Category Archives: Writing thoughts

Paint Box – yellow

Recently a writing prompt surfaced in an old journal and drew me in again – Color.

I find that the spring light makes color more vibrant, more uplifting to my soul.

If you had asked me about yellow, well, at first I wouldn’t have much to say except it is a cheerful color. But reflection tells me it is woven through my adult life – a favorite dress in soft yellow, then yellow gingham curtains and yellow walls in a baby’s room, a fun yellow car, bouquets of dandelions in a chubby fist, a yellow bike, vintage yellow crocks in the kitchen… a touch here and there.

The yellows of early spring glow. More memories glow too: puckery lemons with peppermint stick straws at the Flower Mart in Baltimore, Mom’s lemon meringue pies with toasty brown peaks atop creamy fillings – best fresh from the oven… Do you have memories in yellow? Do they bring happy smiles to your face now?

Country gold

Heavy weighted fog pressed down, but along the roads and parking lots, there were golden bells proclaiming spring! I captured these if full ring outside the library.

Inside, I captured Melissa Michael’s new book and Karen Kingsbury’s too. At home Jeff Goins new book had arrived!

A bounty of riches waits on my table, urging me on through my work sessions, teasing me with promise of inspiration, fresh insights and ponderings.

I have followed Melissa and Jeff on their blogs for a number of years. And while I don’t read much fiction, I do enjoy Karen Kingsbury. Her new series, Angels Walking, is compelling. This is book two. Now for some long quiet evenings!

During the longest, coldest winter, I sorted through my sewing and crafting things like a squirrel in semi-hibernation turning over her cache of nuts and acorns looking for choice specimens to savor. While at first it was almost a sad endeavor, I now feel the freshness in it. Encouraged by the writing of Bonnie Grey, Cheri Gregory and Kathy Lipp, I came to see that my stash had actually become a hindrance to creativity and productivity.

Cheri had a great post that helped me. Projects get interrupted in my life and when I go back to them, sometimes I couldn’t figure out where I has stopped and what I should do next. My notes, if any, where like a code I couldn’t crack. And so I would set them aside, again. Procrastination. Frustration.

After reading her post, I went through my supplies and created a small collection of future projects and wrote out my plan for each in as much detail as I could. If I didn’t have a plan, I chose not to keep it. I freed myself of leftovers from past quilting projects and other crafts this way too. And the good news? I have actually been sewing again! I’m finishing things, and fluffing the guest room. Projects seem fresh and exciting. And more good news – I’ve found a place to gift the overflow, investing in the creative lives of young women. This makes me smile, big!

The plans? Itemized and amplified to included any other needed items; typed, saved, printed! No little scraps of paper written in mysterious code!

To sparkle

I drink in the beauty long delayed and so welcomed. No matter the time of day, these lily-like flowers enchant. Life locked in bulbs with a mysterious time clock – leaf, bloom, rest – go round the seasons.

I’m honored that my minor contributions to their wellbeing allow the cycle to continue and they flourish. The name Amaryllis means “to sparkle”.

Outside, the same clock of life ticks. Green leaves push hard through frozen ground, leaf litter, snow and ice.

And morning surprises with snowdrops seeded into lawn and weed patch – nature’s seed time and harvest continues. In the gentle rhythm of seasons, the light of life can shine deeply into dark and hidden places. In prepared soil or hostile environment, in tender care or neglect, snowdrops grow and bloom.

I’m observing lessons of both hope and warning to consider what is growing in the soil of my life and heart. Today, I choose hope for myself – to see in these blooms a willingness to embrace life, the new thing springing forth even in what seems to be wilderness. Choosing life, growing in obedience to Creator God, persevering as from a seed growing through harshness of soil, sometimes bitter cold, flood or drought and even life’s mowing seasons and on to maturity, bringing forth beauty to delight the soul of another whether or not they understand my name or words or calling. Perhaps then I would sparkle too.

Spring cleaning

Yesterday was lovely. The ground is still frozen under the inch or so of muddiness, so I needed to walk slowly while I tidied up on my walk. All the better to see.

Then last night, March began tossing every branch of tree and bush; shaking off winter, stirring buds, and no doubt howling “Spring!”, into the very roots.

I feel it too and rush about dusting and clearing away, yearning to throw open the doors. Soon.

Merry Little Christmas!

Happy New Year! Blessed Epiphany Greetings!

Growing up, I loved Christmas music. Throughout the season I would search through the old records and play them over and over. This one lingers in my memory still. To me, this version of We Three Kings has a rich, mysterious and regal sound. The person who posted to Youtube has added some beautiful artwork to the page, if you care to linger there.

Magi once travelled far from their comfortable homes to seek, to gaze. I think about them each year, the seekers, the searchers, the brave adventurers, the courageous explorers. Their breed has not vanished from the earth, you know. They are among us still.

There is a stargazer inside me – one searching for The Star; longing to gaze into His face, His eyes.

However, I am a bit like this one – see him? Down on his knees, begging his camel to come along… I find it all too easy among all the festivities to become distracted by things that are to serve us, and to serve them. And not only that, but see how the others have become distracted too? Yah, I can lead others to distractions too. Then we miss the shining path through life.

This year, I want to follow our pastor’s encouragement to ‘step into my dark and look up for the star.’

I want to find my way to the promise of grace, wonder, glory and great beauty in this New Year.

May you find yours as well.

Several years ago, I read and interesting book by Brent Landau titled, Revelation of the Magi. This is a translation of an ancient Syriac document. It is a fascinating story of the Nativity told from the point of view of the Magi and told with great reverence. You might find it interesting.

We had the gift of a light snow today. The beauty offsets the bitter cold.

It follows after evening and morning glorious of Monday which I simply must share.

{You may click on any photo to enlarge it.}

Bedtime Writing

November 2, 2014

Reading Slowing Time Seeing the Sacred Outside Your Kitchen Door, sinking into the poetry of her thoughts and prayers. Tonight as I huddle under the comforter, it is quiet. The roaring, rushing winds of yesterday that lingered through the early hours of the day are whispering now.

As I linger in Barbara Mahany’s images, a little urge for something warm slips in. As I make my way to the kitchen, light is filtering through the glass block window. Light that only comes from the filling in of the moon. Finding a small quilt to wrap around me, I step blindly out into crunchy leaves so that my view of moon and stars will be clear.

Stunning seconds of beauty in the freezing cold. Right outside my kitchen door.

Growing Oak Trees

I found this poem to share. It is a wonderful metaphor for the life of faith, I think. Scripture calls us to yield and to become “oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord” – Isaiah 61

Can you see your life in these lines?

The Acorn

In a small green cup an acorn grew

                On a tall and stately oak;

The spreading leaves the secret knew,

                And hid it like a cloak.

The breezes rocked it tenderly,

                The sunbeams whispered low,

“Some day the smallest acorn here

                Will make an oak, you know.”

The little acorn heard it all,

                And thought it quite a joke;

How could he dream an acorn small

                Would ever be an oak?

He laughed so much that presently

                He tumbled from his cup,

And rolled a long way from the tree,

                Where no one picked him up.

Close by him was a rabbit hole,

                And when the wind blew high,

Down went the acorn with a roll

                For weeks in gloom to lie.

But, one bright day, a shoot of green

                Broke from his body dry,

And pushed its way with longing keen

                To see the glorious sky.

It grew and grew, with all its might,

                As weeks and months rolled on;

The sunbeam’s words were proving right.

                For, ere a year had gone,

The shoot became a sturdy plant,

                While now the country folk

Can sit beneath the spreading leaves

                Of a mighty forest oak.

                                                                           Anonymous

Reflections – true or false?

Sometimes, it seems that I get very out-of-focused in reflection.

And everything turns topsy turvy.

There is only one way for me to right my mental world:

Finally, brothers and sisters, fill your minds with beauty and truth. Meditate on whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is good, whatever is virtuous and praiseworthy.

The Voice Bible

Filling my mind with beauty all around. What beauty have you found today?

Searching for my voice in 1920

A few weeks ago I saw a notice for an upcoming on-line writer’s workshop. One evening, free, and an interesting topic – sounded easy and fun.

Marilyn Bousquin of Writing Women’s Lives posed thoughtful questions in the workshop, “Writing Our Grandmothers, Discovering Ourselves: Women, Silence & Voice. Before the workshop, she had us sleuthing our female heritage. What country did these women come of age in? What year did that country grant women the right to vote? Since I’ve done some family genealogy, those answers were easy to find.

I had been looking forward to the evening of hearing my voice as I analyzed their lives. I thought I would be exploring my life through Grandmother Anna. But then the second prompt came and I could only think of Grandmother Amelia. I didn’t want to think about her but it seemed important so I wrote my letter to her:

“Dear Grandmother Amelia,

This is Elaine. I didn’t know you well and I didn’t want to either. I was too young to know your story or have any understanding of your pain and loss. Your gruff voice and “children should be seen and not heard” attitude frightened my shy little self and hiding from you became habit. I don’t know that we ever had a real conversation, not even during those months when you lived in our home. I wish we had, I think.

When we cleaned out the garage at the home place, I found letters carefully saved in an old covered dish. Two letters written by Bro. Albert to you and Grandfather. I was struck by his compliments to you on your writing.

I wonder now if his words of affirmation thrilled your heart. When this was written, you did not yet have the right to vote. I can’t find many facts, but based on records found, I suppose that you, like your 14 siblings, had an elementary school education before going off to the mills to work. I found that at 18 you had advanced to the rank of ‘weaver’ at the silk mill. I doubt you had many choices in your life until you married.

Other things were found in that garage and I’ve come to admire your thirst to increase your home skills and crafts as evidenced by the pamphlets and instruction booklets carefully saved.

I want you to know that the quilts you made for my siblings touched my heart with
comfort as a child. The long gone yo-yo quilt inspired me to stitch hundreds of
them for a coverlet.

The quilts you saved in your trunk were given to your great-granddaughters. And the unfinished top – for William? – I stitched a plaid floral medallion on it, quilted it, and your daughter used it in her final years. I like to think it brought you close to her.

I have lots of questions now. I wonder why you said “no” to the thought of your daughter attending High School. Was it your own insecurity or that need for each child to have the same as the others who went before? You know she chose to have her own voice and went to night school, graduating just shy of her 21^st birthday.

Amelia, how I wish you had used your voice, told your stories, written a diary or journal. I would have listened. I would have known you and your family, my family. And me, I think I would have been free to have confidence as a storyteller and writer.”

I was surprised to find myself feeling emotional while writing this letter that night. We went on through the workshop and the overall experience was very good. And the next day I started another program, Intentional Blogging with Jeff Goins. His webinar on Blogging Personalities had been very encouraging. I had my niche, I was happy. I was excited to sign on to this program, tweak a few things and move along as a blogger.

But things had been set in motion within my soul and I didn’t know it. And I was silenced.

Last Sunday, we drove to the river. One of the same roads led to my Uncle and Grandmother’s home. When it came time to turn off for the park, I was overwhelmed with such a longing as I cannot explain – oh, for one more chance to walk into her kitchen, one more chance to look and really see her. Amelia. I wonder if she was a story teller, I wonder about her style of writing, I wonder if she wrote to her many siblings. I have only wonders and complex emotions churning. There is a power in writing I don’t always like.

Grandmother Amelia, gone from my life for 48 years and yet, not gone at all; I still don’t think I like you.

Cloudy with a hope of change

Last night’s storm left a slow-to-lift cloud cover. Waiting in traffic, I watched it hovering behind the communication and power lines that cross here. I thought about how sometimes mental or emotional dark clouds seem to hang like a backdrop for life and communication.

As I drove on, I remembered that as a child, stories and poetry gave me the impression of softness and comfort in clouds and then how shocked I had been on my first plane ride through clouds to find them anything but! Turbulence is hidden within.

Those are not cotton balls! Unseen turbulence swirls in all the beauty. Unseen turbulence swirls on earth these days too. It is unsettling to say the least. For your life, I pray that the storms pass and you will see the earth is refreshed, the air is cleared, and a beautiful day awaits you.