Only a Brownie-Cutter & Not a King

It was the 1st anniversary of the death of her friend’s father, and she couldn’t put into words what she wanted to say.  The text she started now felt flat and dry and wholly inadequate. She was tempted to take up her bible and insert a profound and prolific verse she had scraped up, last minute, to wield in a highly spiritual fashion, complete with the words, “I will be praying for God’s comfort for you.”  She did that sometimes, and while she always meant it, today she stopped and thought first.  She thought about what it would be like to reach a 1-year milestone of losing someone you loved so dearly.  The Bible always has words; how to use them was always the question.

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Barefeet & Saturdays

These are the days that inspire her to write.
She spent her morning in the shadow of the sun; spent her afternoon feeling its gaze and spent her evening watching it go down.  Everything bathed in the light now suddenly curling back into its folds of gray dusk.
It would be too easy to spend her whole life like this – sitting on the couch, barefoot with cello and piano music singing in her ear.  There is a cold salad on the seat next to her and her notebook lies open – the words bubble out: “garden and daffodils.  Tulips and frying pans.  Speak well and speak softly.  You cannot take the whisper of your life back.  It is a yellowed tulip-browned with age and weather.  Dream deeply.  Dream of heaven often.”

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Freeways & Late Nights

it’s been a month of wild happenings and gray skies and too many hours of staring at the same white screen.

it’s been a month of morning workouts and nighttime rituals of tea and books and curling up in a blanket next to a not-fire (because there is no fireplace, hence the not-fire).

it’s been a year.  well, it’s a new year.

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dear diary – not forsaken

oh hello, words on a page.  hello, white screen and black keys and blank, lifeless thoughts.  I feel as though someone stuck a tube into my brain and sucked out all of the words and deep thoughts and contemplative reasonings that give way to profound words and poetic phrases.  Lately, it’s been nothing. I have had no inspiration.  Everyone says, write.  Just write.  But how can you write when you cannot write and you have not one undying word left in you?

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dear diary – old poets

when I think of old poets, I think of shriveled men with wispy gray hair trailing in long tentacles down their faces; their beards long and disheveled.  A glass of cold rum sits on their desk; their teeth stained with it, their breath smelling of it.  They wear old spectacles and bite on the ends of number two pencils with their stained teeth. Thinking, pondering.  If poets are such creatures, I will not be one of them, for alas, I am neither male nor fond of drinking rum.  But here are a few of my poems. I don’t know if they are poems.  Maybe songs. Maybe stories.  Maybe wrapped figments of thought.  You decide.

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dear diary – tried and true

I have been writing elsewhere for several months, thus, the lapse in a continual flow of words.  That’s ok.  I have learned a lot, but I’m coming back home in a way.  I like the simple, unhurried, uncluttered look of this blog, so I have decided to reroute, re-do and return to my roots (like the alliteration? I did it especially for you).

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dear diary – hope. always. forever.

Yesterday at church, I was Mary.  I stood and read those all familiar verses about Mary and for the first time, I realized the enormity of Mary’s need for her own Son.  Like, crazy, right?  That “this Child that [she] delivered would soon deliver [her]”.   Later, I watched the Nativity movie, and Mary held her Son out to a wizened old shepherd man, as if to say, “He’s for you too.  No one escapes the need for this baby. ”

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