Writers, Slip Away With Me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


We can type into dawn and only 
.

What? Where is Christ Now?

No Longer torn and bloody

No Longer dead

No Longer in the tomb

Where is Christ now?

Easter sings, announces. . . Christ is Risen

Renewed and Strong 

Standing Tall

Alive, Vibrant, Smiling

But, Where is He now?

Down the road on His way to Heaven

He stops to visit friends, dines with them,

Makes promises,

Ascends

Where is He now?

Today, March 8, 2012?

Here

Alive

In This Hour

With Me

With You

For Me

For You

Forever!

The Miracle of Good Friday
Lives Anew

THANK GOD FOR GOOD FRIDAY!

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

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


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


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


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


Here is that story:


I fall beneath the cross,  

And linger there on that lonely hill.

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


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


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

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




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


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


The cross, no longer needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She watches and waits with gasping groans - -

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

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

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


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

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




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

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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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

SILENT CHOIRS OF COLORS SINGING

Easter bonnets, baskets brimming

April's Easter Truth Redeeming

Holding Hands with Hope Unfolding

Gentle sighs of Spring Appearing

Graceful hours of warmth now Dawning

Silent choirs of colors Singing

Friendly gardens join the Teeming

Moon-kissed nights of star-lit Dreaming

Highest aims to Love Abounding

Grateful Hearts now Renewing


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

HEARTS RELENTING, a poem of grace

The Poet At The Breakfast Table

Peaceful streams flow from hearts relenting

To the sea,

They return

crystal clear

Their waters reach the salted shores

Where teaming life hides its turning

Restores the tides

Ever coming

Ever going

back to the 

hearts

relenting.

FOREVER FRIENDS, MY LITTLE PAPERBACKS

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

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

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

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

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

DO YOU HEAR EASTER CALLING? DO I?

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


I hear Easter's call, Do you?

WHAT DOES GOD LOOK LIKE TODAY?

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

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

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

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

Linda Wilson, on a Monday, I think.

London - THE LAND OF WONDERMENT AND TEA PARTIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Morning November

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

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

Merry Messes On My Mind

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


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

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


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


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

Jump and Your Wings Shall Appear

Up With Reading

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

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

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

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

DREAM - CREATE - CELEBRATE: Minding Monday and Her Mandates