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.