I belong to the words – especially during the night.

May28

Sometimes I write, and it makes such perfect sense; to me, to someone else – other times, I wonder. I used to rid myself of all the words I wasn’t certain sense or clarity could be found in, but then I mourned them and I searched for them, digging up their invisible grave sites and attempting to resurrect them in some semblance of what they once were, but they were never the same again so I stopped. I stopped crumpling the pages they were written on, I stopped scratching them out with the ink they were created with. I stopped deleting them and let them breathe.

I let them exist.

Some of them are hidden safely away, some are locked in invisible cages, and some simply roam free – sometimes I let people see them, sometimes I visit them in the deepest and darkest part of night. Most stay silent, content to be wherever they are, but others call out, cry out – begging to be released. Sometimes I consider it. Maybe one day I’ll set the captives free.

The words I find the need to hide are most often the ones that come to me when the sun has been settled long enough for night to erase any memory of it, when it blankets even the stars in ebony embrace. Tonight is one of those nights and so many words are whispering, I find myself wondering if they are mine or if I am theirs. The thought crosses my mind – I have it all wrong, they are my captors.

I am bound by letter and verse, by sonnet and chapter – a prisoner without plan nor desire for escape.

And so the night and the words are mine and I belong to them. When the morn comes and the light of day rouses me from what little sleep I was allowed, I wonder what they will say, those words I kept company with as I dreamed outside of a dream, waiting for the darkness to fade . . .

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I long to be

unapologetically –

wholly, perfectly,

and simply

me,

but . . .

it seems at times

I forget to remember

where the me has gone

within the person that I am.

I like her

I do,

but sometimes . . .

she is a stranger

or instead,

I am a stranger to her.

I can’t completely be certain

so I am left to wonder

and wander.

We play hide and seek

the her and the I,

we pretend to be friends

and sometimes,

we are,

it depends on who’s *it*.

It seems to me

we should be one,

of thought

of mind

of inner everything,

but . . .

and maybe this is crazy –

we are separate,

the her and the I.

Did I fracture?

or was it she?

Splinters of self,

branches on the same tree,

perchance it is meant to be,

the her and the me,

growing together,

separately,

as one.

Crystal R. Cook

Blogiversary – The Qwiet Muse is ONE!

May27

May 24th marked the one year anniversary of

The Qwiet Muse.

398 posts to date.

It’s hard to imagine that my words have been seen by so many around the world.

807 followers so far, there were 811, must have been something I said. To be quite honest, when I started The Qwiet Muse, I expected some family and perhaps a few friends to visit it every now and then. I didn’t have high hopes. The truth is, I didn’t think it would even last this long. I thought a month, maybe two would go by before I realized it was a silly idea and walk away from it, but I didn’t – I couldn’t.

I had no idea what I was doing. I’m amazed I was able to create this little space in blogdom without the help of my computer savvy kids, I still need help operating the dang DVR. I didn’t have a plan, a direction to move forward with; I still don’t. I just write and put it out there. Random musings. I have yet to really dig down and share much of my writing, maybe this next year . . . I’ve read many articles since I began this journey in regard to blogging, they all basically say I’m doing it wrong. Maybe I am, but it’s working for me.

I’ve made connections, real-actual-bon-a-fide connections through this little space I call The Qwiet Muse. Beautiful and inspiring friendships were not something I was expecting and I am so thankful for them. These one-time strangers filled a place in my heart I didn’t even know needed to be filled, they have lifted me up and encouraged me so many times. I cannot express how much they have come to mean to me.

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I suppose I will just keep on keeping on, writing, sharing, sometimes ranting. Perhaps I will find a focus, or two or three – I won’t, focusing is difficult – I do hope to continue growing in my confidence, I believe in myself a little more, in my ability to write and evoke feelings with my words . . . I want to do more of that.

~ The first Qwiet Muse post ~

Beauty and music, sunshine and light,
the wings of a dove, softly rustling in flight.

The smell of the morning after summers rain,
crackling campfires, and bubbling champagne.

Voices of children, singing songs of praise,
the evening mist, and long autumn days.

The changing of seasons, a moment of prayer,
goosebumps and laughter, my favorite chair.

Being lost in a moment, the voice of a friend,
being held in a hug I hope never ends.

The way my cheeks feel coming in from the cold,
the softness of hands as they begin to grow old.

Sincerity and honesty, faith, hope and love,
knowing that God is somewhere above.

The presence of angels, a wonderful dream,
having a bowl of my favorite ice cream.

Snuggles and cuddles and soft babies feet,
that fleeting moment my house is tidy and neat.

Sweet memories to cherish, tears of sadness and joy,
pictures in albums, my childhood toy.

Sharing a secret, shouting out loud,
laying back in the sun, guessing shapes in the clouds.

Rain on the rooftop, silence so still,
meadows and forests, lacy frost on the sill.

The power of prayer, uninterrupted sleep,
making a promise I know I will keep.

Sitting and thinking of my favorite things,
like cupcakes and flowers and angel’s wings.

The innocent sweetness of love’s first kiss,
and simply sharing my thoughts with a friend like this.

© Crystal R. Cook

A Lonely Young Poet

May11

artwork – Gerard ter Borch

A lonely young poet
with sweet, red wine
silently welcomes the night
as she would an old friend.

Crimson drops spill
as her glass fills to the brim.

Slowly she sips the nectar
that will transform her world.

Eclectic visions flow forth,
the laureates tongue slurs
under intoxication’s haze.

Her voiceless verbose rambles on
as she empties the bottle.

The crystal goblet glistens
as the days new light
finds its way into her
darkened room.

The page on which she rests
is stained with the color
of tears and old wine.

When she awakes
the words will greet her,
bringing with them
a few, still
moments of peace.

It will last until
the daylight
once again
fades.

Crystal R. Cook ~ 2000

Seeking, searching – inspiration

Apr27

I play hide and seek

with inspiration

pursuing fickle muse

through darkened labyrinth

in dauntless expectation

She scatters thoughts

like falling leaves

and frenzied shooting stars

besprinkling each path I’m on

with quickly fading vestiges

of partial revelations

I perceive only from afar

They disappear

as I draw near

neath my feet

lay naught but dirt

where once there was

a star

Searching, seeking

lost, lamenting

My feckless quest

is near its end

the day is fading

the night is calling

Perhaps tomorrow

she will be my friend

Crystal R. Cook

10 Things of Thankful – My very first one

Apr19

10 Things of Thankful

I’ve been meaning to do a TToT post for a long time now . . . I tend to procrastinate. A lot. It’s not that I don’t have a multitude of things to be thankful for and it’s not that I am an ungrateful recipient of my blessings – I’m just lazy sometimes. When you combine lazy and writer’s block with a somewhat sour mood, nothing happens. I’ve had a whole lot of nothing happening of late. Nada.

Today though, I have decided to try to wriggle and wrestle at least a few words from my cluttered, clouded, and cobweb covered mind and force them to visit the page in hopes they dance their way to life. I’m afraid it may be a bit like an impromptu, poorly choreographed, and unrehearsed interpretive type of dance however. Bear with me until I take my unsteady bow and the curtain falls.

Cue Lights ~ I opened my curtains this morning to a glorious sun streaming through the glass, the gentle rays filtered into my room, illuminating and shooing away any remnants of night still trying to linger there. It hurt my eyes so I closed them and vowed to remain in the shadows for the rest of the day, BUT, that has been getting me nowhere these past several weeks so I opened them once again and slid the window open wide. I’d forgotten how thankful I was to live in a place where the weather is almost always quite pleasant, or at the very least, not too terribly unpleasant.

Cue Sound ~ Such a sweet song welcomed me to the day. The birds were in full chorus, happily serenading the sun and the breeze and the beautiful trees on which they perched. Though if I’m being honest, and I certainly always strive to be, I almost closed the window because their cheer was of a slight annoyance to me, BUT, I didn’t. I listened until I felt the joy of which they sang. Nature’s soothing sounds are a symphony to the senses if you stop long enough to truly give them audience. How can anyone not feel thankful when the air is filled with an enchanting aria that moves even the tiny flowers at your feet.

Places Everyone ~ Sitting before my open window, allowing the outside to find its way in, I began to think about my day. I started mentally scrolling through my internal list of things in need of doing, places in need of going, and chores in need of . . . choring. Whatever. My mind began to wander however, as it always seems to do, and I found myself deep in thoughts of other things. Books waiting to be read, words waiting to be written, and thoughts waiting to be thought. The kids were still snoozing and I was still pondering when my husband came in with a hot cup of coffee for me. No list of needs or wants, just a perfect cup of caffeinated morning perfection. The calm of the morning began to settle within me. My heart was overwhelmed with gratitude for mornings like this, for every morning actually. Every new start to every new day is a glorious gift.

Acte I ~ One of my favorite sounds this world has to offer aside from silence and the laughter of my children, is my mother’s voice. Two rings echoing across the miles and I hear it. It fills my heart and when she tells me she hopes I have a wonderful day I believe I will. Among my greatest treasures is her friendship. Daily she gives me love and hope and guidance, just like she has since they day she first held me in her arms. I am so much more than grateful for my mother. She inspires me. She fills me with awe and delight. Her love has carried me through life and it always will. I can hear her smile, I don’t have to see it to know it’s there. I hear her voice when we cannot speak, I feel her comfort when we are apart. I haven’t enough words to express how thankful I am to have the honor of simply being her daughter.

Acte II ~ The friendships I’ve forged in the virtual world have so often fueled me and fulfilled me. Friendship is a beautiful thing, it’s different for me than it is for some; I don’t spend my days chatting on the phone with them or shopping or hanging out or whatever it is that friends so often do. My connections with friends span many miles, sometimes thousands as I read the words they’ve typed to the brightly lit screens that connect us. Sometimes I long to sit with them in some cozy little coffee shop somewhere and spend hours lost in conversations about anything and everything and nothing. Sometimes I wish I could reach out and hold their hands or wrap them in a hug, but I have to hope the words I share convey my feelings, I have to hope they are enough. I have to hope they know how truly thankful I am for their presence in my life, that our friendship is real and I value it with the whole of my heart.

Entr’acte ~ I’ve gathered my things – a replenished cup of coffee, today’s book, my reading glasses, and my laptop – I’ve settled myself beneath the big umbrella on the porch. There is a perfect breeze tiptoeing through the radiating rays of the bright and brilliant beacon above me and the birds have lulled themselves into softly muted sonnets of incidental poetry, gently warbling verse high above in the treetops. I feel the need to whisper a silent prayer of gratitude for the moments like this, moments I too often take for granted.

Acte III ~ There is something soothing to my soul in the sound of the keys as my thoughts frolic through my fingers as they aid them to their place on the screen that sits before me. It doesn’t quite compare to the mellifluous movement of a pen gliding across the surface of a page however, that is the music to which my dreams are composed of. You have to listen for it sometimes, but once you hear it, it resonates within your soul, at least it does so in mine. That I was given the gift of words, that I was enabled with the ability to share the beatings of my heart for others to hear is more than a blessing to me, so much more, and I am forever thankful for it.

Acte IV ~ I’m exceedingly thankful for the whole of life, the ups and even the downs, after all – we only learn to rise by falling. I’ve taken a few tumbles and made a few missteps, but my journey has made me strong, stronger than I ever thought I could be. The hardships I’ve faced in life have been the stepping-stones that led me to where I am, how could I not be thankful for them? If you face the thorns, you’ll find the roses hidden within the brambles. The Lord above knows I’ve faced my share of thorns, he allowed them to grow here and there so I might learn to find the beauty within them. He allowed them to prick me so I would learn to heal. He let them grow across my path so I would learn to find a better way. I could have stopped and made my heart a home where they blocked my passage, but my faith taught me to soar above them and I did. Looking down I saw their blooming petals unfold, unafraid and unaltered by the thorns below them, and I knew then that no matter what my thorns might be, I was going to bloom just like those roses.

Acte VII ~ This day is nearing the end of its reign, the sun is setting and the stars are peeking through the darkness spreading itself across the sky. The air is still, the little birds have quieted for the night and the crickets have replaced their song with one of their own. The moon is peering through my open window now, as if to say goodnight. I’ve always been thankful for the night, it holds a beauty all of its own, unlike any other. The ebony sky sings a silent lullaby, soothing the world beneath it to slumber. I admit, there are times I fear the night. The darkness. The quiet that sometimes settles upon me like a shroud. The sun always rises though, it always rises, so I must be thankful for the night, for without it, morning could not come.

Crystal R. Cook

~ Le Fini ~

Secret Rendezvous – Caught in the act & still she couldn’t stop

Mar3

She never meant for it to go this far. The whole thing began in innocence, I suppose it often does though. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, right? She just thought she needed something, something more, something else . . . She felt selfish at the thought of it, but the feelings of need and desire only intensified with the passage of time. The more she tried to quell her longings the more they grew until the intensity was too much to bear and she gave in. It wasn’t the first time. She knew too well how it could all end.

She began to steal moments in the day while the family she loved was away to feed her hunger, to satiate the desire that burned within, and for a long while she was satisfied. She felt no true remorse; no one knew what she did during those fleeting moments in the light of the afternoon sun. What they don’t know couldn’t possibly hurt them right? Soon though, it wasn’t enough. She began to take chances. Late into the night when she was certain her love was sleeping sound, she would sneak from their bed for a midnight rendezvous.

The old flame had been rekindled within her and once again she felt the rush only secrecy can hold. She began to grow careless, every so often a giggle would escape and float down the hall, she hoped the closed door would spare her husband the sound of it. It was only in those moments she felt the slightest twinge of guilt, knowing what she was doing was wrong. Knowing when the morning came she would be weary and the day would be long, but the thought of what the night held for her was stronger than those moments of guilt.

Days, weeks, months went by before she realized something was wrong. She had no idea she’d woken her husband with her carelessness many times. She had no way of knowing how many nights he spent, listening through the door, wondering what he should do. He made the decision to confront her, to catch her in the act. When the night came, he kissed her sweetly and whispered his love to her. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep until she slowly slid out of the bed, tiptoed across the room and quietly closed the door behind her. He waited. Patiently, giving her enough time to begin doing what she had snuck out to do. He slowly opened the door just as quietly as she had closed it and made his way down the hall until he could see her shadow, glowing in a soft, flickering light.

His heart sunk. It all made sense now. The tired mornings, the hastily prepared meals and earlier bedtimes . . . All of her energy was devoted to the night, he wasn’t going to lose her to this . . . thief. No, he would not be robbed of his precious wife, not again. He was going to save her, just as he had done before. He approached her; gently placing his hand upon her shoulder. She jumped and tears began to fall when her eyes met his.

“Why?” is all he could manage to say. She hadn’t an answer to give, not one that could make him understand. In that moment she realized she was tired. So very, very tired. She looked into his bloodshot eyes and softly said she was sorry. He knew she was. He motioned to the object of her obsession and she knew what she had to do. She reached her shaking hand forward, gently moving the mouse until the arrow was atop the ‘shut down’ button. The screen seemed to beg her not to, but she had to. She knew she had to.

She closed her eyes and did it. The click of the button was deafening as the room went dark. She took her husband’s outreached hand and followed him back to bed. She closed her eyes and slept. It was a beautiful sleep. She dreamed of writing and blogging and Facebook and Pinterest, of all they to offer, the freedom to express herself, the joys of acknowledgment, the recipes, the silly cat videos, the motivational sayings . . . they were always there for her. Now there would be no more midnight visits to the vast world of point and click.

She awoke the next day, refreshed and ready to take on the world. She stared at the computer, remembering an email she was waiting for. She didn’t think it would hurt to quickly check. The minutes passed quickly, the hours even faster. Her husband came home and found her wide-eyed, fingers flying across the keyboard. He had been beat. He decided to give up. He ordered pizza for the kids, gently kissed her forehead as if to say he understood. She didn’t even know he had come home.

Crystal R. Cook

10 minute writing prompt – wind, storm & secrets

Feb28

10 minute writing prompt — wind, storms, & secrets

– Set a timer and see what happens –

My secrets tormented me. Writhing within my soul, parasitic monsters feeding on my ever waning sanity. Taunting and teasing me from within; a cacophony of soundless voices reveling in and reminding me of all my hidden sins. My peace would only come when the howling winds of a wayward storm came to drown out their never-ending chatter.

Every tempest became my friend. I sought protection in the midst of every storm which came my way. Then came one day a gentle zephyr, and it spoke, urging me to share my secrets, promising to carry them away, someplace far, far from me. So I whispered all my secrets into this breeze, and one by one, their voices grew silent until I could hear them no more.

I thought my freedom had finally been found, but the fluttering wind I thought was my friend had lied, and round me the air began to fill with the ghostly echoes of my foolishly whispered secrets, and not even the gusts and gales that once masked them could lend me their protection.

Sometimes now as they flutter and float though the air like swirling autumn leaves, my secrets will sing softly through my open windows, sometimes they will bellow in the night, just outside of my door.

Once my solace, now my captor, the wind knows my secrets and I will forever be bound by them . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Amazing Instant Novelist . . .Does anyone remember this?

Feb25

I stumbled across an old memory today on Pinterest, check out these archived screenshots of my old haunt – The former AOL site was the brainchild of Dan Hurley, the original 60 second novelist, you can check out his book here on GoodReads.

Amazing Instant Novelist was affiliated with Chicken Soup for the Soul, it was filled with message boards for writers and readers alike. I found the site in 1997 and was hooked. I read and I wrote and I became part of my very first cyber family there. There were contests and prizes and tons of camaraderie, it was, for lack of a better word, fantabulous.

It wasn’t long before I was asked to join the ranks as NovlQwiet, and became one of their volunteer admins. I was rather brokenhearted when the site was acquired by some other entity and faded from existence. I still miss it to be honest. The years I spent there are treasured.

It was there I realized I had something to offer, something I didn’t need to keep to myself, buried in notebooks and journals . . . my words. They read them, they picked them up and they displayed them; they valued them. I was encouraged and applauded and it was good. So good.

I’d never been in the company of other writers, I wasn’t even certain I was one of them until they assured me I was. The other Novls embraced me, the writers who came there to write respected me, and the readers who simply came there to read uplifted me. It was kind of a beautiful thing and I’ll always, always be thankful I was a part of it.

Crystal R. Cook

Magical Doorways

Feb7

The classics . . . pieces of art and history, penned by the hands of literary masters, caretakers, and keepers of words; their works have stood the test of time, remaining while all else changes . . . forever.

My childhood was filled with magic and mystery, drama and suspense. I was a time traveler and a princess, a mighty hero and a damsel in distress. I’ve flown round the world and journeyed to the center of the earth. I had grand adventures when I was young. I could go anywhere and do anything because my mother led me to a me a magical doorway, an entrance into another world.

She gave me a wonderful gift when she taught me to read, it was my key to unlock the doors of imagination and knowledge. When I was six years old I found a weathered copy of The Old Man and The Sea, I read it front to back without pause; I’ve read it many times since. The same softly covered book, printed and bound in nineteen fifty-two, holds a place of honor in not only my memory, but in my home as well. Once I stepped beyond the boundaries of everyday reality into the wondrous world of literature there was nothing I did not desire to read.

Herman Melville and Ernest Hemingway were my best friends. Shakespeare and Mark Twain accompanied me to school quite often. Hawthorne and Homer waited patiently for me at the end of each day. I’ve been to secret gardens and lived in enchanted castles. I’ve known the greatest of love and have felt the deepest of sorrow. I played with Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn; I’ve even been to the moon and back again. I’ve sat along the shores of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River with the elephant’s child and pondered what the crocodile ate for diner. I bravely ventured into the mind of Poe.

I remember going to the fair with Charlotte and Templeton and investigating every mystery with the Hardy Boys. I was in the skiff with the old man Santiago and I felt the wind in my hair as I rode atop Black Beauty. My tears stained the pages where the red fern grew.

Aesop, Anderson and Kipling often joined me for lunch with James and his companions beneath the giant peach tree in the backyard. I traveled with Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and met the great wizard Gandalf. I befriended elves and fought ogres in search of the ring.

I held hands with Jesus in stories from the Bible and I was with Daniel in the lion’s den. I stood atop Mt. Ararat and gazed upon the most beautiful rainbow with Noah. I’ve been both young and old, taken many forms and seen many places. I’ve ridden high atop unicorns and slain dragons. I’ve even soared on the wings of angels.

I will forever be thankful to those who penned their dreams and fantasies, for in doing so; they bestowed upon me a treasure of great worth. I adore my books, though the pages have aged and the bindings have seen better days, I still go back to them, I visit my old friends often, adding new ones along the way. I never know where the magic door will take me or who will be my guide. It may be a quest for infinite wisdom or a marvelous retreat into days long since passed. Perhaps the future awaits my arrival on some distant star.

Who knows, maybe it lies within me, just waiting to be printed and bound . . .

Crystal R. Cook

The Origin & Etymology of QWIETPLEEZ

Feb6

Since beginning this lovely blogging journey of mine, I’ve been asked many a time why my bloggy little corner of cyberspace is called the The Qwiet Muse, and I’ve thus far had no less than 5 well meaning folks inform me I spelled quiet wrong, you know, just in case spell check didn’t catch it. So sweet. To put those helpful minds at ease, let me issue an assurance to all, I spelled it that way on purpose. I had to fight spell check to do it to.

So we’ll start with the muse part. I love the word muse. Words often have more than one meaning, you may see the word muse and envision some ethereal goddess floating overhead, gently guiding and inspiring, but I have to say, if some ghostly apparition was hovering overhead, encouraging me to write, I would run.

Muse can also be defined as an instance or period of reflection, a source of inspiration . . . my particular muse comes from everything around me; my faith, my family, my friends. My muse exists in all the wonders of God’s creation and in my own human experience.

Onto to the origins and etymology of ‘qwiet’.

qwi-et [kwahy-it] adjective. Basic definition – it’s the same as quiet. It’s the same word, with the obvious distinction of containing a W in place of the U.

– making no noise or sound, especially no disturbing sound: qwiet children.
– free, or comparatively free, from noise: a qwiet house.
– silent: Be qwiet!
– restrained in speech, manner, etc.; saying little: a qwiet person.
– free from disturbance or tumult; tranquil; peaceful: a qwiet life.

verb
– to make qwiet.
– to make tranquil or peaceful; pacify: to qwiet a crying baby.
– to calm mentally, as a person.
– to allay (tumult, doubt, fear, etc.).
– to silence.

Origin: 1997; English(ish). Derived from (adj.) Middle English quiet < Latin quiētus, past participle of quiēscere ; (v.) Middle English quieten, partly derivative of the adj., partly < Late Latin quiētāre, derivative of quiētus.

*credit and apologies to dictionary.com

Historical Account:

In the summer of 1997, a young mother set about creating her first AOL.com email account. Her beginning attempts all ended in failure, every name she chose was unavailable. She wanted something witty, something fun, and something memorable. After several hours and many (many) unsuccessful attempts, her frustrations began to rise, as did the playful rambunctiousness of her four, young children.

Her attempts at quieting them were as unsuccessful as creating the perfect screen-name. Finding it increasingly hard to think, she found herself repeatedly requesting silence from the little house trolls. Calm down, lower your voices, hush, go to the other room, knock it off, zip it, chill out, and other such requests went ignored.

Her final, semi-shouted command to shush their pie-holes, not only stilled the room of sound for a blessed moment, but became her victory at the keyboard as well.

“JUST – BE – QUIET – PLEASE!”

She was filled with trepidation, dreading another unavailable message but she pressed on, one key after the other. Q w i e t p l e e z. That was it! It was perfect! Her finger hovered over the enter key, she closed her eyes and pressed the button. When she opened them, the message said success!

So, I suppose you’ve guessed it, that young mother was me.

And there you have it, the origins of qwietpleez which lent itself quite adorably, at least to me, as inspiration for the creation of The Qwiet Muse.

Oh, by the way, I realize please is spelled wrong, I like it that way.

Crystal R.Cook aka Qwietpleez