Above is the link to my other blog. Where a photographer learns to see with words.
I began this blog as a place for my first writing attempts in January 2011. The collecting the small moments/stones is ongoing.
I began this blog as a place for my first writing attempts in January 2011. The collecting the small moments/stones is ongoing.
What a small stone Gathering Means to Me
by Teri H Hoover
Why do I feel a bit exposed? says the happy photographer and a reluctant writer.
Growing up my family took small hikes and camping trips. Small stones would always find their way into my pockets. Dad would growl endlessly about this- somehow 6 kids collecting stones, weighed him down. Despite the growling, every trip would yield a cache of small stones that "had to stay outside."
Fast- forward 40 years or so. Each one of 6 children have healthy collections of stones, sticks,bones, leaves, and nests, all inside their homes. I think my mother played a key role in our collecting. She never seemed disturbed by the stones or stuff -it was my fathers words that weighed her down. Sadly, his words continue to keep her trapped. My father, blissfully childish at 75 is known to pick up a stone or two, and bring them home.
Writing and collecting stones, where ever I walked, was how I survived being a teenager. I also wrote nearly every night in a tattered notebook. I still have them. Sadly, I could not write after the age of 22 - my interior landscape frighten me too much. I took refuge in photography to tell the story.
As I return to the edge of me - where I end and the hole begins. Or is it whole? Exposed-the photographer, walking the path of perseverance, in writing. Initially begun in January 2011- I wandered a two mile path-called the Huckleberry trail. I bundle up against the elements and my thoughts flowed into words. So filled with seeing - I walked right through winter into spring. Riding high and feeling balanced, I was surprised to find when the exterior harshness subsided, I was left with a much harsher landscape- exposing fault lines, fissures and heartbreak. It took me a few weeks to realize, if I could walk the exterior landscape of winter, I might apply the same idea toward my inner landscape.
The breath of God, found in my very own breath keeps me grounded. Clear seeing, blended with physical movement, will bring me home. Faith is not "having" faith, it is believing that you are not alone, because faith has you in the palm of its hand- and it will carry you safely to where God needs you to be. The journey continues...
by Teri H Hoover
Why do I feel a bit exposed? says the happy photographer and a reluctant writer.
Growing up my family took small hikes and camping trips. Small stones would always find their way into my pockets. Dad would growl endlessly about this- somehow 6 kids collecting stones, weighed him down. Despite the growling, every trip would yield a cache of small stones that "had to stay outside."
Fast- forward 40 years or so. Each one of 6 children have healthy collections of stones, sticks,bones, leaves, and nests, all inside their homes. I think my mother played a key role in our collecting. She never seemed disturbed by the stones or stuff -it was my fathers words that weighed her down. Sadly, his words continue to keep her trapped. My father, blissfully childish at 75 is known to pick up a stone or two, and bring them home.
Writing and collecting stones, where ever I walked, was how I survived being a teenager. I also wrote nearly every night in a tattered notebook. I still have them. Sadly, I could not write after the age of 22 - my interior landscape frighten me too much. I took refuge in photography to tell the story.
As I return to the edge of me - where I end and the hole begins. Or is it whole? Exposed-the photographer, walking the path of perseverance, in writing. Initially begun in January 2011- I wandered a two mile path-called the Huckleberry trail. I bundle up against the elements and my thoughts flowed into words. So filled with seeing - I walked right through winter into spring. Riding high and feeling balanced, I was surprised to find when the exterior harshness subsided, I was left with a much harsher landscape- exposing fault lines, fissures and heartbreak. It took me a few weeks to realize, if I could walk the exterior landscape of winter, I might apply the same idea toward my inner landscape.
The breath of God, found in my very own breath keeps me grounded. Clear seeing, blended with physical movement, will bring me home. Faith is not "having" faith, it is believing that you are not alone, because faith has you in the palm of its hand- and it will carry you safely to where God needs you to be. The journey continues...
It is my intention to tie both my blogs together with the use of links. I expect that on most days both blogs will echo or be mirrors of each other. A small stone Gathering will be a place my friends from the writing forum Writing Our Way Home to stay in touch easily and help Fiona Robyn and Kaspa as we fill A River of Stones.
Fiona Robyn's blog
Handful of Stones
A River of Stones- Writing Our Way Home 
, 
Below is a collection of my stones(small observations and writing prior to starting this blog...
January 2011- March 2011
March 25, 2011
Brenda
Thank you for sharing how you cross a creative chasm. Like you I rarely lack for sparks and access. But for me the trauma of taking Fiona's "e course" during the month of March(Writing as a Spiritual Journey)has left me cut off on some days. It is like my left brain has clogged up the creative path that is usually wide open. Again thanks sharing your moonlit illuminations.
Oh and thank you for checking out my new spot for stones.
Late Evening Entry- March 23, 2011
Home wraps around me after being away.
Shutting down this box of light-
but wait.
Enticed by "angled shadows" , "soft knit" clouds,and "curlews" calling...
This letter tapping reels me in
Sleep --oh just one minute more.
I find a place that brings my heart to the "reservoir beyond".
I stand in your midst -"delicate drops and deluge".
This empty spool filled by a thread.
Late Evening Entry-March 17, 2011
the naive tree with the protection of a youthful exterior
wore the clinging vine like a prom dress
I am quiet happy with this stone- but of course it triggered a landslide. I could not stop there so I went on. You can see where I went by clicking over to my blog-Teri H Hoover Photography Learning Grace
Late Evening Entry- March 16, 2011
Beyond the dusk, just after nightfall~
Waiting in the silent shadows,
Dim silhouettes become millions of outstretched limbs,
Grasping deep, dark blue, and a blush of imagined pink.
As light slips away in the unheard exhale.
Leading the way home.
Afternoon March 15, 2011
The rain bounces
off the hood of my black raincoat.
Pop,pip,pip,pip,pop-
Memories of dad's popcorn ricochet inside my head.
Pepper ruefully regards the rivulets of rain
pouring off her shiny black coat.
In our slick black coats-
Wet paws-
Wet booted feet-
We
sidestep
trampoline puddles filled with jumping raindrops.
Late Evening Entry- March 14, 2011
No Time for Color
Almost shuffling the white haired man
walks past on the silent gray sidewalk.
A story hidden in his black overcoat
brought his shoulders nearly to his chest.
( Finally - a stone after a week of writing boulders- )
March 13, 2011
Hello all-
Thanks for everyone's entries - your willingness to share has been a gift.
As we begin week three Fiona's essay on "Perseverance" showed up just in time...I was beginning to fall flat not because I was writing boulders instead of small stones, that was ok. I was beginning to loose focus with an overload of ideas, it made me a bit annoyed that I could not access the simple faith I so depend on. Thinking about faith made me weary. And then a bit peeved. And then a bit defensive. The week of Clear Seeing did nothing to help matters - it presented me with faith topics to ponder. If you want to the awful truth I have a mother who dissected faith to the point of oblivion. She preached faith but could not access it. Her toxic words drove all of her 6 children away and taught us to be very wary of faith. If your faith did not match up to her twisted version of faith-(a faith that of late, when pressed she will admit she does not have.) then you were not worthy of Gods love.
Ok now where was I ? Oh yes... I was explaining why pondering faith utilizing words made me unbalanced and unable to access faith easily. And let me be clear I am not bereft of faith- I am very uncomfortable using words to talk about faith. This is not a new discovery. I was feeling like I need to justify what "is" through words -inadequate words. And there it is - "uncomfortable with words". I feel like the report cards says, "does not play well with others."
So here I am in a course where the very first question is, "Do you have faith?" It would have been so easy to stop there.
Yes - I found it to be mine in my late 30's... after years of lonely depression and anxiety. It came to me in a moments and glimmers. The well known somewhat cliche poem Footprints in the Sand carried me for the longest time. It was my beginning back to being.
So with the confluence of moments and coinciding of things that should never work but do- I am comfortable with the blessed synchronicity of love alive in the world. Even in the midst of all the things that conspire to unbalance faith. Clarity found by mindful breathing and a prayer filled and humble heart.
I must tell you that it is so good to have had the safety of this little group to express these thoughts.So I say thank you. It is so good to be able to begin to be unafraid of words of faith. It is such a blessing to be able to begin to Write My Way Home.
Here is my blog post when I was in the thick of last weeks upheaval it is not a small stone- but it could not be-Two Mile Circle-
Blessings- teri
I tried to leave a comment on your blog but I'm not sure it went through. I really love your post. I have been hiding from my small stones and the work of this course for the past week. I could identify very much with that feeling in your blog. I give you tons and tons of credit for putting on your coat and going for that walk. I was chastising myself on the drive in to work this morning... what kind of spiritual person/poet/writer do I think I am that I only write when I feel like it. Fiona's remarks about the work of writing really hit home. I've been avoiding the work. - Annette
- Oh Annette- Your response is exactly one of those "confluence of moments and coinciding of things" that I spoke of. I had just made a wary peace with myself to not be so filled with anxiety over what I posted here. All day it has been in the back of my mind- WHAT do you think you are doing...? You are supposed to be writing small stones! And besides that you are a photographer, a good photographer why have you gone and done this writing course? AND why are you still stuck on the first question Fiona asked ... you know the one about faith? All day I have had a day trying to see a nice stone... but all I could see was the boulders I have been writing. Your comment was like a big bright beautiful red STOP sign. Perfectly timed- The light in you came through your words... I have a question for you. Can you imagine that you might be able to be like Kersey your beautiful lab? Can you imagine that eventually you will have what you need to jump in and swim. xo Blessings - teri.
Answer to Brenda's Question- are you the same only more you- or have you changed?
Deepening after a long hiatus-
For me I lost a bit of myself for quite sometime- Echoes of myself are hidden in journals that I kept from 12-17. I reread them once when my daughter was 12... she is 30 now. Why did I stop writing? It happened bit by bit. Because I felt annoyed with words and life. I could not see myself finding clarity. I could not create while I was being a mother. So I became a photographer and recorded life- I did it well. Creativity tip toed into my images. I survived-
The spiral of my life - was re started about 10 years ago. And I have movement back in my life. The ripples can move again - I do not feel feel frozen--I am finally beginning to remember who I am. I am the same but more.
Will I write again? Hmmm I was thinking just today while walking my dog that I just may throw in the towel. I am taking part of Fiona's first Writing as a Spiritual Practice e course... and it is got me a bit overloaded. I may have to go back to the safety of photographs -
Thank-you Brenda for asking.
For me I lost a bit of myself for quite sometime- Echoes of myself are hidden in journals that I kept from 12-17. I reread them once when my daughter was 12... she is 30 now. Why did I stop writing? It happened bit by bit. Because I felt annoyed with words and life. I could not see myself finding clarity. I could not create while I was being a mother. So I became a photographer and recorded life- I did it well. Creativity tip toed into my images. I survived-
The spiral of my life - was re started about 10 years ago. And I have movement back in my life. The ripples can move again - I do not feel feel frozen--I am finally beginning to remember who I am. I am the same but more.
Will I write again? Hmmm I was thinking just today while walking my dog that I just may throw in the towel. I am taking part of Fiona's first Writing as a Spiritual Practice e course... and it is got me a bit overloaded. I may have to go back to the safety of photographs -
Thank-you Brenda for asking.
Late Evening Entry- March 9, 2011- Ash Wednesday Evening
Untidy ashes on my forehead
Lingering I inhale the sweet smoke
from the extinguished candles.
Morning Scribbles - March 9, 2011
The small stone that grew...
The wilderness awaits
If I could
I would
run away
and never look back.
And in the very next moment
I doubt my longing-
Run ?
From what do I run?
For what do I long?
There is the weight of this life that leaves me frustrated, overwhelmed, drowning.
I put that away- like dirty dishes into a dishwasher.
How do I see clearly-? I see froth and debris.
I want to run from that feeling of untidiness.
I am tired of cleaning but cannot stop.
I long for the desert of emptiness and the ocean of fullness.
Where I am not compelled to cover up so much of myself.
My stone was more like a boulder...
Maybe I should make a stone now-
Fullness longing to be empty-
-
Teri - I love how you transformed your boulder back into a small stone. This piece is just so ... full. I felt the weightiness of your life and your longing for relief as I read it (and I read it over and over).
I want to run from that feeling of untidiness.
I am tired of cleaning but cannot stop.
These lines remind me of something I was reading recently from Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird so I thought I would just share it with you in case it sparks any small movement for you " Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground... Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move." Anne Marie
Morning Scribbles- March 8, 2011
In Preparation
Unmask my heart so I can see
Blind my eyes so I can hear.
Pause my breath - so I can breath
Morning Scribbles-March 7, 2011
Making a Clear Path for Faith
With the black fur and red fuzz of life vacuumed away
I can sit in the sunny room for hours.
Morning Scribbles- March 6, 2011
Sunday Morning
Embraced in the soft white flag of surrender
Safe from tomorrow's plans
Morning Scribbles- March 4, 2011
F is for Faith-
Fickle follower of faith
I fumble for hours,
fantigue finds foothold-
a familiar fatigue.
Finally, a forgotten breath.
Faiths fairlead found unfurls my fright
Feistily-I say fie!
Fine, and friendly
The letter f!
Morning Scribbles-March 3, 2011
I woke to a bed full of stones
and faith (like my glasses) was forgotten on the bedside table
I could leave it at that but oh no...
A dutiful master I got up and let the dog out
I crawled back into bed- and my dog followed
Now my bed was filled with stones and a dog
Faith still lingered close by- but I paid no attention.
Evening Nibbles March 1, 2011
Home
where
I fall back
into the treachery
of being
me
But you are aware and that is all which matters. Interesting how environments or people (particularly family) have us falling back into being older 'selves' we thought we had left behind.
Roslyn-
I am much better this morning.
I just returned last evening from a trip to my childhood home. I have not been back in a year and three months. During the summer of 2009 some incredibly sad moments occurred- I drove a 10 hour drive 8 times, between July and November. In November my 21 year nephew passed away after a bizarre and tragic accident and both my parents were diagnosed with cancer... I was "in charge". I tell you all this because I am taking part in Fiona's Writing as a Spiritual Practice e course... and the discussion about faith is the central theme.
So all this to say- I have more faith during crisis and tragedy than when I am in the safety of my home. I returned home last night and was overwhelmed by all the stuff I have to catch up with and my faith has run out the door.
I am much better this morning.
I just returned last evening from a trip to my childhood home. I have not been back in a year and three months. During the summer of 2009 some incredibly sad moments occurred- I drove a 10 hour drive 8 times, between July and November. In November my 21 year nephew passed away after a bizarre and tragic accident and both my parents were diagnosed with cancer... I was "in charge". I tell you all this because I am taking part in Fiona's Writing as a Spiritual Practice e course... and the discussion about faith is the central theme.
So all this to say- I have more faith during crisis and tragedy than when I am in the safety of my home. I returned home last night and was overwhelmed by all the stuff I have to catch up with and my faith has run out the door.
Morning Scribbles-March 1, 2011
Waking in the unfamiliar bed
I feel the hand of love beneath this travel worn body.
Knowing I will rise -faith trickles in.
I feel the hand of love beneath this travel worn body.
Knowing I will rise -faith trickles in.
Morning Scribbles- February 23, 2011
 |
| My great-grandmothers quilt- Blakcsburg, VA- February 23, 2011 |
Standing in my great-grand mothers flower garden
I cross the generations with one gentle step.
Morning Scribbles- February 22, 2011
Too
too much
too little
Not too
Balance
breathe
with love
Because with Gods grace things are never too-
(This comes from an impending visit from my brother. I am bracing when I need to breathe... )
Morning Scribbles- February 21, 2011
 |
| Taos, NM - June 7, 2010 |
I pulled a dream out by its tail this morning
It was wound up tight in a funky little ball
Gently
while I stretched my body
the bits of string connected
the story revealing
empowering
her in her choices- but worrying all the same
while I stand waiting
on my husband for direction
Holding a small child and tucking them into bed -
such a love I never thought possible
I have become
stronger
gentler
and funnier
Less broken
and almost ready
to admit love.
Teri H Hoover Photography (blogger blog)Morning Scribbles- February 20, 2011
Returning Home
Two weeks away
Then one week just being being home.
Turning was hard
Returning is comfortable
Morning Scribbles- February 19, 2011
Turning
around
the perspective
changes
change
perspective
Why is turning so hard?
Morning Scribbles- February 18, 2011
Confounded and unfocused
It was easier last month
Breathe
Intending toward balance
that is all I can do
Morning Scribbles- February 17, 2011
Reaching for this morning scribbles I realize I have sat too long.
Stagnant pockets of stiffness
residing along the right side of my body-
Thigh, hip, ribs, shoulder, neck-
not even my skull is exempt.
I will be glad when my yoga teacher returns.
Morning Scribbles- February 16, 2011
Jet Lag-
Exhaustion overtook me as the camel couch and the walls of the sunny violet-blue room slipped away.
Morning Scribbles- February 16, 2011
letting go of child's posewith one perfect breath
mindful and with intention
the day begins
Morning Scribbles February 15, 2011
- after a flurry of good mornings (all four paws off the ground) a jaunt in the garden and a bowl full of inhaled food my black puddle of love tip toes back into bed with me
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