Geranium

 As sunlight breaks through the old oak’s branches, streams of white light flood the garden and

Marigolds glitter reflecting dew drops as spider webs trace intricate designs throughout the buds and flowers and stems and stocks.The roses show translucent petals of individual color: cream and fuchsia and orange and yellow. Spears of Russian Sage glow violet held long and straight by the surrounding patch of purple Echinacea. The garden populations stand super-sized and healthy after a spring of cool days with rain and hot sunny summer days ending in thunderstorms. I sit on the deck observing and drawing the healthy, vibrant pink geranium planted in a terra cotta pot while an emerald green Hummingbird assesses the Oregano in the nearby herbs. A most beautiful morning with no rain on Walnut Street.

Stress-Less

During this stay at the Writers' Colony, I am beginning to catch on to how to live with less stress: get plenty of sleep; do what you want to do, even if it is tasks that must be done; live simply; don't expect other people to bring you happiness; don't expect the world to make you happy; live where you want to live--the rest of your life will follow; recognize your passion; know what you love to do and where your creativity lies--just do it, don't give a hoot whether it makes sense or not. Do not judge yourself or others; live in your own kindness; get rid of your TV but find some way to watch movies and baseball; read the books that speak to you ("read me"). Go to a beautiful hotel with someone you love; eat brunch; notice when you smile with your head up musing; say "Yes" more often; take walks; find independent bookstores; do Yoga.

What is possible

Knowledge of what is possible is the beginning of happiness (George Santayana). And I think, "Oh here I am! Here I am again!" I can hold no more. As Jane Hirschfield's, This Was Once a Love Poem, shines up from an email newsletter I am reminded of an extraordinary poet who always catches my heart. Recently, I stumbled onto the work of Danny Gregory's illustrated journals which I immediately ordered in print so I could touch the lovely detailed  drawings. Here as I write are handouts and books from the class on Buddhism I am immersed in. A brochure from ARTS peeks out from under my Google tablet (a device which, btw, delivers too much of the good ---one book order at a time).  I'm exploring a new project which will become a companion piece to The Tao of WordLayers which I've been sharing with others the past several days. I feel that I cannot stop and want to do more play with colors and things of color but there is also laundry to do. I'll turn, for just two seconds, to the geraniums blooming in the south window as the sky prepares to open and rain down on the soot covered piles of February's snows. I am fully grateful for these moments.

De-clutter-ing

Since a man named Douglas Borhn washed the second story windows I have been de-cluttering in wildness. I trashed my old journals--10 years worth. Some went to be recycled. Into what I wonder--paper cups? napkins? stationary? Could it be that people I have never met are drinking out of my dreams? wiping ketchup off their mouths with paragraphs of my broken heart(s)? writing to their grandmothers on my tales of love affair? The non-recycled went directly to the trash. I do not care if pages fly down the street or if pieces are picked apart by crows at the dump. I was struck by the sun after Mr. Borhn scraped mud and bird droppings off the leaded 1930 panes--bright white sun kissed everywhere in my rather cluttered studio where creativity oozes from pen and brush. Now only what is shows through as done or half baked. White paper rustles. In the slashes of sun rays streaming through I am writing new words. I'm day by day. Each day too precious to mourn words not mine anymore.

I wrote all the words

In the beginning of any project or endeavor--like a new year--there are strings of wisdom and unresolved questions that tag along. I have given little thought to where I go from here--after the accident. Tomorrow, I am to begin my old normal life and I do not know how that will look. Rather than "normal" . . . it is not. A new normal will come into the days that follow. I will form new. My work will form new. What I did and what I do will form new. Change is here and I cannot see what that means. It is after the accident. Something has ended but what starts now? What takes the place of recovery? When at an impasse, it helps to look through old journals because lessons learned seem to lead to. . . lessons learned. This morning I found words about change and recovery--over and over again. The New Year comes no matter when the new year begins. The following was written several years ago.

I wrote all the words I needed to say (the angry, nasty, cry-baby whines,  prayers, pleadings, incantations) until I was speechless — no more words. And it was exactly here that I discovered silence inside-out.  And it was exactly here that I was free and ready   to   recognize the spiritual at the core of this experience.

Good Times

The Great Northern Flicker came to the feeder this morning and was all contorted trying to get the last of the seeds at the bottom. I put more seed in the feeder—this is the first time I have done this, Chuck always "takes care of the feeders." Now, I wait for Mr. Flicker to come back to eat seed with a straight back. It is 8:30am, I sit in our Waldo Garden with Jack and we wait—it is cool, sunny and I can do this. The hard times came and went—my boss booted me out of my 8 to 5 job; my ex-husband left with the other woman. Simply because of the hard times I now work, evenings, where I always wanted to be. Simply because of the hard times I am now married to my best friend, Chuck. The house finches are at the feeder—they are lovely, slender and the males are wearing their reddish-purple capes. Goldfinches, the bright yellow canaries, have shown up and ease onto the feeder's silver perches. A female cardinal is at the water bath that sits on the same deck rail as Jack—she drinks, looks up at Jack, drinks, looks up and he sits watching. Oh! Up on the wire beneath the oak branch that shades the sun from my eyes, sits the Flicker. He will come and we will see him if we wait long enough which, I don't think we will. Jack wants his breakfast inside and I want to check my email for a note of acceptance from a publisher, any publisher. Feeding the birds worked for me even if I didn't stay to see the hoped for result. It is as if I am still there, even when I am not. . .

I Journal

I journal nearly every morning. More often than not this means I write of present moment observation of how I feel, what I see, hear or smell. And then there are the memories, the emotions—words that need an audience. Highly charged emotions need to be expressed in a way that involves only a select group of listeners, and most often this means the person emoting and a trusted listener. We need communication like life support—an audience for such words. Keeping a personal journal is an almost perfect recorder for the writer to share a head full of victory or loss, a heart full of joy or sadness. I am writing a book that is a compilation of prose poems journaled during a four year period of my life that was packed with tons of strife, miles of joy and eons of learning through discovery of a better way to live. The written observation of day to day creates a thread of varied color woven into significant memory. There are times when I see only spills of letters falling from thought onto my hand, slipping through my fingers onto the journal page. But, even then, something beautiful happens if I just keep writing one word after another. It, beauty, happens when ink of the black pen is set aside and the inks of colored pens dance across the textured page. Each color each letter each word is put on top of words already written. This, then, is the process of WordLayers. It begins in chaos, continues towards balance and completes itself in a vertical read of variation of color as each day touches the one before and the one after. WordLayers has become the stitching that holds the days of joy and those of sorrow together—in a balanced view of the journey of my soul.