"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

Holy Week and Easter Bonnets

Google Reader - Linda's shared items

Sunday's can be slow drip days, but for me they are delicious yet dangerous for the feisty artist in me. Remembering that the muse visits the moving hand, I try to keep my hand and heart at rest - like the way God did back in the Day. I try to mimic Him, well sort of, and rest and allow the majesty of the Sabbath to help me surrender to a holy down time.
Just today, I tried to nap and lounge only to feel a creative nudge from my Angelic Muse. I always know it's Her because she has such a kind voice and gentle touch. She's one fun angel and knows all about my bent for all things artful. So, tried hard to be good and slide onto my studio's rocker to obey God's mandate to rest on the Sabbath. There, near the chair was my sturdy easel with my latest not-yet-finished painting. "I'll just redo thepale sky," I whispered to my Golden Retriever, now nestled near my feet. I picked up my paint brush and twisted off the top to my crimson oil tube. That was the moment I had tried to resist. I hoped that heaven was looking the other way - at least for an hour or so. " Sorry God, I'll nap next week!"

MAKING ART AT MIDNIGHT

Jay Leno was making his closing jokes and I had an idea, more of an urge to create something, something smashing, something that just might bless my world and me as well. Like a burst of lightening, I walked to my antique cabinet where I keep my treasures, treasures like new tablets, bulging journals, sharpened charcoals, paint pens and my oh-so-beloved scissor collection. I reached for my new drawing pad. I ran my hand across its cover and flipped it open. Hmmm. Twenty empty pages stared back at me. yet spoke volumes to my eager and readied heart, one bent on all things artful.

I strummed the pages and let them fall through my fingers like gently shuffling a deck of cards. Hmmm. I had been saving the pristine tablet for a "just the right moment" and it seemed the time had slipped up on me like a surprise party. Yes, a party, kind of an arty party and I knew the minute I caressed the pages , I would be hooked, hooked all night. My addiction for making spontaneous shapes and images took over. So I made a pot of green tea and reached for my Pitt artist pens. I readjusted my pharmacy lamp, pulled on my around-the-house socks and propped up my feet on the nearby sofa. Though the morning stars would find me glassy eyed, I smiled at the moment, so right, so good, so welcomed.

Wild Goose Chase

The Celtics named God's Holy Spirit the Wild Goose. I, perhaps, may have named Him the Human Whisperer, the Good One and Only, but the Wild Goose? Oh my! Now, that I know Him well, I call Him Father. Yet, as I consider the term Wild Goose, I somehow understand the creative Celtics. After all, I must chase something to make my mark on this side of heaven. A sit-down faith remains lame. A wild goose is impossible to catch and keeps its chasers in full forward motion. The Wild Goose of the Celtics was high energy, high wisdom, the example of risk and abandonment. A wild goose has fun and never harms its followers - it just passionately flies ahead and never gives up. I like that.

Song of the Spring Bird

The sounds and scents of Spring reminds us
that there's a reason to sit and watch for the
Spring Bird and hear its tender song

We must, we must
wait and smile and look up
For when the rose buds unfold atop their thorns
A trio of the rose and robin and the dove in the air
Prepare us for new beginnings
And cultivated miracles lain dormant in the ice of winter's blast.

What if the rose bud froze and the Spring Bird stayed lame in its nest?
And what if we forgot to sing to the sky and
twirl and sway with the winds of grace

Then, the Hands of God, would surely embrace
and harken our hearts and awaken the Spring bird
and place song in its throat
to bring
Love to us again, then we, too, shall sing . . . with the Spring Bird again and again.
The Songs of the Silent Spring Symphony

MSN.com by Lenovo

MSN.com by Lenovo

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.

A Saturday in October

Little swirls of leaves curl around my shoes, my wet muddy shoes
Then wind up in tidy and untidy piles near the curb of October
Tomorrow it will no longer be October, but November - the faithful, thankful month
Where food and flair and fantastic friends and family members fold together for fellowship
In a most kind and thankful circle of voices that sometimes blend in harmony, sometimes not
Mostly the ones who speak the least get heard the most because of their respect for silence - they offer dessert - the fruitful gift of listening - and listening caresses the restless soul
Quiet dining requires a restful setting blended with the warm smells of hopeful tolerance.

The Poet Tree

November sings to us a new whopping song.   Lights appear and wrap around our rooftops, hearts rejoice, emotions clear, but not for all.  I choose to remember the . . ."not for all" folks.

 November colors our land like a wide carpet of thank yous and the smells of Autumn blankets our evenings and our midnights.   We remember, we  think, we remember, we feast, we remember.

Today, I hear November's strong voice and her story prompts me to write and pray, and to pen

a few new spunky stories that stir the weary heart, that may help clear the murky minds of those I love,

plus those with unnamed faces in crowded places.

In these days of turning, I want to spin tales and tenderly tread through the

 dread of editing the forest of it over-grown verbiage and the needless dead wood of worry.    Oh, the fine art of sentence sculpturing, simple and lean, fitfully strong, a vast test of determination, I've found.

So,

 I will listen to the Holy Muse as I meander through the readied fields of fancy rants and buttery notions.

 I am golden now and molded into a new shape, full of mercy and cavernous concern for our world; yet I remain, a child wanting.  

I am not in a hurry; I rest on the Sabbath, eat fish and walk about my studio with gusto.     I wear a watch and drink fresh water; pray a lot and often.  Sometimes I may be found drawing in the sand and mud because, just because.

 I am not at all interested in spewing out bone-hard advice,

yet bent on blending wisdom with wit so we all may smile with wide emotion. 

Oh, I yearn to make art with alarming charm, so it may cling to the heart, lustery and likeable, along with

ideas that freely dance in the wide ballrooms of our minds.

So, I read and think and think about what I think about, lest I moan my way into some kind of Autumn malaise.  I  commit my best self to November.

 Fresh produce I shall pick daily and fill my writing basket with the prime pieces 

of good fruit and specialty items like peace packaged in the shape of a cross, an empty cross.

I walk down the aisle of mid-life and search for the fruits of holy script - all nine of them. 

And,

Today, I gather the ingredients for goodness and goodwill; my basket is full, my cup as well.

I'm  prepared for November's hospitality and 

a luscious salad of meaning, splashed with oil and grace.