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.

CONSIDER THE LILIES , , ,: WISTERIA AND OTHER FINE ART

CONSIDER THE LILIES , , ,: WISTERIA AND OTHER FINE ART

inspirational ideas that work for the good of the artful soul. Life plan, purpose, production. How to make art that sings and dances. Art that makes a positive contribution to our world. Making sense of making art.

A moment in November

autumn words

autumn words

Those fiery, feisty, fluffy words

Fly freely from the limber limb

Let go to flit and flirt with me

Entice and swirl upon my page

by nature's mighty breath

They scatter under foot

I rake them into tidy piles

Then load them into winter's song

I harvest, reap and dance

Those painted, golden Autumn words

They tumble in

November days, then

Seep into life's restless soil

They rot and crush to icy sludge

Push deep in winter's heart

What do I gain from Autumn's death?

The Master Poet answers me -

"Find rest in dormant days,

In darkened solitude, I carve, create

Life's masterpiece called Soul."

I kneel to earth, kiss heaven's hem

And from the hardened, icy crust

I listen to my friend, December,

Sing Holy, Holy, Holy

And from afar

I hear a host of Autumn words

A choir of well-bred thought

Sing powerful, quiet harmony

That warms my weathered heart

Oh, those lovely, flighty Autumn words

Though withered, dead and gone --

they live!

I glean from their emotion

Pen line and paint a vibrant verse

To nourish Spring-fed prose

That longs for Summer's rose

For I, the pecking poet

Nibble verbs and nest my brood of words

To catch a May-day notion's yearn

I'll linger by mid-summer's gate and

Wait 'till Autumn words return

Autumn Words

Sunday in the shade of cool and refreshing memories

Oh yes, it's Sunday - hmmm.   The Day of Rest.
I'm cooling off by penning a few thoughts about little girls with pigtails and swirly curls, little boys, and puppy dog tails.
I will wander back in my mind and think of my newest grandchild awaken to her new world.    I smile just picturing that moment.   Through tears of high joy, I tried to text the good news to family.    Mechanical type things didn't seem quite good enought at that moment, plus I'm terrible about such things.    So, I waited to call and hear the happy voices as I shared the news.  

It was early Spring in Connecticut that year and Spring was slow coming.     The chill of the day had no affect on my warm heart.    I felt so alive, so satisfied, so assured after knowing my daughter was doing well after the surgery.     I felt honored to be close to this grand celebration - couldn't wait to see the expressions on little Brooke Rebecca's brother and sister when they first saw her.     If we could mount up our best moments, that would nestle near the top for me.    I love answers to prayers you can hold and kiss and snuggle with.

From the warm safe waters in her mother's womb to the glare of the neat and pristine nursery was quite a journey for that little gal.    Now she has travelled to see me in Oklahoma.     She walks and stumbles, chats away in her own dialect, and keeps everyone on their toes as she manages to get into any and all things in view.   She is adored by all, especially me and her great-grandmother, (name sake)  Rebecca Ruth. 

There's nothing like a refreshing, joyous memory to bless a weary soul on a hot Sunday afternoon.     The heat prevails. The packing of boxes serves up all kinds of opportunities to whine and gripe.   Nope.    I refuse.    Instead I will round up more photos and think about Brooke Rebecca.

I may  sweat in the heat of the moment

And  smile at a funeral 

Spend hours considering a thought less traveled

Yet I will  

Caring about my Carry-Ons

What one packs, in their airplane carry-on bag, says a lot about their character.    Once I hauled a 20 pound bronze statue of a girl poised on a rock on the plane with me.     By the time I arrived home, my spine looked like the back of an armadillo, my mood like a Mel Gibson tirade.     It was so lovely when I spotted it at the Paris fleamarket and it was such a bargain.    My son-in-law lugged it from France to London and then I took over.   Back home and four bottles of Ibuprofen later, I arose from my sofa bed with a renewed sense of selective buying.    

In addition, there's something to say about the items chosen to be hand carried to your new abode when moving, via my car, that is.    This time, and oh yes, there have been many, I will plump up my make-up/toiletries bag with my three items of "good" jewelry along with my checkbook and Synonym Finder, Fruit of the Spirit Bible, and the five meds I take because I'm, well, of that certain age now.    

In the back seat, I'll stack up my latest writing projects and recent photos, laptops and printers.    The coffee pot might make the cut as will the toaster and a couple of mugs.     If I'm spunky that day, I might slip in a wine glass or two.      This move is cleaning out more than the chaff of my life; it's  proving that this woman of age and substance is still keen on romance and great conversation, snuggles and Sunday mornings.

Perhaps I will pack up my soft summer nightie and my crisp new bed sheets and celebrate the first night in my  new home with a prayer and a promise - a prayer of thanksgiving and a promise never to buy another sculpture for my home regardless of its appeal, its call to my art heart.  

BLESSED BE THE HOURS OF THE AFTERNOON

When I write (blog) I lose all manner of time and its pull toward afternoon.    Day after day, I wonder where the hours went.    Then I remember my wayward ways and give in to plopping down in front of the computer screen while still clothed in my nightie and old slippers.    The same thing happens, though, if I pick up a paint brush or new Sharpie and draw to my heart's content.    I must never glimpse a blank canvass before breakfast.    It's a fatal flaw of mine.      I know it's true that when you are pursuing your passion, all time and sensibility, sense and saneness fall away.  

Still, even digesting that kind of reasonable mind-bending thinking, I wrestle with the inate to create or at least make a mess of something.   

What's the answer to this daytime drama?     Stay in bed  all day, tie my hands together with the ribbons of my new fabric creation.    Hopeless, I am, yet happy as a church mouse, whatever that is.    

The crime to all of this nonsense is that I must make a living with this artful life.     I just feel it in my bones, peanut butter for dinner.    Poverty has never been my idea of a good time.

If you find me on the wings of cyberspace or discover me among the katrillion other bloggers out there, jot me a note, I promise I will read it.

Though I Stand Alone

Though I stand Alone

I don't despair

The Throne of Grace

Is mine to share

It's there I linger

Long into night

The moon's faint glow

My dreams' delight

Away I fly,
the milky way

On moon-fed beams of holy light

I toss my fears away

Among  the stars

On angels wings,
I fly among the splendor
And dine with holy, kindred kings

I must return

Or so it seems

Back down to earth

Go back to dreams

Another night

I'll dream anew

And share again

My dream with you.

Yet, in the day

Awake I stay

It's there I stand alone and pray

For grace to fall across my heart

And take me dreaming, into my art

Heaven's hem
Is oh so near
I dare not touch it
Not yet, I hear

So, here I sit and stand alone
But for a moment, two or three
Until my breath and dream-filled life
Becomes a spirit, whole and free

THE JUST ONE PRINCIPAL

YEARS AGO, I ENGAGED IN THE "JUST ONE PRINCIPAL."    ACTUALLY, I INVENTED IT; IT JUST DIDN'T CATCH ON LIKE THE HOOLA HOOP OR DORA THE EXPLORER.    NO MATTER, NOW I SHALL RELAUNCH THE GENIUS IDEA AND WATCH IT SOAR.   I'M THINKING IT JUST MIGHT BE MY 'ONE' FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME. 

ONCE AIRBORNE, I'M SURE THE CONCEPT WILL TURN HEADS AROUND THE GLOBE.     I SEE IT (IN MY ONE IMAGINATION) ON OPRAH AND LARRY KING, SIXTY MINUTES AND PERHAPS EVEN AMERICAN IDOL.      I HAVEN'T WRITTEN A MUSICAL JINGLE FOR THE CONCEPT BUT WILL SOON WHEN I AM IN A MUSICAL MOOD.

HERE'S THE NUT IN THE NUTSHELL:  (I THINK IF I CAN GET THE GENIUS TYPES LIKE  GATES AND PICKENS, ALONG WITH ANDY ROONEY -TYPES AND THOSE SASSY, GOOD GUYS OF THE MEDIA, (INCLUDING BARNEY AND FRIENDS),THE CONCEPT WILL FERTILIZE STINGY MINDS, WIDEN THE NARROW ONES AND STOMP OUT PREJUDICES OF EVERY KIND. MINE IS A CLEAN-UP COMMITTEE OF ONE AND UNTIL TODAY, APPLAUDED BY AN AUDIENCE OF ONLY ONE.      TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY, FULL OF HOPE, FULL OF GRACE, FULL OF LOVE AND GREAT EXPECTATION.  

WISE FOLK ACROSS OUR ONE LAND WILL FLOCK TO THE JUST ONE PRINCIPAL ONCE THEY UNDERSTAND ITS BENEFITS AND BORDERLESS BLESSINGS ALONG WITH THE DIGNITY OF A HOLY LIFESTYLE.          

ON THE PRACTICAL SIDE, THIS IS IT - EVERYONE IN AMERICA (AND LATER THE WORLD) WILL EDIT THEIR LIVES TO INCLUDE ONE TELEPHONE, ONE TV, ONE CELL PHONE, ONE KIND AND GENEROUS THOUGHT PER HOUR, ONE LEAN MEAL - THREE TIMES A DAY.   OH, ONE HOUR A DAY TO WALK ABOUT ONES' NEIGHBORHOOD.     IN ADDITIION, ONE, ONE-A-DAY VITAMIN, ONE APPLE, ONE PROVERB A DAY (THERE'S JUST ENOUGH FOR ONE MONTH, THEN YOU START OVER AGAIN) - AND ONE PRAYER THAT LAST THROUGHOUT ONE'S WAKING HOURS.   OH, INCLUDE HERE ONE SABBATH DAY TO REST AND RESTORE.

"PRAY WITHOUT CEASING," THE GOOD BOOK SAYS.    HOW EXACTLY DO WE DO THAT?    I THINK I KNOW THE ANSWER BUT WILL BLOG MY WAY TO THE ANSWER.   PLEASE BE PATIENT WITH ME, I'M A CAUTIOUS, HUMBLE LEARNER. 

STAY TUNED TO THIS BLOG FOR THE NEXT NEW DAYS.     JOIN FORCES WITH ME - IT'S FREE, EFFECTIVE, AND FLOPLESS.   I LIKE THINGS THAT RING TRUE AND SURE AND PEACE-GIVING.   THE JUST ONE PRINCIPAL IS JUST THAT.   CAN THIS ONE PRINCIPAL PRODUCE A STRESSLESS, MEANINGFUL, PASSIONATE AND PURPOSEFUL LIFE?     IN A WORD - YES!  

AUGUST 25, SUNDAY

MAN WAS MADE TO THINK ONE THOUGHT AT A TIME.   LET'S MAKE MUSIC WITH OUR NOTIONS, BUILD MONUMENTS WITH OUR WISE AND WELL-CHOSEN THOUGHTS. ONE PURPOSED THOUGHT AT A TIME MAY MOLD OUR MOTIVES INTO DELIGHTFUL, ARTFUL SHAPES AND HELPS CURB OUR APPETITES, ANGERS AND DISRESPECT FOR COUNTRY'S LAND.   I'VE FOUND THAT AS WE EDIT OUR LIVES, CHERISH OUR EARTH'S GIFTS, WE MIRROR OUR MAKER, HONOR HIS HANDIWORK.    AS WE GIVE AND FORGIVE, AND HELP OTHERS RESTORE THEIR DREAMS, WE FULFILL OUR DESTINIES.    (OH BROTHER, THIS IS GETTING H E A V Y).   -------please read on, it gets lighter. 

A BIT OF RAMBLING IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL, DON'T YOU THINK?

I'M ALREADY RE-THINKING MY ONE INNOCUOUS NEED FOR THAT 15 MINUTES OF FAME THING.    WHAT WAS I THINKING!!   WILL I EVER SHED THIS SKIN OF SELF ABSORBTION?

IMAGINATION IS THE "NOW" VERSION OF YESTERDAY; LET'S GIVE OUR IMAGINATION TO OUR ONE GOD AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS.    I PERSONALLY IMAGINE EVERY WILLING PERSON HOLDING A HUNGRY BABE IN THEIR ARMS, FEEDING AND CARESSING HIS DRY FLESH, WIPING AWAY THE FLIES.   

I SEE MANKIND RIDDING OURSELVES OF UNNECESSARY FLUFF AND STUFF.    I HAVE AN RELENTLESS ITCH TO HELP AND GIVE AND CLOTH MY NEIGHBORS IN WHATEVER I CAN.   BECAUSE OF THE SAVIOR BORN ANEW IN ME,  I SOMEHOW FEEL THE BROKEN HEARTS WHO HAVE LOST EVERYTHING TO NATURAL DISASTERS; I SILENTLY HEAR THE PLEAS OF THOSE I IGNORED IN MY SELFISH YOUTH.    

IS THERE HOPE FOR ONE SUCH AS ME?   I HAVE THIS ONE LIFE AND I RELY ON MY ONE GOD AND ONE SAVIOR AND ONE HOLY SPIRIT TO GUIDE ME - ONE MINUTE, ONE HOUR, ONE STUMBLE AT A TIME.    SO, HERE'S MY THOUGHT, THOUGH LOFTY IT MAY SEEM, I WILL DEVOTE MY WRINKLY ONE SOUL,  ONE YEAR AT A TIME, TO HELP "RESTORE THE YEARS THE LOCUSTS HAVE EATEN," (as the Bible says) AND WALK WITH STEPS (ONE AT A TIME)- THOUGH BABY, THEY MAY SEEM, THAT LEAD TO THOSE WHO NEED A HAND TO HOLD, A LAP TO REST ON, A PRAYER TO CALM FEARS AND FRETFUL THOUGHTS.     I LONG TO  BLESS AND ENCOURAGE AND HELP RELIEVE THE JANGLED NERVES OF ONE BETRAYED OR BROKEN HEARTED.    I WILL TO HELP UNTIE THE KNOTS OF DEFEAT, SHEPHERD THE LOST, SING TO THOSE WHO DON'T MIND AN OFF-KEY, PITCHY PSALM OF HOPE.   

THOUGH I COULD NEVER WALK IN THE HOLY SANDALS OF MOTHER TERESA, FORGIVE ME IF I LIFT HER WORDS HERE (and adopt them  as well) - "I ONLY HOPE I CAN REMAIN A LITTLE PENCIL IN GOD'S HAND."
amen and amen

Another Day In The Land of Lipstick

The packing continues.    So, today I tackle the messy makeup drawer.    Aghast, I am.     Does any grandmother type need eighteen tubes of lipstick, six unused eyebrow pencils, four finger nail files?     Most lipsticks were free gifts, I rationalize.     Only two are my super favorites:   icey reds with a hint of pink.    

Then I came to the mascara and eyeshadow side of the draw.   Oh my.     Most mascara tubes had dried up and the eleven eyeshadows were mostly all the same shades - tan, cream, greenish and brown, more of my favorites.     I must secretly think that if I apply them right, I will resemble the Joli-Pitt group.     I certainly don't need the jet black eye pencils, lest I want to look like rocker boy, Adam Lambert.    

I shall edit my makeup, I say to myself quietly.   "Lean and Mean", that's the new mindset I adopt.    I like the lean part, not sure about the mean bit.   Out with dark eye pencils, out with the coral and lame lipstick shades.     Like one newly reborn, I took up my staff of "less is more" and revamped my unmanageable makeup drawer.    With the rights and and grit of a strict editor, I scooped up the lipstick tubes and tossed them into a box I aptly named - My Murdered Darlings.      

Then I saunter over to my "personal" shelves that are stacked with eighteen undies, six bras (one strapless that hadn't been worn in years) along with my soft summer socks and toiletries.    Another jolt shot through me as I counted the lotion bottles, mostly scented with lavender, some, tender rose.    No, it can't be!   Ten bottles.   Then I remember that most were bequeathed to me from a friend who had been ill.    "I know you love lavender, so I want you to inherit my body lotions, I may not need them where I'm going"  she said with a quirky smile.  

 Tears smeared  away by the back of my sweaty palm, I calmed down by letting the knot in my stomach dissolve with a big swig of diet Seven Up.   I gave myself permission to stretch out across my chaise and there I lay for a moment.    "I wonder if there are nice chaises like this in heaven?" I say to my golden friend, Hobbs.     He looks up at me and licks my dangling hand.   

 Vertical again, I carefully emptied the creamy lotion into one big bottle and felt better about missing old friends and making new ones.    Certainly heaven is closer to me than the newborn unit at the hospital- way closer.   
So, I treasure my minutes (yucky as they might be at times), my bent on legacy, grace and outrageous loving.  

Okay, I'm off my lucious chaise and hardy soap box- "I am woman, hear me roar" - and back to the land of lipstick and the lessons learned there.   Finally, my box named "murdered darlings"  bulged with lipsticks and nail files, eye pencils and stretched out bras.     

Feeling a bit smug, I opened the closet door to find more ridiculous excess.    Like most normal grandmother types, I have a slim section, a mid-size section, and one saved for those days after a meal of margaritas and munchies, enchilladas and quesso.   

Still there's no reason to have six white linen shirts, eight pairs of flip flops (remember when we called them thongs?) and a bevvy of run down sandals.   With vengeance, I grabbed up shoes and shirts, out-styled skirts and old tacky sweats and pushed them into a thirty gallon trash bag.   The bag was already half full from cleaning out the linen closet and the under-the-bed landfill.      

The long shadows of the afternoon lingered for a time, reminding me that time and love and lean living were all important to my soul.     I walked to the edge of the sofa where the forty-two cartons of photo albums stood.    I ran my hand across them and thought, "take my undies and starched white shirts, take my favorite lipsticks, but just don't consider stealing my memories, lest you be strangled by a grateful grandmother of eight.

THE JOYS AND DELIGHTS OF MOVING IN AUGUST IN OKLAHOMA!

This is the third post on moving and its joys and delights.    The others flew somewhere in cyberspace.   Oh well, I shall persevere and pen my frustrations and fancies about this move - from one abode to another.  

Attitude is everything and "choice" is attitudes's demanding muse I believe.   So, I listen to my muse's mandates and choose a good, kind, patient, and pleasing attitude during these searing hot days.    I go about this move much like a middle aged mouse in a maze, twisting and turning in rapid, scrappy movement.    Then at day's end, I round a sharp, cardboard boxed corner and collapse, comatose,  into my lovely, cool bed.  Whew!!

I secretly look about for muscle-types and hefty helpers and once grabbed a garbage collecter and (looking a bit pitiful) asked him to move my fat trash can to the curb.    When my grandsons visit, I lecture them on how brawn and prowess is increased  by packing boxes and from the sweat of one's brow.     Then I offer then a Happy Meal from McDonald's.    

However, I've found another approach - it just came to me this morning over my third cup of coffee.  While reading my daily dose of wisdom from  Proverbs and half listending to the nettling news of the day, the thought came to me.    (Multi-tasking is one of my gifts.    I can rinse dishes, discuss politics and dress my granddaughter all at once.)  

So, here's my notion for now:   I will climb high on the hill nearby, and sit there on a soft summer quilt until the move is completed.   I will observe and bark out (in a polite sort of way) orders and save (gratefully) my energies for more important tasks, like painting and writing, creating and hugging.    There I will find a grassy knoll and plop myself down under a willow tree (kind of holy like) and gracefully nod (kind of queenly like) when I see the job is done.

I haven't shared this new revelation with my family yet as it may startle and start a revolt.   No worries, though, I will offer them a dinner at day's end and all the iced green tea they can hold.   How could they refuse such generous gift.

inspirational ideas that work for the good of the artful soul. Life plan, purpose, production. How to make art that sings and dances. Art that makes a positive contribution to our world. Making sense of making art.

Popsicles For Breakfast

Sunday's kept a good attitude I think - that is -  about having to share its glory with the pomp of Independence Day.   Yes, as we lick popsicles for breakfast and decorate our bikes and bodies with red, white and blue, we show off a bit.     During these hours we celebrate our country's rebirth with mealy hot dogs and tepid beer, rockets and ramparts.     I looked up "ramparts" in the dictionary (just to confirm my inept knowing about all things warlike.)  

In a few hours, when the sun moves aside to share its pastel sky, the dusk master will pull down the afternoon curtains, just in time to announce the annual flag waving show.    Town bands of all sizes and sounds take up their instruments and we sing GOD BLESS AMERICA and THE STARS SPANGLED BANNER.    Once my year old granddaughter sang along with her baby language just because, because that's what she knew and she followed us in our song.    She follows us still as we hang our flags, don our starry t-shirts.    

At day's end, we find on center stage in our lives and backyards, a  yearly watch party with feisty fireworks and loud booms that send toddlers to their mom's laps.    Those booms and screams remind us we are far more blessed than we know.      OOOOOOh, ahhhhhhhhh, OOOOO's sweep across the land of the free, the homes of the brave.    

We  Americans must celebrate, it's in our DNA. .  So,  we party because it is in our privilege, our responsibility to hold a hand and look up, up to those brave souls who lived and died, prayed and proved that risk and ramparts worked then and, well, work still.  

 I can't help but wonder if our wise, Godly forefathers  would grieve at the pugnacious political scene of today.    Regardless, my America reigns.     Indeed, God bless America!














A

"When the Lambs Lie Down,"

IVP - The Creative Life | Features & Benefits

Sunday thoughts about rest and shepherds, passion and purpose.

When God found me wandering in the wastelands, I took His hand and followed Him to the wide and wonderful countryside called Creativity. Grateful, willing, astonished I am as I sheepishly prance through the lush grounds where imagination sparks ideas, where the deep satisfaction of making the mark amazes me daily. Now, I share inspirational ideas I've learned to boost others' confidence and help free up their creative voices. My quest is to find every "little lamb" who needs encouragement. When I work with children, I marvel at their innate pull toward artistic development. When I work with adults, I smile at the joys they "know" when they are free to create and express their essence. In my workshop, Collage For A Woman's Soul, often launches avocations, changes outlooks, brings hope to the weary mom, the mid life grandmother.

Why is it vital to be free in our art making--in our lives, in our shepherding?

Why must we sizzle and dazzle as we sling paint and purpose in our creative lives? Why must we make a playful plan, (a prototype) and then toss it away and retrieve it or sit on it, stand on it, embrace it.

Should we let zany, outrageous ideas grab our attention and rattle through our sweaty heads when the bills pile up, or the crusts of yesterday snap under our feet The guilty pleasures of creating get in the way, yet, . . . a good way. Yea we say when we snatch an hour and make it our own - to paint with abandonment, write with a fancy for fantasy. So, though we carve out paths that begin and end with our painterly studios in mind, we must behave at times and dance with our duties AND our daydreams.

It's good to journal our days with dots and jots that yearn to breathe upon the page. It's imperative to pump from the well of fresh, clear thinking. Open a box of Crayons and change the course of your life, swipe a paint-filled brush across a wide canvass and renew a lost dream. The refreshing from the ever-flowing springs of imagination frees us to serve our High and Masterful Muse.

In the future, let's chat about how to gift our world with our craft, the art that sings and dances, calms and alarms. The blog world invites us ramble and rant, meander through cyberspace, so I type and wonder, pray and hope these words find a home in a few open hearts who, like me, adore words and wonderment. I am eager and willing to blog away when I have an audience, though it be only an audience of One. My God never seems to mind if I go on and on about my passion for all things artful. He's such an good listener. Making sense of making art is every artist's chore. Yet making art is every artist's highest joy. "Take up thy brush and paint," quips my shepherding friend and mentor. Quite an admonition for one bent on all things artful, don't you think?



WHEN THE LAMBS LIE DOWN

"Sleep my fold, my little lambs
For in your dreams and streams of thought
You find your fears relieved
You know you're safe from harm

My staff of love will comfort you under the starlit sky.
A nearing stream sings lullabies, I join them in song and sigh
If by chance you wander off to meadows wide where angels fear to tread, I'll rescue you
Or if you stumble, fall into a darkened cave, I shall search until I find you
And gather you in my arms, I will
My staff of love will comfort you."

In the light of day, you roam and role through the shadowed fields
Then again in the moon-fed hours before the sun refilled the cup of morning, you lie down, you lie down in peace with the shepherdess nearby, always nearby.

It's there in the soft folds of the rolling hills, you,
at daybreak,you awake to find your shepherdess looking about her flock
counting each one with the eyes of a mother rounding up her brood for breakfast.

"Here little one," she whispers as she lifts the tiny lost lamb to her heart
You mustn't wander far lest you get lost again or tangled in an unruly vine
I will carry you through the day's journey to keep you safe and in peace, my little one
When the lambs lie down I will place you back into the fold
undiv class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">

How to Birth An Art Business

On Holiday with Matisse

Do artists create to know peace or do artists seek peace so they can create at their highest level?    

 I've found that time-outs, even (micro-mini-holidays) prove vital to the creator's best art.      To sustain the highest clear notes, the soprano must first silence her vocals before her performance.   To pen a poem, one will read and nap, walk and wait.    Often,  to paint up a masterpiece, one must saunter off to the bench in the park, and learn the art of nothingness . . . for a moment or two..     Some suggest a "walk on the beach" is the luxurious prelude to the artist's "wow factor."    .Living landlocked in Oklahoma, I squirm at that mandate yet like the thought.    I have to ask myself, "did Matisse find sand in his sandals before detailing his remarkable tablescapes?"  I think so.     

Then I consider Picasso and his penchant for around the clock painting in his undies.       Did he traipse through the curves of Paris to get inspired or did he dare to slap oils across the canvass with no walk, no beach bumming?   Even he idled to think and recoup.                             

                                   
So, if the beach is off limits, perhaps a walk through a garden may help us artisans muster up the just right endorphins needed to create our best art.

With a creative  friend, I spent such a lovely afternoon walking through my neighbor's  glorious gardens.    We walked and talked and bent low to feel the filmy fennel, ran our hands over the soft lamb's ear, and admired the new rock work.    The winding trails through trellises and the climbing roses led us to the curling ferns and wide patios.        We swayed in old-fashioned porch swings as we talked and looked at photographs and and talked of tender moments with their children.      We talked about their recent trip to France and how that visit gave them closure concerning their heroic fathers' life sacrifice .           We took deep breaths as a certain gratitude and healing balm fell on us much like the soft night air.  

Better, I am because of the garden walk, the tender talk.      I consider Matisse, also a kind conversationalist, who spent hours thinking and cutting, sketching and observing.    He talked, he napped, he astounded his empty canvasses.     I don't know if all artist need time outs to create their best art, but for me, I will shout yes, yes.       As I walked home I  rested in the memory of the  afternoon.    I felt freer to risk all for the sake of the ever-present creative call.          The soft night air and the words of the afternoon blessed me, yes, simply blessed me.

Mothers and Monday

My Darling Mother above - healthy, amazing, loving..

Yes, Mother's Day is officially over.    Today we moms get back to making our own breakfasts, mopping up milk spills, tossing undies in the wash.      I sip my morning coffee; the house is tomb quiet.       I take a few moments to pore over yesterdays quick digital pics and lug a fat photo album onto my lap.     Oh my, I think of the many Mother's Days I have celebrated.     My timeless photos albums tug hard on my mothering heart..     I sigh and gently  run my hand over the years.    If I stacked up all my albums,  I'm sure they would touch the sky.

 There I am with my first newborn, there I am with my first grandchild.    There I am on my wedding day, nearly forty seven years ago.   There I am the afternoon of my husband's funeral with family surrounding me like a cloud of mercy.    And, there I am yesterday, happy and whole, productive and content.

 Some Mother's Days are quiet, some hectic, some memorable, but not all.    This year I traipsed to my back yard studio and played with my new fabric stash, rearranged my desk, gathered up some zany thoughts and jotted them down on the edges of my Monet calendar.    

Heaven holds those who have gone on before and we miss them.     Heaven speaks softly to my heart, a kind of silent symphony - "All is Well, All is Well, All is Well."

Trusting Tuesdays

I trust Tuesday.  It's a good catch-up day when Monday's to-do list gets mired by the heavy hands of mundane projects and mindsets.   Tuesday is neither half-way nor leaning toward the pause of the weekend.      It's still tidy, uncluttered most of the time.  It sits squarely on the left in my Month At A Glance.     It's there smack dab near week's onset and I know I can depend on it to sit me down and talk to me about deadlines, fresh goals, fear factors.      

However, this Tuesday during my morning walkabout, my mind  wandered   and drifted to other lands, mysterious and intriguing.    In a kind of dream state I  traveled in my mind to the South of France, the Museums of Paris,and  the English Countryside.    I  must grab my wanderlusts by the scruff of the neck and reschedule the afternoon.    Or ,I could remain on the shores of Lake Como . . . but its Tuesday, the responsible day where the left brain bruisers have their way.

If I stay on track and balanced with my work time, soaking-in-the-tub  time, snackingl time, coffee sloshing time, driving time, blogging time, grand mothering time, Golden Retriever walking time, cell-phoning time, e-mailing time, cooking time,  TV time, and nappng time, I'll have just enough time for what's truly important::  prayer time.   With that determined, I'll  look Tuesday square in the eye and drop to my knees.    I've found that  prayer multiples the minutes, especially early morning prayers.   Taking time for the sacred saves time, adjusts the hours to their highest and best use and gracefully energizes my spirit and mind.     With Lake Como's  soft breezes lingering, I rest and rethink my hectic life.

So, I appreciate you, Tuesday, for reminding me to stop and pray.   Yes, oh yes, Tuesday gets my vote for the prime time when all things prayerful are sifted and cupped for a holy purpose, even with the  Italian day dreams.     And there's still time for hugging my grandsons and gathering petunias from my own back yard..    

                                                          

WORD SNACK

When oft I wander in my mind

To lands of fancy, far and wide

I then must blink and timely find

God's best for me is by His side 

Quotable

"Travel the paths paved with fine gold

 and 

surely you'l find your heart growing cold.

but

Travel the paths untraveled and steep 

and

surely, you'll find  a harvest to reap"
lw

BOOKS ALIVE


Celebration of Discipline
by Richard Foster

Blogger.com

Trusting Tuesday

I trust Tuesday.   It's a good catch-up day when Monday's

.

.

Garden Graces, Earth Day Duties

Minding Monday and Her Mandates

What is it about Mondays that makes me feel like I must scurry about and clean and wash clothes and sweep up the weekend's crumbs?     I've chosen to blame it on my parents who were amazingly industrious and creative and from growing up in the 50's where woman's work was never done.   Kitchen floors were like mirrors, pillows always puffed.    A mom's duties were scheduled like clockwork.     

So, this morning, I decided to take matters out of the hands of yesteryear and fast forward them to today.     In my many lifetimes, I have worked outside of the home, labored inside the home, got wrinkly raising  three kids. I even kept up with a gregarious husband until his death in '98.     Now I am the keeper of the hearth and home,  breadwinner and the single grandmother  of eight.   I suppose I may be called a widow but I despise that word and choose instead the term, Grammy, for that's what my grandkids named me.     


Now I get it, women's work is, indeed, never done.   At least, not on this side of heaven's door.


I ask myself, "what matters most, what's critical today," not "which pile of laundry do I pick up first?"    The weeds can wait, the wicked witch of the Guilties must expire.   


So, with matters in my own hands, I can prioritize and jumble up the chores the way I want.   Is that being irresponsible?     Absolutely not!     Some good things come with age and rapt judgments pump creative energy into my step.    So, I pull my new netbook across my lap along with my scribbly journal.   Most importantly, from my bulging "finish" file, I retrieve the story I am writing.    I pour another cup of coffee, prop up my Nike-clad feet and get down to business.    I brush off the dust from my desk, push back the bills, yank my hair into a pony tail and begin to pray.   (I always pray when I feel incredibly outrageous and unpredictable.)  

The papers of my story were unclipped and curled, showing they have been neglected way too long.    I pulled them to me and held them for a moment or two, in some kind of poetic pose of apology    I then slapped on my editor's hat and got to work.   The pruning must begin. 


"Not so bad for a rebellious grandmother," I whispered to my beloved Golden, Hobbs.    "Not bad at all,"I thought as I reread the story of a straggly piece of brown fur that made its way from China to his new home, 1600 Pennsylvania USA where he becomes the darling of the White House.

"Brown Bear Goes To America" becomes my focus.    The sticky dishes and stinky sink will have to wait until tomorrow.     


Surely, Tuesday will find me on my knees in scrub-form.     Well. that all depends how close Brown Bear gets to America.


A word To The Wise - Bulwark - A barricade, buffer, wall or fence.   - - - - Consider the Bulwarks in our creative lives that keep us from reaching our goals and dreams, like laziness, fear, inept time control.    I say, let's ban together and smack down the walls and barricades, even if we must take a few detours.  


Quotable Quotes:    "Where there is industry, (energetic devotion to a task) there remains blisters and bruises, stains from hot tears." lw

"THINK ON THESE THINGS": Bubbles and the Sabbath

"THINK ON THESE THINGS": Bubbles and the Sabbath

Quotable - "Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon."   Susan Ertz.

Bubbles and the Sabbath

Oooops.    I woke up late to the sounds of a gentle Spring rain.   I'd  stayed up late drawing and watching "House" reruns.   Heavyl clouds shrouded the ground, making it hard to see even the vibrant azaleas in full bloom.     The hint of brewing coffee wafting down the hall  made the moment even more delightful.    Into my slippers, I gathered my robe around me to greet the cool morning, the Sunday newspaper, and my adoring Golden Retriever.  

 The rain continued, granting me a certain permission to stay home and honor the Sabbath in my warm home    I cherish my Sunday routine of attending the worship service at "my" old Gothic church.    This morning, though,  I curled up on my chaise with my mug of coffee, newspaper and  favorite dog-eared Bible.   Later I took a long, candlelit bubble bath and touched-up my hair, all within hearing distance of the steady, slow rain. .  

I keep a note pad and Sharpie near the tub to jot down ideas,  winning words, even zany notions.   It's amazing how alert the brain can become when dipped into millions of warm bubbles.    Today I scribbled, visit other bloggers online, recheck the definition of philomathic, get update on Iceland's Volcano .  Then I remembered to order ink for the printer and AA batteries.     Enough!  I then eased deeper in the tub and closed my eyes for the pleas that need miracles, my Herculean prayers that require wise answers.     Though I sat not in the church pew this morning, God's grace  appeared.

I've learned to love Sundays, even alone, they allow the heart of this grandmother of eight to listen more intently to the sacred quiet.  Sundays "set" me on higher ground, at least in my thoughts.    It's on Sundays that I let all the cares of the preceding  week melt  and invite  new and restored dreams  to surface - to blend into my rested, art-bent right brain.     On the wings of creativity, exciting ideas fly in with new shapes and clarity.      With unseen knowing I perceive new ways to reconsider challenges even the ones on my "oh-my-this-seems-impossible" list.     By Sunday afternoon I find myself saying, "why not?" and actually, I could complete the project by Friday if I  . . . ."     

God sure knew what He was doing when He set Sundays aside for rest and  restoration, worship and prayer.       I've found that when I follow His lead (living a balanced life),  I make better art, have more creative energy, and live more mindful of  answered prayers, the ones I make while soaking in bubbles on Sunday afternoons.

Oh, Philomathic means the love of literary learning, fond of words and their meaning.    Yes!!!!

Quotable quote:  "Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.}  Susan Ertz

The Woman Who Spilled Words All Over Herself

Should we, as Artful Bloggers, toss limp verbs and sassy sentences across the computer screen or tighten up our prose like dutiful linguists?      


There are moments when a thought pops and demands to live so I take its lead and go with it till it hits a point of no return.    That's free and fun writing.    Less red pencil, more pizazz.    I've never quite defined my style of writing - somewhere between the ancient Poet, Tagore and our very missed, Erma Bombeck.     I'm a mixed bag when it comes to expression.      My grandmother used to keep secret prayers in her  apron pocket along with a jangle of pennies to buy my thoughts.     I probably have a few secrets in my art smock pocket as well.    Hmmmm, a good idea for an upcoming Blog.    "What's in your pocket?" I will titled it.


So, there are  fanciful blogs and there are times when a meaty thought stomps through the hills and valleys of the mind.    It  gathers spicy data as it spins and dives into the dark and waits for me to save it from its "please give me voice"  torment .    I, then, pull it to the front burner.     


I massage its motive and speak kindly to it to calm its tyrannical urgency.     "There's time for everything,  for everything under heaven and in its season," I quote from Holy Script.    Like making meatloaf, I round it out and add just enough intrigue to keep it together before I allow it to bake fully in my own thoughts.     I will not serve up half-baked or flaky meatloaf to my readers.      I want to hear, mmmmmmm.       Not, "what's this?"

Perhaps we need to be ready for both types of messages, the meaty ones, the mismatched ones.       I prefer the missive to the mandate, but still like a good struggle with the Goliathic notions about our purposeful, God ordained lives and how we can - we must - take up our pens and write all things artfully.

Lifting the Veil on an April Evening

Like a new jewel worn on the left hand, the brilliance of an April evening asks for my hand . . . and heart and presence.
Proposal accepted.
The night air curls around me, invites me to walk into my moon-fed garden.    I am caressed by the sounds and scents - the flutter of the bunny near the wall, the drone of the mating doves out back.     I slip off my sandals.     My mind dances to the rhythm of night.    

The promise of April's kind nights is the assurance that the heavy leather curtains of winter have raised once more.
Then when the veil of a Spring night lifts,  dawn peers into the knottiest dreams, shedding its gentle light on the unknown needs of the coming day.      "Awaken, Joy Comes With The Morning Star,." I hear in my rested mind.          A certain joy rushes into the shadows that play hopscotch with the sun beams as I smooth out my bed linens.   I dress quickly to drink up the morning's delicious moments.  Approaching  morning is like addressing a large blank canvass; my heart skips a beat at the prospect it will bring.   It depends on me (and of course divine guidance) so I must mix my paints, make a plan, arrange my brushes, commit myself to the artistry that must come from my winsome soul. I close my eyes to stay prayerful of the new day.  For me, prayers are like daydreams,  ever flowing springs of surprising and alarming thoughts - with pictures, colorful, moving, exciting pictures.    

 So, in my daydream, I  glimpse the rays of  light  falling across the shoulders of the Master Gardener as He tends to His world.

" See. . .  over there . . .  near the open gate, the narrow one with the iron filigree and honeysuckle . . . just to the right of the  wisteria fountain."     I walk across the damp grasses toward the Gardener and bend low to hear His words.  "All is Well, All is Well, All is Well."   I touch His wide shoulder.    He knows I'm there but does not look up.      He is teaching me in silence, in the movement of His strong hands.    Imagination is a holy thing I think.

I sit quietly on the nearby knoll where I wait to be ushered onto the meadows of May, appearing..

The Gift of the Artful Blog

Blogging lifts spirits of both the author and reader.    Often when I read between the lines of one who pores her joys or angst onto the blank screen, I hear my own questions as well.   When I hear the hearts of those who care enough to pen their ideas, their art, their questions, I smile at their honesty.     As long as the blog doesn't take away from the making of art, I think it as fun and a  bonus to the artist.  

 Motive?   Why do we want to blog?      If we see our blogs as both our contribution to others as well as a way to express our inner voice, we balance our "whys."       Because our art is, or can be, a raw expression of our souls, blogging can be a flushing out of all the dregs of mediocrity.     Thank you, Mr. or Mrs. Maker of Blogs, you have given us artist-types, bent on splashing our ideas on canvass, another way to whisper, Amen.

Should I Worry?

Should I worry?     I am hooked on pen and ink drawing - the free motion, spontaneous - straight from the imagination.    I spy the new pen, the pad of paper on my desk and forget about the house duties, the bills stacked neatly nearby..   I yearn to draw but know if I pick up my pen, I will work into the night.     "I will stop by midnight," I tell myself.   Is there an addiction treatment center for compulsive artists types?    Should I  work in secret?    No.    I shall work with abandonment up front and in full view of God and all those who understand the lure of the night muse.  
Does a grandmother of eight need permission to create at midnight?     Do I need to adhere to some self-imposed bedtime?   I don't think so.

WISTERIA AND OTHER FINE ART

I SIT IN MY STUDIO WITH DOORS FLUNG OPEN. OUTSIDE, THE WISTERIA DRAPES AND SWINGS IN THE SOFT SPRING AIR. THE SUN DANCES THROUGH THE SHADOWS AND HIGHLIGHTS THE DEEP RICH SHADES OF LAVENDER. THE SCENT GIFTS THE AFTERNOON WITH A RARE PERFUME. I REACH OUT AND LET THE TENDER BLOSSOMS FALL ACROSS MY PALMS LIKE A FLOWER-FOUNTAIN. SO REFRESHING. A NEARBY WREN DOTS ACROSS A LOW LIMB LETTING ME KNOW THAT I AM WAY TO CLOSE TO HIS NEW NEST.

MY ART MARKS BECOMES SIMPLE, PASTEL, PRETTY. MY SOUL, TOO, DRINKS UP THE MOMENT - FREE FROM THE HUM OF THE TV, LAWN MOWERS AND THE RINGING CELL PHONE. THE AFTERNOON IS OH SO GOOD AND RIGHT - I AM ONE WITH THE BREEZES AND UNDERSTAND THE REASON FOR THE SEASON. I WALK ACROSS THE FRESH CLOVER AND BEND LOW TO YANK UP A SPINY WEED. I CHANGE MY MIND AND REPLANT IT. FOR THIS DAY, THIS MOMENT, EVERYTHING MUST STAY AND REMAIN.

CELEBRATING WARTS AND WRINKLES AND ARTFUL HOURS

"IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO BECOME WHAT YOU WERE MEANT TO BE," MY WISE FRIEND SAID WHILE WE WORKED ON OUR ART. EACH OF US LOOKED UP AND SMILED IN AGREEMENT. TENACIOUS LEARNERS WE ARE THOUGH WE HAVE PASSED THE HALF CENTURY MARK IN OUR VARIED LIVES. LATER I PONDERED THE APT TRUTH. SO I ADDED THIS IN MY JOURNAL, ". . . AND IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO CELEBRATE WHAT YOU HAVE ALREADY BECOME. . . WARTS AND ALL." MY NEW DRAWINGS ARE NOT DIMMED BY THE NEW WRINKLES AROUND MY EYES, MY PUFFY WAISTLINE DOESN'T DIMINISH MY INTRICATE COLLAGE.
HOWEVER, I WORK HARD TO PEN LEAN PROSE, CRAFT STRONG POETRY.

THESE DAYS I STRETCH WIDE MY ARMS TO EMBRACE THE APRIL MORNINGS, WITH THEIR FRAGILE WINGS OF DAWN. WITHOUT A DOUBT, I FIND THE POSTURE THAT'S BEST SUITED TO MY ART MAKING IS . . . ON MY KNEES IN PRAYER TO THE MASTER ARTIST. THE BLENDING OF THE SACRED, BREATHING LIFE INTO MY WILD EXPRESSIONS, IS OH SO SATISFYING. . . WARTS AND ALL.

April Evenings and Other Exquisite Art Exhibits

On An April Morning

Holy Week and Easter Bonnets

Google Reader - Linda's shared items

Sunday's can be slow drip days, but for me they are delicious yet dangerous for the feisty artist in me. Remembering that the muse visits the moving hand, I try to keep my hand and heart at rest - like the way God did back in the Day. I try to mimic Him, well sort of, and rest and allow the majesty of the Sabbath to help me surrender to a holy down time.
Just today, I tried to nap and lounge only to feel a creative nudge from my Angelic Muse. I always know it's Her because she has such a kind voice and gentle touch. She's one fun angel and knows all about my bent for all things artful. So, tried hard to be good and slide onto my studio's rocker to obey God's mandate to rest on the Sabbath. There, near the chair was my sturdy easel with my latest not-yet-finished painting. "I'll just redo thepale sky," I whispered to my Golden Retriever, now nestled near my feet. I picked up my paint brush and twisted off the top to my crimson oil tube. That was the moment I had tried to resist. I hoped that heaven was looking the other way - at least for an hour or so. " Sorry God, I'll nap next week!"

MAKING ART AT MIDNIGHT

Jay Leno was making his closing jokes and I had an idea, more of an urge to create something, something smashing, something that just might bless my world and me as well. Like a burst of lightening, I walked to my antique cabinet where I keep my treasures, treasures like new tablets, bulging journals, sharpened charcoals, paint pens and my oh-so-beloved scissor collection. I reached for my new drawing pad. I ran my hand across its cover and flipped it open. Hmmm. Twenty empty pages stared back at me. yet spoke volumes to my eager and readied heart, one bent on all things artful.

I strummed the pages and let them fall through my fingers like gently shuffling a deck of cards. Hmmm. I had been saving the pristine tablet for a "just the right moment" and it seemed the time had slipped up on me like a surprise party. Yes, a party, kind of an arty party and I knew the minute I caressed the pages , I would be hooked, hooked all night. My addiction for making spontaneous shapes and images took over. So I made a pot of green tea and reached for my Pitt artist pens. I readjusted my pharmacy lamp, pulled on my around-the-house socks and propped up my feet on the nearby sofa. Though the morning stars would find me glassy eyed, I smiled at the moment, so right, so good, so welcomed.

Wild Goose Chase

The Celtics named God's Holy Spirit the Wild Goose. I, perhaps, may have named Him the Human Whisperer, the Good One and Only, but the Wild Goose? Oh my! Now, that I know Him well, I call Him Father. Yet, as I consider the term Wild Goose, I somehow understand the creative Celtics. After all, I must chase something to make my mark on this side of heaven. A sit-down faith remains lame. A wild goose is impossible to catch and keeps its chasers in full forward motion. The Wild Goose of the Celtics was high energy, high wisdom, the example of risk and abandonment. A wild goose has fun and never harms its followers - it just passionately flies ahead and never gives up. I like that.

Song of the Spring Bird

The sounds and scents of Spring reminds us
that there's a reason to sit and watch for the
Spring Bird and hear its tender song

We must, we must
wait and smile and look up
For when the rose buds unfold atop their thorns
A trio of the rose and robin and the dove in the air
Prepare us for new beginnings
And cultivated miracles lain dormant in the ice of winter's blast.

What if the rose bud froze and the Spring Bird stayed lame in its nest?
And what if we forgot to sing to the sky and
twirl and sway with the winds of grace

Then, the Hands of God, would surely embrace
and harken our hearts and awaken the Spring bird
and place song in its throat
to bring
Love to us again, then we, too, shall sing . . . with the Spring Bird again and again.
The Songs of the Silent Spring Symphony

MSN.com by Lenovo

MSN.com by Lenovo

Daffodils and Daydreams

Spring, one of Mother Nature's kids, flirts with our afternoons. Yea, we say. Wintry thoughts must go; warm hours invite us to our porches. Perennials play with our moods and remind us how dependable they are. Is there anything better than feeling the full peace and pleasures of a Spring morning? There answered prayers fill the baskets of our hearts. There, new prayers tossed heavenward find their way to the heart of our High Father, the Master Gardener, the Maker of Daydreams . . . and daffodils.