Kristine E. Brickey

A couple weeks ago, I was urged to create a series of 'Emotional' posts after sharing my draft about Grief. Shame was thrown at me, as a topic not as a tool for persuasion. Last week I struggled day after day to write the post. I tried to force my ideas onto the page, yet nothing was clicking, so I finally decided to leave it alone and wait. Which brings me to this morning. After a convergence of 'wow, last week has been a bag of suck' from fellow artists, friends, and even my husband, I decided that today I would forge ahead, get back on the proverbial horse. Though I hadn't written my Morning Pages in ten days (a daily act according to the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron), I made myself pick up my pen and journal as soon as I rose. Next, the procrastinated Chapter 3: Recovering a Sense of Power. I'd intended to read it last week, but as I've admitted, ended up unmotivated. It was as if the Universe collided with my doubts and set about, as my dad used t...

Lately, the topic of guilt has come up too often for me to ignore. Time after time, my lovely, kind, put others before themselves friends have shared situations that leave them guilt ridden.  For instance:       I need to visit my (mom/dad/grandparent/friend/etc.) but I'm really dreading it because (they treat me so horribly/I really can't afford it/they never appreciate me/etc.) but if I don't go I will feel guilty.       I have to (fill in the chore/task) for my (fill in the relationship) or they're going to be angry and I feel guilty when I tell them no. My normal response to friends who lament feeling guilty about something is to profess, "STOP IT! Guilt is a wasted emotion."  I say this confidently. I say this with conviction. I say this with the firm understanding of an incredibly important point: the only people who seem to feel guilty about things are the people who shouldn't feel guilty. The actual guilty parties flit onward, ...

*Today in our Mid-Michigan Word Gatherers meeting, one of the prompts was to rewrite a fairy tale, setting it in 2020. This version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is authored by my very talented daughter, Katie. She was kind enough to let me share. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did this morning! Seven little men mourned for Snow White.  There was no witch’s apple,  she never took a bite. Covid struck the princess, put her in a snooze,  but since they were all quarantined,  the prince never got the news. A messenger did finally spread word,  but in today’s day and age,  no one speaks the language of the birds. So in the woods Snow White waits, in her coffin full of grace,  until the day comes at last,  when we put Covid in the past.

I’m not a Scrooge, or the Grinch, well, maybe I am. It isn’t that I don’t like the holidays, well, maybe it is.               I used to love Thanksgiving. Food. The signaling of only a few remaining weeks to survive before Christmas break, always needed to refuel before leaping into the new year and the long stretch through winter until spring.              Decorating for Christmas used to be my jam. Craft shows loved to see me coming, leaving with bags stuffed with new purchases, painted Santa and reindeer sets, ornaments, gifts for myself and for others.              But things are different since…well, since. I never know what to expect, what my heart will want in order to survive. Survive. It seems like a season of survival now.              ...

It's been awhile since I posted. My apologies.  NaNoWriMo kept me busy in November writing Thor, the Mighty Friesian for Reality's Chance Rescue and Sanctuary. F*CK It, I'm 50! is in final revisions/editing stage, with an early 2022 publication date. Drafting, very early stages, of my memoir about my son have been in full swing, and another new project is in the works as well. I've been busy!  Life is stressful, but tonight I was gifted with a bright surprise. This evening I went outside for night feeds.  My old donkey was green faced and happy, while little Red (not so little, like a barrel with legs my sweet boy!) pouted because he always wants more. Cinder finished her feed and I opened the back door of the hog barn which opens onto the middle pasture. I pulled a hay bale down from the top of the stack, swung around, and there was Cinder, half inside the doorway, dubbed the hobbit door due to its size. There stood my mare, chestnut head and shoulders leaning toward...

Fullmoon light seeps through 4 a.m. darkness, Coating grass and field outside like an eerie wintry frost.           I am mesmerized as  strands of mist creep forward, as film noir flower beds disappear, wrapped beneath ghostly blankets.  Palms pressed flat against my window,  what lies hidden in fog meets glassy fingertips.                                     Protected, though I feel the powerful presence. I wait, Wondering as I step backwards;  Wary, even as I am drawn to the mystery. Hypnotized, I watch as it  ebbs away.  The entity dissipates, returning  to its birthplace.

     You know that feeling when something goes awry and you KNEW moments before what you should do, but you didn't? I do, too. Too many times.       It's why I suffered an injury my first day of horse camp in Hungerford on August 13th. I KNEW shortly into the ride I needed to adjust tack, but I brushed my inner warning aside. At the top of a hill I thought, "Get down. Fix the bridle," but there was another group, so I told myself I'd take care of it at the next open area. Bad. Choice. It resulted in the early ending of what was supposed to be a week of riding with two amazing friends and led to weeks of recuperating until I was able to get back in the saddle.      On April 25th, 2021 I brought home my little red Mustang, Cinderella. She's 11, but wasn't gentled or even really handled by people until last fall when Naomi Rutter chose her for Reality's Chance Rescue & Sanctuary Mustang Challenge. Cinder and Naomi won, and Cinder went n...