tag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:/blogs/denise-s-blog?p=9Denise's blog2021-08-01T12:29:48-04:00Denise Moserfalsetag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/67038172021-08-01T12:29:48-04:002023-10-16T10:44:50-04:00I am ready to tell you my secret<p><span class="font_large">I have been feeling superstitious about talking about this, as if keeping it to myself would keep it safe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All of you kind people reading this have made me feel supported over the past many years. You have cared about my music and about me, and that means more to me than you can possibly know. That makes me want to share this new part of my life with you too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In three short weeks, I will be going back to school! I have been accepted into a master’s degree program in clinical mental health counseling. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">You may not know this about me, but I was a therapist in the 80’s. I had an unusually clinical bachelor’s degree program, fabulous on the job training, and worked in the field of addiction and adolescence for many years. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty years ago, I was accepted into a graduate program in counseling but I didn’t go. (That’s a story for another day…) Over the years I have deeply regretted that decision, so now I am giving myself a do-over! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It is exciting and scary. I bought my books and my school supplies, and my niece wants me to take a first-day-of-school picture. We’ll see about the picture, but here I go. School starts on August 23rd. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Do you have any do-over wishes you can put in motion? </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/8b196a115eda591967468da2d32f38956fe4c889/original/firstsemesterbooks.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Know that even through I am changing my life in a big way, the things I am currently doing with my music will not change, and I plan to finally record a new album.) </span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/59262622019-10-14T16:05:37-04:002021-08-01T16:37:09-04:00That's not a thing...<p><span class="font_large">"That's not a thing." These four words recently changed my life. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It started when I needed to call for help after being locked out of the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah. My fob didn’t work, so I called Julie, a choir member who lives nearby. I am always the first in. I like to sing through some things before my choir arrives for their warm up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Julie is part of the temple’s leadership, and I knew she would have a key. She was able to get us in, but the help she gave me that night ran far deeper than learning that there is another fob entrance in the back. It was even more helpful than her marathon training that enabled her to sprint to the front door in time to turn the alarm off before the police came. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I always have anxiety about High Holiday services. I work for months to prepare, and I know that the music is an important part of the experience for people. As much as I prepare, my instrument is human, and I worry that I won’t have full access to it. I worry that if my voice isn’t up to everyone’s expectations I won’t be hired back. I don’t want to let anyone down. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In a moment of anxiety, I told Julie about my worries. She said, “That's not a thing.” Her words echoed what the wonderful rabbi I work with has also told me. As I listened to Julie, I knew she was right. It enabled me to shed some of the pressure I felt, and to be in the moment. I now believe that a less than perfect note won’t let everyone down. That's not a thing… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another annual anxiety is about an amazing concert series I have been honored to be included in. These shows have enabled me to both build my mailing list and presence, and to open shows for some of my heroes. I look forward to it all year, and it has been wonderful fun. I spend a lot of energy preparing for these shows and promoting them. I have always sold a lot of tickets, and yet every year I worry that I won’t be invited back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Last week, I wrote to the promoter to ask if I would be invited back next season, and his email back to me was two words, “Of course.” I thought about my anxiety and heard an echo of Julie’s words, “That's not a thing.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It happened again two days ago. I had to run to the store for food. I was sick and not quite myself. After paying for my food, I stopped to put my credit card away, and I thought I was taking too long and blocking traffic. I mumbled to myself, “I am in everyone’s way.” I didn’t know anyone heard me, but a voice from behind me said, “You’re not in anyone’s way. You’re fine.” Again, Julie’s voice saying, “That's not a thing.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some of my fears are real, but I am learning the power of telling myself, “That's not a thing.” It feels like a revelation. These words changed the way I look at my worries. I wonder if they can change yours too. I hope so…</span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/58581192019-08-14T18:11:31-04:002021-08-01T16:37:40-04:00John Gorka and the Internal GPS<p><span class="font_large">I am doing my best to transform my life in a way that honors my most authentic self. I feel alive, useful, and hopeful when I succeed at doing that. Sometimes I can’t find my way there, because I am stuck in the business of survival. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The process isn’t always graceful, and the road is often obscured. It winds and doubles back. I am doing my best to feel and trust my internal GPS. There are powerful landmarks on this road. One of them was my gig with John Gorka. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It has taken a couple of weeks to be ready to talk about it. I had a bit of an emotional setback after the show, which is part of how I am put together. Although there are a couple of things I would do differently, like not forgetting to tell people about my custom songwriting business, overall, it was a fabulous night. I am profoundly grateful for the experience, and for the folks who came out to share the night with me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My social skills get wonky when things are deeply important to me, so I didn’t talk with John as much as I would have liked, but he was kind, warm, and did me the honor of listening to my set. He had nice things to say, especially about the song “I Believe.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One of the lines in “I Believe” is, “I believe in wishing on a song.” My new song is feeling like another landmark on that road I was telling you about. I am wishing on it, and working on getting it out into the world in the best shape that I can. My goal as a songwriter is to touch your heart by revealing my own. I believe this song does that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The song, “The Long Goodbye,” was inspired by my time as a companion for a woman I love very much, who is living with Alzheimer’s Disease. The song was well received at the show, and I was overwhelmed to learn how many people have been touched by this thief of a disease. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I am doing some preproduction work for the song now, and look forward to sharing it with you. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What makes you feel like your truest self?</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/65eb3fb2aceaa66337a684295a065d5700c48aaa/original/johnandme.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/58323152019-07-22T11:47:17-04:002021-12-23T06:46:45-05:00Do you feel seen?<p><span class="font_large">Is it more important to be loved or to be seen? What does it mean to really see someone? How do we know that we are truly seen? How does it feel? Can we be loved without being seen? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I have been wrestling with these thoughts this week, as I process the last twenty-two months that I spent caring for a lovely woman with Alzheimer’s Disease. I am going to call her Marcy here, although that is not her name. Marcy is now in a residential facility, and although I will visit her, my time as her caregiver has ended. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I want to share a piece of this experience with you, because I believe it is important, and it raises questions worth pondering. I have more questions than answers... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Marcy I knew was kind, funny, warm, energetic, brave, and sweet. She loved her family, although she couldn’t always recall their names. She loved her dog, although she often thought there was more than one of her. She loved to dance and sing, and to put lipstick on many times a day. She loved Dream a Little Dream of Me, Rainbow Connection, Bohemian Rhapsody, and soy lattes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her words were mostly gibberish by the time we met, but if I listened closely enough to the emotion behind them and to the context, I often understood her. Sometimes she would communicate clearly, as if the pieces of her brain aligned correctly for a moment. Then she would cry, grieving for what she had lost. I did my best to honor the lucid moments, and to always treat her like she was fully present. To me, she was… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remember as a kid learning about twins who had developed their own language. They communicated clearly with each other, but no one else understood them. I was fascinated by that, and often thought of it during my time caretaking Marcy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I am certain that her family and friends thought I didn’t understand her as well as I thought I did, and that makes perfect sense to me. I didn’t know the Marcy that they knew. I never met the Marcy before Alzheimer’s Disease changed her forever. They had been saying goodbye to her for years before I met her. They loved her dearly, but she wasn’t the mother, wife and friend that they had known and treasured. We all saw her and loved her, but we saw different things. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I think I may have tried too hard to maintain contact with the lucid part of her. That part was present, but mostly dim. Her husband called it an undercurrent of awareness. Connecting with that undercurrent was an honor, and I know it helped her to feel seen. It also sometimes pulled me under. I am just now regaining my equilibrium. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What do we see when we look at each other. What parts of ourselves do we allow to be seen. How well do we know each other’s undercurrents? How do we connect deeply and maintain our balance? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Marcy is an extreme example, but she highlights for me the need to be seen and known. I believe it is a brave thing to risk being truly seen. I do it best in songs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We all have roles we play in our lives, and adjectives that we use to describe ourselves. We also have private internal lives that are precious and genuine, and vulnerable. I believe that this part is our treasure. Sometimes we guard that treasure closely and sometimes we share it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What parts of yourself do you let people see? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How deeply do you connect with others? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I believe that when we dare to look deeper, and to reveal more of who we are, we see the currents that connect us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Do you feel seen and known?</span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">(Your comments are treasured. If you leave on below, please check back. I always respond...)</span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/4797968f58868a4e59f66d5bd894299044af2a5b/original/albero.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/56044592019-01-20T15:11:26-05:002019-07-28T15:37:45-04:00It was supposed to snow...<p><span class="font_large">The wind is finally kicking up, gusting and showing a hint of the storm I had imagined. Cars were supposed to be sidelined for the weekend. Errands that needed running were supposed to have to wait. Nagging thoughts were supposed to be silenced by the storm. It was supposed to be a movie-in-pajamas kind of a weekend, the kind that feels like a much-needed time out. I was looking forward to it, but it never got cold enough to snow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I love the cold, gray, short days of winter. Maybe it is my introvert nature. Maybe it is the smell of fireplaces and hot chocolate, or the way breath dances in the air. Maybe it is the wonder-look of snow - icing pines, roofs, and empty roads. It could be the stillness, and the memory of 455, and the joy it brought from the radio, signaling a reprieve from school and Mr. Bellini’s tyranny. Winter is a feeling I crave, like love and beach walks on summer mornings, and the sweet voice of a guitar. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well…it didn’t snow, but since a cancelled weekend-long class cleared my schedule, I took a snow weekend anyway. I cooked, had a luxuriously long conversation with a dear old friend, worked on a new song, watched movies, and slept until my body was ready to get out of bed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tomorrow life will start moving again and I will move with it, but for a time, it was wonderful to just be. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I think there is still time for a batch of cookies… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What is your relationship like with winter?</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(click below to add a comment)</span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/55836822019-01-06T20:16:42-05:002019-01-08T14:29:07-05:00Starting again with gratitude...<p><span class="font_large">"Do the best you can with what you know, and when you know better, do better." Maya Angelou said that, and it is a way of thinking that rings true for me. It is a way to be kind to myself for not always making the best choices in the days when I don't know better. I recently remembered, after some weeks of struggling harder than I needed to, that I do know better. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I finally remembered, that for over twenty years, I have made a purposeful daily practice of gratitude. I started way back by listing ten things that I was grateful for at night, and then thinking up ten more right before closing my eyes on the day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It used to be a challenge. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With practice, it became easy. It became fun! Even in the face of grief, fear, and disappointment, I learned to identify multitudes of things to be grateful for every day. It has been life changing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes I am grateful for big things like getting a special gig, or writing a new song, or connecting deeply with someone. More often, it is gratitude for<span style="font-size: 1.4em;"> </span></span><span class="font_regular"><span style="font-size: 1.4em;">things as simple as a deep breath, the way my cat looks sleeping belly-up in a sunbeam, or the way it feels to take my bra off when I get home at the end of a day. If I allow myself to be present in the moment, there is always a gift in it. It is a powerful thing.</span></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here are some of mine for today: </span></p>
<ul> <li><span class="font_large">My apartment smells like garlic and ginger because I cooked a really good dinner! (and it may soon smell like chocolate chip cookies) </span></li> <li><span class="font_large">My body carried me everywhere I needed to go today, even up and down stairs with heavy bags</span></li> <li><span class="font_large">I have a deep connection with the wonderful woman with Alzheimer's that I spend a lot of time with, and I know I help her to feel safe, and to have some fun</span></li> <li><span class="font_large">I was thrilled and surprised yesterday morning by Sleepy Hollow, on WXPN, playing one of my songs</span></li> <li><span class="font_large"><font size="3">I finally have deep blue jeans that fit</font></span></li> <li><span class="font_large"><font size="3">I have been offered several wonderful opportunities to connect with people through my music</font></span></li> <li><span class="font_large">I reopened my blog today, after being away from it for a long while</span></li> <li><span class="font_large"><font size="3">I feel hopeful.</font></span></li>
</ul>
<p><span class="font_large"><font size="3">I hope you can identify things in your life to be grateful for each day. If not, please take a deep breath, and start with that...</font></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><font size="3">(I would love to hear what you are grateful for in the comments below.)</font></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><font size="3">My best to you...</font></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><font size="3">Denise, the grateful</font></span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/e602e34b0c2c4d881aadd9ec876c55f85b69d82b/original/denisesmilegirlale.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsInNtYWxsIl1d.jpg" class="size_s justify_left border_" /></p>
<p> </p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/46473802017-03-27T15:08:19-04:002022-06-01T00:17:20-04:00An unexpected bit of healing...<p><span class="font_large">An unfinished piece of my past showed up at my birthday concert and allowed a long ago broken piece of my heart to mend. I got to see a dear old friend who had hurt me badly when I was fifteen. We talked, and I got to feel her genuine horror and regret that she had treated me carelessly in our youth. I got to tell her how I felt, and then like magic, a long buried hurt wasn't buried anymore, it was gone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I feel compassion for us both back then, doing our best to find our way through adolescence. It made me think of all of the little, and the significant ways we impact each other's lives, sometimes without realizing it.<br><br>It makes me wonder if anyone is walking around with an old wound that I caused. <br><br>If so, I am sorry...<br><br>Have you ever had an unexpected chance to heal a long ago broken piece of your heart?<br><br><a contents="Writing about this makes me think of this song..." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1ouYgCD_lo" target="_blank">Writing about this makes me think of this song...</a></span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/44595902016-11-09T16:54:35-05:002016-11-13T08:07:31-05:00From puffy-eyed, day after the election me<p><span class="font_large">Today has been emotional and hard. I wonder how it has been for you. I wonder how we can all work together to heal our broken country. I am ready to try...<br><br>I just went for a long walk in my neighborhood. The resident Poplar, Ash and Maple trees are showing off their reds, oranges, and yellows. I have been grieving over the election results, and I needed their company. I love the way they look, lit from the inside. I need to kindle my light again too. <br> <br>I found comfort in their company. They are gorgeous and transforming. The rain tapped a gentle rhythm on my umbrella, and it smelled like the moment. November is a dear friend, and she soothed me today.<br> <br>I also found comfort in the hugs and conversations I shared with stranger women in the grocery store, all of us on the hunt for comfort food, and in the phone calls and emails from friends who knew I would be distraught. There was much to be grateful for today, even in the midst of sorrow and fear. <br> <br>Today, my eyes are puffy from crying and lack of sleep, but tomorrow I will do what I can to move forward. I don’t know what that will look like yet, but tomorrow I will dry my tears and look to the future. I will do my best to heal my little piece of the world. <br> <br>What has today been like for you? </span><span class="font_regular"><em>(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.)</em></span><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/6cf9ebaf2131eda59fff0641529cceca6ba2ec1c/original/the-walk.jpg?1478728688" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Photo and recording are from my walk in the November rain. I thought you might find them soothing too...</span></p>0:30Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/43837332016-09-21T17:30:03-04:002020-11-21T08:16:44-05:00Sarah's Woods (flash fiction)<p><span class="font_large">Sarah comes here alone. She doesn’t remember exactly when this became her spot, but these woods comfort her like a grandmother. It’s the place where her heart relaxes enough to open up and play. Sarah’s feet crunch along the path. It is a sound she waits for like a birthday. <br> <br>She is silent with the brittle leaves, and with the smell of November. She breathes it in, and imagines herself inside a living painting filled with falling leaves, gray skies, and busy squirrels. She wishes she could stay here forever. <br> <br>The steady rhythm of her feet takes her back to the autumn she stopped caring about trick-or-treating. She used to love dressing up and going door to door to the neighbors for Hershey bars, Kit Kats, </span><span class="font_large">and company. She stopped caring about everything that fall. Well, almost everything… <br> <br>The move was unexpected. Her dad said they would still be close, but he stopped coming over to tell bedtime stories, and to protect her from the long-armed monsters that lived under the stairs. <br> <br>She still hadn’t gotten used to living in an apartment. She missed her old back yard, Roberta’s tree house, and the apple tree she named Rosanne. </span><br><br>(Scroll through my blog for more peeks into Sarah's world. I have been writing about her for years... If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.)</p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/43565042016-09-04T11:44:01-04:002016-09-05T10:28:34-04:00Ode to the Night (flash fiction with Sarah)<p><span class="font_large">The last of the day’s light glowed orange through the maple leaves. Sarah loved that tree. She had only known him for a spring and a summer, but she trusted him. She knew his faces, and his kind presence felt like a friend. <br> <br>Crickets and cicadas were singing “Ode to the Night,” and she felt her heart relax and soften to the gentle rhythm. Nature was her favorite composer, and she loved this song. <br> <br>“Why are you just sitting there in the dark?” Her mom flipped on the overhead light, and she was pulled back into the room. “Go in the kitchen, and pack your lunch for tomorrow. There won’t be time in the morning.” <br> <br>Everything was new: her room, the neighbor walking around upstairs, mom’s moods, packing her own lunch, and tomorrow – Brooklawn Elementary.<br><br>Sarah wished she could build a house in her Maple tree, and live there forever… </span><br><br><em><span class="font_regular">(Scroll through my blog for other glimpses of Sarah)</span></em></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/42960372016-07-26T19:04:06-04:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00Joy and fear and the Hudson Valley<p><span class="font_large">There is a place on the NY Thruway, between exits 18 and 19, where the road turns to the right and offers a first glimpse of the Catskill Mountains. Every time I see it, I feel my blood pressure going down and my joy increasing. It feels like a homecoming. <br> <br>When I was a kid, my parents had a business that transported people to and from the Catskill mountain resorts; places like The Concord, Grossinger’s, and Nevele. I remember the ride up, and the majesty outside the car’s windows. I loved the mountains! I still do… <br> <br>My recent Hudson Valley tour brought back those old memories, and created wonderful new ones. I loved meeting the kind people at my gigs, and folks like the photographer who owns an art gallery in Red Hook, dedicated to images of horses. I am still thinking about the gourmet chocolate I wish I had bought at a fabulous Kitchen Market. <br> <br>I was grateful for the opportunity to introduce my songs to new people, and am happy to report that they made new friends. It was thrilling to reconnect with an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in forty years, and was fun to make a Facebook friend into a real flesh-and-blood person. <br> <br>There were also scary times in cars! My friends and I broke down on a dark road after my first gig. I was deeply grateful to have them with me. We were stranded without tow or taxi, and it worried me to think what could have happened if I had been alone there on the side of the road. <br> <br>There was also a bad choice of route home that led me onto five-lane-high-speed roads that scared me. I had listened to Siri when I knew better. I will try not to do that again… <br> <br>Whenever I leave the Hudson Valley, I feel like I am leaving home. I look forward to my next visit. I just wish that I could beam myself there, Star Trek style. <br> <br>It seems there is always fear mixed in with joy. Is that true for you too? <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/58475ebd6013a15cf04810f96ea81ea2fee5b5ec/original/catskills.jpeg?1469574473" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><br> </p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/41622132016-05-02T11:35:04-04:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00A lesson from a tree<p><span class="font_large">Before I moved here, one of my new neighbors scared me. She told me that she wouldn't live on my side of the building, because she was afraid that the tree outside my new home had potential to break and fall on my windows. The fear was not ungrounded, as a tornado whirled through here some years back and took down mature trees. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I started to worry. It was an oddly shaped tree, and it did lean in my direction. I moved in anyway, and now I would be heartbroken if anything happened to "my" tree. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I started to tell you about him in my last entry. As I have gotten to know him from my living room window, I see that he has many faces. I have lived with him for a month now, and I keep finding new ones. I have watched him go from being leafless, and presumed dead, to being dressed in light, </span><span class="font_large">new-spring-green, soon to be darkening into summer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There is something distinctly special about him, and that is his beauty. I wouldn't trade him in for any other tree. He made me think about what it takes to be lovable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Its not about being pretty enough, or thin enough, or "successful" enough, or anything else that ends with enough. It is about each of us being uniquely ourselves. It is about being authentic, and embracing our own essence. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I have a feeling there will be more lessons from this tree. He is my favorite new neighbor. <br><br>Do you have relationships with the trees around you?</span><br><br><span class="font_regular">(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond...)</span><br><br><br><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/4797968f58868a4e59f66d5bd894299044af2a5b/medium/albero.jpg?1462203283" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/41415782016-04-18T13:42:16-04:002016-04-20T13:17:49-04:00All Moved in!<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes it feels like I live in a tree house! Sitting on my sofa, all I see looking out my windows are trees. My favorite one looks a bit scrappy from the ground, but up here, I can see his many expressive faces. I watch the squirrels nesting in his hollow places and listen to the birds singing songs of new beginnings. I like it here. <br> <br>There are traffic sounds and lawn mowing sounds, and children playing. I hear the neighbor walking around upstairs, and although people kept warning me about living below someone, so far, she just makes me feel like I am not alone here. <br> <br>The cats were initially horrified that moving was a thing that could happen. They broke my heart on moving day, but they like it here now too. We feel at home.<br><br>I am reaping the rewards of my pre-move winter of purging. It feels lighter here. It is spacious, kind and hopeful. Moving gave me a deadline to get rid of what was not bringing me joy, and I am grateful. I know there is still more to let go of, but I am proud of how deep I allowed myself to go as I decided what to bring forward. (I kept the biker jacket...)<br> <br><strong>I want to share the feeling here! I am hosting an all-day retreat for women in my new apartment on Sunday May 22nd. There are a couple of spots still available. If you are interested, please email for details. The spirit of the day: to be, and to play, in the heart-centered moment, through creative activities - group singing, writing, art and making a vision board. I will even cook a vegan lunch for us.</strong><br> <br>What does your home feel like? </span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/40460722016-02-17T12:14:45-05:002016-02-18T14:07:21-05:00Facing forward...<p><span class="font_large">My friend Jane (not the one in the song) once told me that I was always looking backwards. It stung, because I knew she was right, and I felt powerless to change. At the time, I wasn’t ready to turn on my heels and face forward. There was beauty and love and security in the past, and I wanted to live there. <br> <br>My early life was divided into before and after, and I spent much of my life trying to get myself back to before. I attracted people and situations that felt like after, and I would try to turn them into experiences that felt like before. Of course, it never worked... <br> <br>These days, I find myself releasing the past more and more, not only in my heart, but in my home too. I have been saying, for years, that I am going to go through all of my stuff and shed what doesn't bring me joy, but it has been hard to part with things. Most of these things are tucked away in boxes and closets, and really don’t bring joy. They actually feel more like a burden. <br> <br>I am moving in six weeks, and that has been a gift of a deadline. I have to touch everything to pack, so it is a good time to assess and discard. I am on a roll. <br> <br>Yesterday, I donated ten big bags of books. Although the parting stung a bit, I love the thought of the pages coming alive again for other people, instead of living silently on my overcrowded shelves. <br> <br>I am touching everything, and if it doesn’t bring me joy, it’s out. This is actually fun! <br> <br>The thirty-year-old leather biker jacket I bought in my twenties, because it looked like the one Kate Bush used to wear, is up next… <br> <br><em>(Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a coincidence, that at the same time, I finally booked a mini tour in the Hudson Valley. I have wanted to play there for years. Rhinebeck and Rhinecliff, here I come! There is even the prospect of an additional show. Things go, and make room for the right things to flow in…) <br><br>Are you facing forward?</em></span></p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/39535932015-12-07T13:24:52-05:002021-08-02T05:53:44-04:00Sarah's Spell (flash fiction)<p><span class="font_large">Sarah’s mind always goes back there. Decades have passed, but she still feels like the ugly outsider kid she was, with pimples, and dreams of being picked for the talent show, for the school play, and for being loved. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The doorbell rings. Kelly barks and runs to the door. It’s the god-peddlers again. Sarah knows they mean well, but she has lost her patience for their incessant efforts to save her. She turns off the light in the foyer, hoping they will go away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It would be so easy to join them, to be told what to do, what to think and believe, but she isn’t built for ready-made answers. Sarah was built for questions, detours, and discoveries.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sarah sits at the butcher-block table. Her fingers trace the cracks in the wood. She has the lemon oil in the cabinet that she was supposed to rub into the surface from time to time, but she never did it, not even once, and the cracks scold her. They shout at her of all the things she has neglected.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sarah remembers the table before the cracks, when it still lived in Aunt Faye’s kitchen. She can still smell cinnamon challah if she closes her eyes. She can feel the dough under her braiding fingers. She can hear Uncle Mark yelling at the TV as he tries to make the picture stop spinning. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She misses those days. She wishes she could go back and make things right. She wishes she could whisper in her twelve-year-old ear, and offer guidance, warning and validation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sarah fell under a spell when she was twelve, and now, it is time to break free of it.</span><br><br>(This is part of a much longer piece still in progress. Can you relate to Sarah? I would love to hear from you in the comments. If you leave one, please check back. I always respond. Thanks...)</p>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/39253692015-11-16T17:28:43-05:002015-12-09T10:13:34-05:00Eyes on my own paper<span class="font_large">I was reminded recently to keep my eyes on my own paper. I wasn't cheating. I was looking around to see what other people’s lives were like, especially other singer/songwriters, and I was going down the rabbit-hole of envy. <br><br>Like most of us, I can list my shortcomings and my disappointments easily. They live in my heart and have the ability to multiply like bunnies. Sometimes they make it hard to breathe. <br><br>I am learning that when I feel a pinch of envy, I am only seeing a part of another person's life. It is easy to romanticize other artists' experiences, and minimize the beauty of where I am standing. My path is wonderful, with all of its twists and bends, potholes and magic!<br> <br>My new video, “Thank You to the Animals,” was a sparkle of magic. It came unexpectedly, and fell together like it had always existed. I was asked to sing at a “Blessing of the Animals.” I said yes, but had no idea what to sing, so I wrote something. (I am a custom songwriter after all...)<br> <br>When the event was over, people started asking for the words. They wanted to hear it again. They wanted to share it. The song came into the world with wings!<br> <br>Friends and fans shared their pets' photos with me for the video, and I love what we created together. I feel like I have met their dear furry ones while I worked, and they have become a part of the song for me. It also gave me an opportunity to honor a precious cat friend who recently passed on.<br> <br>A simple "yes" lead to a project that is dear to my heart, and I am grateful. I am sitting here today, with my eyes on my own paper, smiling…<br><br><a contents="(You can see the video here.)" data-link-label="Music & Videos" data-link-type="page" href="/music-videos" target="_blank">(You can see the video here.)</a></span><br><br> Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/38741832015-09-29T14:09:48-04:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00Wrestling with myself again... <span class="font_large">Have you ever wanted to do something, and to not do it, in equal measure? It happened to me this weekend, and it is an all too familiar feeling. I wish there really were do-overs in life. I would have a lot of them.<br><br>I didn't see the Pope. I am not quite sure why I wanted to, but I did. He was staying at a seminary, on my street, 1.2 miles away!<br><br>I tied myself in knots over how to navigate closed streets, crowds of strangers, and my failure to find company. I even had a nightmare about it, complete with overwhelming obstacles and a cast of ghosts.<br><br>Now that he is gone, and the window is closed, I see that I could have, quite easily, avoided the city, put my sneakers on, and hiked over to where he was staying to get a drive-by, close-up, in-person, pontiff peek.<br><br>The experience has left me pondering my shortcomings and looking for the gift in the disappointment. I am less disappointed about not seeing this leader of another faith tradition than I am about the role of anxiety in my life.<br><br>I will remember this the next time I want to do something, and to not do it, in equal measure.<br><br>Have you ever felt that way?</span><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/205dbe456909045c3472e472da68ca65d5342d2a/original/pope.jpg?1443550067" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><div style="text-align: center;">(I don't know who took this picture. Sorry...)</div>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/38238302015-08-18T15:20:36-04:002020-11-20T06:13:27-05:00Not so very long ago... (a living room video!)<span class="font_large">I was thrilled to have been offered the opportunity on Sunday to play a couple of my songs at the Philadelphia Folk Festival. I was part of a show on the Dulcimer Grove stage, which is where lots of family friendly things occur.<br><br>I wanted a new song for the occasion, so I wrote this. It's called, "Not So Very Long Ago." I was still writing it the morning of the festival.<br><br>Down the road, this song will have participate-along parts and hand motions, but this video is the bones of it.<br><br>Welcome to my living room...</span><br style="font-size: 12px;"><br><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="mTTzl-4px_U" data-video-thumb-url="http://img.youtube.com/vi/mTTzl-4px_U/0.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mTTzl-4px_U?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="200" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/38031502015-08-04T15:19:19-04:002015-08-06T09:55:55-04:00How do you measure success?<span class="font_large">What does it mean to be a success? Is it something you are, or something you feel? How do you measure it? What does it look like? Who decides?<br> <br>People have been congratulating me lately on my successes. At the same time, I have been feeling like a failure. Which is true? <br> <br>I have been measuring success in conventional ways. I have never owned a home. I don’t have a family. I have never had much money. Does that make me a failure? Lately, I have been feeling that way, but I am reminded that there is more to measure.<br> <br>I am often told that I influence positive changes in people’s lives. Folks tell me that my songs touch them in meaningful ways. I am a good listener. I am filled with compassion and gratitude. How can I be a failure if these things are true?<br> <br>What is the goal in life? I think it is to make things better for others. In that way, I am on solid ground, but it sure would feel better if I could do that while feeling more secure and at home. I am working on it…<br> <br>In the meantime, I will continue to write songs and send them out into the world. I will continue to hope that they find homes in people’s hearts. And I will continue to hold onto the vision of them buying me a charming little house some day… <br> <br><em>(As I was getting ready to post this, I happened upon a quote by Joni Mitchell. She said, “Keep a good heart. That’s the most important thing in life. It’s not how much money you make or what you can acquire. The art of it is to keep a good heart.”)</em><br> <br>Are you successful?</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/37842902015-07-20T13:14:02-04:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00Cooking from the Heart<span class="font_large">I am at my creative best these days with a knife in my hand. I love to cook! I love the colors and the shapes, the smells and the endless possibilities.<br> <br>All of my senses are engaged as I chop and dice, sauté and bake. Mixing, and kneading with my hands, feels like playing. It feels like home.<br><br>Cooking is an intimate art. I feel it in my heart. It calls on intuition and passion, and I always feel better after eating something I cooked myself.<br> <br>Cooking is reliable when other creative endeavors are illusive. Lyrics can be moody. Characters in stories sometimes turn their backs. There are days when I struggle to focus, but every day, I find my spark again on the cutting board.<br> <br>What is your relationship like with cooking?<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/e0cfda9483b833b4f271b94d6a25c9539dad39ce/large/mypizza.jpg?1437412241" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Two kinds of vegan pizza!</span></div>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/36932182015-05-04T21:44:50-04:002015-05-16T13:32:07-04:00Jealousy, Aunt Faye, and The Secret (flash fiction with Sarah)<span style="color:#4B0082;"><em><span style="font-size: 17px;">(Jealousy showed up at my door again! She is an old friend who embarrasses me, laughs at me, and sometimes full-on humiliates me, but she always brings a gift.</span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">I am thrilled for my friends' successes. I love them, and want them to have every good thing, and yet, sometimes when someone else gets what I would love to have, I feel jealous. I also remember to feel grateful when jealousy shows up with her suitcases in tow. She always points me squarely toward my deepest desires. </span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">This happened again this week, as two treasured friends got deals to have their novels published. Although I love my book, it is still in pieces in my computer. I have been "working on it" for years, and it feels marathons away from completion.</span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">I made a commitment to myself, and I have been honoring it. I set up detailed parameters for when I will work on the book, and I am determined to finish it. You have read glimpses of it on my blog, in stories with the character Sarah. All of the flash fictions about her stand alone, but she has a bigger story to tell. I am showing up, sitting beside her, and deeply listening...</span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Where does jealousy point you?)</span></em></span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span class="font_large"><strong>Aunt Faye and The Secret (</strong><strong>A new flash of Sarah's story) </strong><br><br>Sarah put both pillows over her head. She tried not to hear it, but she couldn’t block out the gasping, and the snoring, coming from the bottom bunk. Sarah loved Aunt Faye’s visits, even though they stole her sleep. Faye made her feel safe, and treasured.<br> <br>Whenever Aunt Faye was there, her parents would declare a cease-fire. They would make vanilla French toast, and cinnamon eggs, and they’d listen to Aunt Faye’s stories. Sarah liked to hear the one about the day her mom ditched school to see Frank Sinatra. Sarah wishes she knew that part of her mom. She can’t imagine her as a rule breaker.<br> <br>Sarah threw her Partridge Family pillow, and a blanket, off the side of the top bunk, and climbed down the ladder. She gathered her gear, along with Cleo, whom she had ignored for the better part of 5th grade, and headed to the stairs. She was determined to sleep in peace.<br> <br>As she reached the bottom, she heard her mom on the phone, “No, I haven’t told her yet. I know! Yes, I will. She has been through so much this year. “<br> <br>The last step gave her away. She should have known better. That step always groaned like a reliable old drunk, but she was too interested in the conversation to remember to avoid it. They hadn’t told her what?<br> <br>She heard her mom put down the phone. “What are you doing down here Sarah? Wow! That is loud tonight… You can sleep with me. It is amazing that one tiny old woman can make that much noise.“<br> <br>Sarah could still hear the gasping and puffing, from the living room, and she knew that her mom’s bed was only separated from the sputtering symphony by a wall. She and Cleo would defect to the sofa.<br> <br>“Mom, what haven’t you told me yet?”<br> <br>“It can wait Sarah. Don’t worry. We’ll talk after Aunt Faye goes home.”<br> <br>But, Sarah didn’t want to wait, and she wanted Aunt Faye there as a witness, and as a comfort. She could always count on her to understand, and to take her side. She decided to bring it up again over breakfast...<br><br>(<span style="color:#000080;">If you scroll through my blog, and read the bits of Sarah's Story, you will find the secret. Aunt Faye just showed up, and she brought this scene with her.)</span></span><br> 2:32Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/36550532015-04-13T12:02:44-04:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00Planting Seeds (Your Heart Songs)<span class="font_large">Yesterday, I saw my first forsythia. It is my favorite sign of spring. I like when they are wild and leggy! I feel like forsythia today, untamed and reaching for the sun. <br><br>I feel inspired by the season’s emerging color palette, and its morning bird symphonies. It is helping me tend to my internal gardens. I am planting seeds, and making plans.<br> <br>For several years, I have been writing songs for other people. I listen deeply to what a person’s heart is saying, and then I write a song that speaks from their heart. It has been an honor and a joy to do this work, and I have been touched by the responses I have gotten from the people I have written for.<br> <br>I named this part of my musical work, Your Heart Songs, and I built a website dedicated to it. The site is still a work in progress, but I wanted you to have a sneak peek!<br> <br><a contents="yourhearsongs.com" data-link-label="" data-link-type="" href="http://yourheartsongs.com" target="_blank">yourheartsongs.com</a> <br> <br>What are you planting this spring?</span><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/806de0a3b06b40e2656b29810169ae66680d0692/large/forsythia.jpg?1428940842" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" />Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/36324082015-03-30T16:56:43-04:002020-09-10T06:11:07-04:00The View from a Milestone<span class="font_large">Yesterday ended with a passionate rant to myself, and to my closest friend, about needing help, not knowing how to ask for it, whom to ask, and what specifically I was asking for. Then, before closing my eyes on the day, someone I had very much wanted to have on my team put her hand out to me. The help is subtle, but real, and it is an encouraging start. <br><br>My birthday just past, and it was a significant number. I found myself sitting on a milestone, looking around. I was in beautiful country, and could clearly see the foothills and desert that I had traveled through, but I was still miles and mountains from the nearest highway. My inclination was to curl up in my tent and sleep, overwhelmed with the vast, unknown territory ahead.<br> <br>I won’t do that. Or, maybe I will… but just long enough to rest, and build my strength to move on through the mountains to the road. I know that if I take one step at a time, I will bridge the distance.<br> <br>I have amazing people cheering me on, and dropping by to walk with me a while. Sometimes, I wish someone could carry my pack for a bit, or add resources to my reserves, or give me a good map. Sometimes I wish someone would travel ahead of me to clear the path, and open doors. I have been knocking by myself, and sometimes I knock too softly.<br> <br>A stranger approached me at the end of my birthday concert last week. She was a stranger, and was brought to the show by a friend. She had never heard of me, but she left that night as a true fan. My music had touched her deeply. She touched me deeply as well. She reminded me that I am on the right road.<br><br>It is a hard road to travel alone, but I won’t stop. One step at a time will get me there. I need to trust that, and to remember, that I have always loved the mountains. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/822f4c9721541e77dd017c977b57752933f83945/large/img-1104.jpg?1428027504" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/36027802015-03-15T18:07:34-04:002019-10-22T11:41:30-04:00Best next step...<span class="font_large">The magical wonderland of snow has melted, and the temperature is rising. Wind is noisily throwing its weight around outside my window, and I know spring is just about here. Soon the heat will be turned off for another year, and windows will be open full time. <br><br>As the season changes, and my birthday approaches, I find myself thinking about what comes next. I am asking myself where I want to be, and what I need to do to get there. I am ready for a new season.<br> <br>I have learned that there is a sweet spot between planning and spontaneity. As I do my best to get clear about where to put my next foot down, I am open to what unfolds in front of me. It feels like time to take risks outside my comfort zone.<br> <br>I am looking for my best next step. Stay tuned...<br> <br>What is your best next step?<br> <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/ec870efa02797fe9a9b357c90453b8c22a98593d/medium/secondtree.jpg?1426457226" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/35000712015-02-02T16:27:48-05:002015-02-04T21:24:18-05:00Strangers at Heart (flash fiction) <span class="font_large">Anne wanted to punch Claudia in the face. They were doing dishes after a mostly silent dinner of tuna noodle casserole and canned Le Sueur peas. Claudia was babysitting while their parents went to see The Carpenters at the Rose Theater. It was the first time they were alone together. <br><br>Claudia was Anne's cousin, but she was older, like an Aunt. Claudia said that Anne's mom was the “oops-baby.” Claudia’s mom and Ellen were mostly grown and gone by the time Anne's mom came along. That is why she felt so strongly about having Anne. She didn’t want Melissa to grow up as an only.<br> <br>As Anne washed and Claudia dried, Anne told her about the A she had gotten on her math test. She was proud of that A. It was hard earned. Math had never come easily, and she had never gotten an A before. Math was always the subject that marred her shining report card.<br> <br>Instead of acknowledging her effort, or being happy for her, Claudia said, “Math is so easy. I don’t know why it is hard for you. I always got an A in math.” Anne tried to get Claudia to understand how much she had studied, and how hard she had worked, and how significant the grade was to her, but Claudia just kept repeating over and over again that math was easy.<br> <br>Anne could feel anger growing in her jaw, and in her fist. In that moment, she hated her. She knew Claudia would always be in her life. Family is like that. She would be at holiday dinners and family celebrations, and she knew there would be a few more years of being babysat, but she also knew that they would always be strangers at heart.<br> <br>Anne didn’t hit her that day. She wasn’t a hitter, but she thought about it. In time, the anger she felt grew into tolerance, and then indifference, finally accepting that family doesn’t always feel like home. </span>2:26Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/34740732015-01-19T11:58:14-05:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00Songwriters in the Round <span class="font_large">“You’re afraid of that? Here, I've got some for you... That too? Here's an extra helping...“ It felt like the universe taunting me. <br><br>I was sick and in bed for days leading up to the event; I could barely rehearse; coughing shredded my vocal cords, I had a fever the day of the show, the battery in my pick-up died on stage; I forgot to put the notes I made to myself on stage, and on and on and on… <br><br>There was fear and anxiety involved in the process, but the lesson was golden. Just when I thought something would bring me down, it didn’t. The event ended up being magical.</span><br><br><span class="font_large">I wanted to create an experience for myself, for other songwriters, for my fans, and for folks I had yet to meet. I had specific ideas about what would make it great, and I set out to make it real. I hadn’t planned on the illness or the obstacles, but in the end, it was a wonderful evening.<br> <br>I invited three songwriters to participate with me in a “Songwriter in the Round” event. I wanted it to be like a Saturday morning workshop show at the Folk Festival. I have always wanted to play one of those. I wanted it to be warm and friendly, with a measure of humor. I wanted there to be excellent songs, good chemistry and a full house.<br> <br>I got my wish! The evening was fabulous, and people keep telling me that they can’t wait until the next one. I look forward to it too. I already have artists in mind…<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/440c904efc2e4c8d5c1ee3dfd91699df82dc7785/original/melodies49.jpg?1421687010" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">(Larry Ahearn, Me, Adam Monaco, Hillary Rubesin, <a contents="Photo by Dan Brody" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.danbrodyphotography.com" target="_blank">Photo by Dan Brody</a>)<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/0bf4f5664936443975ed68d5d005a3fd38001e3d/original/lowy9099ahearn-1.jpeg?1421706426" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(<a contents="Photo by Alex Lowy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.lowyphoto.com/mp_includes/body.asp" target="_blank">Photo by Alex Lowy</a>)</span></span><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/f5213c15f3df6657aaabde891234545c7a0991cf/original/brodymelodies62.jpg?1421706965" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(<a contents="Photo by Alex Lowy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.lowyphoto.com/mp_includes/body.asp" target="_blank">Photo by Alex Lowy</a>)<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/a5dd8c9709ea89413d6ce9c4f0a3259cbb1d3861/original/melodies17.jpg?1421702444" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(<a contents="Photo by Dan Brody" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.danbrodyphotography.com" target="_blank">Photo by Dan Brody</a>)<br><br> Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/34532542015-01-05T22:47:19-05:002015-01-08T21:24:17-05:00Stone and Snow (flash fiction with audio)<span class="font_large">I had heard of this thing that warmed your heart and made the corners of your mouth turn upward. I had a distant memory of feeling it, but I thought it would never happen to me in this new place. I had been sure of it. But, here it was shining out of my eyes for real. Happiness! Imagine that. <br><br>My name is Susan Stone, and for much of my life, I was sure that my family name was based on the hard cold pit I usually felt in my guts. It was my birthright. My dad’s side of the family was filled with women who had a permanent cast of pain on their faces. It was as if we were born with souls filled with bad memories, and we spent our lifetimes carrying them like stones around our hearts. <br> <br>The stones I carried were like prey for the shiny-haired seventh grade girls in Branton Middle School, the ones with the powder blue eye shadow and freshly polished nails. They kicked the stones down the street on the walk home from school with their giggles and their taunts. I wished they would let me be invisible, but I was their new after-school sport.<br> <br>Today was unexpectedly different. Today was found treasure. Today I didn’t care about the teasing, or about being far away from Emily and Justin.<br> <br>It all began with the fluffy white flakes dancing outside the window in third period geography. It was like a whisper in my ear from a friend I adored, but didn’t know I had. I knew when we moved here, that there would be snow, but nothing prepared me for this.<br> <br>My imagination exploded! I found myself on exciting adventures in made up, magical places. There were melodies to hum and to remember. There were boys to dream about in secret. I could feel it... I had begun casting off stones.<br> <br>I watched as the blacktop, and the lawns, filled with white. I was carried like drifts in the wind. The flakes created frosting on the maple and oak branches, and the world started to look like a living painting.<br> <br>School let out early, as if to celebrate. As I walked home, I learned about the smell of snow. I learned that it had a sound, and hearing it helped me to find my voice.<br> <br>My awe of the fluffy wet flakes blocked the mean spirits of the shiny-haired girls. My joy took away their fun, and after a few blocks they left me in peace. For today, the stones were covered in snow, and I finally started to feel at home.</span><br> <br><span class="font_regular">(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond)<br><br><span class="font_large">What makes you feel at home? </span></span>3:08Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/34021092014-12-15T17:22:40-05:002020-09-11T02:36:30-04:00The Cat Came Back<span class="font_large">Have you ever been reunited with an old love? Did your heart fill up like it was transported back in time? Mine did. I felt teenaged and deeply in love with the music of Cat Stevens. Seeing him again was a joy I will treasure forever. <br><br>As Cat wrote in one of his earliest songs, "the first cut is the deepest." For me, he made that cut in the summer of my thirteenth year. His music was the gift that came along with the early adolescent horrors of summer camp. <br><br>When he turned his back on music, it felt like he turned his back on me. I grieved the loss like a death. My mom used to call him my friend, and although we had never met, he was, and I missed him dearly.<br> <br>I recently wrote a song called old love. (<a contents="You can hear it here." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1ouYgCD_lo" target="_blank">You can watch my video of it here.</a>) I wrote it while wondering what happens to love when it goes. Cat reminded me of the answer earlier this month, when he returned to Philadelphia after thirty-eight years away.<br> <br>It doesn’t go anywhere! In time, it recedes, but all it takes is a sound, or a scent, or in this case a song, to bring it all rushing back with an intensity that feels like the breaking of time.<br> <br>Whose songs will live in your heart forever?</span><br> <br> <br>(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.) <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/270c572f3e51a080904fa53ab1a96b6ea5f48317/original/get-attachment-aspx.jpg?1418664393" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br> Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/33510392014-12-02T15:15:42-05:002014-12-04T14:03:07-05:00Little Joys!<span class="font_large">I love corny, small town, Christmas movies! They bring on that old feet-pajama feeling. Love always wins, as if the universe wouldn’t have it any other way. There is often magic involved, and gingerbread smells, and snow. The ending is clear five minutes in, but I enjoy the unfolding. <br><br>Real life is messy and unpredictable. It is filled with dreams, joys, dramas and disappointments, but unlike those movies, the outcome is rarely clear. I have learned that the good things can win the day, if they get enough attention. That is the power of gratitude.<br> <br>Here are some of today’s little joys:<br> <br>The soft furry feeling of the inside of a chestnut shell<br> <br>The surprise tickle of my friend’s dog sniffing my face<br> <br>The cushy feel of my running shoes<br> <br>Realizing that I still have two containers of the soup I made a couple of weeks ago in the freezer. It is SO good!<br> <br>The smell of pumpkin soap in the shower<br> <br>The possibility of a new house concert booking<br> <br>The sun through blue glass<br> <br>My cats’ enjoyment of their new piece of cat furniture<br> <br>And of course, sappy, happy ending movies!<br> <br>What are some of your little joys?<br><br><span class="font_small">(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.)</span></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/33025482014-11-18T20:21:38-05:002014-11-19T14:43:13-05:00Sending the funk packing!<span class="font_large">Have you ever avoided things that you knew would be good for you? Has that ever lead to the kind of funk that shows up with luggage? For me, the answer is yes, and yes... <br> <br>This has been a week of taking action. It has been a week of doing little things that ended up being big things. It feels good! The funk is packing her bags!<br> <br>I have been watching some of my songwriting peers post video after video of their songs. I saw that these videos were turning me into a fan. Many of them were raw and spontaneous, and I loved them, but the thought of doing the same was terrifying.<br> <br>This week, I made a quick, live, first-take video of me singing and playing a song I wrote this summer called Old Love, and I posted it on Facebook. <a contents="It now lives here on my website" data-link-label="Music & Videos" data-link-type="page" href="/music-videos" target="_blank">It now lives here on my website</a> and on my <a contents="YouTube channel." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1ouYgCD_lo" target="_blank">YouTube channel.</a> Making it, glasses and all, was significant for me, and I will make more.<br><br>I also went running! Actually, I walked and caught my breath more than I ran, but I was out there in the gentle autumn rain, sneakers on, and moving. I looked ridiculous, and I felt proud of myself. Today I am in pain, but I intend to keep it up.<br><br>I am a work in progress...<br> <br>What are you avoiding?<br> </span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/32662862014-11-04T16:31:32-05:002014-11-05T16:57:45-05:00The Question (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Ellen couldn’t stop thinking about it. Andrea’s question was like a begging beagle. It wouldn’t leave her in peace. She had to find the answer. It felt like her life depended on it. <br><br>Ellen met Andrea after a far-too-long workday, when the R5 lost power in the ice. They were strangers, stuck together for two and a half hours. Ellen thought of that journey often. She liked to believe the storm had been sent to personally stop her in her tracks. It was an oddly packaged, and well-timed gift. <br> <br>Billy’s death had turned her world darker than the train, and Andrea’s words on that cold December night were like twinkling lights in the distance. Andrea had been in that darkness too, and had found her way back to the living. She was a dear friend now, and a comfort, and Ellen would miss her. She and her cats, Fred and Ethel, were moving to Austin in the morning.<br> <br>As they waited in the corner booth for their check, Andrea asked the question that had started Ellen’s mind racing. She said that answering it had changed her life in extraordinary ways, and she wanted to pay it forward. She asked, “What does your heart need to let go of?”<br> <br>Ellen’s heart had let go of so much already! It let go of dreams with men’s faces. It let go of being called mom. It let go of that perfect pair of jeans that would never fit again…<br> <br>Ellen didn’t like to be left behind, but this time, it came with a gift. What did her heart need to let go of? She knew that the answer would be bittersweet, and that it would set her free.<br> <br><em>What does your heart need to let go of?</em></span><br><br><em>(If you post a comment, please check back. I always respond. Thank you...)</em>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/32434262014-10-21T16:59:37-04:002014-12-03T11:27:53-05:00Outlier (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Marcy wishes she had a do-over. She misses the days when anything seemed possible, the days when the future stretched out like a second-grade summer, and failure felt temporary. Marcy is sitting at the kitchen table, nursing her second cup of half-caff, and wondering what happened to her life, to her dreams, to her husband. It was like she missed her bus, and the next one never came. <br><br>Marcy got up from her perch and went to get dressed for another day of waiting tables, and of counting hours until she could come home again. As she pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, the photos taped to her bedroom mirror caught her eye. They were the smiling faces of dead relatives. They were her company.<br> <br>Each person who loved her and died made the world a little dimmer. She tries to find new lights, but they never turn on. They just flicker and fade to black. Marcy knows it is her fault. There is something missing inside of her.<br> <br>She is missing some connecting parts, like Lego bridges. They are magnetic social norm parts. They are the parts that make people like sports, and book clubs, and Dancing With the Stars.<br> <br>Marcy was born an outlier, an observer, and an artist. As she grabs her coat and heads for the door, she wonders what life would have been like if she hadn’t missed that bus, and if she had learned to fit in. <br><br><em><span class="font_small">(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.)</span></em></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/31895892014-09-16T15:14:52-04:002014-09-17T22:40:59-04:00The win in the losing...<span class="font_large">I have wanted this gig for years! She has been a treasured songwriter in my life for decades, and every time I sit in the audience at one of her shows, I wish I could be the opening act. One day, I saw that she was coming to a nearby town, and I knew if I didn’t ask, then the answer would surely be no, so I asked. <br><br>When the promoter of the show quickly said yes, I felt so much joy that I thought my heart would explode. This was my dream gig, and it was within reach! I think I may have actually screamed. My cats would remember…<br> <br>When he said yes, he told me that there were things beyond his control that might also be in play, but that he would do his best to get me the booking. Through the weeks of negotiation, I felt him strongly in my corner. We both waited, and waited, and waited some more for the final verdict. <br> <br>Ultimately, I didn’t get the gig, but instead of feeling sad, I decided to focus on what I had gained in the process. It was validating to know that this promoter of shows featuring wonderful, well-known artists, saw me as worthy of the booking. That is a deeply treasured victory. Also, over the many weeks of negotiation and uncertainty, I slowly built a relationship with a very kind man, who is more likely to think of me again. <br> <br>He really did want to book me. He said next time. I hope so…<br> <br><em>(It feels right to keep the names of the players in this story to myself. It is the spirit of the experience that I want to share. Have you ever almost touched a dream?)</em></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/31684972014-09-02T19:20:56-04:002019-12-14T02:20:05-05:00Magic in the Woods (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Jack heard that there was magic in the woods. Amy had told him stories when she got back from vacation with her sister and her dad. She told of strange happenings, unexplainable things that made him wonder if there was truth to the stories the older boys told around the campfire with flashlights under their chins. <br><br>Daniel and Jason told stories about their fishing reels spinning on their own, and their canteens refilling themselves. They told of strange melodies coming from the rocks on Lookout Hill, and shadows that changed their shape from human to beast. Jack had always thought that they made up those stories to scare the girls, but now he wasn’t so sure.<br> <br>Amy told him about the morning she woke up and couldn’t find her sneakers. She was certain she had left them by the inside flap of the tent she shared with Sue. They had both searched for them, and when they were finally spotted late the next day, they were hanging on a branch so high that even her dad couldn’t have thrown them up there. Amy also told Jack that she heard those strange melodies too, the ones coming from deep inside the rocks on Lookout Hill.<br> <br>Now it was his turn to brave the rustling leaves, the shadows, and the night sounds. He was going into the woods with Steve, Marc, and Steve’s yellow lab Bennett. Their parents had finally given in to the boys incessant nagging. They were leaving at first light for the weekend.<br> <br>Jack was glad Bennett was coming along. He loved that dog, and he trusted him to alert them to danger. He also knew that Bennett would be an always-wagging source of comfort.<br> <br>Jack was ready. He was nervous and excited, and he knew that when he came out of the woods on Sunday, he would be one of the older boys, and that he would have a story to tell…</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/31442592014-08-19T12:41:05-04:002014-08-20T20:59:26-04:00Old Love (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Sarah heard him say hello as she approached the house. The sound of his voice flashed her back to high school. Jacob’s voice used to be her favorite sound. <br><br>Sarah hadn’t seen Jake in decades, but his voice, and his face, were as familiar as the river stones she carried in her pocket. Although their romance was long past, she treasured his friendship, and she trusted him like a brother. Seeing him again was a homecoming.<br> <br>Eighteen-year-old Sarah would never have believed that she would be thrilled to meet his wife. She would have been touched to know that his daughter would one day give her a goodbye hug and whisper, “I’ll miss you.” She and his daughter had bonded, although Joanna did keep a watchful eye out, just to be sure that this reunion really was a good idea. <br> <br>Sarah had come to say hello. She had come to reconnect, and to touch a piece of her heart that rested peacefully in the background. As she began to drive home, she could almost see her teenaged bedroom walls, and the poster of Desiderata that said about love, “in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.” <br><br>And so it is…</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/31221512014-08-05T12:43:43-04:002015-03-04T15:10:15-05:00These Things (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Ellen shook her head and smiled to herself. She knew that what she saw in these things was invisible. She knew that they were mostly made of memory, and that she carried those memories alone.<br> <br>They were like the lines on the pantry door where her mom used to keep track of all of the kids’ heights from year to year. The measuring was a part of their birthday rituals, along with chocolate cake and pretending that they all got along. Every line held an invisible story.<br> <br>Ellen still has the coffee mug with the mountains on it that Jonathan gave her before their relationship got chipped beyond repair. She still drinks from it in moments of melancholy and regret, as if it will conjure him across the kitchen table. <br> <br>She sometimes carries the amethyst heart she found by the lake the summer she tried to be a painter. She is sure there is magic in it!<br> <br>Ellen especially cherishes the brass candlesticks that her great-grandmother brought with her on the boat from Russia. She has appointed herself the guardian of the memories of her ancestors. She can imagine the hands that have struck matches through time, illuminating faces long gone.<br> <br>There are stories in these things. There is love and pain and treasured memories in these things. Ellen wonders if her treasures will all become trash, and thrift-store finds, when it is her time to go. For now, they all have stories to tell, and she loves to listen... <br> <br><em>What stories do your treasures tell? </em></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/30753032014-07-14T14:27:40-04:002017-01-14T13:22:27-05:00Live on WXPN! (Gene Shay's folk show)<span class="font_large">I had two days notice. I wanted to do it. I had asked for it. And yet, the thought of it made me want to throw up. I knew in my guts that there was only one possible answer, and that it was YES! <br><br>I had been invited to be a guest on WXPN’s folk show. I have had the honor of being a live guest on this fabulous radio station three times before, but the last time was long ago, and live radio always feels like a trapeze with no net. It is like a mirror in the morning.<br> <br>As I build a creative life, my intention is to be brave. I know that it is my responsibility to continually hone my craft, and that I need to say yes to any fabulous opportunity that presents itself, even when I am afraid. I believe that is what this road is made of.<br> <br>I also believe in luck. Seneca, an ancient Roman philosopher, said that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. That rings true, and I am doing my best to be prepared.<br> <br>I am grateful to have been a live guest on Gene Shay’s folk show (guest hosted by Chuck Elliot) and I feel proud of how it turned out. My segment was a half hour long, and I would love for you to listen. (Look below the picture to listen, download and share...)</span><br><span class="font_large"> <br>How are you preparing to be lucky?</span><br><br>( I signed the wall, and later noticed that I am in the same area as my favorite Monkey! I think the Dylan one is fake...) <br><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/08e47cd15413f719452b38f3beae5c8bb3b77e83/large/photo-1.jpg?1405362309" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span>32:02Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/30495432014-06-30T19:05:37-04:002014-07-16T17:02:48-04:00Dancing with the Gatekeepers<span class="font_large">The Philadelphia Folk Festival folks turned me down for this year. They also told me that they like what I do, and that I am worthy of being included in their line-up, but they just don't have a place for me this time around. <br><br>At the same time, someone else offered me a different exciting opportunity. I will be a guest on an Internet TV show about singer/songwriters! My episode will air in September, and I will give you the date as soon as I have it.<br><br>I have been dancing with the gatekeepers a lot lately. Last night, I attended a networking event with a variety of other musicians and local music industry people. It was fun, I learned new things, and I believe that some good seeds were planted. <br> <br>I am learning to be resilient in the midst of both rejection and validation. This business is filled with folks who have varying musical tastes, needs and priorities, and I am learning that either way, it is usually not personal. <br> <br>The most important part of all of this is the songs. My intention is to continue to become a better songwriter, to sing the truth, and to touch you with it. I have been busy mining for new songs. I will be doing a lot of that this summer. <br> <br>What are you mining for?<br> <br><em>(Thank you to the seventy people who came to the Tin Angel to support me and cheer me on during my festival showcase set. <a contents="Being turned down does not diminish the magic of that night!" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://denisemosermusic.com/my-blog/blog/the-tin-angel-a-magical-night" target="_blank">Being turned down does not diminish the magic of that night!</a> You are so appreciated.)</em><br> </span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/30219332014-06-17T15:28:40-04:002017-01-14T13:22:26-05:00New York post show thoughts<span class="font_large">My first New York show reminded me of a picture I took last winter. I had wanted to photograph the snowy trees outside my window, but I captured the window screen instead. I was reminded that what I focus on is what I see. My New York experience felt a lot like that. <br><br>The venue had two performance spaces, and it was loud! Imagine two kinds of music that you don’t like, played at top volume, at the same time. It was that kind of loud! <br> <br>During our show, there was incessant noise coming from the room below us. It was disappointing and impossible to ignore, but I came to see it as an opportunity. It allowed me to see that I am solid enough in my performance skills to play through distractions. The folks at our show were attentive, warm and engaged, and their faces acted like the screen in that snowy picture. <br> <br>I watched artist Jane Kunzman draw sketch after sketch throughout the show, rarely looking at her paper. She was listening to us, hearing the music from downstairs, and drawing! She inspired my focus. She also gave me two of her pictures!<br> <br>There were other gifts in the day as well: I heard fabulous songs by other writers, including wonderful brand new ones from Emily Duff. I strengthened my New York mailing list, met my dear cyber friend Christina Gaudet, and made friends with a dog by sharing my carrots. Two friends accompanied me, and they made the coming and going far more enjoyable.<br> <br>I left the city happy to have come, happy to have played, happy to have met new people, and proud of myself for showing up. I am glad to be home again, and I look forward to the next time… </span><br><br>(sketches by Jane Kunzman)<br><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/4ca2be6db2c007a8886e091b44e1cde97744824d/medium/get-attachment-aspx.jpg?1403033674" class="size_m justify_left border_none" alt="" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/d78c5896c5729a807b8c4cedbf1c555e8f7bf50c/medium/10440915-10204142923678311-1788179009044101170-n.jpg?1403033673" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/29901512014-06-03T13:13:52-04:002014-06-05T08:33:24-04:00I am you... <span class="font_large">Two nights ago, I had a dream that has been lingering in my heart. I was aware of myself dreaming, which made it even more compelling. Lucid dreams feel like sacred space. <br><br>I was looking into the welcoming brown eyes of a dark-skinned black woman. She was exotic and foreign, and yet her eyes felt familiar. Her smile matched my own as she looked back at me. <br> <br>As I lifted my hand to brush a stray hair from my eyes, she lifted hers in the direction of her long, thick, intricate braids, and in a flash I knew. She was me! I had been looking in a mirror. I looked down at my hands and they were the deep brown color of the earth.<br> <br>I was transformed. I was a black woman! I looked back in the mirror. My hair looked tribal. It was thickly braided and woven on the crown of my head, with dreadlocks flowing past my shoulders. It was lovely, artistic, and unfamiliar. My clothes were flowing, with flashes of yellow and red.<br> <br>Inhabiting her body felt like living inside of a book. I wondered about her story. I wondered about her life.<br> <br>I stepped back from the mirror intrigued. There was another one to my right, and I moved toward it, curious about what would be reflected. I looked, and she was gone. In her place was the usual me – white, present tense, ordinary me. <br> <br>I went back to the first mirror. When I looked, the intriguing black woman was back. I felt like myself in my body, but the package I was in was of a different culture and race.<br> <br>The dream ended there. That was two nights ago, and my thoughts are still drawn back into that mirror. This dream reminded me to see myself in everyone. It reminded me that I am a spiritual being living in a physical body. It reminded me that magnificence dwells in diversity, and that our abundance lives in each other. <br> <br><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="fwhn24lLjV0" data-video-thumb-url="http://img.youtube.com/vi/fwhn24lLjV0/0.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fwhn24lLjV0?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="200" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe><br> (This is a song I wrote about lucid dreaming, with images by my friend <a contents="Alessandro Della Pietra" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://aldigitart.weebly.com" target="_blank">Alessandro Della Pietra</a>.)</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/29600132014-05-20T18:44:59-04:002017-01-14T13:22:26-05:00The Old Wooden Glider (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Callie loved the wooden gliding chair on the front porch. It was her favorite place to read and sip hot tea, and to smell the air after it rained. The rhythm of her rocking soothed her heart, and brought her mind back to the double glider she and Anna had loved as kids. Today it was her refuge from feeling like Sisyphus, rolling boulders uphill again and again. <br> <br>This was the forty-second winter Callie had witnessed melting into spring. She felt joy as her iris friends came up again, purple and blue, with their orange and white fine line drawings at the base of each petal. She liked to imagine an insect-sized artist, with his sharp colored pencils, creating flowering masterpieces.<br> <br>Callie was in need of a blooming. She had been working relentlessly, planting seed after seed, and trusting that some of them would find fertile ground. She was busy and brave, and weary to the bone. <br> <br>Callie needed to fill herself up. She craved time in the woods. She missed the sound of water rushing over rocks. Her heart needed to splash in puddles and giggle like a kid. Her spirit needed a good solid meal.<br> <br>Callie treasured her time on that old wooden glider. It was her front porch vacation. The rocking motion took her to a place where her spirit could rest, and dream, and bloom again…</span> <br><br>(Please leave a comment about where you find your "old wooden glider," then check back in. I always post a response, and I love hearing from you!)<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/7ec66fe7b2e37863fe87806b5f73734d76519f64/medium/photo-10.jpg?1401814738" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="My sister on our old wooden glider..." /><div style="text-align: start;"><span style="text-align: center;"> (My sister, with her kind permission, on our old wooden glider...) </span></div>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/29241362014-05-06T17:55:39-04:002020-08-30T22:38:29-04:00Diving into New York!<span class="font_large">One brave July day, in the summer after first grade, I slowly climbed the steel-rung ladder to the platform of the high-dive. Up until I started to climb, it had been just another day at Green Briar. My mother sipped on cans of Tab and worked on her tan, Michele and her friends played ping-pong and jacks, and Myrtle announced through the loud speaker, “Delicious hot knishes are available at the snack bar.” But all I could hear as I reached the top of the ladder was the sound of fear pulsing in my ears. <br><br>I stood there, and I stood there, and I stood there… It was higher than it looked from the ground! I could see all the way to Monument Road, where the big kids rode their bikes. I could see past the sunbathers to the locker room where the bees' nest was. I could see everyone’s eyes on me. I felt like a stranded kitten in a tree.<br> <br>As I walked on the board to the end, it moved gently up and down. It was unexpected. I was afraid I might fall off before I got to the end. Other kids eagerly climbed up behind me waiting their turn to jump, dive, or cannonball into the chlorinated public pool. As they became restless, I froze.<br> <br>I was afraid to jump in, and I was afraid to turn around and walk back to the ladder. I stood there on the edge of that plank for what felt like forever. The lifeguard offered to rescue me, and still I stood frozen. Finally, I decided that jumping was the best of my choices, so I held my nose and jumped. <br> <br>I remember falling through the air, and hitting the water. I remember seeing the light of the sun above me as my arms and legs propelled me to the surface. When it was over, I felt proud of myself, and realized that it was actually kind of fun. Before long, I was just another kid scrambling up the ladder for my turn. <br> <br>I have been wanting to play in New York like I wanted to jump off of that high dive. I have been standing at the edge of the board for a while now. My initial splash into this pool is on my calendar, and I am excitedly looking forward to jumping in! <br> <br>If you are a New Yorker, please join me at PIANOS for an evening of songwriters in the round on Sunday June 15<sup>th</sup>. <br><br><a contents="Details for all appearances are on my website." data-link-label="Appearances" data-link-type="page" href="/appearances" target="_blank">Details for all appearances are on my website.</a><br> <br>What pool do you want to jump into?</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/28693392014-04-14T13:16:26-04:002014-04-19T14:11:49-04:00Fear and Failure (my twin friends) <span class="font_large">Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by this commitment of mine to live a creative life. Sometimes I miss the security of a steady paycheck. Sometimes I feel discouraged by the gatekeepers. Sometimes I am afraid that I will fail, and sometimes I do… <br><br>I experienced a big failure this week. A door that I wanted to walk through closed in my face. I lost a songwriting contest. But as the door swung shut, I got a good and unexpected look at what was behind it, and I realized that winning or losing was not a real reflection of my songwriting ability. <br> <br>Yes, it was a disappointment. It hurt my feelings, but this one just wasn’t mine for winning. Now, I have other doors to open, so with some disappointment, I move on to the next thing…<br> <br>On July 20<sup>th</sup>, I will be opening for Steve Forbert. That feels like a great big open door! I just mailed my signed contract to the promoter with gratitude and a smile. Satisfaction and hope are good companions for those pesky fears and failures. <br> <br>Coincidentally, two days after learning that I lost the contest, a stranger went out of his way to tell me how much he loved Boy Store, the song I had submitted. He made me smile! He highlighted for me that music, like all art, is subjective. I just need to focus on finding the people I resonate with.<br><br>Every closed door points me in the right direction.</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/28324682014-03-31T13:52:13-04:002014-04-03T19:06:17-04:00Songwriting – a backstage view (turns out heroes are human...)<span class="font_large">Sometimes I imagine that my songwriting heroes are magical. Their words are brilliantly crafted. Their melodies take me to places I want to go, and they always seem to come up with interesting and moving things to write about. They shine light onto the ordinary and onto the truth, and they do it in a way that thrills me. And in my imagination, their creativity is something they can readily access.<br> <br>Years ago, I had an unexpected gift of a backstage conversation with Billy Joel. We talked about songwriting. I remember thinking how amazing it was that I was having a chance to have a private conversation with him, so I just went for it. I told him about my struggle to access my songs, and I remember being shocked at how much he could relate to what I was saying. It surprised me that someone like him experienced the same struggle.<br> <br>Last night, in the midst of a fabulous concert, Shawn Colvin said the same thing. Again, in my mind, she had found the vein, the way in, and could tap it, if not at will, then almost at will. I found out last night that she struggles with it too. I am sorry that she has to wrestle with accessing her songs, but it was a comfort to me. It made me know that it is normal. I learned that I am in good company.<br> <br>Shawn is my second to Joni favorite songwriter, and I adore the work she has shared with the world. In fact, I have been so moved by her talent, that it has brought me to tears more than once, because she sets the bar so high. In the liner notes of her album Fat City, she wrote to Joni Mitchell, “me wimp, you master.” That is how I feel about her. Last night, her songwriting self became more human to me, and I realized that it is ok to struggle to access my songs. It is just part of the dance.<br> <br>Songwriting is hard, except for when it’s not. There is no better feeling to me then when I am in the zone writing, when I have gotten to the place where the general shape of the song is there, and I know what the picture is that I am trying to paint. I love when it is coming together, and I know it will be a finished song, and I will like it. I allow those moments, or the absence of those moments, to have great power in my life. My relationship with songwriting deeply affects my emotions and my thoughts about myself. I am still learning this dance.<br> <br>What do you dance with?</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/27694382014-03-18T18:32:35-04:002017-01-14T13:22:26-05:00The Tin Angel (a magical night!)<span class="font_large">It was a potential career altering opportunity, and I didn’t want to fail. This show needed to be as perfect as I could make it. I agonized over the set list, arranged and rearranged the song order, and rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed.<br> <br>Playing at the Philadelphia Folk Festival was finally within reach. This Tin Angel show was an audition. It was the closest I had ever come to this long-held dream gig, and I needed to show them my very best work.<br> <br>Somewhere along the way, as momentum built and more and more tickets sold, I realized that I had already won the prize. Yes! I want to be booked to play at the festival this year, but even if I don’t, this Tin Angel gig was a privilege, an honor, and an outrageous amount of fun!<br> <br>Being in the dressing room with the waist high, funky, shelf-like bed, and the tea lights around the mirror, reminded me that I had hung out there with Rosanne Cash years ago. That memory made it more significant to me that I was in there now, getting ready for my own show! It was validating of the hard work I have been consistently doing to build a sustainable creative life for myself.<br> <br>I smiled as I signed the dressing room wall, adding my name to the legions of talented songwriters that came before me. This show felt like playing dress-up, and realizing that the big-girl clothes finally fit me. I was at home and at ease, and I loved every second of it. <br> <br>I don’t know what will come of the seeds I planted that night, but I felt proud of my songs, my performance, and the crowd of people who showed up for me. I felt deeply honored and grateful! Thank you to everyone who helped make this a night I will always remember… <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/82f7f8494cf0ba15eb19485a61e32daaf9560284/original/1010476-10203416656082075-850625884-n-2.jpg?1395181685" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(In the dressing room, I did some primping – put on my contact lenses, added some lipstick, and put my hair up (then down, then up, then down…) and then I saw it! On the mirror, someone had written, “You’re beautiful! Go get ‘em!” It made me smile a big smile, and I took this photo to capture the spirit.)<br> <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/6343f7ed1c27324ff002fb02666d9480084afd32/original/2014-03-07-21-58-15-version-2.jpg?1395181890" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(Photo by Daniel Endy)<br><br>If you leave a comment, please stop back. I always respond...</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/26794322014-03-03T13:31:56-05:002022-02-12T16:14:23-05:00Life's Illusions<span class="font_large">My dad was an optometrist, and as a kid he taught me to love optical illusions. He had the image “All is Vanity” hanging in his office. It is a 19th century painting by Charles Allan Gilbert. At first, I was afraid of it, because all I saw was the scary part. As I learned to see the other image, I came to love it, and I still do!<br><br>I realize now that life is like that image. It can be seen different ways depending on how you look at it. I am seeing that what I focus on gets bigger, and I have become careful with my attention.<br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"> </span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Fear and lack are bullies that fight to be seen. Sometimes they win, but most of the time my gaze stays fixed on every little step in the right direction, every success and sign of light. As a result of that, and of hard work, I am starting to see the life I want unfolding.</span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"> </span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">The things I want are simple: to spend my days at work that is satisfying, enjoyable and worthwhile; to have relationships that are nourishing and reliable; and to know that I will always have and be enough. I believe we all want this!</span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"> </span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">I have taught myself to see gifts in the struggle, and to learn from missteps. I am learning to be kinder with myself for my shortcomings, and I am always reminded that gratitude is powerful beyond measure.</span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"> </span><br style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">What are you focusing on?</span></span><br><br>(If you leave a comment, please stop back. I always respond.)<br><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/62346/31ce90794aaab47ee2ca9f6d407aca2b1422bcac/original/vanity.jpg?1393871420" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </span>(Image by Charles Allan Gilbert 1892, public domain)Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/26015592014-02-18T13:52:04-05:002014-10-11T20:44:27-04:00Enthusiastic Puppies (whistling for stories...) <span class="font_large">My sister is preparing for a move and has been going through her things. She has been busy donating, throwing away, and reminiscing. Yesterday, she showed me some of her personal archeology. <br> <br>It was fun to read her report cards from Gompers elementary school. I loved the fun in her eyes as she showed me her Girl Scout purse and badges. I could almost smell the ice when I touched the blue and white pompoms from her childhood ice skates.<br> <br>Each of these things triggered memories that had dwelled unthought-of for many years. They brought back our childhood stories. We touched them with reverence. They made us laugh. They made me jealous.<br> <br>I have none of that, and I don’t know why. I wished I had a box of similar treasures. I loved being transported by the things in that box.<br> <br>Things are memory triggers, but they are not the only ones. Mental images are triggers too, and they can be called upon, even if they are not unearthed in a long forgotten box. We all hold story boxes in our memories. They are often buried and dusty, but once called upon, they come running towards us like enthusiastic puppies.<br> <br>Here is an easy example: What was your first phone number? I bet you can rattle it off without thinking about it. Mine was TR8-2141. I don’t remember my last phone number, but I will always have the first one on my internal speed dial. I bet you do too.<br> <br>I invite people to play with these things in my writing workshop Painting With Words. We use prompts to call stories to us like those puppies. During the full-day retreats, we also focus on mindfulness in the midst of the smells, sounds, sights and textures of nature, and we try our hand at short fiction. <a contents="Please visit the Painting With Words page to learn about upcoming events.&nbsp;" data-link-label="Painting With Words" data-link-type="page" href="/painting-with-words" target="_blank">Please visit the Painting With Words page to learn about upcoming events. </a><br><br>I am in the process of developing an online version of Painting With Words, and I work with people individually via Skype. Unearthing my own stories, and leading others to theirs, are two of my greatest joys. <br> <br><a contents="Do you want to write with me?" data-link-label="Painting With Words" data-link-type="page" href="/painting-with-words">Do you want to write with me?</a></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/25218152014-02-04T18:04:16-05:002018-05-23T15:06:05-04:00Reaching for a Dream<span class="font_large">I have always had a rich and detailed fantasy life. It is a way to visualize and practice things that call to me. It is also a defense against the fallout of disappointing days. <br> <br>Some of the things I dream about have come true, like having a second album, selling out a show, and teaching my writing workshop. Some things that are dear to my heart will likely never come true, but a HUGE fantasy is currently within reach. I am doing my best to make it real.<br> <br>For decades, while sitting in the crowd listening to performers at the Philadelphia Folk Festival, I wished I could be one of them. For years, I was not ready. I needed to hone my stagecraft and my guitar playing. I needed to write more songs. Once I became ready, it was hard to be seriously considered. The folks who book the festival had never heard of me, and it is a highly sought after gig. <br> <br>Last year, I was formally turned down. That was a step in the right direction! Along with my rejection, I was offered some direction from the Folksong Society about a path to take to be considered in the future. I took their advice! Now, I am one month away from a true audition for the festival. <br> <br>Not only would playing there be a thrill and an honor, it would also be a strong addition to my musical resume, and would possibly make other doors open more easily. This is an enormous deal to me, and I will do my best to show them my finest work.<br> <br>If you are in the Philadelphia area, please come to the audition. <a contents=" It is being held on Friday March 7th at the Tin Angel" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://tin-angel.seatengine.com/shows/15069" target="_blank"> It is being held on Friday March 7<sup>th</sup> at the Tin Angel</a>. Help me to illustrate for the jury that I have a following. Your presence will make a difference, and it will be deeply appreciated.<br> <br>Wish me luck!<br> <br>What dream to you want to make real?</span><br><br>(if you leave a comment, please check back. I always post a response!)Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/23966362014-01-14T12:25:44-05:002018-05-23T15:06:04-04:00Betty (A gift in the darkness)<span class="font_large">I knew it was her last Thanksgiving. As I helped her unwrap the handmade heart I gave her, I knew it was her last Chanukah. I knew she wouldn’t get any more birthday wishes. And yet, the end came unexpectedly.<br> <br>I didn’t think our last conversation would be our last, although when I think about it now, I believe that she did. I thought I would have more warning. Maybe I did, and I just didn’t see it.<br> <br>Betty’s last days reminded me that we never know when it is the last time. It reminded me not to take tomorrow for granted – not my tomorrow, and not yours. As I feel the earth spinning the days away, I recognize my mortality. <br> <br>My experience of Betty’s illness and passing also showed me that you could know a person for forty years, and not know them at all. I learned that there is treasure right in front of me, if I take the time to notice. I am choosing to notice.<br> <br>Betty came into my life as my sister’s boyfriend’s mother. Then she became my sister’s mother-in-law. But, she left my life as my dear and treasured friend. <br> <br>The circumstances around her last seven months provided us with a considerable amount of time spent alone together. We came to realize that we had never really seen each other. Although we had shared holidays and special events as family for many years, we had been mostly strangers.<br> <br>This experience reminded me that there is always a treasure in the darkness. Every injury leaves a gift. Sometimes the cost of the gift is too high, and given the choice, we would turn it down, but there is always a gift. I am grateful for the gift, and I miss my friend. <br> <br>May we always find our gift in the darkness…</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/23094802014-01-01T00:27:57-05:002018-05-23T15:06:03-04:00The Carousel of Time (Thoughts for the new year)<span class="font_large">Twenty thirteen was a mix of exciting moments, unsettling events, and hopeful plantings. My mailing list grew. Songs from Here Right Now were played on the radio. Attendance at shows blossomed. Painting With Words was born. I made treasured new friends, and sadly lost a few. I also lost my day-job, gained a nephew, and studied with a hero. <br><br>It has been exciting and terrifying! At times, I haven’t known where to put my next foot down! Gratefully, along the way, I have seen signs that I am on the right path. I may lose my way now and then, but I always seem to find the way back.<br> <br>I have been thinking about what I hope to say as twenty fourteen comes to a close. I have been thinking big! I've learned that life is too short to think small. <br> <br>One of my intentions for the year is to become a better songwriter. Songwriting is my passion, my pleasure, and the heart of this musical life I am creating. This year, I plan to write my best songs yet! <br><br>I feel like a parent sometimes. My songs are my kids, and I want them to have fabulous friends, and venture to places I have never been. I want them to fly from the nest and have big lives.<br><br>I also plan to go back into the studio to work on my next album. The studio feels like home to me. It feels like the kitchen of my life. It is a place where magic happens. I can’t wait.<br> <br>What are your intentions for the year? What do you hope to create? <span class="font_small"><em> <br><br>(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always post a response.)</em></span></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/22466152013-12-17T14:24:15-05:002013-12-27T21:09:31-05:00Death's Waiting Room (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Bernice carefully placed the cup she was holding on her tray, and then silently left the dining room. She had eaten half of her regular lunch of turkey on rye. Her gait was slow but steady, and she was grateful that she only needed a cane in the sea of walkers and wheelchairs. <br><br>Bernice had been sitting alone, as she often did at lunchtime, and her exit went mostly unnoticed. Hillary gave her a passing glance as she finished off the last of her chocolate cake, but Hillary’s memory was like a footprint at high tide.<br> <br>Bernice thought of heading for the door, but she knew that she had nowhere to go. She was stuck in this place. She thought of it as death’s waiting room.<br> <br>Bernice Alison Foster had been living at Parkview for eleven months. It was enough time to see all of the seasons from her third floor window. It was long enough to feel like she knew the family that lived in the house across the street. She saw them more often than her own children. <br> <br>As she sat in her recliner, day after day, she watched them. She didn’t know their names, and they didn’t know that she was looking, but their presence was a comfort. The blue lights they hung on the weeping willow last Sunday reminded her of the Christmas long ago when Ben had surprised her with tree lights on the day she came home from the hospital with Jake.<br> <br>Bernice railed against the routine, and the loneliness, and the incompetence. There were staff at Parkview whom she loved, but most of them didn’t see her. They didn’t see any of them.<br> <br>The staff saw bodily functions and moods. They saw what age had done to bodies and minds. But like Bernice, everyone here had an internal life, filled with memories and regrets, and the need to be seen. <br> <br>As Bernice approached her room, she wondered if it was almost time for lunch. </span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/21525672013-12-03T15:48:03-05:002013-12-04T22:08:07-05:00The Tin Man (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Dina fell in love with the tin man. Joseph didn’t know that she called him that in her head, but she did. She thought it with affection, and with a silent wish that he would someday make it to see the wizard.<br> <br>Joseph was kind and gentle and charming, and his heart sang out through his bow and strings. It shined through his hands as he created treasures from wood and stone and his imaginings. He loved his dog, and his work. He loved oak trees and the sound of the river, and his cabin in the mountains. He loved the flame he kept alive in his fireplace, and the smell of snow. But his ability to love another person had been stolen like an evil enchantment.<br> <br>Year by year, it was taken from him as he grew into a man in a home filled with unspeakable horror. His youth had held him hostage. He was tortured with lies and his parents’ demons, and by the time he got free, he had lost his ability to love. <br> <br>Dina slept in his arms now. She woke to the gentle rhythm of his heart in her ear. She treasured that sound. It had become her favorite song. It was a song of peace and hope, and of home. <br> <br>Dina laid her hand on Joseph’s heart as he lay sleeping. She and his heart had an understanding. She would honor it, and him. She understood him. She loved him, and as she felt his treasured heart beating, she gently tapped his chest three times and softly whispered, “There’s no place like home...”</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/20789042013-11-19T20:23:14-05:002020-09-10T23:35:34-04:00How do you fight? (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">Laura still hears echoes. She still hears their voices. She hears hers trying to explain, trying to push past his walls. She hears his, yelling at her to leave him alone. <br> <br>Laura couldn’t leave him alone. She couldn’t leave him alone to leave her. She remembers the exact moment they broke. She saw the look in his eyes, as they stopped seeing her.<br> <br>Laura hates how it feels to miss him. Sometimes she wonders if they ever really saw each other. She had thought they were unbreakable. It shocks her that she was wrong.<br> <br>She sits in her kitchen now, with the fallout, and a hot cup of chamomile. The rain on the window plays the soundtrack to her sorrow, and she finds herself wondering how other people fight. She believes, deep in herself, that fighting without claws, and kindness through dissonance, are the keys to the castle. <br> <br>Laura grew up with cold wars and screaming through walls. She grew up with conflicting loyalties and a broken heart. It turned her into a peacemaker. She never learned how to fight.<br> <br>How do you fight? </span><br><br><em>(I always respond to blog comments. If you leave one, please check back.)</em>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/19935642013-11-05T16:59:25-05:002013-11-07T23:00:02-05:00Finding the Juice<span class="font_large">I love when they cry! I love when pens are moving and tears are streaming. I love when they surprise themselves with emotion as they read their writing out loud for the first time. It means that they hit a vein and found their juice – their itch, their humanity, and their power. <br><br>Under our everyday selves, we carry our histories – our multitude of stories and emotions. We all have too many stories to carry in our conscious minds. Most of them get tucked away beneath our obligations, our to-do lists and our highlights reel. Lynda Barry, one of my writing mentors, calls these stories “the unthought known.” These are the things that sculpt us into who we are.<br> <br>Stories build bridges. They allow us to walk in each other’s skin. That is the writing that thrills me. I love reading it. I love writing it, and I love facilitating it in others. <br> <br>Powerful writing is like a doodle – one that is beautiful, but could never have been thought into being. They are both born out of playfulness, fearlessness and a moving hand.<br> <br>Writing has been reminding me that life is also art unfolding. I am learning to trust that I can’t think up the magic. I am learning to move forward, following my passion, trusting that I will find the juice…<br><br>Where do you find your juice?<br><br><span class="font_regular"><em>(I always respond to your comments. If you leave one, please check back...)</em></span></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/18576652013-10-15T15:07:29-04:002013-10-16T20:16:10-04:00Pussy Willow (flash fiction with Sarah)<span class="font_large">Sarah had a pussy willow bush in the backyard of her house in Stonehaven. She loved to pet the furry buds! They were like fingernail-sized rabbit’s feet. <br><br>Once in a very great while she would cut off a branch or two as a gift for someone special. It would usually be for Miss Lawson, her fourth grade teacher. Sarah loved listening to her voice every day after recess, as she read The Oregon Trail. It was a magical twenty minutes, filled with adventures, before the dreaded math book. <br> <br>Sometimes the branches were for Mr. Jenkins from across the street. Mr. Jenkins had myna birds, and he let Sarah hold them on her arm. He taught her to always have her eyes higher than theirs, so they would know that she was top bird. One of them knew swear words and could quack like a duck. Billy taught him before he went off to college. It was hilarious!<br> <br>Now, she sat in her mom’s powder blue Falcon with a fat bunch of pussy willow branches in her hands. Most of them were on the floor, in front of the back seat, because they were too tall to hold. That bush felt like family, and she intended to bring as much of it with her to the new place as she could. Joan had brought over her dad’s pruning shears, and the two of them gave that bush a big haircut before her mom got mad and made her get in the car for the move to Westville. <br> <br>The folks who bought their house had liked that bush too. Sarah’s mom had even cut them a few branches when they came to measure the bedrooms. Her mom knew they would not be happy, but Sarah didn’t care about that. Today that bush was still hers, and as she got in the car, she said what her mom always said to her when she got her hair cut too short – It’ll grow back!<br> <br>The moving men were still loading the last of their things. Sarah watched through the car window as the bookshelf from her bedroom was walked up the ramp. Aunt Nora said she would stay behind to make sure everything made it onto the truck. Dorothy was anxious to go ahead. She said she wanted to put away the kitchen things they had dropped off earlier in the day, but Sarah knew that her mom just wasn’t big on long goodbyes.<br> <br>Sarah hated leaving that pussy willow behind. She loved the rose bushes too, and the forsythia and the purple weeds that came up in the spring grass. There was nowhere to plant anything at the new place. Sarah would miss the jungle of her backyard, but there were tall Maples and Oaks around their new apartment building, and Sarah promised herself that they would become great friends. For now though, all she felt was the leaving. She hoped she would meet someone on the other end worthy of a few of her furry-footed branches.</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/17564952013-10-01T12:07:16-04:002021-03-21T10:16:02-04:00Sarah's New Room (flash fiction) <span class="font_large">Sarah used to have solar flowers on the bureau by the window. They were given out at Jesse’s party. Mike hadn’t wanted hers, so Sarah had two. They were purple and yellow with green pots, and they danced, powered by the sunlight. They were silly little things, but Sarah loved watching them wiggle. They felt like company. <br><br>For now, they were packed away with her stuffed platypus collection and the candles she never lit. One of them has a guaranteed seven treasures waiting to be melted out of the wax. Sarah is afraid of matches and of flames, so she plans on digging out the treasures one day, just as soon as she is willing to part with the caramel colored candle.<br> <br>She is sitting on her new bed looking at the empty room. The bureau, the walls, the closets – all empty. Nothing looks like her. Nothing feels like home. It smells of paint and carpet, and the heater starting up.<br> <br>Dorothy, Sarah’s mom, gave Sarah’s single bed to Aunt Jennifer. Cousin Jeffrey is going to use it now, because he is about to become a big boy. She bought this queen-sized one for Sarah, and it was given with a promise of sleepovers.<br> <br>Jesse, Mike, and Roberta, had said they would visit. Mike even promised to bring Joe with her. Sarah thought she would miss that cat most of all. She and Joe had a special understanding. <br> <br>They all promised that they would still be friends, even though Sarah now lived in an apartment in Westville. It was only forty minutes away from her old neighborhood, but it felt like it could have been on the moon. She didn’t even know if there was enough light from her new bedroom window to make the flowers dance.</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/16431432013-09-17T18:48:19-04:002013-09-19T09:30:47-04:00Teaching what I need to Learn<span class="font_large">Once upon a time, a man named John Howell introduced me to the idea that people often teach what they need to learn. That idea struck a satisfying chord inside of me, and it continues to resonate. It has been true in my life. <br><br>I needed to learn to process my past, so I became a therapist. I needed to learn to play, so I became a Gymboree teacher. I needed to learn how to sing with other people, so I became a choir director. I need to learn how to consistently generate songs and stories, so I teach writing.<br> <br>Writing is one of my oldest and deepest loves, but sometimes we are opposing magnets. I write a sentence and I cross it out. I write another sentence and I get a snack. I write a couple more and I have to make a phone call, or check my email or facebook or watch a rerun of Criminal Minds. I am capable of elevating not writing to an art form. Sometimes I just can’t settle in.<br> <br>Chronic writer’s block, and the commitment to not allowing it to stop me from writing, has taught me some things. I learned that if I waited for inspiration, I would wait for seventeen years. I learned that if I tried not to offend anyone, I would not touch anyone. I learned that inspiration rewards me when I show up and do the work. I learned to allow images to lead me. I learned to play with words.<br> <br>I enjoy being surprised by the pen in my moving hand. It is like tapping into dreaming. I watch the unfolding. When it is working well, it feels like magic, but the magic comes in the doing. I can’t think up the magic. I have to write it. I have to let go, and play. <br> <br>What do you need to learn?</span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/15236252013-09-03T09:00:05-04:002013-09-04T22:54:11-04:00Sweet Kugel and Creepy Crawlers<span class="font_large">When I was a kid, I loved my mom’s sweet kugel, and the smell of roasting brisket. I liked to sit on the piano bench at the kids’ table with Mindy, although sometimes she would end up under the table with Laddy, pretending to be a dog or a gerbil. I loved the snug feeling of being surrounded by my aunts, uncles and cousins. <br><br>After dinner, we would make treasures. Aunt Julie’s basement was our laboratory, and cousin Scott was head scientist. We would make green, red and yellow rubber lizards, bats and bugs. I loved peeling them out of their cooling metal molds and squishing them between my fingers. At home, they would live in a saltwater taffy barrel from Atlantic City.<br><br>These memories, along with Sweetheart sitting in the red plush chair, Uncle Sheik watching Bullwinkle on the sun porch, and playing the nuts game after dinner by the living room step, are what I loved about Rosh Hashanah. To me, the Jewish holidays were about being with my family.<br><br>I dreaded going to services. I didn’t know how to contain the boredom. Holiday services felt like they lasted for weeks. I remember Donna and I trying on each others jewelry in the back of the sanctuary to pass the time, and I remember turning the prayer book pages one at a time, from beginning to end, ever so slowly, to try and move the clock along. Services felt like long, hard, boring homework.<br><br>That young me would be shocked to learn that I am the cantorial singer at High Holiday services now. She would be amazed that I finally learned how to read Hebrew. She wouldn’t believe that I find the music haunting and beautiful, and that the holiday melodies transport me to a place inside myself that feels more like treasure than those old basement Creepy Crawlers. <br><br>It feels good to go back and visit the old days. All of my aunts and uncles are gone now, along with some of my cousins and my dad. I will always carry them with me, and I will feel them here as I turn the pages of the prayer book, and as I taste the cinnamon and raisins in my mom’s sweet kugel.<br><br>I wish you all a sweet and meaningful new year. May it be filled with laughter, loved ones and unexpected treasure. </span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/14289892013-08-18T18:46:27-04:002020-09-23T06:24:42-04:00Secret Child (flash fiction)<span class="font_large">She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. Her vision went black for a couple of beats, and she felt like she was going to pass out. The world tilted and she thought she might slide off. He was a bit bow-backed now, but it was surely him, walking with a boy she didn’t recognize. <br><br>Laura was sitting in the quad with her guitar, a notebook, and a copy of Siddhartha at the ready for when she ran out of songwriting ideas. She had packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and some of the oatmeal raisin cookies she loved from The Creamery. She was about to dig in when she saw them.<br><br>Laura had watched her father from afar all of her life, and she could always pick him out of a crowd. It didn’t hurt that he was taller than almost everyone, and bone thin. The boy was also built like a reed, but he was graceful in his movements, unlike Laura’s father who had always been a bit stumbling. <br><br>She grew up knowing that her father had a real family. She grew up knowing that she had a half brother and a half sister, but she had never seen them. She was the secret child. She was the one he came to see but never took home. Laura knew she had siblings, but as far as she knew, they still didn’t know about her. <br><br>Laura slammed the door on her dad in junior high. She told him that she hated him for being ashamed of her. She told him that he was a coward. She told him she was going to show up at his door and introduce herself to his family during Thanksgiving dinner. She said she would bring a pie, and either he could invite her in, and welcome her as part of his family, or he could wear it! They each did their share of screaming, and in the end Laura didn’t make good on her threat, and she never saw him again, until now…<br> </span><br><span class="font_regular"><em>(Please note the icon at the top of this post to add your most welcome comments.)</em></span>Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/13185652013-08-02T00:00:00-04:002021-08-01T12:27:31-04:00What are you like?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Someone recently asked me what I am like, and answering her question has led me on a journey. I learned that the answer is fluid, always evolving. What I am like is important to me. I am learning that I need to tend it, protect it, and grow it. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Last week, I was unexpectedly offered a rare and tempting opportunity. (More about that in a second…) </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I get naked in my blog sometimes. I let you see me. I do that so you will know who I am, and because I believe that vulnerability is powerful. I also like to start conversations with folks who identify with my stories. I am reminding you of this, because the opportunity that I was unexpectedly offered was something that both tempted me and made me feel like I should keep it a secret. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I was briefly caught between curiosity and shame, and then I heard the whispered question, “What are you like?” Although part of me was up for this unnamed adventure, I felt a clicking back into place, as I said no. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I am not telling this time. I am keeping the details in the vault. I am good at keeping other people’s secrets, and this time I am keeping my own.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I do intend to make some changes to what I am like. Some of the changes involve little things. For example, I want to be a person with a neat and clean car. I have already cleaned out the things that used to live in the big box on my back seat. (Full disclosure: although most things got thrown out or put away in permanent homes, some things moved into the trunk where they will be out of my sight, at least for now.) I am a work in progress…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">So, what am I like?</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I am a childlike old soul. I am passionate, determined and sometimes derailed. I am thoughtful, outspoken, gentle and thin-skinned. I am an active listening, pile generating, cat owned deep thinker. I am a communicator, an emotionally complex dreamer, and a very good friend.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">What are you like?<br><br><em>(Please note the new icon at the top of this post to add your most welcome comments.)</em></span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/11324752013-07-15T09:40:00-04:002013-11-02T21:10:10-04:00New York State of Mind<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I saw myself on that train with my guitar, my ever-present tea thermos, and a bag of CDs to sell. David had walked me through the intricacies of Penn Station, even telling me that I would want to hail a cab from 7<sup>th</sup> Street, because it was facing the right direction to carry me to Ludlow.<br><br>
My friend Emily had needed to cancel her gig at The Living Room due to an injury, and she had kindly recommended me to fill her spot. I was going to have to go alone. I was willing, but shaking in my Toms.<br><br>
My first visit to New York as a teen had set the stage for fears that have lingered. As an adult, I have had fun there, but that was always when I was with someone who knew the city well. Gratefully, I could not ruminate on my fears full-time, because if The Living Room booked me, I would need to show them that I can bring people out, and I only had three days to mobilize the troops. <br><br>
In the end, I didn’t get the gig, and I didn’t get on that train, but it was interesting to observe in myself the willingness to face one of my oldest fears in order to realize one of my musical ambitions. I have decided that I am going to get to know New York better. Who knows, maybe we can let go of our past and become friends.<br><br>
I learned through this experience that there are people in New York who would show up for me. It is likely better that it didn’t work out this time, because with advance planning, I will be able to fill more seats. I want to show that big city that I can bring it!<br><br>
If you live in or around New York, and would come to a show of mine in the city, please let me know, so that I can put you on my list of folks to contact when the right opportunity shows up. It feels like an important step in this musical journey of mine. <br><br>
What fear stands between you and your ambition?</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/10475222013-07-01T06:45:00-04:002013-11-02T21:10:33-04:00The Gift of Envy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I used to think that envy was ugly. I thought it was something to be ashamed of. It used to hurt me, and make me feel inferior, but now, instead of seeing envy as a bad thing, I see it as a roadmap. I welcome it as a gift.<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
Envy is an internal laser pointer. It underlines our desires and our passion. It is a call to action, and it has been showing up for me a lot lately. <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
Ryan O’Neal, a songwriter who goes by the name Sleeping At Last, recently sent a newsletter saying that another one of his wonderful songs was placed in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. He has had many songs placed in popular TV shows. As I read his newsletter, I felt happy for him, and yes, I also felt envious. <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
At the same time, my fabulous songwriter friend, Jennifer Haase, wrote about her intention to consistently pitch her songs for licensing opportunities. There it was again, that feeling of envy. I felt it, and then, I took action! By the time you read this, I will have begun… <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
For the next ninety days, beginning July first, I will be participating in a class geared toward helping songwriters find licensing opportunities. There are no guarantees, but I will be learning and taking action towards this end. Jennifer is doing it with me, and we will be cheering each other on!<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
My dream placement is in the show Parenthood. I can imagine seeing Sarah with boxes in her arms, moving into a new place, while “This House” plays in the background. Or maybe “Oldest Dream” will be featured in a scene with Amber and Ryan. Or, maybe (my great big huge giant fantasy…) I will be cast to play a scene recording “I Believe” at The Luncheonette! It could happen… <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
On a different note, another friend just got to go to songwriting camp with Shawn Colvin. I am not sure how to take action on that one. For now, I will just be thrilled for her!<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
Where does your envy roadmap lead?</span></p><p><br></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/9573502013-06-17T13:21:41-04:002013-11-02T21:11:13-04:00A Postcard from the Past<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I live with layers of personal archeology. Some of it is purposeful and featured, like the Gymboree rocking horse I can’t seem to part with, the brass candlesticks my great grandmother brought with her on the boat from Russia, and my favorite marbles from when I was little. They touch my heart, and they are good company.<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
Some of my treasures are safely tucked away, and some get temporarily forgotten. Every so often, I go through boxes and drawers, and root out treasure. I was in the midst of a personal excavation last week, when I unexpectedly ran into a younger version of myself on a cassette tape. She sent me reeling. <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
As I listened, I became an audience member in her 1995 show. I liked her. I became a fan. She was funny and vulnerable and brave. <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
That long ago version of me had four songs in her set that I had forgotten I wrote. With my memory triggered, I remembered that they were too close to the bone, too heart on my sleeve, and I stopped being willing to sing them. (I am in the process now of evaluating their worthiness for resurrection.) <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
I listened to the tape in my car with tears in my eyes. (Yes, I still have a cassette deck in my car.) As I listened, I grieved for the lost years. I listened as the audience sang and laughed along with me. I had built a relationship with those people. I was doing what I was born to do, and I was doing it well. And, I let it slip away... <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
As I drove in my car listening, I felt like I let that long ago me down. I didn’t take care of her. The truth of it is that I developed a stubborn case of writer’s block, lost my momentum, and began to feel like a faker. Other things claimed my time, and years went by… <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
As I inhabit my present day skin, I am determined to take care of the future me. I think of that me with every decision I make. She is depending on me! I want to give her the life she deserves. I want her to happen upon something of my current life in a box or a drawer, and greet it with a smile and a thank you… <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
Are you sending postcards to the future?</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/8668762013-06-03T12:02:53-04:002013-11-02T21:08:49-04:00Calling Myself Names<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">What names do you call yourself? How do you feel about those names? Did you create them, or were you born into them? The names that touch me the deepest are the ones that identify my relationships with people.<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
I was born a daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece and cousin. I later became a friend, sister-in-law and aunt, and have, on occasion, been a girlfriend. (I have never been a wife, mother or daughter-in-law, and I will never be a grandparent) I feel a deep attachment to the names I call myself, and I am reluctant to let them go.<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
This week, I stopped being a niece, and I have been grieving the loss of that name along with the loss of my Uncle Joe. Growing up, my aunts, uncles and cousins were at the center of my life. They provided the framework for much of my childhood. <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
My aunts and uncles are all gone now, along with two of my cousins, my grandparents, dad and a couple of dear friends. I have never been good at letting go of the people I love, and the loss of my role as a niece feels like a kick to the gut. The names I call myself are slowly falling away.<br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
This is making me think of other words that define me. I went searching for names that illustrate who I am, and so far, I have come up with observer, wordsmith, songwriter, singer, performer, connecter, helper, nurturer, illuminator, artist and friend. <br></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
What names do you call yourself?</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/7316472013-05-13T11:00:00-04:002013-05-15T20:02:26-04:00On the Roof (Flash Fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><i>(This is another installment of Sarah’s story. All of the pieces stand alone, but they are also parts of a bigger story still unfolding)<br></i><br>
Sarah’s bedroom had a window that opened onto the roof. It never occurred to her parents that she went out there, but she did – all the time. Sometimes she would go out to smoke a cigarette or to get high. Sometimes she just wanted a refuge from the negatively charged energy in the house. She liked the smell of the honeysuckle and the boxwood, and of the rain. Sometimes she would take a book out there with her. She read all of Marjorie Morningstar out there on that roof. <br><br>
Sarah wanted to be grown and gone from that house more than she wanted anything – well, almost anything. What she really wanted was to go back to the days of feeling a part of things, back to the time of her parents feeling like a safety net, back to when everyone got along. She wanted to live in a place that felt like home.<br><br>
Sarah needed a space to just be, a place to exhale. There was too much sadness in the air, and that was not including her own. The roof, like Mike’s tree house, was her sanctuary. It was a bridge to her imagined life on her own.<br><br>
She wasn’t always alone out there. Sometimes Joe would hang out on the roof too. Joe was grey and soft, with extra toes and golden eyes. He liked to roam the neighborhood. Sarah thought of Joe as her secret cat. He technically belonged to her friend Mike, but Sarah believed that Joe set that up on purpose so that he could really be her cat, since her mom wouldn’t let her have one of her own. <br><br>
Joe had his usual haunts, the places Mike and Joan would check when he didn’t come home by dark, but no one knew that he came up on the roof to spend time with Sarah. Joe knew all of her secrets and her sorrows. He was her resting place. His golden eyes were good for listening, and today she had a lot to tell him. <br><br>
She couldn’t find the words, only tears. She learned today that her parents were selling her house, and she and her mom were moving to a place she never heard of. She couldn’t bare the thought of leaving her friends, and the tree house, and the creek she found behind the old train tracks, but most of all, she didn’t know how she could ever leave Joe.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium; "> </span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/6329282013-04-30T21:05:00-04:002013-11-02T21:11:36-04:00Painting the Pond With Words<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><i><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">During our Painting With Words writing retreat we spent some time in the lush environment, being fully present and mindful of details. I believe that details bring writing to life, so we spent time honing our observational skills. I did my mindfulness exercise from a hammock looking straight up to the sky. (There is little I like more than a hammock between two tall trees!) When the time had passed, I called everyone together with my new crow call. So much fun!</span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><i><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I was reminded of doing a similar exercise a few summers back, while sitting outside of the sanctuary at The Omega Institute, one of my favorite places. I had a powerful experience with a frog one year (that is a story for another day) and I went back years later, wondering if he was still there... <br type="_moz"></span></i></span><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; "><br></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">The plants have grown big in my absence! A half-decade has past.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">The algae are thick, and emerald, and artful.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Daddy Long Legs feels his way, ballet like, down the pine green fern. Watching closely makes me wonder if he has eyes.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">There are fish, white and golden and graceful.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">No sign yet of my frog friends…</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">This year’s yoga woman does a sun pose.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">She too looks like a dancer.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Bird songs layer in a morning symphony.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Eight fifteen sounds like animal chaos in the undergrowth. </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">It is the fountain sputtering to life.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Minutes later there is a gurgling, a hinting, and then the sound I came for – the gentle waterfall over the rock ledge.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Come on frogs! </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">If you are still here, show yourselves.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Say hello.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I am an old friend of your ancestors. <br><br><br type="_moz"></span></span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/5353342013-04-15T16:20:04-04:002013-11-02T21:11:57-04:00The Cages Room (flash fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128); "><span style="font-size: medium; "><i>(This piece was an exploration of a funny kind of grammar I call Malka Speak, and is one of a series of writings about the impact of relationships between aminals and their people)</i></span></span><span style="font-size: medium; "></span><span style="font-size: small; "></span><br><br>
We stayed close together, Maura and I did. We would rather be in the cages room with each other cat, than be taken out alone. Maura got people’s attention first – they wanted to call her Boots or Socks or Slippers, but she would get bitey if they didn’t want me too, and they would put her back for someone shyer.<br><br>
I got lost in the sea of cat faces. People would calling me Tabby, if they called me at all. Lots of us cats got called Tabby. Maura and I were not kittens anymore. Actually, we still were kittens at ten months old, but people usually wanted us cats more when we were the tiny ones with baby whiskers, and too big of ears.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Once upon a day, Maura and I were just getting up from a sleeping when we saw his biggest brown eyes looking at us. We looked into his eyes and we cats saw our way home. We both of us saw it! We got so excited that Maura, she forgot to be bitey. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Oh boy! He is looking at me first and he is calling me Sweetie! I snuggled close to Maura so he would know for surely that we were together girls, and he saw us both cats. He asked to meet us two together! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">That was the beginning of us three. Boy did Maura and I have an important job for doing! We could see the heart of our new person right away, and we were seeing the depth of his hurt and his lonely. We knew we were home. He rescued us from the cages room, and we rescued him right back.</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/4501012013-04-01T15:05:03-04:002013-11-02T21:09:42-04:00Imperfect Magic!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">The first time I heard Shawn Colvin’s album Live ‘88, it made me cry. It is perfect! Every note, every beat, every single sound is perfect. It is just Shawn and her guitar, and it could not be better! I adore that recording, and I aspire to give a performance like that. (I also aspire to open for her one day. That is my dream gig!)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I wanted my record release birthday show to be flawless, but in my imperfection, I was granted a gift. I was given something far more important than perfection. I was granted imperfect magic! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">The evening reminded me that we are moved by our shared humanity. We are moved by connections made heart to heart. It is not about perfection. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I also learned that most of my shortcomings were likely unnoticed. When I listened back to the show later, I could tell that the flaws were unimportant, but in the moment, in my skin, they were momentous. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Overall, it was a fabulous night. There were ninety tickets sold! I even gave the stool on the stage to someone, because there were no chairs left! I was deeply moved by the turnout, and I could feel that the audience was with me. The folks at MilkBoy were welcoming and warm, and it was fun to have Anne Hills there as my special guest. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">In the days that followed, my inbox filled with treasured messages from friends and former strangers, telling me how meaningful the show had been for them. I could feel their hearts. I could feel the genuine connections made. Wow, what a privilege. I am touched and grateful. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">As I continue to hone my craft, I will try to remember that it is through humanity that bonds are made, not through perfection. If I lose sight of that, please remind me…</span></p><p><br></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/3801892013-03-18T07:05:00-04:002013-03-18T07:05:00-04:00One Step at a Time<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">One year ago, I launched my website and newsletter, and I started to blog. It wasn’t an easy birth. The idea of facing the technical aspects of creating an Internet presence had me in tears on many occasions. It was overwhelming, and I had to keep identifying where to put my next foot down. I asked for help where I could, and one step at a time, my website, newsletter and blog came into being.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I am taking a breath now, as this milestone and my birthday approach, to acknowledge the journey, and to take a good look around at where I am standing – at the top of a steep hill, looking at the base of a mountain. As overwhelm threatens again, I am taking stock, making lists, and figuring out where to put my next foot down. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">At the top of the next mountain is a world where I have connected with enough of you who want my songs and stories in your lives, to pay my bills consistently with money earned through my music and writing. I am working to get clear on what that looks like. That is my task at hand.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sometimes, it is hard work to shut the voices up that tell me I can’t. They are familiar and easy to hear. But, there is an inner knowing that I can, that I just have to keep moving forward. Every step up the mountain gets me closer to the life I am creating. Sometimes I will slip back down, but I don’t intend to stay down for long. I am committed to taking consistent action, and to changing my life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Thank you for sharing the journey. If what I do speaks to you, please tell someone else. Thank you, from my heart… </span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/3411862013-03-04T11:10:00-05:002013-12-19T20:16:49-05:00Sweet Tarts and Red Hots<span style="font-size: medium; ">Mindy liked Red Hots, and those chunky Sweet Tarts the size of a ten year old’s palm. I liked all things cinnamon, and the rows of sugar dots on sheets of white paper. We both liked to buy the latest Tiger Beat and 16 Magazines for all things Partridge. We were more like sisters than cousins, and we treasured those trips to the corner store to buy our bounty. </span>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p><span style="font-size: medium; ">I drove by that corner today, and although it has changed since the days of Red Hots and Tiger Beat, I saw the ghosts of us there by that long ago store. We were by the front door, trying to decide what to do with our popsicles before entering. We didn’t want them anymore, and without a trash can nearby, we were at a loss. In the end, we mailed them. That mailbox is long gone, but glancing down the street where it stood, I felt a flash of guilt, imagining the mess the mailman found on that long ago June afternoon.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p><span style="font-size: medium; ">Mindy is long gone too. It has been three years since they found her dead on the bathroom floor. I wish I could take us back – back to the days of David Cassidy and Tiger Beat, back to the days of Nana Dog and bunk beds and Mash, back before she got lost.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p><span style="font-size: medium; ">It feels like a part of her never left that corner store. The little girl part never grew up. In her kitchen drawer, she even left behind handfuls and handfuls of Sweet Tarts and Red Hots. </span> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Rain music taps on the dining room window. The soothing percussion transports me to mom’s olive green Cougar, on the way to an eighth grade school day. I can hear the sound of the wipers. I can smell mom’s Wrigley’s spearmint gum. I can taste my anxiety. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Mom drove Sue and me to school if it rained. It wasn’t that I minded getting wet. I have always loved the smell and the sound of rain, and the way it feels on bare feet. I have always loved the dreariness of rain. But, in those tender days, the beauty of the rain was overshadowed by one of my biggest fears, a fear that only curly-haired girls know – frizz!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p><span style="font-size: medium; ">Hair frizz would send me running to the girl’s bathroom mirror before homeroom, and then again after algebra and before lunch. It had the power to transform my worthiness, to completely change how I was perceived. Or, at least I thought it did. I remember waking up before the sun, so that I could use the Remington hot-comb to make my hair straight and sleek, obliterating any sign of its natural inclination to kink.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I regret how ugly I was in my imagination. My old school pictures tell a different story now, but the stories I convincingly told myself then made me hide. They made me try to blend in. They made me shrink into myself. And, they gave me a gift. They gave me a lifetime’s worth of empathy for the unkind voices other people dance with. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">The tapping rain on the window sooths me now, washing away stray lingering unkindness. I am back in this room, sitting on the sofa, writing this for you while I wait for my freshly washed hair to dry, on its own, curly and free.</span></p>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Last time, I showed you an example of the “steal the first sentence” technique. This time, I want to share an example of using a physical cue as a writing prompt. I have used this tool many times to shine a light on memories that have been lost in the shadows. Sometimes those memories merge with fiction, and stories are born that would never have been told without that initial prompt.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Here is a short, mostly first draft, that I just wrote using apple butter as a prompt. It made me laugh to see where it landed… </span></p><span style="font-size: medium; "><!--EndFragment--></span>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Apple butter reminds me of Colonial Day at Brookline Elementary. It reminds me of hand-dipped candles and cutout profile portraits, like Abe Lincoln and George Washington. Apple butter reminds me of butter cookies, and handloom weaving and parchment paper. It reminds me of tables pushed together to make stations around the lunchroom, and teachers dressed up like Little House on the Prairie. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium; ">I wonder what happened to my pink, hand-dipped, Colonial Day candles. They used to be treasure. I remember that mom visited the stations with me that day, and I think we had candy apples. I know we had hard candy cherries with green plastic stems. I remember they hung in pairs, like balls. </span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2803562013-01-14T10:30:00-05:002013-01-14T10:30:00-05:00Steal the First Sentence<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">One of my favorite tools in my writing bag of tricks is the steal the first sentence device. Sometimes, when it is time to write and I don’t know what to write about, I will grab a random book, open to a random page, and let my eye fall on any sentence.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I write that sentence down, and then keep my hand moving, writing whatever comes through. I will take my time forming the letters, so that my mind can have time to wander a bit. I have unearthed many of my flash fiction pieces this way. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Here is an example of a short one I wrote yesterday. I also made some notes with ideas about continuing the story, but this piece of it is what came out first using this method:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">About a month later, on a busy night, they called for a cab. Ellen was tired of waiting, and she decided to start walking. Eric said he would pick her up in the cab along their usual route. Aunt Anna’s house was too far for walking. It would have taken until Tuesday. Ellen agreed and set out. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p><span style="font-size: medium; ">Her mind was racing too fast to stand still. She knew when she got like this that the only way to still her mind was to move her body. Eric knew it too. They had been together long enough that he had seen, first hand, what Ellen was like when her mind was caged. She became like a lion in the zoo, pacing and getting nowhere. </span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->
<p> </p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2736332013-01-01T07:39:55-05:002020-01-27T01:16:25-05:00Notes for a New Year<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I have been having a cozy leisurely New Year’s Day morning listening to WXPN’s top 200 songs of 2012. They are playing the top 100 now. I feel inspired by the songs that were voted onto this list by listeners. WXPN is my favorite station, and I aspire to be on a list like this. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Some of the chosen songs are inspiring because they are well crafted and performed, and I am happy to be spending my morning with them. I would like to hear them again. However, I am finding myself more inspired by the songs I don’t like. There are lots of them! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I am reminded that songs are like relationships. We are all attracted differently. Our passions are unique. We don’t choose who we love, we just do. Songs are the same. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">There are some musicians and bands that I know are talented, but I just don’t feel attracted to them. I also know people who don’t like the music I hold most dear. It reminds me that everyone will not like what I do, but some people will love it. I need to spend my energy finding those people.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">A kind man found me this week who bought my first CD in 1997. He remembered liking it, and wondered if I had put out another collection of songs. He searched for me on YouTube and found some of my recent videos, and he wrote some amazing comments. It felt validating to be remembered that way. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">He taught me another important and timely lesson. I never met him, he never came to a show, and he is a fan. He found my CD in a long ago Princeton store. I could not have orchestrated that. He showed me that I need to just keep moving, and he reminded me that I won’t know until later if the seeds I plant take root, or fly in the wind to blossom in places I can’t imagine from where I sit, here on my sofa, listening to the chosen ones. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">What do you want to remember in this brand new year?</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2679042012-12-17T14:35:00-05:002012-12-17T14:35:00-05:00Peddling Down Sycamore (Flash Fiction) <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: medium; ">(This story is a continuation of the previous post "The Party," although it stands alone as well.)<br></span></i><span style="font-size: medium; "><br>
Joanna peddled the bike and began to giggle. The giggle turned into the kind of laughter that has a life of its own, the kind that leads to hiccups and snot and tears. She had to stop riding. She couldn’t keep her balance in the midst of the hysteria. She was outside of her life, outside of the trappings. She was riding a child’s bike away from her grownup party. Joanna took a deep breath. She felt free.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">A car pulled up beside her. It was Melissa, on her way to the party. Melissa recognized that look in Joanna’s eyes as she got out of the car. They had been best friends a long time, ever since they bonded over Jackson Browne at Donna Sharnel’s sweet sixteen party. Joanna shook her head, and knew that she didn’t have to explain. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">They stood together, in silence, at the corner of Sycamore and Adler, and Joanna began to cry. The tears and the laughter felt the same, out of control and freeing. She couldn’t quite put words to it yet, but she knew that something had to change. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Joanna and Melissa each had much to be grateful for. They had husbands and houses and wonderful grown children. They had the trappings of the kind of life that other women only dreamed of, but Joanna felt trapped in it. She had always dreamed of more. She longed for the feeling of arriving at her destination, of contentment. Melissa knew that Joanna was either going to have to find the magic again in the life she chose, or she would have to choose again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Joanna was like that. She was always starting over, like a child who was never satisfied with her drawing – always crossing out and starting over. She hadn’t learned to see the beauty in the mistakes. She hadn’t learned to treasure the cracks and the repairs. She hadn’t learned that magic is always there, waiting to be discovered. </span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2615402012-12-04T14:03:56-05:002012-12-04T14:03:56-05:00The Party (Flash Fiction) <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">In the middle of each table there are two crystal bowls. One is filled with honeyed nuts, and the other with those pastel chocolate-mint lentils that they sell at The Candy Counter on Jackson Street. There are yellow roses on the sideboard, and cinnamon sticks simmering in cider on the stove, to add a sweet cozy smell to the house. Still, it feels sterile to her somehow, a bit like the set for a play about a party.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">The doorbell rings </span>its<span style="font-family: Cambria; "> familiar melody. She has heard that melody, like the clock on Old Main, seven times in the past twenty minutes. Dan gets the door, and she hears him saying hello to Jackie and Steve, and as she hears the beginnings of a conversation about holiday plans, she quietly slips out the back door. She hadn’t planned to… </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Joanna isn’t dressed appropriately for the weather, but the cold is energizing.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">She goes through her carefully manicured back yard, and the Heller’s rock garden, to the street.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">She sees little Bobby’s blue stingray leaning on its kickstand in the Singer’s driveway, and she decides to find out where it can take her.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">She will have it back before they know it is gone.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">She wishes she had taken some of the nuts with her.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">She smiles and pedals down Sycamore Lane.</span></span></p>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">They woke up together, as they usually do, but this was no usual morning. Anne could tell as soon as her eyes were opened enough to focus on the strange light coming from the window that their time had come. It had been a while, but she recognized the otherworldly glow of fresh deep snow. This was the best kind of snow: the kind that is unpredicted and unrelenting; the kind that closes highways and schools; the kind that kids pray for.<br><br>There was no question that they would be staying home together all day, maybe more than one, as snow was still steadily falling. She knows the secret sound of snow, but inside the closed windowed house, the silence was unnerving. She had a flash of believing that this storm had been sent for them, sent as a forced showdown, as a last chance.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">She had known it was coming. Lately she felt like Dorothy, watching the witch’s hourglass empty, waiting for the axe to fall. She was waiting for her fate to be revealed, hoping someone would break down the wooden door around his heart and save her.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Daniel was still sleeping. He didn’t know that when his eyes opened to the day, they would be trapped. Anne watched. She still loved to watch him, but now she only did it in the wee hours before he woke. Awake their eyes were opposing magnets. It hadn’t always been this way.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">It started with the letter. Dan didn’t know she read it, but she had, and it confirmed everything she had feared for the past fourteen years. This woman, a woman that she had never even seen a picture of, had the original claim to her husband’s heart. He didn’t cheat on her, and she knew he never would, but ever since that letter came, it was clear to her that she was his consolation prize. She was the result of a mistake he had made in his youth. He had let Sarah leave. He didn’t fight for her. Sarah was his heart, and in a heartbeat she was gone. When he met Anne, he married her quickly, so he wouldn’t have to grieve. She was a placeholder. She was Sarah’s understudy, and Anne was pretty sure that Sarah wanted her part back.</span></p><!--EndFragment--><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2467452012-11-05T10:27:51-05:002012-11-05T10:27:51-05:00Help Wanted?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">This week, I was nearby when someone was being assaulted. The victim knew the person who was hurting her, and it was unclear if she would have wanted me to call the police on her behalf. I had my phone in one hand and my brand new pepper spray in the other, and I froze. I could feel my heart beating and I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. I wanted to make myself invisible so that I would not be drawn into the violence. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Later, I felt guilty that I didn’t help. It all happened so fast, and my response felt primitive. I am still trying to process it. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Helping is usually my inclination, both personally and professionally, but it is not always clear when to ask for help, or who to ask for it. It is also my inclination to fend for myself. I am used to being on my own. Asking for help feels foreign, and a bit scary.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I am in the midst of changing my life. I have taken my songwriter-self out of the margins, and I am working to create a musical living. I wonder if help is available, and if so, who do I ask for it? Who would offer? Who would I offend? Who can I partner with, so that in helping each other, we both succeed? How can I build a team, or join one?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">These are questions I am trying to answer. I believe that I need to get clearer about what I need and what help would look like, and then take the risk of asking. It is interesting to me that in my experience, helping feels good, but asking for help feels scary. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Do you ask for help?</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2360802012-10-19T07:45:00-04:002012-10-19T07:45:00-04:00The Life Lesson<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; ">In preparation for creating a video for the title track of my new CD Here Right Now, I practiced playing and singing along with the audio track. I wanted it to look like an organic performance. I tried on clothes.</span><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; ">I bought a pair of funky leggings that I thought would look good with my tight black skirt. I considered wearing boots with heels. (I always wear flats.) I gathered images that I believed served the song.</span><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; ">I even packed a hand puppet.</span><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-size: medium; font-family: Cambria; ">I didn’t know if he would make the cut, but I could imagine it...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">As soon as I stepped out of my car, Marc greeted me – literally had not closed my car door yet – and he asked how long I needed to get ready, because the light was perfect and he didn’t know how long it would last.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I wasn’t planning on shooting at all that day.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">It was late in the afternoon, I had been driving for hours, and that night was supposed to be about preproduction.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I had packed several clothing choices and was hoping I could wake up the next morning and create a better hair day.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">But I thought, why not?</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Let’s play!</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">None of my carefully planned outfits worked, due to their colors, and the unexpected use of a “green screen.”</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Marc said my traveling clothes were fine – my baggy favorite black shirt and a pair of dark jeans, so I put on some lipstick and eyeliner, strapped on a red electric guitar, and had some rock and roll fun!</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">The sun was bright in my eyes, so we did a few takes with sunglasses – I am still not sure if they were Marc’s or his wife Nancy’s.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">It unexpectedly rained the whole next day – the day we were going to shoot in Woodstock. If we had not done the green screen work the night before, we would have been shooting in the rain, or would have had to rethink indoor sets. It was as if the stars were aligning to support us.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I wasn’t happy with some of how I looked in the shots we had. </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">In trying to rectify that, and appease my vanity, Marc found an effect that we both fell in love with.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">A problem had led to magic.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">The lesson was to push through the discomfort and dissonance to a place that was creatively satisfying.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">To always say it when I had a strong feeling about something, for better or worse, and to trust that it would come together in the end.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I also had to trust Marc’s process, which I do.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I think he is creatively brilliant, and I am grateful to work with him.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">We kept trying things until we “found the butter” that cooked it all together in a tasty way.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Sometimes, I have to scrap a creative process and start again.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">There were many songs that didn’t make it onto the CD, and others that were recorded more than once to get it to the place that felt right. I am still learning when to push through to the magic, and when to start from scratch. I am learning more and more to trust my instincts and to get out of the way.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">We couldn’t have planned it the way it turned out, and it is great.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">The use of the green screen meant that we could put anything behind me in the video, which was intimidating at first.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">It was like the menu at Gullifty’s – too many options! I had brought some things from home that I knew I wanted included.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">We used them and brainstormed the rest.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">We ended up using some unexpected effects and images, and the result tells the story of the song.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">(I am even tastefully naked in a bathtub for a couple seconds.)</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">I need to remember that unexpected roadblocks can lead to places beyond my imagination.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria; ">Note to self: Have a plan, be prepared, move forward, and get out of the way.</span></span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2243532012-10-02T14:50:00-04:002012-10-02T14:50:00-04:00The Leaving (Flash Fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara has waited like this before.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">It is her work. It is what she chose and trained for. She found the death journey of a childhood friend to be unexpectedly moving when she was just out of her parents’ house.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">It seemed that she was the only one who was able to remain present enough to actually help Annie.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">It felt like a privilege to share in the intimate experience of dying.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">After Annie crossed over, she felt a lack, a more than missing of her friend.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">She felt a longing for a purpose.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">That was the beginning of this road.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Since Annie’s death, twenty-six years and forty-seven souls have passed.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Now it is Sarah whom she is helping to cross over, with as much dignity and as little pain as possible.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara monitors vital signs and narcotics, and the moods of the people keeping watch.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">They all watch Sarah’s chest rise and fall, ever so slightly.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Her breathing has become so shallow that it is difficult to witness.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Sometimes it seems that she is not breathing at all, and then there will be a stronger breath, as if her body is fighting to stay alive a bit longer.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara finds herself immersed, as they all are, in the waiting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">“Oh, there he is again,” Barbara said out loud to herself.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">For days she had been seeing a crow in the low branch of the old Maple by Sarah’s bedroom window.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">At first she thought she had imagined him trying to look in through the window at Sarah.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Now she was sure of it!</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">That crow was part of this vigil too.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">He sometimes hopped briefly onto the outside windowsill to get a closer look.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">It was the darnedest thing!</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">When the family was in the room, he would fly off for a while or sit in a high branch, but when it was just Barbara with Sarah, he would come in close.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Sometimes he would make a clicking sound, a sound that Barbara felt deep in her gut, a sound that she didn’t know crows could make.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">The sun made colored rainbows on the walls.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Sarah had known where to hang crystals so they would catch the angle of the light through the bedroom windows.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara opened a window, before she went to put water up for tea, so that Sarah could feel the cool autumn breeze that she had always invited into her home.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Concerned relatives had taken to keeping the place shut down, as if an open window was an invitation for Sarah’s soul to flee. Barbara thought, from what she was learning about Sarah, that she would like her leaving to be on an autumn breeze.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara always made herself a cup of Constant Comment at three o’clock.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Today, when she came back into the room, with her steaming mug and a few of the oatmeal cookies that Aunt Jess brought, she stopped breathing for a second...</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">The crow was perched at the foot of the bed.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">It cocked its head in Barbara’s direction, and they both knew she would let him stay.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara put a quick prayer out to the universe that the phone wouldn’t ring, and that a relative or well intended friend didn’t pick this time to show up to join the vigil.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">She knew she was witnessing something rare, something most folks wouldn’t believe was possible.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">The crow, whom Barbara had started to think of as Max, had come to say goodbye, and to accompany Sarah on her way.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Barbara knew that Sarah’s last breath was approaching.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">Some people might have seen that crow as a sinister presence.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">They might have preferred to call him Poe, but Barbara knew him to be a wise one, a friend, and a guide.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">(We crows, as we are called, have always been with her.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">She recognized us as kindred when she was early on her path.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">She would call to us.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">She would ask us to fly up high to show her the wanderings and the intersectings of her journey.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">We could not show her, but we could remind her to lift her eyes, and sometimes we would point the way.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">Mostly we showed up to share the way and to signal a significant shifting.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">She recognizes us.</span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; "> </span><span style="font-family: Cracked; font-size: 16pt; ">Most of her kind can’t tell us apart, but she could, just not with her eyes.)</span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->
<p> </p>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="font_regular"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">She loves Andrew, and she makes him tea. Not just any tea. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">She notes his health and his moods and his level of stress, and she chooses a combination of herbs and flowers that will best nourish his body and his spirit.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; "> She thinks about touching him all the time. Sometimes she brushes against his coat on the hook by the door, casually so no one will suspect that the scent of him feeds her spirit and her body better than any tea.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="font_regular"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt; ">His last day as her boss is Friday. She handed in her resignation with a story of a better opportunity in her hometown, and there is a place for her in Bellington, but her real reason for resigning is that she finally found her guts. She is going to tell him the truth today. Then, she will either leave, and start over again without the constant distraction of him, or she will stay and love him out loud.</span></span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/2087332012-09-03T08:25:00-04:002018-02-26T15:33:08-05:00A Guitar Lesson from David Wilcox that went Deeper Still<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I woke up in time to wash my hair and put on some make-up. It was a Skype session after all. If I was going to make a fool of myself by not knowing what the five chord was, or by not being able to reach my left hand across enough frets, at least I wanted to look my best while I was doing it! I had watched enough David Wilcox videos, and seen him play live enough times, to know that his guitar playing was mysterious and tricky. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I prepared a wish list ahead of time of what I wanted to cover during the lesson. It was an ambitious list for forty minutes. That was the time I was told I would have, although it ended up being longer. The spirit of the list was that I wanted to be introduced to new “songwriting palettes.” I wanted to learn a new tuning or two and a bit about the magic he creates with capos, and there was a song of his that I wanted to learn my way around…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">He showed up on time, welcoming and kind. He graciously permitted me to record the lesson, so that I would not have to take notes. He understood the spirit of what I was after, and the lesson was deeply satisfying. We laughed and talked about songwriting, and had a good time. He even gave me his address and welcomed me to send him my new CD when it is ready. Oh, and without me having to ask, when he got to the big left hand stretch in Deeper Still, he told me the trick of getting it to sound clear.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">The biggest lesson of all was once again being reminded that magic exists outside of my comfort zone. I wanted to win the lesson! When I did, I was thrilled, but then anxiety set in. I was both excited and scared. The fear was unfounded. I need to remember that. I need to remember to run toward what thrills me, and to not be held back by fear. Some fears keep me safe, and some fears keep me bound. I can always tell them apart, even when they feel the same. My intention this year is to be brave, even when fear makes me want to stay where I am. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Thanks David!</span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1994152012-08-13T08:05:00-04:002013-08-06T18:23:04-04:00The Shimmer (Flash Fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">(This is an introduction to a much bigger piece.)</i><br><br><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Come closer.<br> </i></span><br><span style="font-size: medium; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Sit.</i></span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Yes, you... </i></span><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">We have a story to tell. </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">Don’t worry; it’s not the kind you used to tell around the campfire with flashlights under you chins. Nothing will jump out of the darkness. No one will come back scratching from the dead – no hooks or golden arms… </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">You will be able to sleep tonight without the hall light on. </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">Yes, we promise! </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">We have carried this story alone. We want her kind to know it too. </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">You’ll be glad, you’ll see… </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">Are you comfortable? </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">We’ll wait if you want to make yourself a cup of tea before we begin.</i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">This is a good story for tea, and for cozy slippers. </i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">It’s a snowy day kind of a story.</i><br><br><i style="font-size: medium; ">Settle in now. </i></p>
<p><i style="font-size: medium; ">We will start here, with the beginnings...</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">This is her story, but there is no time left for her to tell it. It isn’t fair for her to move on unwitnessed. Her story rests with us now. I don’t think she would mind us using her voice. She has always trusted us, and we have been worthy. Her voice was so lovely. We think it is important, Dear Reader, that you get to hear it. It is important for us to hear it all together, like a song.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">We are the ones who know her heart. We are the ones who loved her best. We are the ones who always saw her as she was, unmasked. We are the ones who looked her in the eyes. There has always been one of us – sometimes two. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Does it matter who we are? You wouldn’t believe us if we told you! You want us to trust you? Can we Dear Reader? Will you believe us if we show our faces? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Most of us have been feline. Yes you read correctly. We are her cats. I am named Rhoda. That is formal for Roadie. She always thought that I should wear a tee shirt that says “I’m with the band,” because I have a way of looking like I belong wherever I go, including the tops of doors and kitchen cabinets. I tried to teach her to take risks and not to always protect herself so much - not that she hasn’t had reason to be protective. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">We all have a piece of her story. We see what no human ever could. It all began for us with a beacon from a canine. Although our instincts and personal tastes sometimes get in the way, we cats and dogs do try to work together.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">There was a Border Collie in residence when she was born, a smart and gentle soul named Sadie. Sadie was the first to recognize her as one who might benefit from our presence. Sadie sent us a beacon that said something like this: “There is a little girl here in the family where I live. She loves me, and I hold her tender heart. She is not of the mold of her humans, and I am afraid she may get lost. I will watch over for as long as I am able. Please keep an eye out. She may be one of yours.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">And keep an eye out we did. We partner with the canines, especially during transitions. Sadie stayed on until she was a grand old lass of fourteen, when our person was in the summer of her tenth year. As Sadie began to show the signs of her advancing age, we would hear of her through the network. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Midnight, a sleek black stray was in place to take over. She showed up at our person’s front door. Our person loved her right away and brought her tuna and milk. Midnight was a good match and was feeling honored to be the first of her feline protectors to see the shimmer, but as sometimes happens with children, her mother didn’t understand us, and one day when our person was in school struggling with long division, the SPCA van came and took Midnight away. Our person cried and cried when she learned, but Midnight was gone from her. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">This is just the beginning, Dear Reader. There are many of us, through her years, that have seen the shimmer, and we all have our piece of her story to tell. What is the shimmer? Sometimes the shimmer is a humming, and sometimes it is a scent that lives behind the eyes. Sometimes it is a tingling of the whiskers, but mostly it shows up in colors. It is molecules moving. It is cells aligning. It is a shifting into place… </span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1948012012-08-01T13:30:00-04:002012-08-01T13:30:00-04:00Approaching the Beginning <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">My mantra this year has been, “If you take consistent steps in the right direction, you will get to where you are going.” Sometimes it has not been clear where to put my next foot down, and sometimes it has felt like my steps were so small that I was standing still. And yet, the view from where I am standing shows me that I have traveled quite a distance...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">The death of my father ushered in a period of intense creativity. </span><span class="Apple-style-span">The veils between the ordinary and the deeper mysteries became thin.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">At the same time, I committed to songwriting every day, no matter what.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">I wanted a new crop of songs that I was proud of and enjoyed singing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">I wanted to put those songs on a new CD, so that I could step back into the songwriter shoes that I had abandoned for far too long.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">I wanted to build a website, so that I would have a platform to communicate with the kind people who are attracted to my music.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> The songs are written now, the website is active and frequently visited, and the recording of the CD will be finished next week. I am profoundly grateful.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Although a lot of ground has been covered, I am only now standing at the beginning. As artwork decisions are being made, and liner-notes are being written, I find myself refining my vision and seeking clarity for what comes next. It is a comfort to know that so many people are taking this journey with me. Thank you for traveling along!</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Where do you want your next steps to lead?</span></span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1902262012-07-16T14:25:00-04:002014-02-06T12:07:48-05:00The Perfect Shade of Pink (Flash Fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sarah’s mother wears red and white lipstick. First she puts on the white, and she looks like she should be living in the 1960’s world of beaded door hangings and lava lamps. Then she puts red lipstick on over the white and rubs her lips together until she has achieved the perfect shade of pink. Sometimes you can still see bits of white at the edges. Watching this ritual over the years, Sarah has often wondered why her mother didn’t just buy the shade of pink she was after, but she suspects that her mom likes the ritual more than the color. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Dorothy thrives on rituals. They lend structure and dependability to her days. It starts in the morning as soon as she gets out of bed. Her white slip-ons wait at just the spot where her feet make their decent, as she slips out of bed. Before even going to the bathroom for her morning pee, she makes her bed, complete with a particular arrangement of the many shaped pillows and bolsters that adorn it. The actual bed making is an easy feat, as she prides herself on “sleeping neat” so that she won’t disturb the covers.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">After her bathroom basics, she goes to the kitchen where she melts an American cheese slice onto a toasted half of a bagel-flat she special orders from the Jewish deli on 34<sup>th</sup> street. She has a big mug of tea, filled to the top, even though she will not drink the whole thing. She likes the feel, and the sight, of the full cup steaming in her hands. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">As Sarah descends from her tree house sanctuary she knows that her mother will expect her to apologize for not coming home by 4:30 as the rules clearly state. Sarah can recite all of the many house rules, but she doesn’t believe in them. She only respects rules when she can see their value and their purpose. Most of her mother’s rules are arbitrary. What is the big deal about 4:30? It isn’t dark by 4:30. It is too early for dinner. It isn’t even time to feed the cats, a job she is happy to be responsible for. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sometimes Sarah is ready for a fight, but not today. Today she wants to be left alone in peace. She rehearses excuses in her head, to see which one comes through the easiest. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I fell asleep in the tree house. I was helping Mrs. Jarvis with the weeds in her back garden and I lost track of time. I have been in my room the whole time, and I was so involved in Anne of Green Gables that I didn’t hear you…)</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sarah loves her mother, but she can’t talk to her – not really talk. And Sarah has so much to say, and so much she needs to know. She needs to talk about why her dad left when she was in fourth grade, and she needs to tell someone that she knows about the other women, the ones whose presence peppered her childhood with fights through bedroom walls and mom’s “black times.” She needs to talk with someone about boys, and how to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">be</i> around them. She wants to tell someone about what happened with Billy last summer, but there is no one to tell. Joan would just tell her sister who would tell everyone. Jen would judge. Her mother would ground her for life, and then cry for days in her darkened bedroom. That is why she loves that tree house! It is her private sanctuary after the other kids go home, or in the winter when everyone else thinks it is too cold.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sarah loves winter. She loves the warm enveloping hug of sweaters, and the smell of the heat coming on. She loves the sound of water through the pipes as she bleeds the radiators the way her dad taught her. She loves hot chocolate and the smell of snow. She loves to listen to the snow fall from the tree house windows. Most people, she’s learned, don’t know that snow has a smell or a sound. Winter taught her to be a writer. It taught her to listen to the stillness…<br><br><i><span style="font-size: medium; ">(See the blog post "The Tree House" published June 18th, for another glimpse of Sarah)</span></i></span><br><br> </p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1858002012-07-03T04:45:00-04:002014-04-11T21:18:38-04:00The Red Thread<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">A Chinese proverb tells us “an invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.”</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sometimes people show up as precious in my life with intense and instant clarity. It has been true with friends, lovers, animals, and even one profoundly powerful time with an extraordinary and horribly parented teenager who came to refer to me as “Momma D.” These relationships resonate at a soul level, and they are forever. They continue, even when the person on the other end of the red thread is far away in distance, thought or time. <br><br>It seems that I am living through a time of shortening threads. Significant relationships have been showing themselves again, after long absences. There is always a learning involved, an evolution of sorts. It is not always graceful, and sometimes I lose my balance for a time, but it is always meaningful, informative, and worthwhile.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">A decades-ago friend bubbled up recently from the depths of my past. He came bearing a long held apology for his part in the pain of our history. I thought I had long since healed that part of my heart, and it had seemed to me that the thread between us had lived out its destiny. Now, I am not so sure... </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">This reintroduction has been a cleansing, a detox of my heart, and an unexpected opportunity to see, with new clarity, what actually happened long ago. I don’t know for how long we will nurture this rekindled friendship, but it feels important right now – like it has more to teach me about myself, before the thread once again stretches into the distance...</span></p><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Who is on the other end of your red threads? Are you attached to mine?</span><br><br><a contents="Listen to my song from Bright Side Up called “It’s Hard to Say Goodbye,” written long ago after that relationship “ended.”&nbsp; I just added it to my streaming tracks!&nbsp;" data-link-label="Music & Videos" data-link-type="page" href="/music-videos"><i style="font-size: medium; ">Listen to my song from Bright Side Up called “It’s Hard to Say Goodbye,” written long ago after that relationship “ended.” I just added it to my streaming tracks! </i></a><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1801332012-06-18T13:50:00-04:002022-05-22T13:10:24-04:00The Tree House (Flash Fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">You could set your watch by the yelling. It was always 7:30. It was as much a part of the evening song of the neighborhood as the crickets and the barking of Barney and Fred, the Ackerman mutts. Mrs. Lansky’s voice echoed up and down Oak Lane as she called Sarah for dinner. Michaela, the one Mrs. Lansky always called “that tomboy girl,” finally yelled back that Sarah was in Roberta’s tree house.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sarah did her best to be out of the house whenever she could sneak away, and she loved that tree house. She would get to sleep in it during the summer, when Roberta’s parents had camp-out nights. It could sleep five, so Sarah, Roberta, Jesse, Mike and Roberta’s older sister Joan would all take their sleeping bags and their K-Mart flashlights, and would tell stories and eat chips, pretzels and peanut butter sandwiches until even the crickets went to sleep.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Now, it was just Sarah alone up there, with the red rag curtains, peeling purple beanbag chair and the mismatched TV trays. She liked to go there to be alone. She would read, and sometimes she would make up stories about the birds that abandoned their nests in that big old elm, or about where her father might be right at this very minute. Sometimes she would pack a lunch and would stay long after the other kids had gone home for dinner. That’s what happened tonight. She heard Mike tell her mother that she was in the tree house, and as she climbed down, she knew she would have hell to pay.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Sarah’s father does keep in touch, but not in the way she would like him to. She sees signs of him – the Rav4 with the custom purple paint job shows up in the Cedar Grove Mall parking lot from time to time, or Joan will call to say she saw him at the theater with that Barbara woman. Sarah always seems to know where he’s been, but it is always second hand. The last time she actually spoke with him was the night of the big blow up.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">It started so slowly that no one noticed. Beds got made. Meals were shopped for, cooked and eaten. Bedtimes came and went. Leaves turned color and fluttered down into wet November piles, and silence descended – the kind of silence that never ends well…</span><span style="font-size:22.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><p></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 29px;"><br></span></p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1747942012-06-04T10:08:26-04:002012-06-04T10:08:26-04:00Loops and Lines and Swirls<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I remember being too little to know how to write, but writing anyway. I played with pens, pencils, and paper, and I would make loops and lines and swirls. I remember thinking it magical that thoughts could become lines on paper, and that someone else could understand those lines. </span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I love the sound of the dance of a sharp number two pencil. I love the way it feels in my hand and in my heart. I didn’t know when I was little that this would be a life-long intimate relationship – writing and me, but it is.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Writing with loops and lines and swirls connects me with my deepest being. For much of my adult life my handwriting was a messy shorthand – part printed/part cursive, and illegible to the uninitiated. Now, I write in cursive again, reacquainting myself with my childhood friend. </span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Cursive writing slows my hand, and unhurries my mind. It gives my thoughts space to linger. Sometimes I lose my way, and then I revert to the meaningless loops and lines of my childhood, while my mind catches up with my hand again. </span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I love the feel of words flowing, rhymes forming, and stories unfolding. Loops and lines are always where I begin. The computer comes later. It has other jobs to do.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">What called to you when you were little enough to be listening? What captured your imagination? Are you listening still?</span><span style="font-size:24.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><p></p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p> </p>
<!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1685832012-05-15T12:35:00-04:002014-02-06T11:02:55-05:00She loves to watch him sleep (Flash Fiction)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">Annie loves to watch him sleep, her beautiful angel boy. Awake, Adam is constant motion inside and outside his head. He flits from thought to thought and thing to thing, his mind racing like a hummingbird’s wings.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">She is bone-weary by this time of night, worn out from trying to catch his thoughts, and from steering him through the minutiae of another day. As she pulls the covers over his little boy shoulders, and smiles at the angel-face sleeping so peacefully, she finds herself wondering what populates his dreams.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">She whispers thanks to Sophie, the adoring dachshund at the foot of his bed. She leaves the door open to allow a slice of light from the hallway to comfort him if he wakes in the night, and finally, in her sanctuary down the hall, she lies down too. Annie is asleep before the bed has had a chance to warm beneath her exhaustion.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">She dreams…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">She sees Adam in the distance, past the pine grove; sitting in the bleachers at the high school football field, empty now except for him and the moonlight. He hears her approach, and looks up. Annie hardly recognizes him. His body is never this still, except for when he is sleeping. She sits down beside him. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">There is a book in his lap. She reaches for it, and he opens it for her. It is filled with pictures that are slowly moving: Nan; macaroni necklaces; the blue pool at Cindy’s house; Dakota, the golden puppy; jumping jacks. When she looks closely, she sees him in there too: in the blades of grass; in the oil-streaked puddle; in the cracks in the sidewalk; in the tuna sandwich. He is waving, smiling. It is hard for him to turn the pages. He likes them all equally well. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Adam says to her, “This is my book. I am the only one who can read the whole story. I can show you parts of it, but I can’t take you inside with me. I love this book. It is being written as I read it. You give me the pages.”</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">He looks up and says, “I am glad you could meet me here. I have been wanting to tell you this: It is harder to be my mom than it is to be me. Please know that I am ok.” He looks toward the pines and says, “I have to go now.”</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">A car alarm goes off down the street, and Annie awakens. For a moment, she isn’t sure where she is. She gets up and walks down the hallway to Adam’s room. She sees that he has kicked off his covers, and as she pulls the sheet up over his feet, she sees that they are covered with pine needles.</span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1630462012-05-01T13:05:00-04:002019-01-06T21:29:46-05:00If I wasn't afraid...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">I looked forward to it for months. I practiced and did promotion for weeks. I edited the set list for days. I was excited and anxious and nervous and proud. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium; ">When the night finally came, it felt like playing dress-up. It was like “dress up as your truest self day.” I shared eighteen of my songs, and it was validating and fun. It felt like home! But then it was over…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">During the first post-show days, I went into a bit of a funk. That is part of my nature. I also had a few personal revelations. I gained clarity. I learned things about myself, and about this journey I am on.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Being a writer is solitary. I get feedback from other people at times along the way, but I write alone, edit alone and practice alone. I record with my producer Marc most of the time, and enjoy our friendship. We laugh and collaborate, and we even came up with an ad campaign idea for the tea thermos I always carry around with me! But, for the most part, this songwriter life of mine is solitary. Until I get on the stage…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I deeply love connecting with the people in the room. It feels like an intimate relationship. I feel comfortable and at home on stage, and I enjoy the company. It also feels like I am introducing my dear song friends to my dear personal friends. It feeds the social being I am. It feeds the part of me that I tend to starve.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I listened deeply to myself while I was in my post-show funk, and I heard echoes of my voice during the past many years saying over and over again that I didn’t want to be a touring musician. (I have been saying that for a long time.) I also heard an echo of a long ago question I was asked – “What would you do, if you were not afraid?”</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Touring pokes at my fears: I am afraid of high-speed driving on roads I am not familiar with (and some that I am…) I am afraid of other people’s road rage, narcissism and impatience while driving. I am afraid of being lost. I am afraid that my cats won’t be ok.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I like experiencing new things and places, but I am out of practice with traveling. I like my own bed. And, I don’t want to be out on the road alone.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">There is a part of me that mostly shows up on stage. It even surprised my sister. She hadn’t met that side of me. I think part of the let down after the show was that I didn’t want to put that part away. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I need to learn how to keep that piece of me active and fed. I need to learn to not play dress-up, but to be the most authentic me all of the time. I am learning…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I also remembered that most of the wonders of my life have occurred outside of my comfort zone. I am up for it and afraid all at the same time. I am not sure what is ahead. That is true for all of us…</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">What would you do if you were not afraid?</span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1583802012-04-17T14:35:00-04:002013-08-06T18:19:08-04:00Preparing for Failure<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><span style="font-size: medium; ">In my last blog entry, I told you the story of how, at age fourteen, The Main Point (the legendary folk club) showed me who I was, and beaconed me into my future. I told you that it called to me louder and clearer than anything ever had. What I didn’t tell you was that somewhere along the way, I stopped listening. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">Somewhere along the way I lost the path, and I started to prepare for failure. I allowed other people’s voices to drown out my own, and I diverted my attention to things that were “more realistic.” I buried the dream, and focused on the back-up plan. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">I had wonderful, deeply treasured experiences, but I had yet to feel like I was fully living in my own skin. I got sidetracked. I got sidetracked again. And yes, I got sidetracked again. I allowed it! I prepared for failure. I prepared for it so well, that I succeeded. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">It also took me a long time to realize that no one (not even Joni Mitchell) can write a song as amazing as Joni Mitchell’s “Song for Sharon” right out of the gate. I was my harshest critic. I knew great songwriting, and I measured my fledgling efforts against the masters. (My first song was about a dead squirrel.) But, the exciting news is that this year has been different! </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">This year I wrote more songs than in the last many years combined. It wasn’t magic or divine intervention. It was about being purposeful about where I focused my attention. It was about changing my daily habits and my mindset, and it was about finally respecting my true nature. </span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">This new way of being has been both validating and terrifying. Now I am risking a new kind of failure. I am risking finding out that I needed the back-up plan all along! But, the truth is that I already feel successful, because I am finally learning to walk in my own shoes.</span><br><br><span style="font-size: medium; ">What are you preparing for?</span> <!--EndFragment-->Denise Mosertag:denisemosermusic.com,2005:Post/1540852012-04-03T09:30:00-04:002022-05-22T00:50:47-04:00The Main Point <span style="font-size: larger; ">The Main Point, a folk club in Bryn Mawr, PA showed fourteen year old me who I was. It introduced me to a world that called to me louder and clearer than anything had ever called to me before. It was a world of wonderfully crafted songs and fabulous musicians playing those songs just feet from where I was sitting, mesmerized and hanging on to every word.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: larger; ">It was a small, store-sized place, with rows of wooden chairs surrounding a small stage, and rectangular tables, where concertgoers were served lovingly prepared offerings, including gingerbread and camomile tea, vegetarian chili, fruit soup and baby loaves of bread with cheese. I seem to remember that the legal occupancy sign on the wall read two hundred and thirty people! It was a charming, cozy place where magic lived… The Main Point! It beaconed me into my future.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: larger; ">The Main Point showed me who my people were. It felt like home, and after they finally hired me at age eighteen, I was in that room almost every night for three years, until they sadly closed their doors. I waited on customers, swept and mopped floors, cleaned dressing rooms, and did whatever needed to be done. I also made lifelong friends. I would have done it for free. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: larger; ">I recognized myself in the singer/songwriters I saw and heard there, and I have spent my life uncovering and empowering that part of me. Ultimately, that journey has led me here. I am thrilled to be able to say that I have a litter of new songs born this year that are soon to be released into the world on my upcoming CD. <br><br>I wish the doors of The Main Point were still open. It was always my dream to play my songs in that magic little room, while song-loving folks ate gingerbread and drank chamomile tea. I wonder if there would have been a fourteen-year-old girl in the second row, glimpsing the road to her future…</span></p><!--EndFragment-->Denise Moser