c. t. kavanagh
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Dear Diary,

Change of Seasons

4/22/2025

 
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April is always a transformative month. Snow hopefully gives way to rain. Brown lawns and branches start to become dotted with green buds and shoots. Azaleas pop with purple blooms and Forsythia shout yellow streaks. Winter gear gets put away, mostly--since it often gets pulled out again at some point before May.

​Being a gardener, I need to hold myself back. Let the leaf litter lie. I suppose that could be some sort of wise, old adage, "Let the leaf litter lie." Sometimes what looks like a pile of leaves is really a mound of miracles all taking place beneath the surface. All sorts of insects are continuing their life cycle unbeknownst to us. Things that look absolutely done for--will start breaking through the surface in a month. It's crazy!!

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This April, while it seemed that so much was coming to life around me in the natural world, there were many instances when things felt like they were coming to a close. And, I guess that makes sense. Life is a cycle. Things end and things begin--and, so often, things cannot begin until other things end. I won't go into all the examples of this in history.

For me, The Room to Write, the non-profit I founded 9 years ago, is coming to its end--of sorts. I suppose it's like that pile of leaves in spring and, really, all kinds of things could be coming to life beneath the surface. We just can't see it. The hope is that some of the programs we have brought to the community can live on in some form. 

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Linda Malcolm, author of Cornfields to Codfish, has been my favorite part of the past three years of serving the community and has been instrumental in the coordination and expansion of our Seniors & Veterans Programs. I hope to see the programs she ushered into existance continue after she fully embraces her retirement under the guidance of others at the Senior Center. Weekly programming included workshops on writing, simple sessions where people gathered to write using supplied prompts, critique groups, open mic sessions, and the new Local Author Book Club. She also coordinated the Seniors to Seniors program, which is a wonderful intergenerational collaboration between the Senior Center, Wakefield High School, The Savings Bank, The Wakefield Daily Item newspaper, JC Marketing, and The Room to Write.

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The WCAT author interview series, The Journey of a Story, has been a wonderful resource for both authors and viewers. Hopefully the two author interviews filmed on April 10th won't be the last and that series can be carried on into the future. The staff at Wakefield Community Access Television Studios has always been so much fun to work with over the past 8 years and 40+ episodes that have been filmed. They are so talented and generous with that talent. Oh--and lots of fun! In addition to the author series, WCAT made possible a second podcast series we kicked off and then passed off to the wonderful Wakefield Veterans Services Officer, David Mangan, called Kilroy was Hear.

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My favorite event that became an annual highlight, though it took a pause after Covid--as so many things did, is the Young Writers and Illustrators Meet, Greet & Create event that we planned in collaboration with the Boys & Girls Club of Stoneham and Wakefield (now BGC Metro North). It was always so inspiringto give away so many wonderful, locally-written books to kids of all ages--toddlers to teens--and to offer youth an opportunity to meet the author of each book and feel good about liking to read or write or be creative! We hope that event continues into the future as well. 

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The writers critique group coordination has already been passed on to Marc Olivere to keep going and I look forward to submitting to that more regularly when I have time to get back to some of my writing projects. The quarterly Writers and Illustrators Meet & Greets aren't likely to live on, but there are two neighboring writers' communities that have programming that can serve a similar purpose: FYACS's Writer's Studio in Melrose & Writers Collaborative Learning Center in Reading. 

Sometimes we just have to let go. We can't control what happens after that, but we can be hopeful. Sometimes things happen differently from our expectations, but that doesn't mean our efforts were wasted. ​Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher, is quoted as saying something along the lines of, “change is the only constant in life.” Ironically, this quote was found as a fragment of a book he wrote that was destroyed. And, it certainly has value and has lived on despite being only a piece of the complete work it was originally presented within. 

For now, The Room to Write's Board of Directors has decided to let the leaf litter lie for the rest of the year and so TRtW will slip into a sort of hibernation to be sure any new life still trying to emerge has a chance to do so. Whatever happens beyond that--I'll always be grateful for the community I found, the lessons I learned and the opportunity to unabashedly advocate for the art of writing!

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Love is in the air

2/14/2025

 
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Sooo . . . this was not the poem I thought I was going to borrow from my collection when I saw "February" and thought Valentine's Day and love--and typed the title "Love is in the air." Though, that does feel even more poetic as I imagine birds in flight.

​I planned to post a poem I wrote about my husband before he was even so much as my boyfriend. But--as life would have it--I clicked on the first poem in my folder: "A Mother's Vigil" and read it. It's a poem I wrote specifically for my first long project, my young adult novel: Lucy Bound in Lyrics. So much love is wrapped up in motherhood. Some is pure and simple. Some, complicated and frustrating. But, all of it originates from the right place, even if that's not always where it seems to end up.

This is a poem that has the ability to make your head hurt trying to sort through the various shades of love, but love refuses to present itself in one, predictable, solid color. As far as mothers go, Robins are some of the most impressive! This poem was inspired by a true story as it played out beyond and framed by my kitchen window in my back yard. A Robin stood vigil over her injured hatchling all day and beyond dusk. I worried about her, as well as her other babies still in the nest in the tree outside our dining room window. 

Love can be so tragic and yet beautiful.
Here's to all the moms.

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A Mother’s Vigil
​
Among the twigs and discarded twine
four Tiffany-blue eggs lay, too humble to shine.
Mama bird sits protecting her nest
from the chill of the north, the scorch of the west.
Warming, padding, tending her hatchlings
feeding when hungry, when lonely—she sings.
Each day the necks stretch, they feed and they grow.
Four birds take to flight, but one meets a fierce foe.
Chirping and trembling, knocked from the sky,
Mama tends the fallen while her other babes fly.
Vulnerable, heartbroken—a guard at her post,
Keeping sorry vigil by the bird who needs her most.
While the other birds soar, swooping strong and free
The injured bird lay suffering--
in the dirt 
beneath the tree.

Weeping Tulips

1/15/2025

 
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While I have a deep fondness for words--I respect that a picture can sometimes speak to a quieter, more profound part of us that words just are unable to wrap fully around.

It's Simple, but not easy: Shalom

12/3/2024

 
PictureView from the Gonzaga/Eastern Point Retreat House
Can I be honest? I hope so. In times of tumult, I am grateful for my faith. I know having a faith at all can be controversial these days, but faith in something far bigger than myself has been a light in my life. Whatever your faith may be, I implore you to cling to or sail toward it when feeling lost at sea.

National politics can be overwhelming. Let's face it, these days--even small-town, local politics can be a bit ruckus. It's hard to have an opinion these days, but I do have one. Take it or leave it. Amid the divisions, don't retreat completely, and conversely, don't get so distracted and consumed by it that you forget the gifts right in front of you. There is always something to be grateful for, and there are so many tangible ways to help your immediate community, family or friends.

In early November, as I contemplated how to meaningfully focus my efforts and attention in the coming years, I came across this passage in my handy dandy daily devotional: Our Daily Bread. The reading is included below. I decided I needed to start simply and tend to those within reach rather than get too wrapped up in so much that seems beyond my own personal control. No matter who or where we are, ask: How can we serve the community we're in?

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Where Flowers Bloom, so does hope!

10/25/2024

 
PictureArt by Richard W. Bardet
The Room to Write and the Arts Collaborative of Wakefield teamed up for a second time in 2024 to bring words and art together in one exhibit. Writers don't often get the opportunity to publicly display their words on a wall as art, so TRtW jumped at the chance to be part of a second exhibit. The first time around, artists made art available, then writers selected a piece of art to inspire their words. This exhibit flipped the order and writers offered their writing for artists to select from as inspiration for creating their artwork.

A poem that I wrote this past summer, had the privilege of acting as inspiration for and being displayed alongside a piece of art by Kendall Inglese as part of the Arts Collaborative of Wakefield's October Exhibit & Sale: Elements: Earth, Water, Air, Fire. Of course, being the overachiever that I am--I wanted to weave all four of the elements into my poem, rather than pick just one, though I do love me some wind (aka: air:). Perhaps not picking just one element was to the poem's detriment? I'll let you decide.

PictureA lone but persistent balloon flower.
Either way, my poem was inspired by the partial quote, "Where flowers bloom, so does hope." I am a passionate gardener and absolutely love that image, which is carved into a bird bath behind the summer cottage we stay in. That optimism was displayed by a lone Balloon Flower (Platycodon grandiflorus) bloom, pictured, that was showing off its purple hue for all to enjoy in an area where it was not planted and had no business surviving, let alone blooming.

The hope exuded by that singular flower so struck me that I took a photo and wrote a poem titled, "Where Flowers Bloom, So Does Hope." The writer and artist pairings from the October 2024 exhibit will begin posting to view on the North of Boston Writers Network blog in December 2024. The prior exhibit, "Tell Me a Story," pairings were featured on the NBWN blog from April to August 2024, if you'd like to look back at those. Read more about the October exhibit by clicking here.

PictureArt by Kendall Inglese
Where Flowers Bloom
​by Colleen Getty


After the fire.
Flood waters retreat.
Embers cool.
Soil dries solid beneath feet.
Winds bring respite,
not fuel for flames.
Earth slowly shrinks and sleeps, but
world unrecognizable remains.
Give time.
Take heart.
The End
simply must precede
The Start.
Life insists on living
below the surface of
her skin, its shell, his eyes—that dirt.
A cell, an egg, the idea—one seed
can soothe our hurt.
Have patience.
Imagination.
Alpine Asters survive on the steepest slope,
And where flowers bloom
–so does hope.*

--This poem and artwork posted on the North of Boston Writers' Network blog, found here:
​Where Flowers Bloom by Colleen Getty, which served as inspiration for the art of Kendall Inglese | North of Boston Writers Network

* Quote from Lady Bird Johnson’s at the Annual Convention of the Associated Press Managing Editors Association, Oct. 1, 1965.
“When I go into the poorest neighborhoods, I look for the flash of color - a geranium in a coffee can, a window box set against the scaling side of a tenement, a border of roses struggling in a tiny patch of open ground. Where flowers bloom, so does hope - and hope is the precious, indispensable ingredient without which the war on poverty can never be won.”

This is perfectly normal. Right? Everybody subjects their poetry drafts to a photo shoot . . . :)
Turn left a little. That's it! Hold it!!
New draft--new photo! Am I the only one who loves to see drafts of things? Don't you think it's utterly interesting, too?? Don't answer that!

I Did it!

7/8/2024

 
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Wow, I did it. 
Yeah, I know I wasn't going to mention my cheating ways in the next post, but this is where criminals go wrong: 
They boast!
I just published my cheatin' post and it has a date in June. Mooo--hahaha. Tech isn't so bad after all.
It lets us pretend we were somewhere we never were.
Wait a minute?! That's bad.
Ok--so tech is as bad as I suspected all along.

This makes me wonder:
Why don't I just post on time?
Clearly there's no magic here. I just talk to you, and you listen, and I don't allow comments, so you don't talk back. 
It all works out.
Why the delay in my monthly commitment?
I don't know.

That's something for me to think about. Figure out. Iron out.
Why do I think this is hard? I think that's a writer thing. We see writing as work and perhaps that's why social media is so prolific (and side note: toxic:) because there is no filter, no editing, no holding back.
It seems everybody wants to be a writer. And everybody wants to be famous.
So--perhaps social media offers up what everybody seems to want whether they should be given a platform to write or be famous at all. They are able.

And now, there's AI. But, really--there will always be unique stories created by humans.
So don't just spill yours away on social media. 
Sit down. Write it out. Think about it. Edit it. Control your own story and don't let people just pull you apart online.
Let your words sit and settle within each reader in their space--
not while they're standing on a subway and looking for ways not to look at the person across from them.
Your story is meant to be digested by someone who is prepared to sit down--napkin on knee--and take it in.
Respect yourself and your story.
It's all each of us has.

Winter's Illumination

11/30/2023

 
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​A few weeks ago I was out raking. It was a beautiful, surprisingly mild, fall day and I was happy to have an excuse to get out into nature. Aside from raking leaves into a pile for kids to jump into, I take more of a "leave it alone" (pun intended?) fall clean-up stance. After all, letting leaves sit over the winter is vital to the life cycle of so many insects, a food source for birds, as well as a cheap and easy insulation for my plants. These compelling arguments for letting go of that rake conveniently appeal to my lazy side. I long to hibernate for the winter.

But, I put off hibernating for one more day to bask in the sun, rake in hand, clearing the sidewalk and driveway to ease pedestrian passage. Anybody who happened to see me in action that day surely wondered, "Why is that crazy lady raking leaves off of the sidewalk and into her yard?" Yes, no bagging or Dr. Seuss vacuum cleaner required, just into the garden they go. This menial task gave me a closer look at the trees and plants nearby. That's the magic of nature--it helps me focus and offers endless avenues for contemplation.

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Being mid-November, the garden was almost completely under the sleeping spell of winter. I began to notice how so many of the "bad" things are illuminated when everything else starts to die away around them. Creeping Charlie was green and going strong and a person could lose a whole day pulling at its never ending stems that snake through the garden and pool around my plants. Whatever that other creeping vine was (Virginia Creeper?) had turned a brilliant red and looked magnificent . . . but it's a bully to all the plants it strangles out and tramples over during the growing season.

Then I saw my clematis vine looking all withered and worn out compared to something strong and green growing right up beside it--a weed easily hidden in the growing season. It was one of those tall weeds that are yellow with the fluffy seed heads that spread everywhere when you try to pull it out of the ground. It's like the awkward, lanky cousin of the dandelion called Sowthistle (a name I found thanks to a quick look-up on the 'puter). Add to that Common Burdock, one of my top arch nemeses of the garden. Dun, dun, dun-n-n-n-n--​
That infuriating plant goes through various stages of big, wide, fuzzy leaves growing low to the ground--thick taproot like a giant parsnip that never comes out in one piece. A year or two later, that very same plant switches identities and grows into a high, sprawling beast culminating in a crescendo of horrible, sticky burrs that cling to anything passing by it--especially clothing. Ugh.​
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As a gardener, I am very well aware that weeds are in the eye of the beholder, though there are some plants that the vast majority can agree cause real harm when left unchecked. Wisteria--I'm talking to you!

It did strike me in that moment how the garden can be such a poetic meditation on life. That fall day in particular, when I went outside with the fallen leaves coating the ground and everything once-cheerful now void of life, I realized that all the things I worked so hard to keep out of my garden were the only things that were still alive.
​Death remains the great illuminator.

Lessons from the Fog

4/6/2023

 
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This morning I walked the lake as I've been doing consistently two days a week since the new year. I suppose that is my resolution. I'm not sure if I knew it was at the time, but apparently that's how resolutions are made and kept at my age: make it small, tangible and achievable.

Baby steps.
​
Today the fog seemed to tell me something similar.

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Usually while walking the lake, I have a clear view of the opposite shoreline. It's only about 3 miles around, so it's not difficult to see the whole thing at a glance, but not today.

​This morning the fog was so thick--like pea soup, as they say--I couldn't see the water, let alone the other side. It was very striking, beautiful, unusual--other worldly. At certain points it seemed as if I was staring off into the ends of the Earth.

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As I walked I wondered what the lesson was because it felt like the fog was telling me something. The Universe was whispering in my ear and it struck me: focus. Focus on what is right in front of you and don't think or worry about the other stuff in the background. Fog forces this to happen.

​On a clear day the branch of a tree can be so easily lost among the colors of the water, the distant trees, the bird flying by at that moment, etc, etc. Fog erases all of that from your vision and the branch that never caught your eye before, stands boldly against the backdrop of the muffled grey mist. An ordinary blade of grass pops. The empty boat has never looked so desperately alone.

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The Universe pleads, "Slow down. Focus on what is right in front of you."

Don't waste time thinking of the stuff off in the distance. There may come a time when you are there, but currently you are here. Forget "over there" for now.

Appreciate, worry about, tend to, take pleasure in, suffer through, deal with, savor--what is right here right now. 
Be present.

Let everything else fade off behind the fog.

Journal Escape

10/15/2022

 
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I've kept a journal since I was a teenager. However, writing in a journal was like one of those on-again, off-again relationships. I can't say I ever really wrote with any reliable level of consistency over a long period of time and often, when I was younger, the entries were more centered on "what I did" than "what I thought."

But, when the pandemic started in March 2020, that changed. I started filling up a whole journal every three months, so I'd say I probably filled about six journals since then, alone.

It was as if writing in my journal was my moment to take a deep breath at a time when it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Today, the third page I wrote in my journal was my attempt to figure out why writing in my journal is something I have begun looking forward to as much as my morning cup of tea. I'm transcribing my thoughts here--in this online "Diary," to encourage others to find solace and sanity in the safe confines of a journal, diary, notebook or whatever you term it. (Warning, part of the perk of journal writing is no grammar, run-on sentence, spelling mistakes exist or matter--so I'm copying it in here as it was written in all its carefree format.:)

Here's what I wrote:

Anyway, I'm enjoying the pocket of time right now when I don't have to be anywhere and the kids are watching cartoons downstairs and I'm in this chair in the living room with a cup of tea and this journal. I can't quite understand why writing in this journal is so attractive to me, why it feels like such an "escape" but I almost crave it at times. Maybe it's because I'm safe here--as cheesy as that sounds. I'm able to say what I want whether I'm right or wrong or politically incorrect. I am able to sort out my thoughts, maybe make sense of them, perhaps vent my frustrations with anyone and everyone without worry of offense or disagreement, and also I am able to let out the leash to allow my ideas and imagination to run wild. To dream on paper and quietly out loud:) Silently out loud. Without fears of contradiction or being talked sense into. It's a vision board sans images. Sans color! A vision board of black and white that leaves the imagination of the reader to fill in the vivid greens and bright blues. Time and space and freedom. There are so many means available these days that allow people to escape, to breathe a little, loosen the collar--so to speak--and here is perhaps one of the healthier, most accessible, cost efficient and convenient of them all:
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Writing in this here humble Journal . . .           
Thank the Lord for paper and pen :)          

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Where flowers bloom, so does hope . . .

6/9/2022

 
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If only people realized that a lack of telling is not necessarily indicative of a lack of living. In fact, sometimes the lack of our ability to tell is the lack of time to tell due to all the living going on. That is the case here. I have a lovely moment to write about, but I will not do it justice to write about it now while I am so tired and there are so few hours in my days--these days. Let me just wait and write about it when I have a full belly of sleep for fuel. In the meantime, here is a photo to hold you over. Those are real flowers in fake shoes. The image looks hopeless and filled with hope all at once reminding me of a quote by Lady Bird Johnson that I am fond of. I will quote it in its entirety, "Where flowers bloom, so does hope – and hope is the precious, indispensable ingredient without which the war on poverty can never be won." If you ever feel yourself losing hope--get out into a garden. Any garden. Even just some random patch of dirt in the woods. Plant something and it just might grow:)
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    My true love is poetry, but a contemporary Young Adult novel and a couple of fun Middle Grade novels have swept me off my feet in recent years. 

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