Bad Day

Yesterday was not a good day.  The body shop called to tell Fio that it would cost $1800 to repair her Miata so the adjuster had decided to total it. To make it even worse, the adjuster didn't have the courtesy to make the call herself so Fiorella doesn't even quite understand what is going on except that Allstate is screwing her.

She went into shock, then anger--yes, screaming and ranting are her forte.  Then came the sobbing, the depression and despair.  Finally the dull acceptance, the final stage of grief that Emily Dickinson expressed so well:

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – (372)

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BY EMILY DICKINSON

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – 

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – 

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’ 

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’? 

The Feet, mechanical, go round – 

A Wooden way 

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – 

Regardless grown, 

A Quartz contentment, like a stone – 

This is the Hour of Lead – 

Remembered, if outlived, 

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – 

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Emily Wins

With a romance novel out, Fio considered closing up her blog shop, but decided she needs to keep it going. The blog is Fiorella's outlet for all the thoughts and theories her strange brain throws at her.  It is her letter to the world, that never wrote to her, which is a restatement of Emily Dickinson, which is ironic because  What the Heart Wants is from Emily also.

Friend Jeanell writes fiction, but Fiorella writes facts

Emily Again

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

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Inspirational Poem

Fiorella is currently studying this wonderful poem by Emily Dickinson to inject more emotion into her current writing project.

After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

After Great Pain

Fiorella loved teaching this poem by Emily Dickinson because it is so true.  We have all been touched by the fires of hell at least once in our lives.

After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Possibilities

I know that animals dream. I remember watching Tina, our first dog, romp and bark as she chased squirrels in her sleep.

But do they daydream? Do they create fiction?

Or are people the only beings who imagine flying around with red capes billowing in the breeze behind them, lucking into extravagant fortunes, or encountering all sorts of supernatural beings?

Are we the only ones who dwell in possibility, a fairer house than prose?