I love the line of Flaubert
about observing things very intensely.
I think our duty as writers
begins not with our own feelings,
but with the powers of observing.
I worried a lot.
Will the garden grow,
will the rivers flow
in the right direction,
will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not,
how shall I correct it?
Was I right,
was I wrong,
will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing,
even the sparrows
can do it and
I am, well, hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading
or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get
rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying
had come to nothing.
And gave it up.
And took my old body
and went out
into the morning,
Cast all your anxiety on him (God) because He cares for you. ~1 Peter 5:7 ✝
Gardening is about enjoying
the smell of things growing in the soil,
getting dirty without feeling guilty,
and generally taking the time
to soak up a little peace and serenity.
I lift my face to the
pale flowers of the rain.
They’re soft as linen,
clean as holy water.
Meanwhile my dog runs off,
noses down packed leaves
into damp, mysterious tunnels.
He says the smells are
rising now stiff and lively;
he says the beasts are waking up now
full of oil, sleep sweat, tag-ends of dreams.
The rain rubs its shining hands all over me.
My dog returns and barks fiercely,
he says each secret body is
is the richest advisor,
deep in the black earth
such fuming nuggets of joy!
Let us acknowledge the Lord; let us press on to acknowledge Him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.” ~Hosea 6:3 ✝
**Images of rain splattered Crocus and Mary Oliver with one of her dogs via Pinterest
Keep a diary and
one day it’ll keep you.
It is necessary to write, if the days are not
to slip emptily by. How else, indeed,
to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment?
For the moment passes, it is forgotten;
the mood is gone; life itself is gone.
That is where the writer scores over his fellows:
he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.
However we go about the process, I believe those of us who write do find it necessary to do so. Perhaps, it’s because “clapping the net over the butterfly of the moment” helps define who we are for ourselves before “life itself is gone” and perhaps to help us know how who and what we are matters in the world. Whatever the reason, as tired as I am, I felt the need to put my fingers on the keyboard tonight. Thank you for all the prayers for my sister, Linda, and her husband, Dick. It seems that he blacked out last night because his blood pressure plummeted to critical levels. Then because the dropping of the blood pressure to such dangerously low levels causes the organs to start shutting down he went into renal failure. However, the good news tonight is that his BP is up to a normal range for him and his kidneys are functioning which means he is still on track for the transplant eligibility when a heart becomes available. Praise the Lord! The docs still have to find out what caused his blood pressure to drop so low, but I have faith that they will. Sadly he still does in fact look like he has been hit by a truck as his left eye is black, and he has a bad gash on the back of his head not to mention a whole bunch of large bruises. But they have put stitches in the cut above that eye, and as for the broken bones beneath his eye where it has turned pitch black, there is yet some question about what will need to be done, if anything, about those broken bones. They have also put staples in the cut on the back of his head, and thankfully, he apparently has no concussion. So, though very tired, we are grateful, more relieved, and praising God tonight.
Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful. ~Colossians 4:2 ✝
Someone to tell it to
is one of the fundamental
needs of human beings.
Have you ever pondered why we, any of us, blog? Or write books? Or pen poetry? Or compose music? Or draw? Or paint? I have and I think the quote above by Miles Franklin hits the proverbial nail squarely on the head. We, who pour out our lives or thoughts or passions or joys or hurts or whatever in some way, do in fact appear to have some compelling and fundamental need to do so. Emily Dickinson added another aspect to this idea when she described it, “as a shelter to speak” to some trusted other in her life. Like her, many of us, I believe, find not only great comfort but also a kind of self-soothing safety when we, individually or collectively, find ways to express ourselves to those we come to trust and admire. This is best described by the Swedish proverb that says a “shared joy is a double joy; a shared sorrow is half a sorrow.” In addition, I find something very cathartic and cleansing about “spilling my guts” to an “art or soul” mate given me by the Lord; they are the ones who give me the wings and courage to be all that He created me to be.
Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort
of feeling safe with a person,
having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words,
but pouring them all out, just as they are,
chaff and grain together
certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them,
keep what is worth keeping, and
with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.
~George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. ~Proverbs 17:17 ✝
If you hear a voice within you say
you cannot paint, then
by all means paint and
that voice will be silenced.
~Vincent van Gogh
Write because you want to communicate with yourself.
Write because you want to communicate with someone else.
Write because life is weird and tragic and amazing.
Write because talking is difficult.
Write because it polishes the heart.
Write because you can.
Write because you can’t.
Write because you’re trying to figure yourself out.
Write because you might not ever figure yourself out.
Write because there still aren’t enough love poems in the world. Write because there is a blackbird outside of my window right now and oh my God isn’t that the best start to the day?
~I found this on Amy’s The World is a Book blog,
and Amy found it at Pho Trablogger’s.
We are made in the image of God, the Creator of all life as well as the earth and the moon and the stars and the sun and the planets and the galaxies and the oceans and the trees and the forests and on and on and on all that Yahweh made goes. So I can’t help but believe there is indeed an internal voice in each of us that can only be silenced when we find an outlet for our creative urges. What holds many back I think is the fear that someone else will not like what they do and/or will laugh at them. But who are others to judge anyone else’s voice and its calling? Instead of simply watching and judging, everyone needs to be finding his or her own calling and begin silencing his and her own voices. But then that takes courage and work while being an uncharitable “critic” requires neither of those things. The only ones we need ever please are ourselves and He who created the “voice” and its calling. So sing or write or paint or whatever it takes to silence not only the “voice” but also to fulfill your purpose.
So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. ~Genesis 1:27 ✝