Breadcrumbs

An Insomniac's Trilogy

Hi everyone,

Here are pantoums 114–116 from my daily practice. These days, you can find me in the forest. I can’t wait to invite you over for a walk, next time you’re in my neck of the woods.
Have chainsaw so you can travel.

Thanks for journeying with me.

Spring Socks from 2017 Fake Journal “Something in my Woods”

Without Breadcrumbs

Without breadcrumbs
I venture into the poplar forest,
My sweat, as sweet and green as their mossed socks.
I swear those widow-makers fall to feed my path-cutting pleasure.

I venture into the poplar forest—
Spruce seedlings are plotting their uprising.
I swear those widow-makers fall to feed my path-cutting pleasure.
And now, I'm overgrown with newness.

Spruce seedlings are plotting their uprising,
My sweat, as sweet and green as their mossed socks.
And now, I'm overgrown with newness,
Without breadcrumbs.

Remembering Hansel and Gretel

Remembering Hansel and Gretel—
Would-be cartographers, had they not chosen breadcrumbs.
Homeward bound, if only they’d sown a trail of anything else...
What path are you leaving?

Would-be cartographers, had they not chosen breadcrumbs,
Your legacy calls your name.
What path are you leaving?
What if it is the curve ahead?

Your legacy calls your name,
Homeward bound, if only they’d sown a trail of anything else...
What if it is the curve ahead?
Remembering Hansel and Gretel.

Braided Loaves

What if your trail of breadcrumbs begins to grow—
Into braided loaves of inspiration,
Becoming food for others to break apart and share,
In communion with an unseen, unbroken world?

Into braided loaves of inspiration,
Kneaded and left to rise,
In communion with an unseen, unbroken world—
A heavenly bakery, here on earth.

Kneaded and left to rise,
Becoming food for others to break apart and share,
A heavenly bakery, here on earth—
What if your trail of breadcrumbs begins to grow?

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Behind these Pantoums: Notes from a Sleepless Night

This trilogy poured out of me in the heavy hours between midnight and dawn.

Crumbs of knowing.
That’s all I thought I held at any given time — scattered crumbs of memory, crumbs of movie plots and book titles, a few quotable crumbs, a few brilliant ones. There have certainly been crumbs of adventures, laid down on a trail, then gobbled up by the birds of time.

Peck by peck, those hungry pigeons of the past lifted them away, and sometimes I stood watching - a frozen statue, lost.

But sometime between 2 and 3 a.m., listening to this interview podcast with Dr. Lisa Feldman Barrett, I remembered something deeper:

I’m not broken.
I’m just wired.

My experiences aren’t lost crumbs snatched up by greedy foragers.
They’re wired into my body, my breath, my life.
Then, stitched into the unseen ever-changing map of who I am.

I remembered the late 90’s, when I left the theatre world. I couldn’t keep up the performance. I built private healing areas around my house — small spaces I rotated through daily. "Stations of the Cross-stitch," I laughingly called them. Tiny self-care sanctuaries to keep me occupied, and remind me that things would get better, during the darkest years of my life. And they did.

Days slowly became brighter, filled with endless hours of learning — Telemann sonatas on the alto recorder, new Celtic harp arrangements, early quilts stitched into being.

I remember meeting three new friends who became: a long awaited musical mate, a quilting mentor, and a life partner.

Each breadcrumb, each stitch, its own station of survival and creation.

There is still a hunger in me — not to gather crumbs, but to trace the living roots of the path I’ve been forging.

There is still a calling into the woods. This morning, in my journal, I wrote:

At what point do I make so many paths it stops being a forest?
Where does it literally become overkill?

And yet —
the new growth of evergreens is such a balm of colour in these brown spring woods.
The poplars are itching to dance in their moss socks.

I remember:
I would not have witnessed this if I hadn’t dared to forge a new way.

Now I spend most of my days close to my nest.
Selective. Soft-footed and carrying big sticks.
There’s a new kind of confidence growing — one I never anticipated.

I used to think old age would bring confusion or frailty. Instead, I find it filled with opportunity — sometimes too much — which is why I lose sleep in the first place.

I no longer push. I’m learning to be led by new paths.

In the woods, I follow my loppers. In my life, I follow the rhythm of sound and silence.

Breadcrumbs or no breadcrumbs — the forest knows the way.

end of day, yesterday.

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INVITATION:

Draw or doodle a map of your own breadcrumb trail —
real or imagined, scattered or stitched — and see where it leads.

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See you tomorrow for #117,

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P.S. If you want to browse through some of my writings visit The Pantoumery. What’s a pantoum, you say? I’m writing one each day, for a year. Learn how HERE

Also, The Well platform (prompts, classes and meeting links) is now available as mobile app!

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