writing.
"Be careful with it,"
said Ash. "Strong stuff."
"Yes."
Be careful.
So why am I afraid? When I take such care?
Is it A. whom I fear? Or is it this craft that seduces me? When it
steals my every thought? And though I have this and that to attend to, always I
think the craft, the craft, and return to it, and when so many wonderful things
are shewn to me that I cannot otherwise. Wonderful things, falling one upon the other.
And may I do good with it, that's the best of all.
But A. torments me and says I play and am not true to the path. Why
do I let her abuse me? Why listen? But she says I have not yet come to my fork
in the path, as all will and must, says A. Then she flatters me and says I must
come to my fork in the path early because I am this and I am that. And it is at
the fork I must make the DECISION.
In her few quiet moments Maggie read and reread the new pages of the
diary as Ash had revealed them to her. Recipes for salves and ointments and
healing herbs were numerous; but more mysterious were the diarist's outpourings
over her misgivings, and the strange courtship with the unnamed A. Maggie did
not understand the meaning of these fretful passages but felt in some way they
were speaking to her. They were at times like an echo of her
own doubts, and yet like the diarist she felt the irresistible seduction
in the unfolding mysteries promised behind the words.
Certain passages made her blood quicken.
There is a fork in the path in the woods as I now see, and one is the
way out, and one is bathed all in the blue light. This is the path of DECISION
as I take it. But howsoever A. will have it, I say I am on the path of the blue
shining, and the DECISION is made. But A. says I will never do at that.
No, I would not go naked. There's an end. I am resolved not to be put
off, nor teased, nor threatened nor bullied no more by A. For now I see she
wants me for her own uses, to do this or that EXTREME thing.
Though she struggled to assemble a coherent picture from these entries,
Maggie had, at least, discovered some continuity.
In spite what I wrote a few days ago, today I went naked for the
LISTENING, and there is an end to all talk of play. It was the blue lighted
path, but not lighted in a common sense, and even A. says yes and how yes was
the DECISION. And it is made. And it shut her mouth for a while, and I'm glad
of a bit of peace so I am.
I'd just as lief not prove her right but it
brings me such reward my heart hammers to tell of it. And dangers, there are
dangers I never guessed, but such reward! My heart is like a scales, up, down,
I don't know.
I am still afraid and A. says that is proper.
What was it that had pitched the diarist
into such raptures? Maggie wanted to know what great step it was that appeared
to have been taken. There was the listening mentioned again, which
Maggie had already been seduced into sampling the afternoon she'd forgotten to
collect the children. Extraordinary things had happened, in their small way,
and certain emotions had been excited; but there were no blue lights or
shining paths or spectacular decisions to be made.
Meanwhile she found a preparation
for treating Amy's eczema; and an inhalant for treating her own sinus
complaint, which she used with some success. She had an itch for the creativity
of the thing, and she cast around for subjects. But it wasn't ointments and
herb baths she wanted, it was more. The diarist's excitement infected her.
Maggie had never had an affair
since marrying Alex, though she had once come close. But, in hiding her herb
collection from him, in poring over her diary in secret moments, and in
plotting snatched intervals away from her family, the entire enterprise felt a
little like that. She was cagey about what she'd been doing and careful not to
let anything slip. Meanwhile curiosity pulled like desire.
The diary was full of mysteries
waiting to be undressed. Her work with oils was deeply sensuous; streaming with
exciting, public
"Be careful with it,"
said Ash. "Strong stuff."
"Yes."
Be careful.
So why am I afraid? When I take such care?
Is it A. whom I fear? Or is it this craft that seduces me? When it
steals my every thought? And though I have this and that to attend to, always I
think the craft, the craft, and return to it, and when so many wonderful things
are shewn to me that I cannot otherwise. Wonderful things, falling one upon the other.
And may I do good with it, that's the best of all.
But A. torments me and says I play and am not true to the path. Why
do I let her abuse me? Why listen? But she says I have not yet come to my fork
in the path, as all will and must, says A. Then she flatters me and says I must
come to my fork in the path early because I am this and I am that. And it is at
the fork I must make the DECISION.
In her few quiet moments Maggie read and reread the new pages of the
diary as Ash had revealed them to her. Recipes for salves and ointments and
healing herbs were numerous; but more mysterious were the diarist's outpourings
over her misgivings, and the strange courtship with the unnamed A. Maggie did
not understand the meaning of these fretful passages but felt in some way they
were speaking to her. They were at times like an echo of her
own doubts, and yet like the diarist she felt the irresistible seduction
in the unfolding mysteries promised behind the words.
Certain passages made her blood quicken.
There is a fork in the path in the woods as I now see, and one is the
way out, and one is bathed all in the blue light. This is the path of DECISION
as I take it. But howsoever A. will have it, I say I am on the path of the blue
shining, and the DECISION is made. But A. says I will never do at that.
No, I would not go naked. There's an end. I am resolved not to be put
off, nor teased, nor threatened nor bullied no more by A. For now I see she
wants me for her own uses, to do this or that EXTREME thing.
Though she struggled to assemble a coherent picture from these entries,
Maggie had, at least, discovered some continuity.
In spite what I wrote a few days ago, today I went naked for the
LISTENING, and there is an end to all talk of play. It was the blue lighted
path, but not lighted in a common sense, and even A. says yes and how yes was
the DECISION. And it is made. And it shut her mouth for a while, and I'm glad
of a bit of peace so I am.
I'd just as lief not prove her right but it
brings me such reward my heart hammers to tell of it. And dangers, there are
dangers I never guessed, but such reward! My heart is like a scales, up, down,
I don't know.
I am still afraid and A. says that is proper.
What was it that had pitched the diarist
into such raptures? Maggie wanted to know what great step it was that appeared
to have been taken. There was the listening mentioned again, which
Maggie had already been seduced into sampling the afternoon she'd forgotten to
collect the children. Extraordinary things had happened, in their small way,
and certain emotions had been excited; but there were no blue lights or
shining paths or spectacular decisions to be made.
Meanwhile she found a preparation
for treating Amy's eczema; and an inhalant for treating her own sinus
complaint, which she used with some success. She had an itch for the creativity
of the thing, and she cast around for subjects. But it wasn't ointments and
herb baths she wanted, it was more. The diarist's excitement infected her.
Maggie had never had an affair
since marrying Alex, though she had once come close. But, in hiding her herb
collection from him, in poring over her diary in secret moments, and in
plotting snatched intervals away from her family, the entire enterprise felt a
little like that. She was cagey about what she'd been doing and careful not to
let anything slip. Meanwhile curiosity pulled like desire.
The diary was full of mysteries
waiting to be undressed. Her work with oils was deeply sensuous; streaming with
exciting, public
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