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

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Trusting Tuesday

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

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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