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!














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