An Awkward Absence

So, the love letter is finished.

And that is that.

What comes next takes grit.

Entering the unlit passage

where we wait

as the old year passes away
and the new year yearns to be born.

Some of us wait more comfortably than others.

But, we're all suspended here

dangling in the dim in-between.

Prepared?

Probably not.

But, we'll manage.

Put out birdseed.

Launder blankets.

Recruit the battered snow shovel.

Gather.

Pull our families in around us like knitted shawls.

Crave what warms and cheers.

Relish what nourishes body and soul.

Insisting in our wise and stubborn hearts 
 it will be worth it.

Because it will.  By God, it will.

Love Letter

I know you have to go.  

It's time.

But, I'll remember you.

In your hot brights,

and sparkling silks, I'll remember you.

Thirsty days,

Liquid nights, I'll remember you.

Touches sweet,

kisses deep, I'll remember you.

Forever warm, rich and ripe, I'll remember you.

This much is true.

Wild Blackberries

I assembled my paints, soaked the paper

and tuned in to "the fish fry" for atmosphere.

I took that as encouragement from the universe!

and slid into muse mode.

Which turned out to be mad, crazy fun!

 The process of mixing colors and loading brushes

was as beautiful and gratifying

as the actual painting.

Oh, how happy you have made me.

Every little step revealed its magic.

                                                                    And time dissolved into pure joy. 

            Because, to me, painting is a form of play.

  which, in my case, seems to be a blessing . . .

and so begins another weekend.

Oops, we're a few hours into Saturday already.

Night night.

(P.S.  Anybody hungry for pie?)

Thistle Seed Drifter

Today, quite honestly, I do not feel inspired.

Or visionary.

Or particularly energized.

I don't.

So, rather than fight it, I think I'll drift for a while here.

Like the thistle seed within it's whispery, furry pod,

adrift on the breeze.

Flounced by updrafts,

parachuting back toward earth in downdrafts.

It's okay, I think, to travel this way

from time to time.

It'll have to be.

Until I land on that just right spot of earth

alive with moisture, sun and shade

waiting

for a drifter like me.

note to self

find the journal

you don’t dare write in

because it is so beautiful

unblemished

and untouched.

crack it open

like a walnut

and scrawl your name

in raggedy letters

you can’t erase.

then get on with it --

put things down,

and if you are tempted

to lie

at least say so.

try telling the truth --
you might be surprised

when no one falls apart

except

maybe you.

breathe a little . . .

suffer if you must,

but don’t overdo it.

because misery won’t

make you a better person.

join the world

of splotchy ordinary 

run-of-the-mill

bumbling humanity

where you live.

then live.

really LIVE.






(This little poem is an intention,
 a note of encouragement from me to me...
you are invited to remind me
when I get twisted and forget my own advice,
as I am prone to do.)
Lilmomma

By the Seat of My Pants

Recently, I was asked, "Why do you want to blog?"

Pondering that for a couple of weeks brought me to this one simple truth.

For the joy of it.

The same reason I sing in the car . . . and the shower.

The reason I make unstudied strokes with a  paintbrush.

Or set the paintbrush down to dance around the kitchen to an irresistibly great song on the radio.

For the joy of it.

There's another way to put this, which is equally true, but more analytical.

Blogging, painting, dancing, singing . . . these things create for me a dialog with life.

An interaction.  A back an forth.  A co-creation.

And, that dialog is my way of being more fully awake.  Alive.  Vulnerable.  Growing.

So, when I break out the kids' old watercolor tins, left over from elementary school,

turn on some great music

and stand over the kitchen counter at all hours 

letting the colors and the brushes and the curves choose me. . .

When I paint myself into an ugly corner

and somehow paint my way back out of it (or not) . . .

 It's just about experience.

The joy of it.

Joy which encompasses flailing and frustration and laughter and perspective.

And, I don't think this is about me.

I think it is about Living.

About leaving me out of it and tasting the richness of the unknown.

Letting it roll through me and spill out as it chooses.

Of course, it's there for all of us to do whenever we want to, pretty much.

Or to pass on, either way equally good.

Equally legitimate.  

It's not "worth" anything - won't add up to much that's tangible.

Still, it matters somehow.

I've never been a person with a grand vision I set out to accomplish.

Yet, I've always been a spirit with a grand desire for adventure.

Life, I believe, can be that.

But, hey.  Don't take it from me.  I might be wrong.

I'm just flying by the seat of my pants.