“The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.” ~ Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way Continue reading In Proportion, Always, to the Capacity for Delight
Especially if they are ordinary, common words, but dancing on the page in a way that sweeps me up and pulls me into another sphere, that is a gifted writer. And I will stop, and hold the book to my chest, and sigh, and hold onto the moment for a moment. Continue reading It is well
There is wisdom in these woods. It is time to begin again. Continue reading Clearing Space
My mood is always more settled, almost nestled in and snug and happy, when I am tending to the needs of my soul. Continue reading Body in Motion
I have gotten out of the habit of writing, and my world is suffering. The walls start closing in on me when my creativity is on hiatus. When I am drawn like a moth to bad news, and the marching feet of the demise of our civilization, I sit stoop-shouldered and spineless and terrified – sucked into more and more bad news and my head … Continue reading Books will Save Us
How incredibly odd. My mind is still. I have been in constant conflict for so long, I don’t know what to do with a settled, contentedness. I will learn. For so long, there was always at the back of my mind a battle raging. There was so much love, and yet so much disappointment and angst. I grew up in the church, but my … Continue reading Roaring Quiet of an Open Space
No matter what anyone says or does, my task is to be good. Like gold or emerald or purple repeating to itself, “No matter what anyone says or does, my task is to be emerald, my color undiminished.” ~ Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (A.D. 121-180), Meditations And yet, it is such a joy to be found, to have someone say out loud what we ourselves … Continue reading Like Gold or Emerald or Purple Repeating to Itself
Katagiri Roshi says, “Our goal is to have kind consideration for all sentient beings every moment forever.” This does not mean put a good poem on paper and then spit at our lives, curse our cars, and cut off someone on the freeway. It means carry the poem away from the desk and into the kitchen. That is how we will survive as writers, … Continue reading Let the Whole Thing Flower
We’re so sorry Uncle Albert But we haven’t done a bloody thing all day We’re so sorry Uncle Albert But the kettle’s on the boil and we’re so easily called away This song popped into my head when the boys arrived home from school, and I realized that I hadn’t done much today, but read blogs, and look at things on the internet. I’m wanting … Continue reading “But The Kettle’s on the Boil and We’re so Easily Called Away”
My father told me when I was young that “Thoughts untangle themselves when they cross our lips or pencil tips.” We develop as humans when we discuss ideas with others, or when we wrestle them out on paper. When we are in dialogue – either with others or internally – we learn and grow and broaden our minds and infuse our spirit with the sparks of … Continue reading The Sustenance of the Psyche
Mystics hear voices. the question “Do you hear voices?” is used to sort the sane from the insane. And yet, as artists, we do hear voices and most insistently when we seek the guidance for our art. We are led. We are prompted. We are urged. We are called. ~ Julia Cameron, from The Complete Artist’s Way, the 2nd Book, Walking in This World Every … Continue reading Mystics Hear Voices
As artists living with the drone of commerce, we have forgotten that “rest” is a musical term, and that to hear the music of our lives as something other than a propulsive drumbeat, driving us forward as the war drums drove men into bloody battle, we may need to rest. The ego hates to rest. The ego doesn’t want to let God, or sleep, … Continue reading Soul Candy
When Scott and I were first married, and setting up our home together, I was unpacking boxes of files to put into the office, and came across an envelope full of sentences he’d had his boys write as a consequence for behavior that got them into trouble. I sat on the floor flipping through these pages, laughing until I cried. Scott didn’t ever just have … Continue reading “I Will Not Pretend That My Hands Don’t Work”
This time is the time I feel closest to the page; here, at this table, with a warm cup of coffee, now, in the wee hours, dark all around me, sun not ready to peak over the ridge for several hours, children still tucked into bed, silent for these few hours. Silence. Golden. Shimmering. Silver-plated. Polished. Vibrant. In a few more minutes, there will be … Continue reading This is the time I feel closest to the page
T.S. Eliot is another one of my favorite poets. The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, perhaps, being one of the most haunting and beautiful poems I have ever read. He has a way of speaking that is lilting, and ominous at the same time. This morning, I read East Coker, one of the poems in the book, Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot. Here is a … Continue reading Between the Two World Wars
