We are the words

"We are the words; We are the music; We are the thing itself." -- Virginia Woolf

Writing words has always been in the consciousness of my own creativity. First visualized and then written and then written again but in a different direction and again in a different direction and so on and so on. A word design appears of these words too difficult to speak and too jumbled to be put together to read. Nevertheless they are my words put out of my head and mouth to be added to the universe of words of the soul.

"There is no doubt that in my mind that I have found out how to begin to say something in my own voice." -- Virginia Woolf

No Matter

I am feeling blue this beautiful Saturday in July--taking on (or not) the undecided decisions in my life. Oh, when will I know, when will I decide, when will someone come up to me and say, "Here is the direction your life will take. . .next week, next month, next year, etc." As I drink my second cup of coffee while sitting out on the morning deck, the beauty of my surroundings saturates any decisions not yet made with contentment, for awhile. During this piece of time I write this little poem and do feel just a bit better.

No matter where I am
the tomato red petunias and pumpkin orange marigolds
in the window box keep blooming.

No  matter how much I worry
the smooth stones wash wetter and smoother
in the fall of water in our hand dug stream.

No matter what I am doing or not
the mix of back garden wildflowers grows and replaces
in the sun, fresh green and air.

The where and the worry and the what
dissolve within this morning now--
and I continue this morning this day.

An ingredient in the air

An ingredient in the air of pre-rain
morning invites centered-ness
pushed down to the receptive
earth. A heaviness of home.
A of sense of place.
Being here.