Cows and addiction

I can hear cows. Cows this morning, cows as I was falling asleep. Last night I drove an hour round trip just for some chocolate and kombucha.

Part of driving last night was just for something to do. And I also really wanted chocolate and kombucha.

I'm afraid it is quite easy for me to get addicted to things. I didn't use to like coffee. I mean, from a young age I was captivated by mocha's and coffee ice cream. I did like the coffee flavor so long as there was a great deal of sweetness involved too.

But one time in college my professor, entirely joking, told us that coffee was mandatory for our 8am class. I started bringing coffee to class with cream, no sugar. I didn't love it at first, but I didn't hate it either. Within a week or two I couldn't do without it. And it wasn't even the caffeine. I'm one of those people who can drink decaf coffee and be just as happy.

I didn't like the taste of alcohol before I was 21. I didn't much care for the taste after I was 21. Eventually I developed a taste for it and now I enjoy it a lot, but I don't need alcohol and am quite happy without it.

I didn't like kombucha the first several times I tried it. I thought it tasted like apple cider vinegar, which I hate! Now I love kombucha and will apparently drive an hour to get some.

Even developing a taste for alcohol it took me until this year to really enjoy beer. If I drank it at all I wanted the darkest of the dark, smoothest of the smooth. I still don't like IPA! But I will drink a few beers in an evening and be happy.

I wonder if I could do the same thing with olives, pickles, tomatoes, fish and other things I really don't like the taste of. I have tried a few times, but sometimes it just doesn't change until it does. Beer took 10 years. Still waiting on fish.

So, I don't know if I'm really addicted to any of the above, except chocolate. Definitely chocolate! But it's interesting to me how quickly I can go from disliking certain foods to loving them and craving them!

Now I'm cold. My coffee is gone, and my toes are cold. I'm sitting on the most delightful screened in, wrap around porch, and it's so chilly out. I love it. My favorite weather and I love the slow life here!

Cows. I can still hear you.

Reflections on painting

Sometimes I tell myself to wait. Like today, I wanted to make some reflections about painting. I'm two paintings away from being done my month long commitment to paint. I should wait for two more days to reflect on this. But I should never stop myself from writing on the rare occasions when I feel inspired to write before I even begin.

So I'm reflecting on painting, two days before the end.

I just went through my album and looked at each of my paintings. Some I didn't want to look at for very long, and others I lingered on for a few moments before clicking to the next. And you know what? I like my paintings. And I can see improvement. When I take the time to paint something, it turns out well!

I was worried that switching back to watercolors after 24 days of oils would be a challenge, but challenges are good. My watercolors are fine, and I miss oils, but even over 4 days of watercolors I am improving that skill again! I painted watercolors every day two years ago, and very sporadically since. I have only done 4 watercolors this September. The first two are okay, but I really like the most recent two. There are always things I could improve, but that's a dumb thing to observe. I'm gonna focus on the fun techniques and skills I'm learning and just linger on the good feelings of actually being good at something!

Yesterday's watercolor!

You know Ron Weasley? You know how when he looks in the Mirror of Erised he sees himself as Quidditch captain and head boy? He's only an 11 year old boy longing for some recognition. He feels overshadowed by his 5 older brothers.

I hate to say that I feel overshadowed by my siblings because I love them and never felt a lack of love or recognition because there were many of us. If anything, I got more love from having such a large family.

Ron definitely loves his family too and there's no lack in the Weasley household, but he does long for something of his own, and then of course (spoiler alert) he goes on to help save the wizarding world from the evilest wizard ever. I think he succeeded in doing something original.

Where was I going with this? Ah, yes. I still strive for some sort of originality, something that makes me unique from others. I already wrote a blog post about wanting to be unique in my writing and realizing that I only need to tell the truth to write well. Is it the same for painting? Do I tell truths with my paint brush?

I don't know. A thought just struck me so I'm gonna write it and see if it rings true: Write truths, paint loves. I dunno, you clearly need truth and love to write and love and truth to paint. So whatever. It was just a thought.

I don't need to stand out to be worth something. I don't need to save the wizarding world or even my world. I just need to keep moving along, writing the best that I can, painting the best that I can, and being okay on the days when my writing sucks and my paintings aren't working. I'm still good at these things, even when I'm bad at them.

Man and wolf

Warm sticky blood oozed from his leg. He looked down at the wound and then back at the wolf in front of him. His eyes narrowed but he smiled at the beast.

"You won't be so lucky next time," he spat. The wolf sprung at him again. This time the man was ready. The weight of the wolf still knocked him off his feet but he was able to keep the wolf's teeth from piercing him. As they wrestled, the wolf's claws tore at the man's chest.

The man let out a startled cry as one claw pierced deep. For a moment the man thought the wolf was withdrawing, and for a mad moment he tried to stop it from going. But the wolf had no intention of leaving. He growled deep in his throat and bit down hard on the man's left shoulder.

"No!" The man tried to plead with the wolf but it was of no use: how could the wolf understand?

The man fumbled to find anything of use and at last he was able to reach a small jagged rock. He brought it down hard on the wolf who yelped in pain.

The wolf stood stunned, the man's blood dripping from his fangs. He watched the man.

The man held the rock high and made a threat to hit the creature again.

"I'm sorry!" the man said, looking at the pathetic beast. "Go!" he yelled. "Be gone!" and he hurled the stone at the wolf. It hit him square on the jaw and he gave the man one last reproachful look before dragging himself away.

Before the breakup

Mindless, mind numbing, dumb. "I don't have to be doing this," I said to myself. I could be writing."

But did I want to write? Sometimes mind-numbing and dull are exactly what I want at the end of a long day. So scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. My eyes falling out of their sockets.

"Maybe I should just go to bed," I muttered out loud.

"Don't go to bed," Henry said. I started. I didn't realize he was close enough to hear me. He got up from his chair and came over and kissed my forehead. I didn't even want him to, but I didn't protest.

I ignored his plea that I not go to bed, slammed my laptop shut, and set it down on the table. He took that as an invitation. He plopped down on the couch and tried to snuggle up with me. As he took my hand and kissed my neck a thousand thoughts went through my head.

This is what I wanted. I wanted someone who would want to snuggle with me and hold me and not want to let go of me. I wanted an affectionate and sweet guy. Henry was all of these things. He always reached over and took my hand when we were watching movies. He went out of his way to get me things or do things for me, and he was always ready with a smile and a compliment. I believed that he loved me, but as I sat here, passively receiving his affection I didn't think that I loved him.

Yes, he was so perfect in so many ways. Affectionate and loving to the extreme. Always anxious to make sure that I felt loved and appreciated. But something was missing and I knew it. I didn't want just love. I had always longed for this. Someone who would stroke my hand and make me feel special.

The Beatles "All you need is love" played in my head. "No it's not!" I thought. "You need more than love, stupid Beatles!" I was clearly not in a good mood, and I was surprised that Henry was not picking up on this.

But love is not the answer. It's not even the question. It's only half of it. I liked Henry, a lot. I imagined our life together and could picture us getting married and growing old together. But when I threw kids into the picture things got messy. Not boogers and barf messy, but gritty parenting clashes messy.

Henry was lovely. He would be a loving and wonderful father. I could picture him now, bouncing our imaginary curly haired boy on his knee. But his discipline and upbringing would not be what I wanted for my son.

I couldn't have kids with Henry, because we would never be able to agree on what to teach our children about the way life works. And that mattered too much to me. Henry just wasn't on the same page as me. I wanted to create little people who would grow up to be the most amazing lads and lasses. Who would one day be angels in heaven, but in the meantime would make the world a better place. In short, I wanted a heavenly host. I wanted my little people to be strong and courageous and to wield swords of truth, and be unceasing when it came to standing up for the Truth.

But truth alone would not do. I didn't want my little ones to be monsters or to be cruel. They would have to learn to lean into the truth with strength and conviction, but to do so with love. To nurture and  bend, not brutally break. I believed in my future people, but Henry was not their father.

"Henry?" I said timidly. It had only been a matter of seconds since he had joined me on the couch.

"Mm?" he responded, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, but clearly not really in the mood for talking.

"I'm tired," I said. "You should go home."

He listened and stopped to look at me, disappointment in his eyes.

"Alright," he said getting up and pulling me up from the couch for a good night hug.

I let him. I even let him give me a long goodnight kiss when he leaned in for it.

"Good night," he said, holding on to my hand for a minute longer before he turned toward the door.

"Good night, Henry," I said closing the door behind him. And as I closed the door I started to cry.

A dream that brought understanding

I had the craziest dream last night. Actually, it probably wasn't that crazy, but it felt super intense when I was dreaming it.

I was wandering around New York with friends. I've never been to New York City, but have always wanted to go. Apparently not enough to make it happen, but that's beside the point. I was in NY with a big group of people. It got to be night and I was determined to go to Time Square because I wanted to see if it really was as bright as day.

But we never got there. We started wandering, and I got lost in a parking garage in the city at night. I have had other nightmares about just such things. Nighttime can be a bit worrisome. Cities scare me a little, but parking garages are downright creepy! So this is a recurring theme in my nightmares.

I got separated from the group and was going up or down some stairs and ran into a black man who started pulling a gun from inside his coat. I started running and crying. And I ran past several other black people, all pulling guns. I was so terrified that when I got out on the street I wasn't looking where I was going and ran straight into someone.

"Hey, there," he said. I looked up at his dark skin and wondered if I was safe. Now that I was out in the street and not in a dark garage I felt a little safer. There were at least more people around.

"Welcome to Harlem, little lady." The man said, and I decided I trusted him. I wrapped my arms around him, buried my head in his shoulder, and sobbed.

The men who had been chasing me had disappeared.

I started talking to the man. I don't remember what we talked about.

Then the crowd of friends I had been with showed up again. They were all heading toward center city for something. I grabbed one of their hands and was like "Don't leave without me!" and I wouldn't let her go. But I wanted to say goodbye to the gentleman who had made me feel safe when I had been lost.

"Shouldn't go wandering around Harlem alone, white girl," he said to me. And I don't know if I said it or just felt it, but I was thinking about how outnumbered and unsafe I felt: one white girl alone.

And I looked into his eyes and asked him: "Is this how you feel in your day to day life? Unsafe?" His soft brown eyes were kind as he looked at me and answered, "Yes."

My eyes filled with tears as I hugged him and then let my friend pull me away.



Sometimes I analyze my dreams. I think dreams hold meaning, but I think that you get out of them what you choose to get.

So my thoughts as I woke up this morning were something like this:

I don't think of myself as racist. I'm not color blind, as some people claim we ought to be and others claim is just as offensive. But all growing up I noticed skin color, yes, but I don't remember feeling any different about people because of it. Only as an adult, living in a world that is highly sensitive and apt to take offense to literally everything, I over analyze my thinking.

Sure, as a white person I guess I am somewhat racist. So this dream was interesting to me because it felt like I was actually empathizing with this man. Now that I'm fully awake and aware of the criticism I will invariably get if anyone reads this I can picture the responses: "You don't understand at all!" "How dare you think that you understand!" "There's no such thing as reverse racism!"

But in that moment in my dream it felt significant to feel like I understood.

Start of my two weeks in Kempton

Dude, I need to write. It's been too long since I just wrote thoughts on my blog.

I'm staying in Kempton for two weeks so that's fun. Helping a family that just had their 3rd child. Yesterday I worked for about 10 hours with an hour break in the middle. Today should only be 8 with a break.

The 6 and 4 year old seem to like me so that's good. Two week old is less sure of me, but that's okay. He's still cute.

This morning I was able to do my Duolingo lessons, get in a visit with my aunt and cousin, and now I'm quickly writing before reporting for duty!

I hope it's less hot today.

Super thrilling blog post! Pip, Pip!

Spitting words out on to a page.

"Bloody hell!" I knew I shouldn't say it, but it was the first thing off my tongue. I had only dropped a blob of butter on the floor, but it felt like the end of the world.

Everything felt like the end of the world. I wiped the butter up and continued cooking my breakfast. It was 1:15pm. I had been awake since 7ish but now was as good a time as any for breakfast. Breakfast consisted of rice and peppers.

"Jardin!"

I jumped. "What?" I responded moodily.

"Don't say that!" My mother entered the kitchen. "It's unbecoming on a young ladies tongue," she chastised.

I rolled my eyes. I couldn't help but sass back. "Is it becoming on someone else's tongue?" I asked.

A bouquet of emotions

It was one of those days. Emily lay on the floor on her old tan carpet. Was the original color tan? Probably, but it was so faded and old it was hard to tell.

It was one of those days where she felt sluggish and dead and disappointed for no reason. Her heart felt heavy and trod upon, and yet she had this bubbling excitement in her. She just wanted to spring up on to her tippy toes and dance around to loud music, despite it being 11:15 pm. And besides, she was comfortable lying on the floor and not moving. Springing on to tippy toes sounded exhausting, and yet she had a mad desire to pirouette around to get out some of this wild and weird energy.

"What the heck?" Emily muttered. She had a crazy streak. She knew it. But this mad desire to squawk out some loud and unearthly noise was such a weird combination with the desire to lie on the carpet and cry.

This was not a normal combination. Wild and crazy energy with tired disappointment. It didn't make sense. It was like an outfit picked by a toddler.

She was picturing the mismatched attire of a child and started to laugh. The laughter soon turned to tears and she rolled on to her stomach and sobbed into the carpet.

"This shouldn't be happening!" Emily whimpered through the tears. "I'm happy. I'm really happy!" Snot welled in her nose and threatened to drip on to her carpet.

"What does it matter?" she thought. "The carpet is already disgusting!" The tissue box was too far away anyway so she didn't care as the tears soaked the carpet and the snot dripped from her nose.

"I just wanted to be happy and just up and dance! This is pathetic!" She dug her fingernails into the carpet, trying to stop the tears. "Why couldn't the wild and sassy emotions have taken over tonight?" The anger was helpful. Now it wasn't just about being miserable for no reason, she had some anger too!

Wait, the anger was unfounded too. "I'm just a whole bouquet of uncalled for emotions tonight!" she said giving the carpet a solid whack. She remembered that it was nearing midnight and she shouldn't wake her housemates.

The tears were slowing. "Screw this, I'm just going bed!" she said grumpily. She set one hand on the carpet to push herself up but it wasn't there. Her tears had melted the carpet and she was falling in to blackness.

I can write.

I decided (at least for a week) to embrace my writing. A dear friend has encouraged me greatly. Told me repeatedly that I am a good writer. It's feel so much easier to protest and drag up all the things that I don't like about my writing. So, for at least a week I am going to embrace my writing as good writing.

I sometimes mix up aught and ought, or brainlessly use the wrong they're/their/there. But somehow knowing that I do know the correct rules makes me feel better about screwing up. Which is weird because I usually think that ignorance is actually better than knowing what's right and wrong and then just going ahead with what's wrong. Whatever, I think my writing is good.

A friend recently asked me, "What is good writing?" I've been thinking about this. Thinking about what I like about my favorite authors. Do I like certain authors or certain books? Do some authors write consistently good things? I think about JK Rowling. I read all the Harry Potter books and loved them. I guess I haven't tried reading her other books, but I didn't even feel compelled to.

I think I usually get into stories, seldom into authors. I'm trying to think of any author that I just had to read everything he wrote.... I think I read everything by Jane Austen. A lot of stuff by C.S. Lewis. A lot of George Mac Donald and a lot of A.A. Milne. Oh and pretty much everything by Kathryn Worth, Ethel Cook Elliot, Kate Seredy, and Baroness Orczy. Wait, nope. That's not true. I didn't read anything by Orczy except for her Scarlet Pimpernel books. I mean, she wrote like 15 of those and I read them all, but I don't think I read anything else by her.

Woah, that was fun! I didn't realize how many authors I admire! I was thinking it would be like 3. But that was 8! I think I was thinking it wouldn't be that many because I was thinking of generally admired authors where I liked some of their books but wasn't crazy about reading all of them like some people do. So authors like Terry Pratchett, Lousia May Alcott, Lucy Maud Montgomery, JK Rowling, JRR Tolkien etc who people just adore.... I mean, I like some of their novels. Maybe even some of my favorite books, but I didn't care about eating up everything they wrote. And I can also think of several of my favorite books but I didn't care about reading more by that author. M.M. Kaye is a perfect example of that. The Ordinary Princess is one of my favorite books, but it's the only children's book she wrote and I didn't want to read any of her long epics. Ella Enchanted is another great one. Can't remember the author this moment, but I read some of her other books and they were fine but not great. And Elizabeth Pope Osbourne (I think that's her name) who wrote Sherwood Ring. SUCH a good book, but I read another by her and it was, again, fine, but not anywhere as good as Sherwood Ring.

So going back to the aforementioned 8 authors. What makes their writing so good that I will read anything they write including a shopping list?!

I'm not gonna answer that just now. I'm gonna focus on what I think is NOT good writing for a moment.

Depressing (in and of itself) is not good writing! Adult content is not good writing. It doesn't have to be compelling, dramatic stuff. Ok, the reverse of good writing is getting me no where. I'm really thinking about A.A. Milne, one of my all time favorite authors. I've even read more than just Winnie the Pooh, but Winnie the Pooh is some of my favorite literature. Why?

(Sidenote a couple with a baby just walked into Starbuck and I desperately want to just go ask them if I can hold their baby! Tears. Eyes. Stinging. Agh!)

It is simple and straight to the point. There is no floweriness about the descriptions. It's just so beautifully crafted! It's heart warming and so very real! I'm sure a lot of it is affection for the books read to me in my childhood, but it's so much more than that because I love the word choices and the capitalization of Important Words. It's just so wonderful! And so much of it is the simplicity!

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you.”

I think this is one of my favorite things in all of literature. Why is it so beautiful? Why does it tug at my heart strings and warm it all at once?

And another perfect description!

“Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has Brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has Brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything.”

I'm sure people have tried to explain the above concept and it takes them entire books and they would never be able to say it that perfectly and concisely.

Winnie the Pooh is full of these one liners that just convey so much truth in one tiny little bite. And it is so endearing and beautiful!

Well, when my friend asked me (I believe after midnight) what makes good writing I didn't have an answer so I asked him right back and he said something like "Someone who writes the truth." I almost wish that I hadn't asked him, because now I feel like I am just stealing his answer. Would I have come up with that on my own? I just came to that conclusion about A.A. Milne without even trying. It's just so obvious.

So, trying to be original and think about what I love about my favorite stories... AH ha! This sentence just discovered something for me. I try too hard to be original! I try to write stories that are new and different and have something new to offer. I want my blog posts to discover some new idea. I want to be original, but original is NOT what makes for good writing. Truth IS what makes for good writing. So if it's true it's gonna be something someone else has said. I don't have to look for originality and saying something in a new and different way. I just need to stick to telling the truth and letting the words come.

"And that's the whole poem," he said. "Do you like it, Piglet?"
"All except the shillings," said Piglet. "I don't think they ought to be there."
"They wanted to come in after the pounds," explained Pooh, " so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come."
"Oh, I didn't know," said Piglet.

Things I have to do

Today I got a late start. It took me forever to do one Duolingo lesson and I just didn't feel like getting up and moving today. I don't feel tired or sluggish. I think I feel a little disappointed and I have no idea why.

Dang! I just noticed that duolingo just autocorrected to dueling, and I now I wish I was taking dueling lessons! That would get me out of bed in the morning!!

Anyhow, I am now at Starbucks. I have a to do list. Hoping I get to it all:

Text niece about birthday
Write blog entry
Write article
Go grab some things at Weis

I slept fine. It took me too long to fall asleep but then I slept fine. I had two dreams. One, I was directing tableaux. There were lots of people standing on chancel and I was talking to a few people in the nave. A very sweet lady I met at Contra was speaking to the children about reverence and I was just in awe of her direction. I was determined to get her on the team for next year.

Apparently tableaux consume my mind year round. I don't really mind. I love Christmas, and I love thinking about the reality of the Christmas story. I think it hits me every year that it is a real story. How real Joseph was and his role in the whole Christmas story.

Anyhow, I'm really excited for Christmas!

I now cannot remember what the second dream was. I texted my niece. I remembered I also have to text my sister in law about this weekend. Now on to my next blog post.

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.

Sharing is scary. I think it's the fear that someone will try to piece together who I am from the things I share.

"What's wrong with that?" you ask? Good question. Because I get to choose what I share, just as I get to choose what I share in a face to face conversation, just as I choose how to present myself with my clothing and hair and everything.

So what is the fear? There is always vulnerability in sharing anything with anyone, but that is the only way we are to be known. And we want to be known, don't we? Is it that we want to craft exactly how we share ourselves with others? So that we don't let some false notion of who we are creep in to the other person's understanding of us? Cause that's totally possible (insert sarcastic voice)!

Therefore writing should be a safer way of letting people in than a conversation. Because you have the ability to stop writing... and think for a moment about how you want to put out an idea from your mind. You can stop in conversations too, but when you write something to share you can stop for days and no one will ever know how long it was between this word.... and the next.

In writing you have the ability to really craft yourself and look at just how you want to present yourself and your ideas to others. So is it really fear than that I'm fighting? Or is it something else? Could it be shame?

Conversations should hold plenty of meaning, but the idea of an article is a well crafted and informed opinion. It's like in college when I would sit down to an exam and the teacher would have a list of essay questions to write down in one of those little blue books. You weren't expected to have your argument fully crafted and beautifully written. But if the teacher gave you the questions ahead of time, then if you didn't do well that was your own fault and you should have spent more time on the questions before the exam.

In college I never cared about my grades, but I did care that my teachers respected me and my work. I was lucky enough to go to a college where the teachers cared so much about their students. My favorite day was when I was walking through the hallways and my professor stopped me, ran back into his office and came back with my paper, flipped open to the last page and showed me that I had gotten an A!

I cared so little for the A, but it meant the world to me that he liked my work and not only that, but also that he was so excited to show me. He wanted to be there.

So why the shame or fear? I think it is the worry that nothing is perfect. I can have a conversation because that's still working through ideas. It's the point of conversing. But in an article I feel like I'm supposed to come to a conclusion. I am supposed to have accomplished something. And I only feel ready to share it if it is perfect.

This touches all areas of my life. For 2017, I created a resolution to learn ukulele.  And to record and share a song at least once a month. So far I've posted at least twice a month. In the summer I started a blog (Hello readers!). I believe that this is my 27th post. For September I decided to paint every day. And to share every day. I've never done oil painting before!

This creativity, I believe, is all in order to get over this ridiculous notion that everything I share ought to be perfect. I post ukulele songs where I make mistakes, or just aren't very polished. I share unfinished paintings and free flowing thought. I have this blog, but I have yet to share any posts with more than a few people because it feels like too big a window into mind.

But so often my writing is an exploration of my thoughts. It isn't usually explaining something to others, it's explaining something to myself. It's exploring a topic so that I can understand my own failings and do better. I just came across this quote and I really like it:

I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand. ― Cecil Day-Lewis

I think that's the crux of it. I have a hard time trying to write something in order to prove a point to someone or to enlighten my reader. I write to sharpen my own thoughts. Convincing others of something seldom works anyway. So I just like to share my ideas and I hope that others get something out of it too.

What the blazes?

... right in the middle of a sentence.

I think I like to fight the cliche of beginning a story with "Once upon a time". So I don't know how else to start one except for abruptly.


Wind and sun. Dry heat. I wandered across the bright meadows. It was lovely and unencumbered. Some kind of white flowers dotted the golden field, but my eyes hardly took it in. I followed on toward the redness blazing ahead of me.

It was growing. Or was it shrinking? Frightened, following my impulse, I started running toward it. It wasn't growing. I was just getting closer to it. It was shrinking, but the rate at which I approached it meant that the size didn't change. It gave the illusion that I was running on a treadmill. It seemed too much like I wasn't moving and all of the sudden I became dizzy and had to drop to the ground, breathing heavily. I looked up at the brightness and could now see that it was shrinking away. In a panic I began running again. I couldn't lose it. I had to make it there in time, even though I didn't know what I was running for. I sprinted, gasping for breath as it pulled away from me. I felt the glow of the redness on my skin. I looked down and instead of seeing the expected red, the light reflected as blue on my skin. It was surreal, but I couldn't register the meaning. I had to reach it before it was completely gone.

I reached out my hand. It was just--

"Stop. Don't do it."

I withdrew my hand guiltily. Who had said that? I looked around. About fifteen yards away there was a man. I didn't know his face, but I trusted him. I trusted him, but I still wanted to know why I shouldn't reach for the redness.

"Why not?" I asked.

At this point the redness was not changing in size, but growing in intensity. It made me long to reach for it, but I refrained, waiting for an answer.

"Because you're not supposed to." He wasn't yelling, but it was like his voice was fighting against a strong wind. "Don't reach for it," he warned again.

"But..." I began. Torn between trust and longing. "But... but I want to!" And the intensity of the redness was creating a storm. I felt pulled toward it and at the same time pushed away. It was as if the unknown man and I were pushing toward a wall of wind and shouting to each other to be heard, and yet we weren't shouting and his voice sounded close, and safe, and I believed him.

"Trust me," he said. And he reached his hand toward me. And I felt intense fear and loneliness. I turned toward the red glow. I could feel the warmth. I took a step.

"Please!" he said, and his hand was a gift in the brightness.

"I can't." I apologized. And I took another step toward the glow. And I began to cry.

Maybe he was right. I stopped. I looked at the hand. The kindness he was offering. The love. I thought I should try. One step toward him. And there was gut wrenching pain and I was crippled. I fell to the ground.

It was a sign. I knew that I should have kept toward the glow. My face turned back toward it. The pain receded a little. I crawled a little bit toward the intensifying red.

"Trust me," the man said again. My eyes were burning with tears. I could feel the drips falling whichever way they chose. One hitting the corner of my mouth, one rolling toward my ear, leaving salty trails on my skin. I didn't even want to turn toward the man. It hurt too much.

"I'm going to crawl into the light," I said. Mostly to myself. I didn't care if he heard.

"Trust me," he said a third time. I chanced a look. Such warmth, but my head split.

"Okay," I whispered. And it tore my throat to say it. I reached out my hand and as I did I could feel the ripping in my chest and I wanted to withdraw, but as soon as my hand touched his it was firmly in his grasp and he pulled me away from the glow. I was being pulled toward safety and to him.

Playing with paint

I'm not a painter. I love paint. I love squirting paint straight on to my canvas and running a paint brush through the creamy blob. Or taking my fingers and smudging the paint around.

It's so much fun to mix colors and make new colors. It's fun to just go with it and see what colors mix when you run a brush across different colors of paint.

I messed around with oils once or twice maybe a year ago? But not really. This September I have launched into oil painting. Painting every day! It's scary, but oils are surprisingly forgiving. I'm not sure why I have always been intimidated by oils, because they are so much fun to play with.

My problem with painting is that I like control. I like crisp defined lines and a plan. That's probably a good thing... to start out with. But I need to be able to let go.

I started a painting of a hand. It turned out so much better than I thought it would. But it was only the beginning. I knew it needed more work, but I didn't know how to fix it or make it better. Therefore I was worried that if I changed it or did anything too it that it could end up worse rather than better.

But advice from a friend let me move forward. She said that there's no virtue in finishing a painting if it means turning it into something you like less just so that it's finished. I had recently painted a bunch of color and movement on a small canvas just to use of some leftover paint. I had no agenda, just throwing paint all over and seeing how it turned out. My friend pointed out that that painting had so much life and moment.

She suggested, and I agreed, that I should just go at it. So I squeezed paint right onto the canvas and used my fingers to mix colors and make patterns. And I had lots of fun just making bright and bold colors on my canvas.

But now the hand I had painted on one side was washed out and gray. But I hadn't known what to do with the hand anyway. The brightness of the new background allowed me to add some red highlights to the skin, and it warmed up the hand and allowed me to fix some of the shapes and lines on the hand.

It's still not perfect, but I am pleased with the outcome because I just played with the paint and let it do its thing.

I like painting because it lets me create and engage, and because it is a metaphor for life.

I need a plan, and maybe even crisp defined lines, and then I need to let go and just see where life takes me. I posted my painting to Facebook and this conversation ensued:

Friend (who had given me the initial encouragement to just go at it): I always paint best when I'm willing to let go and play. Let myself be a vessel for creating rather than the CREATOR. How surprising that it works

Me: Haha. So true. But letting go of the outcome hurts!

Yes, life, letting go of the outcome hurts. But it usually works out for the best!

Why me?

Sometimes in a pickle we find ourselves asking "Why me?"

Why did this have to happen to me?

Do you ever ask yourself, "Why not me?" It's kinda the same question. But I mean it flipped.

We do often look at misfortune befalling another and one of two things could happen. You could say "Why did that have to happen to such a wonderful person?!"  but you could also say, "Glad it wasn't me!"

I don't think of myself as a masochist or wanting anything bad to befall me, but sometimes I look at a friend and genuinely wish that the bad thing had happened to me instead.

Example: My friend got cancer. She's married with two small kids. I genuinely wish that I had gotten cancer instead of her. Maybe it's weird, but she has a beautiful life, and while I do love my life, I don't have two small kids who I now cannot even pick up and hold.

In short, I'm expendable and she's not. That might seem harsh and like a terrible thing to say about myself, and I don't mean it quite as badly as all that. Maybe the truth is that I should not view myself as expendable. I should realize my value to this world, and I do, at times.

But this isn't meant to be a depressing post. I just wish that sometimes I could take the fatigue or sickness from a friend so that they could go on and power through the hardships of their life! How do I take some of the burden from my friends so that they can go forward in strength?

Weather and painting

I haven't written for several days. So though I have nothing to say today I just have to write. I want to extol the weather.  It's beautiful out and I wish I had something to do. Maybe that sounds lame. Maybe it is lame, but I've tried several friends and they all already have plans today. So I must motivate myself to get out and make the most of this day.

But first I must paint. It's painting month. For me, at least. I decided that I would paint every day for September. I didn't set any other rules. So I guess I could paint my nails, though I'd know that was cheating. When I did watercolors two years ago, I painted a new picture every single day. This year, because I'm working with oils, I can add and change the ones I've already started. One lazy day I just added a blue background to a sunflower I painted, and that was it for the day. But it's the 9th and I've already painted 6 different paintings. Or kinda 7, because I did two different-ish paintings on one canvas, and I haven't painted today. I'll probably work on an "old" one today though.

So, anyhow, it's beautiful day, I love painting. I have good friends, I'm just sad they're all doing things today.

Cozy longings

I feel like a different person when Fall weather hits. I feel renewed and excited. Sometimes it's just the wardrobe change and being able to wear cozy sweatshirts again, but it's more than just the clothing. The atmosphere is just different. I feel happy and cozy now that I can wear comfy clothes and pile on the blankets and hot cocoa, but the air is refreshing and life giving. It's cold and gray today and I love it.

But there is also something of longing in fall weather. It always brings on some nostalgia. The memories of apple picking and leaf raking, some going back to my childhood. But wherever those memories fall on my timeline they are close and far and all just out of reach, and that can bring on sadness.

I don't feel sad today, but there's always that cozy longing that comes with this weather. I love the gray skies and chilly drizzle, and I long for the crisp blue October days!

No matter what's in store this fall, it feels renewing and hopeful.

Enough

If life isn't good enough, what are you saying? Are you saying that God has not provided for you? Are you saying that His timing is not good enough for you?

When life isn't good enough, how do you make it enough?

How do you make it good enough?

I think of the parable of the talents, which I will insert here.

For the kingdom of heaven is like a man traveling to a far country, who called his own servants and delivered his goods to them. And to one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one, to each according to his own ability; and immediately he went on a journey. Then he who had received the five talents went and traded with them, and made another five talents. And likewise he who had received two gained two more also. But he who had received one went and dug in the ground, and hid his lord’s money. After a long time the lord of those servants came and settled accounts with them. (Matthew 25:14-19)

The first two doubled their amount and the last servant buried his money. It's an obvious story. The money are called talents! Take your gifts and make use of them. Even if you think that the Lord should have or could have given you more.

In the story of the talents each servant gains more by using the ones he has. Instead of waiting for the Lord to provide, they use what they already have and receive more from the Lord.

There's no waiting. It's just doing and the Lord provides. And the servants aren't doing and looking over their shoulders for approval saying "Ok, Lord, I did my thing. Can I get some approval? Can I get some more? Some of what I want?" They're just doing, cause it's the right thing to do.

It's obvious, but we're supposed to be content with our lot in life. Do what we can with what we are given and make the most of it. Being discontent or thinking that our lives aren't good enough is entirely our own fault. No matter how bad our lives are we can keep trusting in the Lord and believe in His plan and do as much as we can with what we are given and eventually receive the words we long for:

Well done, good and faithful servant; you were faithful over a few things, I will make you ruler over many things. Enter into the joy of your lord.

Welcoming the Unexpected.

A man just biked past me on the trail. Our eyes only met for a split second. But on that brief smile there was something of warmth.

I don't know what he was thinking, but I can make something up.

The smile said "How lovely to see you here on this trail!" His smile held surprise, or some hint that he didn't expect me. Not that he knows me, but that he knows the trail. It was the look of someone on a normal path seeing something out of place, but not unwelcome.

He was expecting other cyclists, or joggers. He wasn't expecting to see a girl who woke up this morning to fall chill and put on cozy fall attire just to go for a walk.

I don't know what this man thought. It wasn't a double take or any such thing, just a smile that lasted the blink of an eye, but left a warmth with me for the kindness I saw.

A Crappy Poem

Poetry isn't something I really get.

As soon as I think one I start to forget.

I don't care for rhyming and metre and such.

It's just, for my brain, a little too much.

So here I try to write as I walk.

I say it aloud. To myself I talk.

The leaves are changing to my favorite weather.

It's cold enough now to wear boots of leather.

Of course my boots are made of some plasticy stuff,

That doesn't last well: they're beginning to scuff.

This poem is winding all over the place.

Like the wind that is driving my hair in my face.

This is the first poem I've written in years.

I'm not sure I'll post it because of my fears.

Yet what is the harm of posting this drivel?

If anything it's teaching my brain not to shrivel.

For having to keep some structure intact,

Forces me to use words more apt.

And sometimes the rhyming is a little bit forced.

And therefore the word choices are kinda the worst.

I'm getting more sloppy. It's making me stressed.

Now I'll go back to writing the stuff I like best.