Yes...oh, yes

A whisper, no more than...a pause in time.

He left us.

His body, yearning for freedom, took its time...

grasping earth's limitations 'til each beloved one arrived

with

hugs,

weeping

and

fond laughter...

oh, yes.

**********

Humbly unwilling to voice the inner determination,

his life spoke volumes....

Yes, I will work faithfully, providing for my family.

Yes, I will love from my heart, unafraid of sentimentality.

Yes, I can crack-up my family with corny jokes and word-plays.

Yes, I will be a proud WWII Veteran against war.

Yes, I will be here for

my wife,

my children,

my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Yes, I will quietly walk with my God.

**********

Yes, to France, Mt. Whitney and Kentucky.

Yes, to the Grand Canyon, Maine, New York; and D.C.;

to Boston on the Fourth of July!

Yes, to cross-country trips,

graduations, weddings and births.

**********

Yes, to fearlessly striking up meaningful conversations.

From his grand children's friends, to the mail lady.

From fellow hikers,

to the Egyptian gentleman on an unsavory commuter bus

traveling from NYC to Bayone, NJ.

From skinny dippers at the base of the Grand Canyon,

to waitresses at "Helen's Restaurant" in Machias, ME,

and, Mary, our favorite, at the "Depot Diner" in Beverly, MA.

Sincerely interested, his humble, inclusive demeanor

always resulted in shared dialog,

regardless of opinions, lifestyles or religious views.

Yes, to treasured interactions...yes.

**********

A Christmas Eve whisper...a breath...a pause in time.

He left us.

A cachexic body, longing for its freedom...slipped away.

Beyond our grief, the world rushes on...

Yet, in quietness,

eternal integrates into mortal,

infusing each of us with his blessed YES,

now...and forevermore.

Fabulous sunset photographed

on Upper Lopez Canyon Rd.

November 2010.

Words fail...

Significance
　
Creation’s vastness reverberates, often uncomfortably,
within our humanity, our smallness,
our sense of significance.
Deepest chasms, highest peaks,
endless sky and untamed seas,
all unknown,
beyond our comprehension.

What of a person,
a solitary life,
no more than a speck--insignificant?
Womb crystals we are,
infused with emotions rivaling Everest;
awash in longings tangible as rain.
What of our magical brain tissue and fired-off synapses,
housed in protective bone…does anyone care?

Breathless at the top of another long hill,
I spy, there!, amid the tangled brush
edging a lonely road: beauty!
Clusters of many tiny pink-cream flowers
marching in perfect intervals up dry, white stems.
Each pale flower, separately lovely, lightly scented,
Yet one within its cluster.

Insignificant? Minute? Unworthy of attention?
Painted with a skillful joy-brush, ever painstakingly,
each tiny, flowered miracle opens in response to its Creator.
My heart begs, “Am I not of more value than these?”
In my pain and my struggling,
in each tentative, healing step,
or with arms wide open to peaceful joy?

Myriad leaves shout their answers; each flower whispers, Yes!
Songbirds trill out symphonies; varied grasses hum in tune.
Ancient oaks reach out to comfort; scuttling quail cluck, “We know, too!”
Breathe in deep assurance, from creation’s endless song:
you are significant,

as you are;

ever purposefully led,
gently sustained,
tenderly held…
and
one with all of these.
　

For Bill...fondly

Remembering...this year, though often unaware, entangled in the present. A date etched in memory, "Oh yes, Bill's birthday."

Remembering...this year, hundreds of moments forming the timeless essence of you. Work shirts monogrammed with CFL, my first time ever inside a big rig parked in front of the house on Walnut Street, the scent of tobacco in the cab. Gruffness and caring, yes, I knew, I knew you cared.

Remembering...this year, the wrenching grief, the regrets...the if onlys, as you said good-bye to Nancy. We stumbled through; you lost your way. Stacks of unopened mail, soiled clothing, wilting vegetables from the loading dock...agonizing reminders of what was and what could never be again.

Remembering...this year, the joy...healed through a second love, whom we tried to accept. You blossomed and bloomed, living fully in that teeming city, with your Love, no longer lonely. We smiled when you visited, looking ten years younger, clad in sophistication, but the same old Bill.

Remembering...this year, the assurance you would watch over our little girl as she began college in Manhattan. How she loved reconnecting with a grand-dad always too far away. Such concern those first days , how you helped me move her in and showed us the city; your slacks slipping off your thin frame in the college elevator, your dentures clacking as we ate lunch, your inability to manage time restraints...sweet memories, all.

Remembering...this year, how we knew. We knew you were too thin, and that cough..we knew. All the phone calls, the prayers, the encouragement, while the big"C" stole you, painfully, away. Beckie trudged the city streets weeping, though she had spent hours by your side, and knew it was "only a matter of time."

Twelve years have come and gone, Bill. Would it please you to know we carry on? At moments you are alive in each of us when the spark of memory flames. Your son, almost your clone, carries valiantly on. The ragged tear in his soul filled with the scent of diesel fuel and a nightly cigar, identical to yours. Until I understood, I complained.
Only a touchstone they are,
a reaching for your hand across time...
and...
remembering.

Evensong

A record-breaking heat spell kept me out on our deck until dark yesterday evening. Weary from a long day at work, watering my drooping plants revived my spirits. As I was spraying all the plants on the deck, two hummingbirds zipped and zoomed and chatted nearby. Realizing they were as hot as I was, I began to spray them as they sat on the branches of the nearby elderberry. They preened and squeaked and lifted their wings appreciatively in the fine mist, while I watched, spellbound, until my thumb tired of pressing on the hose.
In the deepening dusk, several lovely mule deer, young bucks and does, came to our water trough, then stayed close to munch on fallen acorns, unafraid of my presence just above them. A dozen or so wild turkeys have chosen the huge oak above the deck as their bedroom and it was quite amusing to see them get a running start and awkwardly fly up into the branches, settling themselves for the night. As the stars revealed themselves, crickets began playing their joyous music in 4/4 time. Pungently scented by various chaparral flora, night gently descended upon Camp French.
Bliss...

Treasure

Books are a gift, a glittering present to one's self.
Treasures, borne from the soul of another, spill out into well-shaped words, resting naked and ever so vulnerable on smooth paper.

Visually caressing the cover and bindings, the bookworm quivers in anticipation.
With enormous tactile pleasure, sensitive fingers eagerly smooth back the cover, inhaling the scent of creativity, at once both familiar and comforting.

Oh, the world rushes on...who cares? Politicians and pundits yammer on to audiences unknown...tomorrow, I'll listen.
Curled up for now in a favorite place, a purring Smokey on my lap, I am comfy and settled.
Ahhh, such delight...my life-long pleasure: just me, my cat and a brand new book!

A Gift!

Just the same old drive home: the same big potholes; those bushes, these trees. Damp night air wafts in through the half-open window, scented with sage and dry grasses.

One hand grips the steering wheel; the other massages the same old, aching neck. A butter yellow moon casts its glow in the valley below; surrounding hills, like sentinels, keep their timeless watch.

Work shoes off, the same old, weary bare feet bask in the vented, fog-cooled air. Oh, me,...this same old, long drive home; up this hill, carefully navigating these blind curves, that…oh!…oh, goodness, can it be? I've...I've never seen one...!

There! By the side of the road…

A diminutive monkey-faced gentleman in downy white britches staring straight at me!

Saucer-eyes blink in the headlights, gazing and turning away, undismayed, undisturbed.

Tired neck forgotten; tears prickle, my heart soars. Seconds pulse with wonder, timeless and calm. A gift, a joyful gift, transcending words.

The Creator's gift…without price,
lavishly
p
o
u
r
e
d

out :

hallowed unity…with a barn owl!"

July 17, 2010

For dear friends and family, old and new, for the fun carriage rides, the delicious BBQ, the dancing, the heartfelt tributes, the beautiful setting, the laughter of all the little ones, the presence of elderly family members,

Lord, we thank thee!

*********************************

Grandma & Evelyn Ruth spot the horses!

Grandma & Adeline Elizabeth waiting for the "Princess Carriage"

The Wedding Party Arrives!

"And I know..."

*****

Alan Conrow

Mike Conrow

Laura Conrow Liskey

Gorgeous Cake!

First dance

Gramps giving words of wisdom

Dancing!

Getting ready for the big event!

Ginny baking for the cookie bar; Laura at the wholesale flower market;

Laura in her decorating mode; beautiful bottles awaiting fresh flowers.

For Aaron & Beckie's California Ceremony

With Courage...

With courage we leap into the arms of our beloved.
Upon our backs? A knapsack filled with hopes and dreams.

We love imperfectly, yes, but how can it be otherwise?
Bringing to one another every particle of ourselves,
with courage, we allow. Becoming open and vulnerable,
yet desirous of protection, hand in hand, we meld
all we have been, with all we hope to be.

Each day, each moment becomes a rehearsal for the next,
as we laugh, weep and strive together with courage.
Life opens before us, resplendent with intricate patterns,
sometimes embraced with joy, sometimes avoided with trembling.

With courage, we give to each other all that we are
and all that we have. No longer alone, we gaze as one on the
Author of our love. In triune harmony, stepping out,
we run, we walk, we cower, we love, we cry, we comfort
and encourage. We say, yes, with courage, until parted by death.

A Piece of Peace

One thought grows to merge with others, while others jump on for the ride.
Thoughts, not reality, swell into an unseen tempest, frothy with angst.

He said, she said; what right do they have, anyway? They should know; they should care!
How dare they rain on my parade?

And, further more, how could they have intimated this and that?
They've done it before. Oh, the selfishness, the spitefulness!

Bottom-feeding in the lake of despondency, bitterness sneaks in to every crevice.
The cycle completed, stagnation grows, and all is black.

Actors and actresses repeat their lines. The stage? Almost palpable.
Almost... Only almost. Almost.
Not...not really...
not reality.
Oh...

Reality is now; this tree, that bush, the sky, the breath, the grass, the birdsong, a voice.
All in this moment, the present...reality.

Tangled thoughts gradually unravel; the fraying ends spray shards of light.
Light and lightness begin to dawn, opening the way...opening the way to Truth.

A sigh, a breath a pause in the secrecy of thought. In stillness and calm, a bit of peace seeps in.
A small piece, radiating inward and out; a wholly delightful, utterly satisfying piece of...
peace!

Letting Go

How many times do I have to stumble and fall?
How many times...??
When did I forget past grief from emotions worn raw?
Was it not enough: the memories, the stern self-dialogue, the prayers?


Apparently not! Yes, I went there again, with emotions untamed.
I stirred the pot with a dirty spoon; contaminating all who partook.
Words spiked with acid hurled, unafraid...and now, grief...again.
I could, forever, drown in these juices of bitter regret, hoping to never again inflict pain.


Presently, stewing still, I pause...to listen.
Wisdom gently whispers, "Let it go."
"Let go and let God", yes, I've heard it all before.
Be still...and know, He says. With much trepidation, I finally...allow.

Sitting in stillness, I slowly unclench my hands, I breathe in, I relax my jaw.
I gently let go...and let God.

Thoughts upon turning 59....

You know, life is a funny thing. Just when you think you know, you don't.

You work hard trying to "get it all together" and blam! you fall flat on the ground.

Sometimes, you just don't want to pick yourself up again.

Disappointment, condemnation and self-loathing rear their ugly heads.

Ha! When I was a teen, I thought life would be easy by now...

The joke is on me! God isn't finished with me yet, I guess.

As I look towards the next decade, I breathe in the present, this moment.

And, for this moment, I'll think of my youngest grand-daughter, Evelyn Ruth,

who joyfully runs into each moment with arms and hands wide open.

She runs with joy and laughter, often falling, but picking herself up to run again.

On this day, my natal day, spent slogging about in gloom,

I finally remember I can choose. I pick myself up again.

I choose arms and hands wide open...this moment.

Grandma & her girls enjoying the wedding reception in PA!

THE BRIDE!

Mr. & Mrs. Bayles! Church of the Good Shepherd, Bryn Mawr, PA

SURPRISED!

Wow, what a nice surprise! Another submission was accepted by the Women's Press of SLO!
Too bad there is no financial compensation, but this is a beginning for me and a confidence builder!

Who Am I?

I've lived as a chameleon,
deftly changing
to assuage others' expectations.

Who am I, Lord?
I beg to understand.
Not for others, but for me!

To see with soul eyes.
To know MY opinions,
wisdom, creativity and,
yes, to know my very heart,
this my deepest prayer.

With miniscule awareness,
I fearfully allow...allow rivulets of truth,
to erode their way in to
my long-barricaded soul.

Trickles of poignant delight
form new patterns,
borne, bittersweet, from my pain.

Each moment? A revelation, as
scales fall from my eyes!
I am...me..this moment and it is good.

No longer performing as a chameleon,
deftly changing
to assuage others' expectations,
I relax.

This fragile new pattern, just begun,
may it continue...for the next moment
and the next
and the next...

This evening I enjoyed the absolute bliss of solitude, listening to the 3rd movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony (a sworn favorite!), with our Smokey kitty on my lap! Ahhhh....

AN INSPIRATION

I SAW YOU...

Driving in to town, I saw you, this morning,

peddling your heart out:

white, lumpy thighs,

plain helmet,

inexpensive bike.

A good half course behind the sleek, the muscular,

the swift, the experienced riders, you peddled on,

and I blessed you in my heart.

From my kitchen window, I saw you, late this afternoon,

your stride was painful,

determined,

slow;

barely a jog/walk.

The bored high school volunteers at our gate

merely glanced your way, thankful to be relieved of their

lonely post at the furthest station from the finish line.

I blessed you in my heart.

From my deck, I saw you, on the dirt road, a single mile to go.

Noticeably absent were the fans,

the volunteers offering water,

and fellow triathletes.

Alone, yet brave, you persevered, virtually unnoticed.

But, I saw you. I blessed you and thanked you from my heart;

grateful for your gift to me of...

courage.

My precious Grand-daughters!

Waiting...

Thankfully, we have a private space this visit, set apart from the main Emergency Room, where patients' only privacy is a wrinkled fabric curtain. Tucked up to his chin for warmth with two thin, flannel sheets I found on a cart in the hallway, he relaxes. Elderly and frail, his cheeks are sunken, his parched lips are half open and his eyes are closed. His apnea-induced snorts direct my attention to the monitors: oxygen saturation 92% on room air; blood pressure quite low, but the intravenous fluids will take care of that. Mother has returned home to let the dog out, eat a snack and elevate her aching knee. Alone, keeping vigil and comforting his disoriented awakenings, I wait in this windowless room where time has no meaning, save the monitors' beeping and the fragments of rushed conversations in the hallway.

A young nurse steps in, asking if I would like to leave for a moment while she checks his more private parts. I've see them all, but take my leave, hoping to salvage a bit of his dignity. The day is quite warm outdoors, with a soft breeze ruffling the flowers who appreciatively nod their heads. In riotous summer bloom, the landscaping is beautiful: reds, pinks, blues, yellows and oranges all vying for attention among the greens of their foliage. Quite easily, I could...imagine...myself at an upscale eatery, a charming antique store or a local wine tasting venue, each with their flowers beckoning visitors to stop and stay a while. I notice a pollen- covered bee nestling in a red day lily, while a thirsty Swallowtail butterfly unfurls his tongue in the center of a bright Gerbera Daisy. Finches in the parking lot bicker over a carelessly discarded cookie, scattering in all directions as a car drives by. The world is throbbing with life, but I...am devoid of feeling, it's easier that way.

Turning away, my feet, resolutely, take me back to the little room. Aware of my return, he asks where I've been. Ever my dad, he hopes I've been to the cafeteria for a "good meal." I laugh as I tell him, "good meal and hospital cafeteria can rarely be used in the same sentence!" He smiles, relaxing back into the pillows while I smooth his sheets, tucking them up to his chin for warmth. In the windowless room, time ceases to matter. The monitors' beeping accompanies my thoughts, as I resume my perch on the stool, to watch...and wait. Heartwrenchingly old and frail, he lies there: sunken cheeks, mouth half open, parched lips, eyes closed. We are waiting...waiting together; together...waiting for answers.

Neglect

I glance at him and realize I haven’t seen him move his left arm all afternoon. It sits, comfortably ensconced in his lap, where it has sat for hours. He is as happy as a clam, sitting on the patio with me, deep into another competitive game of Scrabble. His left-brain logic is just fine, thank you, and he is darn comfortable with it.

Earlier, he had asked for today’s newspapaper with the unfinished crossword puzzle. “I do my crossword puzzles in pen, Sweetie,” he said, waving away my pencil with the good chunk of eraser on top. “Can’t you find me a pen?” I shrugged and found him a pen. And, back to the present, come to think of it, that left leg hasn’t moved an inch, either. “I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly, when I bring it to his attention. “I'm bad!"
"Would you stop that," I laugh as I whack him with the Scrabble score pad.

Neglect: a medical term describing, simply, a manifestation common among stroke patients wherein they are unable to, or prefer not to recognize body parts affected by the stroke. Some patients lose both movement and sensation in the affected extremities, while others have almost a kind of hypersensitivity, yet no movement. My dad falls into the latter category. I have heard humorous stories from rehab therapists regarding this phenomenon. They related tales of patients who thought the affected extremity belonged to their spouse or who thought the limb was missing. One justifiably terrified patient thought his arm was a wild animal in bed with him! Most patients, their lives turned upside down and inside out, just tend to ignore the affected extremities. How else to cope with the loss of functions taken for granted: mobility, a myriad of speech, taste and swallowing abilities, emotional stability, bowel and/or bladder function, to name but a few?

In my dad’s case, along with his left sided hemiplegia, his right-brain function was invisibly altered. His ability to self-cue is diminshed, he struggles with emotional instability and he is unable to explain himself when he is not feeling well. How on earth must that reality feel in the depths of one’s self-awareness? Pensive, by nature, my personal sphere of reality is often influenced by a right-brained “muse.” My muse perpetuates uninvited feelings, scattered emotions, and a keen awareness of emotional and physical pain in those with whom I interact. Actually, there are times when I would like that muse to cease. When feelings or intuitions threaten to overwhelm, I want to shut it down, and please, please, let my logical, Spock-like, left-brain have its say!

As I am writing, clarity dawns. Possessing adequate portions of left-brain logic, I compently function where God has placed me. My mix also contains heaping portions of right-brain flexibility, compassion, responsiveness to beauty, a tendency towards the illogical, intuitive understanding and creativity. NEGLECT! How very often have I neglected my own persona, instead of receiving it as a gift? Abba, Father...of course, you knew.

We sit out on the patio today, our two brains forming a terrific whole. He can beat the heck out of me in Scrabble remembering obscure crossword puzzle gems, and I remind him to move his arm, his leg and work his tongue for a stronger swallow. He regales me with explanations about the inner workings of the wireless modem on his laptop computer and I patiently explain, yet again, why his diminished right-brain function would make him dangerous in the driver’s seat. Yes, we flow, flow in synch, out here on the patio...blessed to be together...for one more day.

More...from the heart...a difficult time

Driving…request denied


He said, “Let’s go for a drive.”
Watching the breeze play with our napkins. I replied, with feigned ignorance, “Sure, where would you like me to take you?"
He knows I know what he means, but it is our game.
Smiling ruefully, he says, “I only need my right hand to drive, anyway.” He knows my answer, quickly retorted in jest, “Request denied!” Laughter covers the grief, the pangs of which stab deep in the places we dare not often go. We know, and we both know that we know.

Inevitable, of course, was this decline and, eventualy death. Surely, death would be swift; a non-fulfillment of his fear of suffering and becoming a "burden". Perhaps out on the trail, alone in the Sierras or atop his beloved Valencia Peak in Montana de Oro; maybe after chopping wood or taking Rascal up the hill for their twice daily expedition, he would, in one breath, fly to Jesus. No debilitating illness, lingering, or dependency. The sudden sadness would be swift guillotine to our hearts, but, later, a peace would settlle, knowing this was what he wanted. Yes, of course, this was how it was supposed to have happened...

In his red power wheelchair, shaded from the bright sun, he gamely grinned at my answer. Peering with rheumy eyes over the rim of his sunglasses, he reached across the Scrabble board, he glancing my way, triumphantly. “Watch this!” he said, plunking the tiles on a triple word score complex.
“You’re killing me!” I screech.
He smiles and thumbs his nose at me.

The fateful call came the evening of July 4, 2008. At home, we were sitting down to tri-tip, grilled to perfection by our son-in-law. On the phone, my mother’s voice was frantic, “I’m at the ER and they think your dad has had a stroke.” Hmmm, laughing and squeezing lime into my drink one instant and the next instant…well...there are...no words. A small stroke, they said: a vertibrobasilar ischemic attack in the right hemisphere. A small area of ischemia it was, with a huge pay-off: the loss of bladder function, the use of his left leg and arm, along with changes in his right brain emotional and judgment faculties.

From a local hospital, he was transported to a rehabilitation facility in Santa Barbara, two hours away. With God as my Solace, my Touchstone, during the next five weeks, I became his advocate, his watch-dog, his company. My parents' new vulnerability cut to my soul as I functioned on automatic pilot at full speed, unable to do anything less. My own family was infinitely supportive and helpful. We were all optimistic…we heard many stories of “complete recoveries”. My dad just knew he could “beat this.”

Months pass in blurs of doctor appointments, skin breakdowns, medications, bowel regimens, urinary infections, poor appetite, pain, anxiety and depression. A shadow of her former self, my mother lovingly attends to my dad around the clock, day in and day out, never wavering in her commitment to: “in sickness and in health.” Much time is spent with them, affording my mother a break, helping with the care giving, keeping my dad occupied with pleasant activities, while feeling greatly blessed to have him still with us.

And so it was, on that sunny, warm day, deep into our game of Scrabble, he gazed, with longing, at his faithful white pick-up truck.
“I don’t know... if I can live...with the thought of never driving again. I don’t need my left side to drive.”
“Request denied!” I laugh back.
We pick up the game where we left off, as if nothing happened, continuing down to the last tile. Hours later, exhausted, on the long drive home, I'm alone with my thoughts. The lonely road is dark and…my steering wheel is wet with tears.

Seasons of Change

The past few years have brought seasons of enormous changes. Some embraced with joy, some fought and kicked against with all my strength. For anyone with the patience to read through any of these posts, please know they are from my heart. Should God use them to encourage you on your journey, I would be thrilled. The help and encouragement I have received along the way, has brought forth a fount of creativity in a voice and spirit which is fully ME and not the me I always thought I should be.

After this initial deluge of posting, due to some free time, the posts will be sporadic and in proportion to the amount of courage I have regarding knowing others might view my writings!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

BLISS


Running gear on, my shoes all laced up,
My poor body groans, I’m not a young pup!
Thousands of worries clutter up my mind,
World news, finances, my own daily grind.

But, a dirt road leads to an arm of the lake.
Anticipation grows with each step I take.
My senses enlivened by scent, light and sound,
I halt in my tracks to gaze all around.

A giant blue heron, disturbed, now take wing.
An amazing orange oriole flutters and sings.
Among the acrid marshes, little ducks dive and glide,
And birds flee the bushes as I chuff along side.

This evening so magical, so poignantly sweet,
Draws me into this moment, this second so fleet.
My spirit is grateful and I pause to look up.
I am choosing rich blessings from the Creator’s cup.

Choosing this very moment…
Bliss.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

MID-LIFE

She wears a straitjacket,
quite neatly hidden under an acceptable facade.

She wears a straitjacket,
a perfect fit; snugly and comfy from years of wear.

She wears a straitjacket.
The straps are labeled: control, fear, shame,
criticism, unmet expectations, guilt.

She wears a straitjacket,
so very neatly hidden under a perfectly controlled,
always acceptable facade.

No one knows...know one ever guesses...
and she would never admit...beneath her facade,
all she wants to do is...
dance...Create...and...SOAR!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

AFTER ALL...JOY

May I remind you? Have you forgotten?
You are undeserving, you know.
Others may deserve joy, but, after all,
you are not what you should be and you know it.

Just look at the rubble you've created, after all.
Remember the unmet goals,
unfinished projects,
unfulfilled expectations,
imperfect emotions...
and you expect joy?

Really now, who are you kidding?
After all, only the powerful,
the driven,
the successful
deserve joy.

Yes, you may have some noble attributes:
intuitive compassion,
sensitivity,
empathy,
a passion for beauty.
Nothing stellar,
mere signposts on the road to nowhere.
As for joy, you have to earn it!

I falter...I...Stop!! Stop right here and breathe!
Touching the silence in my soul,
the glowing core of my very being
strengthens with each breath.
The Past is enveloped by Present light. And,
after all,
my accuser does not have the final say.

In the accuser's silence, my soul allows God-words;
words of unconditional love, compassion and healing.
Words whispered in spirit language flow through my senses,
leaving healing in their wake. I listen and I choose.

I choose joy...after all.

Painting...With Words

Pastels and soft brushes repose in their drawers.
The easels now folded and stacked in their place.
Pencils, by color, stored neatly together,
All snuggled up with a bunch of art paper.

Oh, where is the artist whose thoughts make them sing?
Where is the artist whose hands make them live?
Where is the artist who paints soulful eyes,
Whose hand creates animals, flowers and more?

She…is…joyfully painting, painting away!
She is painting and painting and painting with words!
Using splashes of color straight out of her soul,
She daubs and she brushes with vowels and with verbs.

Words from God’s spirit, words from her heart,
All flow through her fingers and onto the keys.
Words finely crafted and beautifully shaped,
Esthetically pleasing to lips, eyes and ears.

Words struck with joy, entwine with the angst.
Words starkly truthful, nudge words hiding pain.
Words laced with magic or poignant with grief,
Her muse now made known, the logjam is free!

Oh, the clothes are unfolded, the garden has weeds.
The mop and the vacuum are begging her…please!
No matter, the dozens of chores to be done.
She’s painting away with a tappity tap.
Ever so blissfully,
Painting
And
Painting
And
Painting…
With words!