The Flower Becomes Fruit When It Worships

Tagore wrote these words many years ago - today they set the pace of my commitment to God and to His Divine call on my life.   As I worship, I become a gala of good things to come - perishable yet delicious.   Be mindful of the nourishment from the highest branches, where the seam of the Vine holds fast the heavy fine branches. 

Imagine That

I woke, I saw, I felt the feather falling and then I heard it reach the ground.   

Are Two Heads Really Better Than One?

IMAGINE THAT!

"Beginning to write, you discover what you have to write about."

                                                       Kit Reed

Writers amble along alone.   Artists, too.    Working as both, I often fret that I am more monkish than most.   Yet I've found that when I work 

FROM GRANDMOTHER TO GUINEA PIG, OH MY!

From Grandmother to Guinea Pig, Oh My!

The morning seemed mousy still.    With mug of hot coffee, I eased onto my crumpled chaise to glance over the newspsper before diving back into my ongoing pasionate study of "imagination."     

Are You A Visionary? Am I?

IMAGINE THAT!

"Imagination is the highest kite you can fly," says Lauren Bacall, movie star

SLOW DANCING WITH YOUR IMAG "NO AMOUNT OF SKILLFUL INVENTION CAN REPLACE THE ESSENTIAL ELEMENT OF IMAGINATION." Edward Hopper Picture yourself in the arms of a Masterful Dancer. Tall and handsome, He twirls you around and around across the dance floor. It seems your feet never tap the floor, yet they do. You are the feather, He, the breeze. He is steady and strong and you feel safe in his graceful embrace, one hand gently at your waist, the other deftly in yours. The music plays on and you sway to it's slow rhythm. A blended ballet of graceful thought and calm energy. You feel like a star, a seasoned, gifted artist. He looks into your eyes and your heart thrills as he dips you just the slightest degree as a sweeping crescendo to your time with him on the dance floor of your life. He is your forever friend and super-charged dance partner. His name is Imagination. Now picture yourself (actually, this was me last Friday) at day's end, bone tired, aching for some sofa time, some brainless TV bits, some shut eye moments. You've rushed and huffed, gulped your lunch while editing your newsletter while simultaneously texting your teen-aged grandson about his updated birthday list. Whew! So you plop down on the couch and reach for a quick and crunchy snack for what could be deemed: dinner. Just as your shoe-less feet plop upon the ottoman and the nightly news flips to another daunting political mayhem, you remember your neglected emails and your Monday-born commitment to all things healthy. Oops! Your cell phone chimes away and your "land line" flashes laser lights from across the room. And what about that half drafted post for your spiffy new blog design, the one you promised to publish Saturday by noon? Here's the good news, there's sound hope for those racing thoughts and whirlwind days. We can balance email answers, the latest on global warring and warming by linking our thoughts with the gift of Imagination. For with the remarkable advances of our time lives the pounding seconds of instant knowing. The street corners of our minds scream, "hear me, see me, give me your time, your money, your attention, often leaving us mentally limp. Information overload is now as intimidating as the lack of it in the early days of the last century. The 21st century has been deemed the Spinning century by many. Folks, we are global, grand at times but with all its garbage and gripes as well. We may have to swim with the international sharks but must we dance with the hip hoppers twenty four seven? What must we do to slow down our spinning, thinning thoughts and still gain the gusto to succeed in this high voltage world we find ourselves? The next three weekly posts will discuss the final steps in how to achieve the rich and meaningful life you may have desired. The life aglow with imagination is one of color and motion yet stilled and enriched, forever mindful of the swift journey of a purposed life. Much like God, Imagination is always present, always ready to create new ways to cope with the daily challenges. He's full of limitless ways to think, act and observe, eager to ignite your spirit with the "dancing mind" that acclaimed poet, Toni Morrison speaks of with reverence. Using the acrostic for TIME, here are the first four of a dozen steps to learn to "slow dance" with your imagination: l. TRUST this process and TAKE a time out (if for only a few minutes) to mentally fall into the arms of Imagination. The relaxed mind is most receptive to opening up one's imagination and creativity. {Guys, this is a great time to use your imagination} Seriously, walk across the room, arms lifted in position, and waltz across the floor. This seemingly silly act may feel ridiculous but it is not only an option, but an excellent way to instantly regain your composure and reset your mindset to peace mode. In peace mode, one almost always sports a smile and a smile is the gateway to harmony which is the essential ingredient to a dancing mind. 2. INVEST in yourself by buying a scribble journal to record your most random thoughts and mind pictures. Many come with half the page blank and the half lined. This is where you must get as sassy and messy and outrageous as possible. I've found that freely developing a rich and meaningful imagination is as important for ones mental health (and overall well being) as a healthful meal, a hearty walk, a good belly laugh. So, dear friends, scribble your way to excellence. Date and sign each page and honor your images as part of your soul, a kind of sloppy dress rehearsal for future work. Albert Einstein said, "Your imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions." 3. MASTER the art of mindfulness. At least three times a day, stop your are doing and sit down. With hands in lap, feet on floor, roll your head side to side gently, then back and forth. Take in all that is around you - the colors, the sounds, the smells, your emotions of the moment. Add in a desire, a good thought, a "what if"? Take note to remember those moments. As soon as possible, record those images with scribbles and free write. Free write is an act where grammar is out and spontaneity is center stage. 4. ENTERTAIN yourself with the notion that whatever you see in your mind's eye can become reality. With wild freedom, dream, think, imagine and wonder about your highest desires. Remember that imagination diminishes and eliminates the perception of obstacles. Allow your mind to fly and rely on imagination's limitless power. Remember, imagination is fueled through input. Join me (Are You A Visionary, Am I?) for the next four ways your imagination can change (enlarge) your life and your future. Related articles Slow Dancing With Imagination! INATION!

"NO AMOUNT OF SKILLFUL INVENTION CAN REPLACE THE ESSENTIAL ELEMENT OF IMAGINATION." Edward Hopper

Picture yourself in the arms of a Masterful Dancer. Tall and handsome, He twirls you around and around across the dance floor. It seems your feet never tap the floor, yet they do. You are the feather, He, the breeze. He is steady and strong and you feel safe in his graceful embrace, one hand gently at your waist, the other deftly in yours. The music plays on and you sway to it's slow rhythm. A blended ballet of graceful thought and calm energy. You feel like a star, a seasoned, gifted artist. He looks into your eyes and your heart thrills as he dips you just the slightest degree as a sweeping crescendo to your time with him on the dance floor of your life. He is your forever friend and super-charged dance partner. His name is Imagination.


Now picture yourself (actually, this was me last Friday) at day's end, bone tired, aching for some sofa time, some brainless TV bits, some shut eye moments. You've rushed and huffed, gulped your lunch while editing your newsletter while simultaneously texting your teen-aged grandson about his updated birthday list. Whew!


So you plop down on the couch and reach for a quick and crunchy snack for what could be deemed: dinner. Just as your shoe-less feet slip onto upon the ottoman, you click your favorite TV channel only to find yet another daunting political mayhem.    Eyes shut momentarily, you remember your neglected emails and your Monday-born commitment to all things healthy. Oops!  You lay aside your bag of chips   Your cell phone chimes away and your "land line" flashes laser lights from across the room. And what about that half drafted post for your spiffy new blog design, the one you promised to publish Saturday by noon?


Here's the good news, there's sound, happy hope for those racing thoughts and whirlwind days. We can balance email answers, catch the latest on global warring and by linking our thoughts with the kind gift of our Imaginations. For with the remarkable advances of our time lives the pounding (often self-induced) demands of instant knowing, doing, fixing. The street corners of our minds scream, "hear me, see me, give me your time, your money, your attention, often leaving us mentally limp. Information overload is now as intimidating as the lack of it in the early days of the last century. The 21st century has been deemed the Spinning century by many.


Folks, we are global; that's good, grand at times, but with our wide exposure to world-wide news coverage, we also get involved into its garbage and gripes as well.   We may have to swim with the international sharks but must we swing with electronic noise and toys twenty-four seven?  Teens, look up, speak to me, slowly and with your eyes.    Guys and gals, listen to the hummingbirds, feel the sun and rain on your upturned faces.   Grand ladies and gents, tune in to the fine folds of meditation, if only for a few minutes in your days. 

You see, I've thought about this push/pull dilemma Americans wrestle with daily.   Yes, life is a swift journey and to  our quest  quite simply:   Imagine What must we do to slow down our spinning, thinning thoughts and still gain the gusto to succeed in this high voltage world we find ourselves?


The next three weekly posts will discuss the final steps in how to achieve the rich and meaningful life you may have desired. The life aglow with imagination is one of color and motion yet stilled and enriched, forever mindful of the swift journey of a purposed life. Much like God, Imagination is always present, always ready to create new ways to cope with the daily challenges. He's full of limitless ways to think, act and observe, eager to ignite your spirit with the "dancing mind" that acclaimed poet, Toni Morrison speaks of with reverence.


Using the acrostic for IMAGINE here are the first THREE of TEN 

steps to learn how to "slow dance" with your imagination: 

l. TRUST this process and TAKE a time out (if for only a few minutes) to mentally fall into the arms of Imagination. The relaxed mind is most receptive to opening up one's imagination and creativity. {Guys, this is a great time to use your imagination} Seriously, walk across the room, arms lifted in position, and waltz across the floor. This seemingly silly act may feel ridiculous but it is not only an option, but an excellent way to instantly regain your composure and reset your mindset to peace mode. In peace mode, one almost always sports a smile and a smile is the gateway to harmony which is the essential ingredient to a dancing mind.


2. INVEST in yourself by buying a scribble journal to record your most random thoughts and mind pictures. Many come with half the page blank and the half lined. This is where you must get as sassy and messy and outrageous as possible. I've found that freely developing a rich and meaningful imagination is as important for ones mental health (and overall well being) as a healthful meal, a hearty walk, a good belly laugh. So, dear friends, scribble your way to excellence. Date and sign each page and honor your images as part of your soul, a kind of sloppy dress rehearsal for future work. Albert Einstein said, "Your imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions."


3. MASTER the art of mindfulness. At least three times a day, stop your are doing and sit down. With hands in lap, feet on floor, roll your head side to side gently, then back and forth. Take in all that is around you - the colors, the sounds, the smells, your emotions of the moment. Add in a desire, a good thought, a "what if"? Take note to remember those moments. As soon as possible, record those images with scribbles and free write. Free write is an act where grammar is out and spontaneity is center stage.


4. ENTERTAIN yourself with the notion that whatever you see in your mind's eye can become reality. With wild freedom, dream, think, imagine and wonder about your highest desires. Remember that imagination diminishes and eliminates the perception of obstacles. Allow your mind to fly and rely on imagination's limitless power. Remember, imagination is fueled through input.


Join me (Are You A Visionary, Am I?) for the next three ways your imagination can change (enlarge) your life and your future.




Related articles
Slow Dancing With Imagination!

Opening the More Door

Want MORE color in your life?     Here's how my life changed from a dim future into a life of rainbows and delightful, purposeful living.    I grabbed up my dusty, dogeared Bible and got back to declaring the scripture promises found there.      No more hazy, lazy days of wondering and hoping for me.     I re-ignited my mind and heart with some of my favorite Bible verses.    It was as if I had OPENED A DOOR that had slowly closed over a particularly whiny time in my life.  

So . . .from the New Testament, I highlighted the verse from Ephesians 3,  "Superabundantlly MORE  than you could ever ask or dream of, imagine or desire."     That is the "MORE" in life when we give back our lives to God.     Imaginations soar higher, divine inspired dreams become colorful, desires dare to be born.  

I like to think I even smile more colorfully now, with or without lipstick.     Hey, this abundant, color-filled lifestyle is working for me; today I received the galleys for my newly published book, WHAT DOES GOD LOOK LIKE?       It's dedicated to my eight grandchildren and is colorfully illustrated - all in happy shades of a surprise December rainbow, quite a rare happening on Christmas Eve.   But I've found that, " With God, all things are possible."

Writers, Slip Away With Me!

Do you cherish words like I do?    I hope so because I thrill when I find another who would rather nibble away at a fat sandwich of verbs than dine on lobster and all the trimmings.   I measure my writing to how mentally hungry I am after reading over my lead sentence.    If I yearn to pop open a sack of salty chips to comfort my despair, I hit delete.    If I experience a range of budding emotions, wide and deep, I quickly write on, satisfied and hopeful.     Is there always a  feast of  snappy notions for the rest of the piece?   Often.   Then when I return for the first edit, I have less to wrangle about with my smarty muse (who  also happens to consider herself  quite "wordful."    She hangs over my right shoulder with her red Sharpie,wagging her dog-eared Thesaurus.

 Those of you who have read my pile of posts  already know  about my word addiction.  I suppose the correct term for me might be, wordsmith, yet I prefer logos-bent.  Sounds a bit more feminine, don't you think? Besides I've reserved "wordsmith" for others, like CS. Lewis and Charles Schultz.    Yes, I'm may be famous for making up my own words and I'm not about to calm down in these golden-lit days of my life.   I'm no literary genius but I am a word expander and plan to stay that way.    

Summertime is a great time for writers to slip away for a time - a week or if you, like me, walk on the wild side, consider the whole sizzling summer.    I'm really big on imagination and fanatical about reading to prepare for anything.   Your  "summer slip away" will relax the carpals,discard the writing jitters and refresh your  mind for excellent writing  this fall and winter.     A hydrated mind makes for clean and clear manuscripts.    So, here's three summertime post- penning  tips to keep you cool and calm and deliciously capricious this summer:

1.  Read, with highlighter in hand, at least three  books designed  to awaken  your imagination, heighten your mental achievement level and bless deeply your soul.      Suggestions: ASPIRE - Discovering Yurpose Through the Power of Words - by Kevin Hall, THE ART OF THE IDEA - And how it can change your life, by Hunt, and THE CHRISTIAN IMAGINATION, The Practice of Faith in Literature and Writing edited , revised and expanded by Leland Ryken.

2.   Begin or continue your journal writing by drawing bits and pieces of your life.   Integrate them into your notes.     No talent needed.    This extra dimension expands and lengthens your writing muscles, giving your writing a leaner and  stronger sense of purpose.     For instance, if you write  simply "today I shall write the opening sentence to my new post, "Slip Away With Me,"  out to side of the page leave room for scribbles.    I I say, "a scribble a day keeps the devil away."    (Oh, and  by the way, reading a Proverb a day has similar results.)     Writing this post I drew a tree with leaves and a stick girl under the tree reading with a pen in her hand.     The sun  shed a soft light across her bare shoulders - I did this with my eraser and smudgy pencils lines.    The journal entry became quite messy and meaningful.

3.   Create, carve out, invent and  write the best 10 titles you can.    These may be the colorful banners of all your fine and improved writing for fall and winter post writing.    A few months ago, I wanted to say to readers that I didn't want  to appear pompous  when I wrote "How-to" type posts.   So, I titled the piece, "I'm Not Smart, Just Old.   That worked sort of.  But when I titled the post, "Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat, people laughed, liked it, remembered it      Use your divine imagination, think of ideas that spark new thought, renew spirits, arouse kind and powerful emotions.    Entertain and thrill your readers or they might slip onto the next aspiring blogger.     Most especially, enjoy and let that joy slip away to all the hearts of your readers.    For it shall return to you in the most unexpected and marvelous ways.

Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

One of the perks of loading up on birthdays, is gaining a certain spunky wisdom.    That's good because wisdom adds no pounds to the ever expanding backside yet it gracefully explodes into one's life as a long awaited gift, a type of peace that seems to pass all human understanding.

With that said, you must forgive me if I continue to post and boast and roll sentences across the screen with random speed and alarming confidence.     


Indeed, please expect folds of photographs and tidbits about life and how to make it better, richer, fuller - more abundant.     Why do I think I can write with this abrupt confidence?    The answer is simple:  I am now happily fat with grace and I want to spare those out there in cyberspace a few mis-steps about how not to sweat the small stuff in  this swift journey call life.


Let's start with blogging, the most alarming land of Modern Connection.


Quadrotrilions of folks twit and tweet, post and pin all matter of information and images to other socials out there swirling in their global spaces.     What's a grandmother of eight do to get some attention in this blog peppered world.    Instead of fussing about the lipless communication and the quick comments that, at times, appear flimsy and  ego-driven, I have chosen to enter the Blog race with gusto.    Now I'm linked in, pinned up to some degree, and facing up to  my foibles online and aptly current.       


Actually, I have learned volumes from my younger blogging, socially connected, in the moment pals and have convinced myself that between the tweets and quick abbreviated jots and jabs, there are messages with heart, warm and endearing. 


Because I am also fat with ideas and encouragement, here are three tips to help you (and I) stay true to ourselves - balanced and breathtaking as we flit and flirt our way with others online:


1.  The motivated and thoughtful blogger considers his readers first and foremost.     Discerning readers "hear" your motive and feel your authentic almost in spite of your subject.    Everyone wants and needs to feel  appreciated and liked.   Notice I say "liked" for this reason -  when we like someone or something, we want to be with that person or place.   Like is the spunky brother to Love, I feel, proactive and spirited.   The disciplined, energetic  blogger truly likes his audience and they know it from the first sentence.  The good blogger takes time to put down well-turned phrases, mined words and saucy sentences - comedic and wrenching.    Dignity is all about choice and choice is respect in action.    Select carefully what is appropriate and helpful for your reader.    The polished blogger should never take his reader down the "woe is me" trail.  


2.  Carve out your blog title and your subsequent post titles  like Michelangelo.    Take time to cut out the mediocre mantras (though lovely they may seem) and  get to the heart of your piece and make your title sing and dance and stomp around on the page.    
You find that you, the writer will be energized and creative by your own title work.  


Here are a couple examples of lame to good to excellent titles:    The idea - When a female teen turns twenty.   Lame:     Teen to Twenty, An Overnight Sensation.   Good:    Say Hello To The Real World, Girlie.
Excellent:  Always Wear Red When It Counts!    The last title was scooped up  from my motherly bucket of spicy advice while raising three daughters.     


So why is that the excellent title?    Because it has rhythm and is a tad outrageous.   There's an element of surprise and asks a question in the mind of the reader.   It bops a reader on the head and says, "read on, read on."   Because it leans toward the authoritative, it tempts the reader to want to   learn more about this blogger/mom who seems to think she knows  everything about the color red and perhaps all things fashionable.      


At this point in the blogging process, the writer must offer up a feast of yummy words and a delightful, entertaining  story that would satisfy even the pickiest reader.


3.   Besides the "others first" and the "bop on the head" title making, the "take away" message is truly the icing on the cake.    


We can type into dawn and only 
.

What? Where is Christ Now?

No Longer torn and bloody

No Longer dead

No Longer in the tomb

Where is Christ now?

Easter sings, announces. . . Christ is Risen

Renewed and Strong 

Standing Tall

Alive, Vibrant, Smiling

But, Where is He now?

Down the road on His way to Heaven

He stops to visit friends, dines with them,

Makes promises,

Ascends

Where is He now?

Today, March 8, 2012?

Here

Alive

In This Hour

With Me

With You

For Me

For You

Forever!

The Miracle of Good Friday
Lives Anew

THANK GOD FOR GOOD FRIDAY!

When I was a kid, Easter meant new shoes and ruffled anklets, straw bonnets and new undies to match my new pastel dress - complete with white cotton gloves and tiny New Testament.    Good little girls also carried "change purses" on Sundays.      Easter morning's surprise basket brimming with all things "chocolaty" and bunny-like rivaled Christmas at our house.     

Today, I think back on those days and smile.    Oh yes, I can still smell the new shoes and feel the hardness of the heels on mine.     I adored having my picture taken and the way I felt when properly dressed for the Easter service at our Methodist church.    I cherish those memories and admit I applied those mandates to my three daughters when they were young.


Now, wiser and a true follower of Christ, I am continually awestruck with Easter.    Holy Week means more to me than I could explain in our limited language.
So, yearly I focus on one aspect of the Ascension of Christ to make it more personal and a richer part of my life.    


This year I humbly (with a grateful heart) attempt to place myself in the grandest Christian tragedy, the drama misnamed,   Good Friday.   It's  there on that earthly stage I ask God to anoint my imagination-- to enter my mind, my  emotions, my understanding, and my story telling.  


 I yearn to observe and honor the Lord's mother, Mary, and link my mother/heart to hers in a deeper way.


Here is that story:


I fall beneath the cross,  

And linger there on that lonely hill.

The smell of dust hangs in the thick air.
Fingers and faces scrape hard into the earth.
I taste the dust as my mouth moves closer to the soil.  
Fully prostrate, I lay my forehead onto my wrist.


Then, lift my eyes just in time to . . . 


See my Christ's lips move for the last time.  Then He sighs as his barren ribs rise and fall.

Sounds come out of me - my grief engulfs me.  
"My Lord, My Lord."




Others weep, some wail as the blast of heaven thunders across their broken hearts.    


The stained cross is downed by those who lifted it on that lonely hill.


The cross, no longer needed.

The ground trembles as my Christ is lowered into the uplifted arms of His mother, Mary.  Others struggle to release Him from the nails, the ropes, the humiliation.

Mary caresses her Man-Child's broken body.  She holds his head - bruised and caked with blood.   His skin hangs in strings of flesh,  allowing vessels to lay open, empty.  

All is exposed.  She searches for the last shreds His scant clothing to cover Him.    She kisses His swollen eyes and whispers, "My Son, My Savior, My God."

She wipes His wounds with the sleeve of her robeand holds His dangling Hand as she walks  with others as they carry Him to a grave spot nearby. 

The cave is dank and dark; the bedrock, cold and hard.    

Mary  wraps Him once more in swaddling clothes and lays Him on the narrow slab.   Her tears fall across His Body creating tiny creases in the linen.   His once warm and strong body lay limp, lifeless.     Just before she wraps His Holy Face with the delicate grave cloths.      she places her lips on His.     "Goodbye, my Son, my Holy Son.

She watches and waits with gasping groans - -

Sorrow unspeakable, she leans toward the cave, arms outstretched - as if to say, "please come back,"

As the immense boulder rolls across the opening to her Son's grave.  

I stand in awe as I observe her deep sadness - her rounded shoulders, her bowed head, her slowed steps.


Silence, a Holy Silence, falls across the hearts and minds of those present; mine as well.

In that quiet hour two Bodies of Light and Form appear and sit down next to Mary on the ground.    It appears that is larger than the other, but when I see them stand, I see they are identical Beings.   Twins I believe.    I recognize them  for they were the same Beings that visited me when I was widowed years ago.    Their loving Presence is like no other 




Mercy,  with Grace remain and gather  around Mary on the grassy mound nearby.    Mercy wraps her arm across Mary's shoulder, Grace holds Her Hands.     "Compassion and Trust will visit you soon," they tell Mary.    "They are on assignment with the High Eleven just now."  Mary looks deeply into their eyes and for the first time in many days, a faint smile appears.

They bring with them  the vials of the Comforting Oil of Presence sent to earth by God The Father.    They open the slim bottle and pour out just a drop of the oil and place it in the shape of a cross across Mary's forehead.    Within minutes, she leans on Grace's shoulder and falls asleep.       Others gather the leftover grave cloths and cover Mary to ward off the cool night air.


I stand and look about me; my clothes crumpled and filthy, my sandals barely covering my muddy-crusted feet.   My hair hangs in  damp strings.    My voice is hoarse and hot, grinding with anger.   My arms are heavy and limp.   I want to shout and lift my fists to the murderers of my Lord, but can't.      From the depths of my being a certain silent voice spoke, "This must be - the Cross must be."      I climb higher, up to another flat boulder and lift my face toward heaven.    


Below me Mary sleeps while others stand in disbelief.    
I ache for her; I pray for her, I honor her.


I  looked back toward the half moon of a mountain where Christ's Cross had pierced the narrow landscape.  
I gasp when I reviewed what had happened there just hours before.


Just then I heard a rustling of voices and saw the lovely descent of angels flowing down and around Mary and those standing nearby.   Their voices in perfect harmony sang to Mary as they praised and worshiped 
God.    Heaven sent, they lifted their voices in a sacred language, unknown to me.    Mary, at times, joined in their singing.   Mercy and Grace sang as well as they walked among the choir of angels.    There was no need for light as the robes and wings of the angelic beings  shed a calming glow that could be seen for miles around, even into the darkest valleys.   

In those moments the rocks and trees and streams and skies blended their natural voices into the joy rejoicing and it became the most beautiful song  ever heard on earth.   "All Is Well, All is Well, All Is Well."


Around midnight just as the stars become their brightest, I watched as the angelic beings rose into the clear night air, except for two
I've heard, and I believe it's true, that an uncommon breeze picked up the beautiful, holy song and carried  it n the cool night air to that lonely hill where Jesus took his last breath on earth.     A shepherd boy who lost one of his lambs  wandered up the lonely hillside the next morning and found his lamb safely asleep in a broad field of wide-petaled lilies, white and gleaming, taller than the shepherd, brighter than the sun.   


Carrying the lamb across his shoulders on his way to his flock, the shepherd boy remembered a story his father him about  how he wandered upon a 

SILENT CHOIRS OF COLORS SINGING

Easter bonnets, baskets brimming

April's Easter Truth Redeeming

Holding Hands with Hope Unfolding

Gentle sighs of Spring Appearing

Graceful hours of warmth now Dawning

Silent choirs of colors Singing

Friendly gardens join the Teeming

Moon-kissed nights of star-lit Dreaming

Highest aims to Love Abounding

Grateful Hearts now Renewing


Life anew, forever Knowing
Rest Assured, Christ is Living!

HEARTS RELENTING, a poem of grace

The Poet At The Breakfast Table

Peaceful streams flow from hearts relenting

To the sea,

They return

crystal clear

Their waters reach the salted shores

Where teaming life hides its turning

Restores the tides

Ever coming

Ever going

back to the 

hearts

relenting.

FOREVER FRIENDS, MY LITTLE PAPERBACKS

I like one-word  snappy nouns so if BOOKLOVER was one word, I would adopt it as my own, slap it on my business card and letterhead.     Separated, the words dangle, wedded, they wow me.   ;  A lover of books, I am, I am.    Even my old, bedraggled, dog-eared, grungy ones.    You know, the ones that get put on the bottom shelf because of their unsightly appearance and curly pages.

Yearly, I take inventory of my books to convince me that I must edit my shelf for some reason.    Usually, this occurs in the spring during what I loosely call, Spring cleaning.    So, dutiful I am to my inner critic, I stoop down to the lower shelves to downsize my stash of books.     A friend suggested that I might share my books with the nearby thrift store and help others.    I smiled  but secretly thought that that would be like giving one of my kids to the corner cafe.

I love my old books, especially my little paperbacks.   They've stayed with me through multiple moves, moody days and mushy moments I'd rather not mention.    They are my friends; they instruct, they calm me when I'm near hysteria  and they deliver all sorts of wisdom, homely tips and kindnesses when I'm feeling sort of, righteous and good.    Here is a list of some of the little paperbacks that have changed me for the better:

The One Minute Manager, Trust the Process, An Artist's Guide to Letting Go, Freedom of Simplicity, Hinds' Feet on High Places, Funny, You Don't Look Like a Grandmother and my all-time favorite little paperback: My Utmost For His Highest, the little paperback that walked with me and held my hand (and heart) through my first months of widowhood.    

Now, can you just imagine me ridding myself of these masterpieces of kind literature that befriend me even when I'm cranky or confabulated about reducing my stash of books.

DO YOU HEAR EASTER CALLING? DO I?

Soon we will lean toward a sanctuary of thoughts offered by those who seem to know a secret.     The lily lit churches worldwide await our new shoes and bonnets.     The Easter secret seems to be all about One Who died with all manner of gruesome details - bloodshed, nails, dangling flesh and heartache.      


Yet the story gets glorious when we read the end of the story which, in fact, is the strong doorway to the sanctuary of Truth and Triumphant Energy.    This Divine contradictory of Truth v. the pitiful, remains the reason for Life, a renewed life, an abundant life-quest abounding with grace, peace and miracles.


For me, Easter is the Ultimate Extremism.    Within a matter of hours our Christ suffered the deepest humility possible and in the next three days, He created the highest moment in history when  He rose from that black cold cave back into the warmth of His Holy Father's 's Arms.      The Ultimate Greeting,   "Welcome Home My Brave Son," changed the world forever.     What a page turner in the history of book of Life.


Today we are left with the Unseen Presence Who just happens to sit with me now.    Yes, it's a kind of miracle, but the same One who spun gold across the sky at night and once held the earth in His Mighty Hands by day is my truest friend and guide.    God sent His Son to show us His Image in body form as well as in heart.    


Happy I am in this afternoon hour in March just as the sun slides across my desk for the first time in days.    Outside my wide window, the dogwood branches lift and sway and the robins return .    It's a a new day, a new fresh family of good ideas and hope-dreamed goals.    Perhaps I shall illustrate my book, What Does God Look Like? and ship it off to the publisher - with a lick and a prayer.    


There is no aftermath of Easter for Easter remains and lives and breathes in  those who dare to dance with the Easter side of Truth.    After an Easter Service in church, we may kick off our new shoes and remove our bonnets but not our peace, for we have been visited by the Prince of Peace and if we acknowledge Him, Easter will be our reason for being, now and forever.    


Winter must die for the sake of the dogwood and the daffodil.   Spring must surrender to Summer and Summer must melt into the glories of the crimson leaf.    I, too, must die to the the tendency to tamper with the Sanctuary of Holy Thought.     


I hear Easter's call, Do you?

WHAT DOES GOD LOOK LIKE TODAY?

I'm writing a children's book, WHAT DOES GOD LOOK LIKE TODAY?    To be on shelves or spinning out there in cyber-book-land for holiday gift buying, this tiny tale is a must-read, must-see for everyone who has wondered, "just what does God look like, anyway?"    

Actually, I'm just emptying out a pocket-full of questions kids have asked  throughout my many years of hanging out with them - as a parent, a grandmother, a harvester of dreams.     Eight grandchildren have I and it's to them and for them that I stay up late and wake with the robins to get this project finished on time and in good form.        You see, I am not only the self-appointed author but the illustrator as well.     I figure if I draw one figure a day, for the next 90 days, I may meet the deadline for submission.    

So, dear readers, bear with me as I moan my way through this zany writing journey to attempt to construct such a book.    Kids are like sponges, soaking up all that's spilled around them.      My aim is to humbly place myself high enough to heaven to hear the truth about God and spill those thoughts on the hearts of our little ones.

Thanks you for letting me onto your personal screens and for listening to my trembling prayers.    

Linda Wilson, on a Monday, I think.

London - THE LAND OF WONDERMENT AND TEA PARTIES

To London, To London - to celebrate the birthing of my life - in grand style and wonderment.

In London, the gates are high and wide, strong and stately - mostly closed.
The gates to my hopes and dreams, though, are high and wide but flung open for me to wander through to my heart's content.     A scribbler from way back, I am prone to pen poetic notions when I get fidgety and dismayed.     So I write about what on my mind - ageing and other aggravations.    The rhythmic feel of words poring through my brain (that just turned seventy as well) soothes away the alarming news that I am now considered golden - part of the graying of America, over-the-hill.  as some say.   Nonsense, I ponder as I readjust my glasses to get another glimpse of Big Ben.   I'm fairly certain but I feel he smiled back at me.   This year I notice things like high closed gates and the ever-ticking eternal clocks.    I wonder if the Pearly Gates will be as massive as the Brits'.

Some days
I wander through cavernous
art museums
and sit at the feet of masterful artists and
marvel at their gifts.
I snap photos of most pieces but
pull out my sketch pad when
I come to Matisse and his at-home pictures.

No bother that the day is dark and gloomy; for me it is a light-bright banner day - I am thrilled to travel to London, mostly because I am there to visit my youngest daughter and her growing family.   Rain trickles down, soft and kind; I close my umbrella to allow the cool water to run down my  cheeks -much better than hot tears I think.

Verse after verse I toss words to the page and  swirl little drawings between lines.   They seem to come from as much my imagination as my intake of the majestic architecture of this grand Lady called London.    Rich with history, she has withstood the grind of time, war and fire.   She's rebuilt, renewed herself, and she's kept her dignity despite the threats against her.    I like that!  

The hours click away and I taxi by royal castles and cathedrals, monuments and museums  and I wonder - do queens
and princes and princesses
really have blue blood and why must I bow to
them if I were ever invited to tea with the queen
and her entourage of stoic folk who speak properly
and remain keenly aware of their heritage and their crowning duties?

"Shall I supply the cakes and crumpets for our tea party?"
I asked my princess-like  granddaughters who live in the heart of London town.
"Yes," they reply as they prepare tea in their tiny plastic  pots.
We don't feel the need to bow to one another -
we do hug and hold hands, though.

Good Morning November

November throws flames high among the oaks, the maple's limb - such a brazen artist. I've found

She believes it's Her job to change up our moods
And washes red and orange and yellow across
the landscape of our grounds and thoughts
and as we look up, we sigh and try
to hold November in our minds and gather her in our hearts because
She is oh so beautiful, brief, brazen, and bathed in Holiness. I walk
across the lawn and praise and pick up Her golden leaves and cherish them, for in moments
they will crush into the earth just like memories and melted maybes. lw

Merry Messes On My Mind

I glance into my dressy living room and yearn for an old fashioned messy Christmas where tangled tree lights and kids and tacky tinsel make for a hilarious tree trimming get together. Where pine needles stick into sofa cushions and the jingle-jangles of bells blend perfectly with the squeals of little girls. "Look, I just found baby Jesus and Joseph! Oh no, Mary's missing, Oh, here she is, wrapped up with the camel."


Now, the room glows with a kind of quiet sophistication, the look of dolled up adults,, mixing small talk with champagne and well-chosen Christmas carols. I wonder . . . do others, like me, still ache from the lingering effects of the tidy empty nest? Peace and Quiet are finally mine and I ache for chaos, the Christmas kind where giggles and silly memories create havoc and outrageous joys.
Oh yes I want a big full-blown mess -- loud and wacky, where mismatched dirty socks and angelic tree toppers mingle with twisted light cords.

Bring out the musty boxes of re-glued spindly ornaments and scribbled, Santa letters, many chocolate stained, all cherished masterpieces


I am a hopeless case for I feel like an old rose preserved between the pages of The Night Before Christmas. I thumbed through the classic tale, the same story I memorized as a child, read to my daughters and now to my eight grandchildren. I closed the book but not the memories for they linger still. I held the book squarely across my breasts as if embracing the last forty years as a mother. No clatter on the lawn, though, just the sound of a mother's quickened heart.


I light a scented candle- pine, I think, lean back on my wide sofa and allow the familiar words dance through my head - - " not a creature was stirring .. . . not even a mouse," well, at least not this year

Jump and Your Wings Shall Appear

Up With Reading

A friend suggested a book to read this winter. It's titled Radical and it is. . . well, radical, real and risky. It's a book that shouts "Jump and your wings shall appear." My pal and I think alike, share a common faith, so I raced to Borders. So, how can a darling grandmother-type suggest such a read as Radical? You see, we are both daring and dangerous when it comes to our Art, our Truth, our Purpose.

So, here I am wrestling with this paperback that is changing the fiber of my being and lifting me skyward in my thoughts, my path, my commitment to the Good Life. These 220 pages will scrub your soul, erase your mental debris and outrageously awaken your Love Life. And, that's just the first chapter. Perhaps I sound simply like another book reviewer, but actually I am just a reader who, when I find a message that I feel must be digested by all, jump to the occasion.These few pages has opened wide the doors to another Land, a space where I see more clearly, feel more deeply, live more and love more lavishly. Oops, I forgot about the rule, "no adverbs please".

Now, I feel comfortable to share a tea bag with Tagore, pull up a chair at the C. S. Lewis dining table, and walk the beaches with Maya Angelo and perhaps . . . Moses.

I am now graciously blessed, caressed by the words of David Platt. And certainly more grateful than I'd ever dreamed possible. Why, because I now know that yesterday my world was a tea cup, now a globe.

DREAM - CREATE - CELEBRATE: Minding Monday and Her Mandates

Trusting Charlie Brown

I am watching Charlie Brown Christmas Show on TV and for the first time this month, I feel the holiday spirit come to me.      "Do you know what Christmas is all about?," Charlie asks.    He then quotes Luke 2 from the Bible, then picks up his straggly pine and runs off with tree in hand - down a winding path.      His pals make fun of his folly, his truth, his child-like trust.      He enters his limp tree in a contest.    It's pitiful, silly, yet   . .  when surrounded by the Christmas carols sung by his pals, even the limbs of Charlie Brown's tree lifted high upwards - the bare limbs seemed to magically respond to the praises of the children.   The Truth of Christmas came alive in that straggly tree in the midst of their simple adoration.

A few days later I slipped into my favorite pew at church for the Christmas Day Sunday Service.   I asked myself, "what do I adore this Christmas?"  The previous weeks presented me with multiple life challenges and I was. . . well . . . tired, limp with disappointments, gripping heartaches.      I laid my purse and coat next to me (along with my heartaches) and joined the choir in the singing of Joy To The World, the Lord is Come . . . reminding me that just because I felt like Charlie Brown's straggly tree, I must remember that our God is - here, today and always.    I knew that Charlie's Brown's attitude and Spirit were the same
Spirit I knew and relied on.

If God can encourage me, like Charlie Brown's puny tree, and inspire me and lift high my sagging spirits like the limp limbs of Charlie's simple Christmas tree, perhaps He can lift anyone's sagging spirits.   I stood and gathered my purse and wrap and walked from that moment - a moment of Truth, knowing full well what Christmas is all about: Birth of the New, Death of the Limp.  

  Oh . . . I dropped off my  disappointments and worry-sins at the alter.  

THE WHITE SMOOTH STONE, NO BIGGER THAN A WALNUT

Summer speaks at twilight, just before the pale light slips away into the shades of evening.  The searing heat lifts at sundown and I feel free to walk about my yard without the dread of heat stroke.   The ground softens as the glaring sun falls westward, just about the time the cicadas  crank up their nightly concert and the fireflies display their playful ways for kids five to eighty five.    They own the night air until bedtime. 


I walk slowly across the lawn, stopping only to slip off my sandals.


The moon beams stay high and away, yet ribbons of Light fall across my garden, waking even the sleepiest petunias.  The long, lean shadows of afternoon expire and wait for the dawn where they can spread their wings across the garden wall.   The scent of honeysuckle sweetens the night air.   Barefoot, I tiptoe across the moon-lit grass and lift my hands up to the Light.   The shy red fox, who lives in the ravine nearby, pokes his head out at dusk.   Two bunnies pop and jump through the hedges.  I wonder where they flop at night.

I cannot  touch the ribbons of light, so I touch them with my mind  I adore  the sight of the glowing sky, just before the sun slips away; often I miss it while I nibble away at the day; but not this eventide.     I am mindful of the quiet moments  even as they tick away quickly.   I want to gather up all the final daylight moments and slip them into my floppy pocket to keep them safe.     I need to retrieve them so  later I can roll them around in my mind and enjoy them to the fullest.    Grandmothers do things like that I've found.  Others count time by hours and days, Grandmothers cherish minutes that are rich and alive and delicious.  


I walk toward the thin slices of sunlight, dimming on the wide horizon.  


I  sit down on my garden bench and  feel the cool stone through my summer skirt.    I lean back on my arms and tilt my face fully toward the night sky, now alive with the first stars of night.      The faint glow from sunset fades as the jewels of heaven blanket the cloudless sky.    I am alone but not lonely.    The High Muse in me evokes rich scenes in my imagination when I am still and relaxed.   I am amazed at the profound grace that flows into the serenity at sunset.     


I idle near the Narrow Gate of evening because it's open.  I run my hands over its beauty yet walk away.    Imagination takes over and I return, as I have many times in the past, to a space in time that is my private sanctuary.    The Unknowns of Life live there.    I turn back to walk to the gate.

"Oh, Narrow Gate, stay open for me, soon you will close over daylight and dark hours will creep into my lone moments.

Don't close."    Time and again, I felt the pull to enter the Narrow Gate, but feared the unknowns there - on the other side.      Please wait for me.  

Through the curved scrolls of iron I glimpse a grand being of Light and a Kind Shadow that seemed to follow Her wherever She walked.    Her dress was the colors of sunset, rich golds that bled into deep pinks and lavenders that washed into the colors of the sea.   Her gown was  fimy and hung loose from her shoulders to the grasses beneath her sandals.   


Our eyes met as she looked through the slowly closing Narrow Gate.  She reached toward me with her hand and I walked to Her to touch Her gracious hand.    'I am Summer Evening", she spoke tenderly.   Her eyes spoke too even when she was quiet.  "Welcome, my child,'  she spoke tenderly with a bit of urgency in her voice.    "I've seen you here many times," She said with reverence.    I believe this is the evening you will decide to enter by the Narrow Gate," she spoke as she dropped to her knees to show me the best way to get through the Gate.   

"You must enter with only your hopes and dreams, faith and Salvation," she spoke again.     "Together we will Trust the Good Father to sort through your belongings and deliver then to you when needed."     


Finally, after many years of hesitation to fully commit my life to the Good Father on the other side, I bent low and crawled through the strong Narrow Gate.   Fully prostrate, I looked up into the Face of Summer Evening.    A soft rain began to shower  down upon us.    "Those are the joy tears of those who have come before you," she cried.    I sat up and placed my head on Summer Evening's shoulder.   

"Hold me close, Summer Evening

Tell me of your 

Season's Source, whisper 
secrets of the Wisdom Walk I've heard about for many years.   Help me understand the Psalms and and tales of Truth Unbending," I must know, my heart aches for faith unfailing.

"Please talk to me about our on-high-God

Because I need to Know . . . 

I need to know why I  lingered so long 
by the Narrow gate 
without entering. 

"In time, you will learn all things, good and purposeful.    You see, Summer Evening whispered.  "I just entered by the Narrow Gate  last summer, myself," she said while handing me a new copy of the Good Book and something wrapped in coloring tissue.    "What's this Summer Evening," I asked.


"Everyone who enters by the Narrow Gate is given a new name so you will know when the High Father is speaking to you.    It also tells you when you will minister Love in your Gate Keeping hours of duty.     Flushed and weakened by such glorious news, I sat down next to Summer Evening  on the Bench of Forgiveness.


My hands trembled as I carefully unwrapped the tiny gift.   In my palm  lay a white stone no bigger than a walnut.    "It is a natural stone found deep in the sea of life," Summer Evening explained. It was gleaming white, lovely to the touch, like satin.     I rolled it through my fingers and there etched in gold was my new name - Watered Garden.


"Oh, Summer Evening, that is from my favorite verse in all of scripture.   I learned it long ago when I first walked with the High Father.    I knew little about the spiritual life then but now I see that I have been lovingly tested for such a time as this."    


"I understand, Watered Garden, for I, too, remained in the valley of instruction for many years before I was called to my assignment here at the Gate of Surrender.    This Gate is my second post as I first interned at the Gate of Denial where others, fearfully and wonderfully made, resist their inheritance from God because of deep life wounds.     There, I learned from  the Sisters Mercy all about loving the unlovable, caring for the broken hearted, listening to the hearts of those who need forgiveness.    


"All along we taught others about the sacrifice of God's Son and Redemption, the trust/power that would come to them through the unseen Spirit and the Ways of Wisdom that come only through reading and knowing Holy Script.   Each is given a copy of the High Message and they live within its pages until they desire the ultimate blessing - to live on the other side of the Narrow Gate."


I held the white stone in my hand so tightly, it made a dent into my palm.    I stood and smoothed my skirt, running my hand through my tangled hair.   "I must look a mess," I said smiling at my new lovely friend.   "Yes you do," Summer Eve said that made both of us laugh.    "This is one celebration where you don't have to dress up to be accepted."   She then, said through her wide smile, "I suppose you could call it a "come as you are" party."


Summer Evening then took my hand and led me down the path to the warm showers and grooming room.    Large white towels and slippers, scented oils and talcum powders, were placed near my shower room.    "Enjoy, Watered Garden, stay as long as you want, the waters are from a spring nearby and they never run dry."


I dropped my tattered dress and undergarments to the floor and slipped into the warm shower.    I took the oil of gladness and poured it down my back and chest, finally poured it on my head and felt it flow gently down my being.    I shampooed my hair with it as well, rinsing with the coconut milk nearby.    For nearly an hour I let the waters wash over my body, my soul, all the while singing the songs of joy I had made up years ago.


              In my Father's Will I roam
                 the valleys wide, the quest unknown
              I       the steep and rugged mountain side
                             Goodness, Mercy there abide                                              
                                  My Father, God, my Unseen Guide                                                          My Father, God, my Unseen Guide


I wrap the fluffy towel around me, slip into the white terry sandals and wrap a smaller towel around my clean damp hair.   I walk into the sunlight that seems to come from no where but the moment.    I am mindful I am standing in the holy light where there are no shifting shadows, no darkened corners.    I see Summer Evening sitting nearby with others, all equally beautiful and graceful as she.    I walk toward them and each stands to lovingly greet me.     I look at Summer's face and smile, as if to say, "where are my clothes?"    


She takes my hand and we walk back to the grooming room for a treat unimaginable.    She opens wide the doors of a large closet filled with clothing all the colors of the rainbow, all sizes and shapes of clothing, all lovely, a feast for the eyes.   "The good Father believes we must look as beautiful as our Spirits are," she said confidently.    "So, now you may choose whatever you wish as your dress of holiness," she said.    


I am drawn to a feminine dress that represents all the colors of a garden in Springtime.    It's soft and radiant and just right for my brown hair and complexion.    I pull it over my head and it falls from my shoulders much like Summer Evening's.    I let my hair dry in the clear air and walk barefoot to the garden's edge where Summer Evening is now talking with others.     "Are there sandals in my size?" I asked.    She and the others smile.    "Oh yes," she quips, "and this is a very important decision for you to make for the shoes you choose will be the shoes you will wear the rest of your life.    


At that moment, I awoke, startled.   "Shoes that will last forever," I whispered in the early morning light.    "What am I dreaming?"   I remembered the scenes of the night's dream like a movie screen had fallen before me.    There was the gate, Summer Evening's voice, her dress, her counsel.     And the white towels, the oil of gladness, the song I sang in the warm shower, the dress made to look like a Springtime garden.   And most important, my new name, Watered Garden.    I flushed at the thought of such lovely thoughts and scenes that played out like a screen play.    I turned my head toward the nightstand to see the clock.    I reached for my glasses and when I opened to pick up my glasses I felt something fall to my pillow.


The sun now slid across my comforter and there in the crease of the covers was small white smooth stone, no bigger than a walnut.

Let Freedom Ring and ring and ring . . .

Who are the Free and the Brave?  


As I freely write, I am freely safe in my home studio, cool and calm.    I give no thought to hand grenades or misstepping on hidden land mines.  There are no blood-crusted sleeves on my linen white shirt.   My jacket is not putrid because of the sweat and grime of my unwashed  under arms.  My sappy habit of grumbling about the grinding heat will not be tolerated by me, now, never.   Slap! Slap!  


Free, I am, only because of the Brave.   Who are the Brave  who gift me with their sacrificial service  to our America.   I ask myself, would I be brave enough to  push through  enemy troops, ambush evil, leap onto grenades to save friends, countrymen . . . and women?  


When it comes to protecting our nation and sacrificing all for America's people, the Brave in the dark trenches, on the war front must be celebrated at all costs.      Nothing compares to the Brave to make us free , except for God who holds the Brave in His Loving Hands.      Why, dear God, must so many return homeland robed with the flag of  Dedication, Mercy  and American Purpose?    Today, I wrap my prayers around the sloping shoulders of parents and wives and husbands and children, all who mourn their Brave Ones.    




Oh yes I am Free, only because of those who are Brave.   
With High Regard and All Heavenly Protection to our Soldiers, the Brave, the Holy Ones of God.    Because of the Brave, I am free, indeed.     Linda Wilson, 7/2/11

November's night notes

I shed my thin skin and sigh. Autumn Leaves and lonesome notions flirt with me; fly away and die, must they?
I, too, fall in love with the brown crusts of summer's swan song. I'm not sure why. I watch the leather curtain of summer rise and fall again as Mother Nature teases us with cool nights and copper, warm mornings.

She opens the season with her first splashes of color and kind afternoons. I can just imagine her as she reaches for Her water colors, palette and extra long brushes. I gratefully say goodbye to the outrageous hot oven of summer; it's wrong to complain - nearly a sin, nearly non-religious = = I shall repent one snowy day when the fireplace embers read poetry to me and my prayer shawl wraps around me like warm, soft memories of seasons past

Last season's popping ideas have lost their luster, their grit. Their once sturdy messages seem to have survived summer but now are limp and pitiful. What was I thinking when I sped to my pc to jot out a bit of bahooey about what it takes to be a first rate blogger? I presumed I would toss my straw hat into the global blogging world and soon appear on GMA within the month.

The art and photography and chatty homilies that once looked good and appeared worthy, now negated my humble intentions to inspire, entertain. I saw no meaning in them, no true motive, no hope of spreading a kind smile across onces face - perhaps a pucker, a grimace, but not a grin. Even the brutal edit didn't help. I grabbed my yellow highlighter to help with the edit. "I'll highlight the words I need to delete," I spoke through a clinched jaw. Out with the lazy verbs, in with marvelous metaphors and sensational similes. "Once readers find me, they will log on like Elvis fans in full-blown frenzy.

Hope, for a moment stood tall. Then sat down next to me on the garden bench. I stared into the night and wondered and waited for a deep and high winded stream of wisdom to fall into my dimpled brain. Silence, Hope's best buddy said her hand gently in mine. "Shall I continue to create, to make sense of my thirst for purpose and divine expression?" I whispered to her. "Instead of lively art,the look of my line is lame and brash and loaded with commonality."

Like leaves and mediocrity, my autumn mood crumbled under foot. Silence listened as I grumbled and wept and tore tissues into tiny bits, then rolled them a ball and fashioned a tiny figure with them.

What should I do when all is dry and my puny attempts fail?"
I looked up into Hope's kind eyes and waited for her to grant me some kind of litergical grace to jump to my feet in expectant ecstacy and find myself surrounded all manner of spectacular ideas and holy-led abilities. After all, my heart hungered for hope and purpose and delicious change? Better than any chat room or face place or counselor's couch, I was flanked by two Life Changers, Hope and Silence, and in my own backyard, no less.

Time and again, I had walked and talked, pondered and pined there. I'd searched the ground for crusts of truth, golden ideas, cones of hope. The afternoon sun slipped behind a creamy cloud hiding it's warmth for a moment or so. The Autumn night would soon be mine. I quickly picked up my old rake to finish my never-ending leaf raking job. Soon, the biting winds flew through the grounded leaves as I sensed vivid verbs and strumming ideas coming alive among the dry leaves. Thrilling thoughts seem to dance and swirl in circlets and make tidy piles of possibilities. "Where did these little dramas come from?" I smiled as I hung my trusty old rake near the porch door.

Perhaps a land far away where Autumn leaves and artists magically never shed their thin skin or color
or Possibilities.
or Power?

By morning, I looked about my soft front lawn and walked over its vividly painted carpet. The leaves were damp from the morning dew, warmed by the sun. Once more I raked the Golden crop into wide folds and fell headlong into the piles of soft leaves, still soft from their life on the Tree. I rolled about in them turning and twisting while singing and laughing and crying the joy tears from such kind and delicious moment. Hope and Silence were there as well and we had quite a great morning being who we are.