ferry, and venture off on my own. Two acquaintances, however, rather passive-aggressively insinuated that I might be taking off on a secret rendezvous with someone special. Once I got over my initial annoyance at their supposition, I realized I had in fact taken off with someone special, and that special someone is me. 

I've been divorced for over a decade. Early on, I dated and in fact, had two committed relationships with men that latest nine and fifteen months respectively. Since 2016, I have not dated, nor actively sought out a partner. When I got sober in 2008, my sponsor suggested I stay out of relationships for a year, that I needed to get to know myself first. How I resisted her advice! I'd been married and divorced three times by the time I sought this wise women's counsel and sponsorship. It took years for her wisdom to sink in, and eventually, I came to appreciate and embrace her wise words. For the last five years, I have been blissfully single-by-choice and have no interest or desire to change my relationship status. None. 

I have healthy relationships with my three adult children and grandchildren. I have a successful small business and do meaningful and diverse work that I love. I am enterprising, creative and in love with life. I have a gypsy soul, hippie heart and gangster spirit.

Blessedly, I've been able to guide a few other women who, like me back then, couldn't begin to imagine life without a partner. If you're reading this and you're single and desperately want a partner, and/or you feel like you won't be complete until you find your soulmate, you're right. You need to be complete first. You must level up. You must develop the qualities you wish for in a partner. If not, you will attract the very things that you lack. I wish I had a dollar for every woman who has told me, "I'm lonely. I want someone to be with." Let me ask you this? Would you want to be with a partner whose sole purpose for seeking you out is because he's lonely? Oh, God forbid. Become the best version of yourself before you cast your net.

Then maybe, just maybe, you'll level up so high, you'll realize, you've had that special someone beside you all along---you!