In Her Rhythm

The Mist Creeps In

Harmony Nixon — Fri, 26 Jan 2024 17:49:13 GMT

The mist creeps in softly and tucks my little town in for the evening. I turn my truck off and stand near the pond, listening to the open country. I hear birds rustling their feathers in the smeared wood line. Something inspires me about facing the unknown. I stand here alone, pulling the veils of mist around me like my beloved grandmother’s weaved blanket. I full-heartedly trust that I’m exactly where I am meant to be, even if I can’t see my path.

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An Offering to the Muse

Harmony Nixon — Tue, 23 Jan 2024 16:11:12 GMT

The sacred muse leads me
into the roots of humanity
beyond the surface of the bloom,
into the silent soil,
where the cradling darkness
births beauty.

Our relationship is ancient
running blood-deep,
my eyes open
to life, and in death
my bones will lie
quiet, covered with earth
while I sing still
with the East winds.

The attraction I have to the sacred mystery that pulses through our lives is an ever-growing one. When I think I can’t fall any harder in love with the beautiful contrasts of humanity, there I go, spiraling further into life’s arms.

It’s the art, music, writing, poetry that makes being human make sense – and can somehow even turn tragedy into graceful strength and grief into a sea of timeless love. Creative expression changes reality by weaving soul into the mundane.

My relationship with the muse is a sweet and gracious one that runs blood-deep. I experience the muse as the sacred intuition that inspires me to seek beauty everywhere I go. I flirt with the present moment; I keep my heart open to fall in love over and over again with life – otherwise, I may walk in fear of losing myself through time. In love, I surrender into life, I am not separate from it.

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Finding My Voice Through an Old Typewriter

Harmony Nixon — Sun, 12 Nov 2023 04:11:45 GMT

As a child, I spent my Autumn breaks and Summers in a quaint little town in Bristol, IL, with my great grandma. My dad and I were used to the eight-hour drive from our home in Tennessee to her house, but it never calmed my excitement.

"Dad, are we almost there yet?"

"We're getting close!" he'd reassure me with a pat on the leg.

Pulling into her driveway felt like a sigh of relief, a place of unconditional love and an unseen but felt magic. "There she is!" Grandma would always be standing in the large, black-framed window waiting for us to arrive. Her hair was short with silver curls, and she would be wearing a long cardigan with low pockets to keep her tissues in. She smelled like a rosy powder, and her hands were soft and comforting as she'd grab my face and kiss my cheeks the moment I got to the door. "Come on in, you two. Are you hungry?" Her house was unique and breathtaking. It was an old train station that had been converted into a home and was fully covered in ivy that would turn a fiery orange in the cooler months.

A picture of my grandmother’s house. Look at that ivy!

I grew up with paper and a pen in my hand, and my grandma always gave me these little notepads with her work's logo YELLOW across the top. YELLOW Logistics is a transportation company; my grandma worked as a secretary there. She would take me to work with her, and I'd help water all the plants around the office.

"Sweetie, now that we are finished, you can go get some fresh pens and notepads from my desk drawer."

This was my favorite part about going to work with her. Something about the smell of office supplies makes it feel just like Christmas. This particular summer, I was excited to practice writing in cursive. I didn't know how yet, so I just took the words I knew and tried to make them flow together as naturally as possible. I sat at the kitchen table studying my grandma's handwriting and wrote down what I saw on my little pad.

"Grandma, look! It looks just like yours! See!"

She smiled and patted me on the back for a job well done. She handed me one of her homemade donuts as a reward for my hard work. Grandma always had time to hear what I had to say and to see what I wanted to show her. Her house always smelled like coffee and those homemade donuts. It matched the way she made me feel – safe, warm, and cozy.

One afternoon, a few summers later, I followed Grandma down the stairs into the basement to her big pine pantry. I picked out a can of Spaghetti'Os for lunch.

"You're going to turn into a Spaghetti O little girl!" Grandma said with her hand on her hip.

I giggled as we headed back up to the kitchen, and that is when I saw an old typewriter under the stairs.

"Oh! Can I play with this until lunch is ready?" I asked her.

"That will be fine." She replied in her calming voice. She pulled it from its case and put it on top of a milk crate for me to use as a desk.

"Now, watch me. This is how you put the paper in. You twist this nob here."

She showed me how to use it and went up to make lunch. The typewriter was a creamy color with pronounced keys that made a satisfying clacking sound when pressed. Off to the left, beyond the stairs, was a dark area with boxes and furniture covered in sheets and dust, enough to make all my previous trips to the basement 20 seconds or less. It was always a few degrees cooler down there, and spider webs were always hanging in the corners. But I wasn't even scared of the eerily dank basement anymore. The typewriter entranced me, and I spent my time getting used to how this cool machine worked. And there I was, falling in love with another way to play with words as I typed away in the now seemingly cozy basement.

One thing I loved most about writing when I was little was how my mind didn't get in the way. No inner editor was waiting around to critique my choice of words, and I would just write and write and write with no outside thoughts taking up space. It was my pure expression pouring out of me into words as I recreated my world. I have always been a reflective writer, and I love to capture the stories in my life. I carried around my journal in the same way another little girl might carry her favorite baby doll.

But as an adult, it became more like an instant thought attack the moment I sat down to write anything. Oh, you misspelled that word! Is that a complete sentence? You're not gonna stick with that idea, are you? You're a writer who can't even write – how embarrassing! If I could go into my mind with a roll of duct tape, I would have to use the whole thing before I could get a word on the page. It was so frustrating I began to write only when I couldn't help myself. You know, that urge that comes over you to write no matter what is happening? I still had plenty of journals all over the place, but most were empty except for a few pages here and there. I mainly wrote about my feelings and personal experiences to better understand myself. A lot of times, these feelings came out as poetry as well. I knew that I desperately wanted to write but could not seem to get back to that amazing flow state I grew up in.

Whenever I saw a typewriter while thrifting or antiquing, I would tell my husband, "I loved using my grandma's typewriter. I would write on that thing all the time!" As I settled my fingertips into the smooth seat of the keys, it would take me back to her basement, where I felt free to write my feelings and experiences in whatever way they came through me. John must have noticed how much I needed a typewriter because he bought me one for Christmas in 2018.

My daughters had already torn through half of their gifts when John handed me the package.

"Here's one for you, babe!" he said with a dimpled smile.

I took it from his hands excitedly because I had no idea what it could be. I unwrapped it and opened the box. Inside was a blue case with a handle and latch in the middle. The house smelled like chocolate chip cookies and coffee, now mixed with earthy dust. It was almost like smelling the pages of an old book – one scent that I wish I could order in a candle. I pulled the case clumsily out of the box, not realizing how heavy it was, and set it on the table.

"What is it, mom?"Emma asked.

Haleigh waited for the reveal, and they both scootched closer as I popped the latch and opened the top of the case. Inside was the most beautiful black typewriter I had ever seen. It was an all-black 1947 Royal Arrow with the perfect old round button keys. It had a personality that instantly caught my attention. The classic shape gave it an elegant feel, and even though it wasn't from the Victorian era, it reminded me of that style. I am not joking when I say that the colors in the room got brighter.

My husband asked, "What do you think!?"

My eyes alight, "I absolutely freaking love it!"

It was magnetic, and I was falling in love with a machine. I knew that this was the beginning of some kind of creative affair.

These machines are so enchanting to me. The way ink is instantly marked onto the page without red squiggly lines telling me that I'm getting it wrong somehow. No notifications popping up on the screen to lure me away from my writing. The nostalgic sound of the keys stamping the paper, proving that something can be created out of seemingly nothing. Even when I was little, before social media and we became bound by tech, there was magic here in the typewriter for me. It felt like an escape into another world even then, which makes me think there is more to typewriters than just metal and ribbons of ink.

The typewriter wraps me in a feeling of safety and softens my thoughts while opening a creative space inside me. I came up with the idea to create a blog using my typewriter. I would type my blog posts and take pictures of the pages to create the aesthetic I loved so much while sharing the heartfelt messages eagerly waiting to be written. I felt a release the moment I began typing, and the childlike awe awoke my passion to keep on creating in this way. So, I typed a series of blog posts over the next few weeks. Even though they turned out lovely and had the grainy vintage look and message I wanted to share with my readers, it wasn't easy enough to read with a photo of a full typed page. I decided to share pieces of poetry instead, as it was easy to put big feelings into a small amount of words. Somehow it felt like the less I said, the more I was heard. This led me to create my first typewriter poetry piece.

I sat down at my dining room table and fed my typewriter a piece of paper as I sat my fingers on the keys. Hmm, what do I want to say? I felt like if my hands were ready to go, my soul could flow through when it was ready to speak. And a wave came, and I typed,

It may not have been prolific, but it was simple and held an important realization I had at the time. It was a message that I needed to see outside of myself. I deeply love nature, and my home is covered in dried flowers and herbs, so I grabbed some dried yarrow and a handful of lavender blossoms and created a wreath around my words. Somehow, it made the poem come alive for me. For the first time in a long time, my voice was truly being expressed.

Those moments of awe and magic that we feel are there to guide us back to ourselves. I know this is true because I have no idea how long my voice would have felt lost had I not been gifted something that brought me into that wonder and curiosity again. What may be a hunk of metal to some is the soothing sound of my grandma's voice asking me, "What are you thinking about, sweetie?” The typewriter is homey and safe, just like she was. If we all allow ourselves to play and explore a bit more in our adulthood, we will come face to face with our inner child again, letting them lead us into our creative flow once again.

As I continue to create, the plants I surround my words with always correspond with the poem's meaning in some way. I use plants, twigs, leaves, and flowers from my own backyard, and there is something so sweet that I love about it. Intentions can be felt even if not noticeably seen, so I allow myself to be taken by the muse in the moments I create these typewriter poetry pieces. I thought my voice was lost in the past, somewhere in between childhood and adulthood, and I had no idea how to retrieve or revive it. The typewriter transformed into a doorway that led me back to my authentic voice. Words give me freedom as I put my essence into stories in ways I haven't known before. It is like discovering more of who I am each time I speak or write. I have been creating poetry with my typewriter for almost four years now. As Charles Chaps once said, "Words are the most powerful thing in the universe…" and these words are all my own.

Thank you for reading In Her Rhythm. This post is public so feel free to share it.

Light and Dark

Harmony Nixon — Fri, 22 Sep 2023 19:04:39 GMT