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.

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

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

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.