fall fresh on me // avocado

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i've always been captivated by the inside. by the stuff that no one sees, the painting underneath the varnish that was forgotten for a hundred years until one brave chisel flaked away the dark to show the light.

and it's springtime, or almost, and i'm watching as life is fighting winter every minute and every second to find its way out of the ground and into the blue sky world out here.

i saw a little girl find a feather the other day, and she smiled and held it up, and the silken strands were still so strong despise the wind and rain and squashy mud all around. and my soul picked up the feather too and tucked it in my hair, the little girl in my heart throwing back long dark waves of hair and laughing to the sky

Spirit of the living God,
;; fall fresh on me

and i'm starting to find God in the little things again, the things i forgot. and i know i've written here a thousand times about the beautiful ones, the almost hidden ones in the Bible, the ones He noticed that were invisible to everyone else.

it's the slicing of the avocado, that thick black shell melting away under silver to reveal the green of nourishment and the thick pit that holds life at even its tiny tight-locked core. and it's marvelous how much life can be wrapped up in something so wrinkled and unappealing to the eye.

sometimes i feel the pain of that knife slicing so smooth through the vileness that has built up around the life potential He placed in my heart of hearts. and it hurts so that i falter and weep and beg

{via pinterest}

Spirit of the living God
:: fall fresh on me

and then the green is seen, and the life tucked away deep within comes to the surface and blooms rich like springtime with glory and life shining from every pore. oh, how i ache to be radiant, to cover my face with a veil for the Light bursting from me to every corner.

now i feel infant fingers pull at long waves of my raven-wing hair, and i bring down my own fingers on the soft ginger gosling down that clings to the head of my beautiful little one. i think of future days when i will brush her hair and tell her about feathers and grace and the Light of the Son.

but for now, she falls asleep on my shoulder and lets loose the sweetest of baby sighs, and i feel something stir deep inside my soul. it's that little girl, tucking the feather behind her ear. she sits beneath a tree with the soles of her feet pressed together and elbows on knees.

and she whispers soft like the newcoming springtime breezes

Spirit of the living God,
:: fall fresh on me

unforced rest :: whispers

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sometimes, it's good to be restless. it's good to pulse and feel and breathe.
but sometimes, you have to close your eyes.

i'm bad at resting.

even when all i should be doing is leaning back, eyes closed to recover, i don't want to stop. i want to keep tossing, keep turning, keep moving and doing until i'm thin as paper and torn into shreds.

and right now i'm sick. and i should be focused on recovering, tucking my chills under a quilt with a steaming mug of tea and a brand-new book. and t i'm snuggled under these blankets with tea and Hell's Kitchen and fluffy pillows, but oh, my mind is fluttering in a thousand directions.

why can't i rest?

so close your eyes

you can close your eyes.

:: it's alright :: 

how many times does He say be still? 

it's important to Him that i rest, that i be still and know. and yet, it's not important to me. is that not such a horrible slap in His face? what matters so much to Him means nothing to me? 

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it makes me sick to realize how foolish i can be when my eyes go on me and dart to the lists instead of closing to serenity for His whispers of 

courage dearheart

breathe deeply, daughter.

because this Lion's song is what i should be singing, instead of this thudding drum of 

go now 

go now 

go now 

go now. 

it's this restless mind, this broken spirit that aches to overcompensate. 

i strive too hard to fix my own mistakes instead of sitting in His hand and listening to the whispers that linger past the storm, the wind, the fire. 

i must rest

in these unforced rhythms 

of grace. 

rage :: Light

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i heard a poem when i was in the first grade, and it's haunted me ever since.

i didn't know what the words meant, but i knew they had meaning. i knew that i would find out one day, if i just kept searching. 

do not go gentle into that good night

rage, rage against the dying of the light

all my life, these words have followed me. my entire life, i have heard this words whisper into my soul, a mantra of sorts that my soul sings over and over, a battle cry.  

now, i think i'm beginning to know what they mean. 

i always thought that rage meant to be angry, to be furious at the extinguishing of the light. but it means more that just anger, than just angst. 

it's fighting against it all. the fear, the expectations, the trepidation. it's warring against anything that quenches this Light. 

it's about stepping from the shadow into the Light, hands up and fingers parted to let every fluttering beam to slide into every crevice to let oh, so much strength flow into my every pore. 

{via pinterest}

it's about finding the power. because the Light, the Son is more powerful than we are. 

rage, rage against the dying of the Light. 

maybe the author didn't mean for this piece to be taken this way, but isn't that what art is about? freedom and expression.

and so i read these words over and over again. they've pulled me forever, and i think they will always weave some kind of spell over me. 

it's all about stepping from broken to Grace, from dust to sovereign. and so that's what this poem says to my heart as Christmas comes and the the mystery of skin and flesh and bone and God and Eternity meld together with stable straw and beating hearts. 

and so as i stand under twinkle lights and white pine trees with silver and red and green, i have a hand raised. 

because i am not going gentle into that good night.

and i will rage, rage against the dying of the Light.  

droplets :: rain

{via pinterest}

i love the rain.

some find it gloomy, overbearing. almost depressing when the sun is blotted out with grey and fog, when water pours like tears from Heaven's eyes and there is nothing bright anymore.

but in my experience, tears heal.

and the rain cleanses.

there is no sun seen, but it's still there. it's just waiting for the healing.

driving in the rain is complicated. the roads are slick and damp, and there are puddles that gather in the low points that lead to a skid or a tidal-wave splash. but it convicts me, too, when i drive while the water pours from sky to ground.

but there's that blur when the water patterns the windshield and for that moment, you can't see the road. and then the wipers glide over the glass and all is clear again.

and that's the way it should be. the tears come and for a moment, all seems blurred and unsure. and then the fingers brush the tears aside. the bottle in Heaven fills with a few more drops, and peace descends.

{via pinterest}

You have taken account of my wanderings

put my tears in Your bottle. 

are they not in Your book?

{psalm 56:8}

these are not just our sorrows, i think. He keeps our joys in this bottle, too. and i think one day that He will take me into this room, this place where this bottle is stored.

and He and i will talk, and He will take this bottle off the shelf. and He will pour them into His palm where my name is written and smile.

i keep Your tears

of sorrow and joy and Light and pain and beauty and confusion

so that You could see

that I am greater

and I love you. 

so this is why i love the rain. the knowing that while it is unsure, there is beauty. and while the joys overflow into water down my cheeks, or the pain trickles down in the only release i can understand

i can stand. secure and dry in the Light of the Son. 

ink smears

do you know what it's like to hear the voice say

flip the pages and flow

but to have no idea what the flow means? black and white in sunless nights without the urge to fight anymore?

did i forget my passion once again, like the strummer with the broken strings who forgot how to sing in the night we mentioned before?

it's battlescars from movie stars who pinch invisible rolls and wail "i'm fat" and nothing can heal that but reality.

and it's hard to get past that when the mirror speaks lies and the world speaks water for truth but the reality is wine, but we tossed it out with the trash because we counted the calories on the back.

do we remember who we are? 

the chosen people with broken telescopes that won't look past tattoos and high heeled shoes and conceiling black robes that leave everything to the imagination?

we forgot our before with empty shores of seashell glass and glassy eyes and one footprint where two would have failed.

because it's nothing we can done alone. because silence is okay, but pushing the door shut and crying don't let anyone see, don't let anyone in

i feel more broken when i turn my back to Him.

because He already sees, and it's broken hearts that He heals and tattered scrapbooks that paint His portrait when we couldn't even see the road.

so black and white is okay, i think, in the long run when all we have is the sun at our back and the Son at the front where the ink flows and we can acknowledge our broken pieces.

so pick up your pen, dusty traveller,

the dawn is here and the ink is flowing.

{linking imperfection with emily}

burning :: sacred

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i'm finding that i'm touching the burning bush more and more.

it's a fine line between the sacred and the ordinary, and it's something i'm daily learning to understand. it confused me at first. the closer to the fire i grew, the more intricate the flames became.   

did i never see Him before, in the ink and the dishes and the silverware? did i just see colour as a visual and not as intricately spiritual? 

perspective can change a life. the ability to step back from a scene and look at the dirt and only see a footprint in the dust where nothing showed before. when you see eyes like transparent glass and tumbled messes as something beautiful to be savoured like art

doesn't that change you? 

someone wrote me and said that they didn't understand. where did i get this pair of eyes that sees something where there is really nothing? am i just digging too deep or trying too hard? 

is there really sacredness in laundry or freshly-laid eggs? or am i painting a portrait where there's really only a blank canvas? 

:: but that's the thing about God ::

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there is no line between sacred and ordinary. isn't that what we celebrate with white lights and candles and whispered stanzas of oh, holy night? 

Heaven became Earth and sacred became touchable. I AM became little boy smiles and tangled brown curls over deep brown eyes and a Israeli childhood with prayers for Messiah's coming. 

this Word become flesh and blood and bone and tears and smiles. this doorway smeared with blood on top and sides opened wide to the sacred and the ordinary melded together. 

this burning bush of glory, of barefoot rejoicing and gentle choruses to welcome Emmanuel. 

fall on your knees

oh night divine. 

spark

do you ever wonder 

what you were born to do? 

do you ever watch the street musicians, battered guitar and plastic tub drums tucked into cement corners? do you ever watch their eyes?

because if you did, you'd see something. something raw that only a seeker could find.

you find the spark. every dreamer has one, i promise.

do you ever wonder why there that's moment when tears roll down, but not from sorrow? from that agonizing beauty of perfect joy found when you find it.

:: that spark :: 

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that cross in the windowpane, that little moment of gaze when the sun peaks over the ridge and pours over your face.

that moment when hands go up and eyes fly shut, because this is praise in a way. it's pure Glory, pure majesty. it's that thing when the world goes black and it's You and God and nothing else. spotlights shut down and the room is dark but everything shines.

because it's what you were born to do. it's what your soul craves, that voice in your heart that cries

sing. breathe. paint. 

be artist, be writer, be vocalist. 

be spark. 

and there's nothing you can do but listen. because we are, after all.

because we're doers. we're breathers.

we're dream touchers, star-gazers.

{sharing this imperfection with emily today}

breathing phoenix rain

{via pinterest}

sometimes i wonder just what i am. i wonder if all this writing i do ever amounts to anything, if all it will ever do is sit in the recesses of my computer.

every time i read over my old work -- those worlds of my own creation, those characters whom i love like pieces of myself -- i wonder if anyone will ever see them, ever treasure them like i do.

and if they did see, would they love? or would my mountain become their molehill, lost in translation and unconveyed in their importance to me, to the world?

this fear almost cripples me. it's almost enough to jerk my words from me into darkness and shut the light tight on all my aspirations.

but without words

i wouldn't be able to breathe. 

not really. because see, that's what He gave me. to some He gave song, and to some He gave paint, and to others He gave a stand.

but i received words. He poured them into my soul, wove my spirit from ink and parchment and inspiration that i have yet to fully uncover. and He begs me

be writer, dearheart.

be this thing I made you to be. 

:: be writer ::

{via pinterest}

and so i keep writing. not for money or fame or any sort of plans set in stone.

but for love. 

only for love. 

and in this darkness, in the silence of night, my fingers grasped something and held on tightly. and i set my fingers to paper, and the ashes parted to reveal that which was hidden.

phoenix rain.

right now, there is so little. but it's enough to pull at me. for love, for wings, for future and dreams.

i have my breath. my paint, my canvas.

my story. 

her story. 

:: His story ::

all together now.

{unwrapping this glory today with emily}

Advent wanderer

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the first week of Advent is coming to an end.

this time of preparing, of gently laying out the steps. these weeks leading to Christmas are filled with decorating and Christmas card envelopes.

this is the solitary candle, one lone light cutting into the darkness, whispering

this heart is ready. 

there is a place here. 

i'm trying to touch this Advent. to bring the sacred down to Earth, because i want to live there. i'm reflecting on this thing of grace turned Man. 

i'm still not sure if i know what that looks like in the now. because it feels enormous. i'm overwhelmed with the reality of Light coming to the darkness with intent to save, intent to sacrifice, and intent to die.

i wonder if He knew. did He always know?

His mother knew, gazing into the face of Sovereign Innocence that had come from Heaven and her body combined. she knew this Warrior child would save the world, save her soul.

save the future and the present.

:: not all who wander are lost. ::

this is me this year. this wandering seeker tangled in Sacred and Holy and overwhelming Love. 

this place of not knowing and being okay with not knowing. this place of accepting mystery as mystery, and reaching trembling fingers toward the Heavenly One.

this place where all that is gold does not glitter, but is, in fact, the brightest of all. 

in the soothing {176-182}

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sometimes, Monday is a rut. the start of a week that can only get better from a day that makes you fall to your knees and wonder why.

but then there are Mondays that remind me of the grace of God. the way in which He shines a light that cuts through the darkness.

 even on days when i'm exceptionally irritable, feeling like everything is rubbing me the wrong way, i find myself drawn to sparks of blessing.

God's fingers touching my soul, murmuring 

be still and know, dearheart.

• 176. Breaking Dawn with a girlfriend whom has been far away for months. 

• 177. laughter so hard that it comes out silent, aching sides and streaming eyes over coffee and cinnamon bagels

• 178. newborn puppy whimpers and loving mama kisses as she looks over her ever-growing brood.

• 179. cell phone GPSes that save from late-night losses on country backroads

• 180. steaming coffee and vanilla creamer, late night companions to my slowly growing word count

• 181. emails from publishing companies, affirmation that my work is "good enough." dreams fulfilled with a few simple keystrokes. "we're interested in Cut Loose..."

• 182. messages from my sweet friend Jen, knowing that simple words of mine were used of Him to confirm a heart's yearning.

it's hard to not become overwhelmed in a world of declining Mondays. it's hard to look ahead and see a bright Light instead of a train coming to plough me down. 

but there comes my list, slipping into my corner. 

and i am cheered on this path. these little moments of soothing when the world rubs me wrong.

my soul brushes of being still, and of knowing.

{linking my blessings with these beautiful ones of blessing}

in which i am more than paper

{via pinterest}

i helped my mom put out the family Christmas cards today.

i spent my afternoon standing at the kitchen island in the home where i grew up, stamping envelopes and adding address labels to what seemed to be a never-ending pile of cards.

and it got me to thinking about Christmas and letters and packages tied with paper and string.

it's strange for me to realize that the beautifully wrapped gifts, which are carefully assembled by those we love, will soon be transformed into empty boxes and crumpled piles of wrapping paper.

is it strange that i find God in this?

you don't have a soul. you are a soul. you have a body. 

~c.s. lewis

the packages are beautiful as they sit below the tree, their colours flickering in the lights like a strange sort of decoration. and i can't help but feel the same as my eyes dance in childlike wonder and i realize that those packages are just like me.

i'm more than brown paper and string.  

i'm more than what i'm wrapped in -- more than this body in which i find myself a resident for this brief time.

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because you don't just hold the package in your lap and gaze at the paper. it's an insult to the giver.

so why would i stand in the mirror and gaze at my flaws as though they are worth something?

it's an insult to the Giver. 

as Lewis said, i have a body. this external garment i wear for now.

but oh, so much more.

because one day -- one new morning, fresh like Christmas to a child, i will stand shining in glory at the side of the One who breathed me.

because i am more.

i am a soul. 

knit-wise

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i don't knit. i wish i did.

right around this time of year, my mind turns to pondering my love of soft yarn and just how a pair of knitting needles might feel clicking against my palms.

i like the way knitted things smell. that rich aroma of softness and the love that was poured into each stitch.

 i like the concept of being able to create something that could benefit others.

a treasure to help keep them warm, to bring a little smile as they hold something comforting and made with their heart in mind.

but then i remind myself that i have more than enough things that take up my time without adding knitting to my list.

that doesn't keep me from my thoughts as my finger run over a precious pair of creamy fingerless gloves from a dear friend, or a wedding-gift blanket from my aunt.

knitting feels so intimate.

the joining of things once apart, individual strands that once meant very little. making some beautiful with the caress of our fingers.

for You created my innermost being. You knit me together in my mother's womb.

i praise You for i am fearfully and wonderfully made.

{via pinterest}

 i tend to forget that i am intimately forged in the palms of the Carpenter. the One who makes no mistakes. the ultimate Artist. 

this sunset Painter. this mountain Molder. this weeping-willow Weaver.

He knits, too. carefully, purling each stitch together, caressing the material with loving fingers as He saw His masterpiece taking shape. 

knitters don't wake up to discover that their twisted ball of knots has been transformed into something precious while they slept. 

it takes time and work and careful intimacy with the yarn and their fingers. 

it's a process. days, weeks, sometimes even months. 

no accidents here. 

careful craftsmanship only. 

i am more than knots and twisted confusion. 

i am smooth knit-work from the Hand of the Master. 

bubble

{via pintrest}

little kids and blowing bubbles go together.

there's something so innocent about pressing your lips together to blow a steady stream of air, causing the world to expand and expand

come together and let go

that floats and floats on the breeze, catching light in a strange sort of glint that cannot be described right or duplicated right

until something gets in the way and

pop

in a glisten of raindrop beads as the beauty goes from high to shattered before these little ones even have a chance to react or try to save their perfect bubble.

and then they giggle and do it again. 

life is like that, i think.

it's a bubble that we strain to create as innocent children.

my world, my creation, my perfect bit of sunshine

{via pintrest}

all about us until something comes into the path of our sunny day and

pop

our beauty goes from high to shattered on the pavement with no warning to save our precious pieces.


but sometimes

we can't giggle anymore.

 because the giggle went away when we grew up and got cynical and hardened because life is just that hard and nothing floats the way it used to when you get to just that age.

but then, isn't it funny how we forgot our unchanging God?

this One without turning or shadow. this One who changes not and loves much.

this One who promised to carry our brokenness when the path just gets too hard and too much and all the bubbles have popped.

in these moments, i praise. win or lose, joy or pain, greatness or destruction.

there is no shadow.

and His change is never.

{linking this imperfection today. so much can come from being real}

{prematurely linking with Laura for
this playdate with the King}

Pose

Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers. ~Voltaire 

I have found myself in a field of questions these days.

Some have been doubts, others have been curiosities.

Each one of them have sent me running to the Heart of my King. And there we sit together, He and I, as I run my fingers over the pages of my Bible. I will never cease searching for the answers that I know are within for me to take and draw into my heart.

Questions are not a lack of faith. Please never let anyone tell you that, because it is such a vicious lie. How can we learn if we do not ask? How can we step forward until we gaze up at the Cross and whisper, "why?"

We just have to be prepared for the answers. If you dare to ask, you must be prepared for the forthcoming answer.

Last month, I opened up my blog for my readers to ask me any question they wished me to answer. The ones I received were beautiful and thought-provoking, and I answered them all about a week later.

I am about to do the same thing again.

I want you all to ask me anything.

Stay close to the surface, or dive deep beneath the surface. Stick to the simple delights of life, if you wish...my loves, my hates, the beauties of life....

...or push into the darker jungles to ask me about my fears, my hardships, my struggles, and my pain.

I have never promised perfection. Not once. 

What I have promised is reality. Openness and a soul bared before the Throne, as well as to each one of you. 

We grow from the witness of others. From knowing we are not alone in our pain. From knowing that there is more beyond this moment of fear. From knowing someone else has walked this path.

The only thing I ask is that you keep your musings free from expletives and appropriate for public discussion.

So please, 

let go

and ask away. 

"To what will you look for help if you will not look to that which is stronger than yourself?" ~C.S. Lewis

Watercolour

After a thousand watercolors you will find you have fallen in love with paper and paint. ~Rex Brandt

I wish I was more of an artist.

I took four years of Artistics in high school, but even that was barely enough to scratch the surface of the things I wish I knew.

My favourite medium is watercolour.

It's more than just a damp horsehair brush rubbed against the caked colour pallets.

It's something deeper...richer...more powerful.

There's more to a watercolour painting than first meets the eye.

The colours run, blend, combining together into something far more than the artist could ever have originally anticipated.

That's why my heart races at the sight of a watercolour canvas. You can't always plan ahead. You can't always see the future.

The colours have lives of their own, dancing and flooding together...as if they too had minds and hearts and souls.

I'm blessed to have a watercolour life.

A life that is more than what I can see at first glace...beautifully composed by the most incredibly talented Artist this world has ever known.

I'm a canvas.

Cover me in watercolour.

I really think that everyone should have watercolors, magnetic poetry, and a harmonica. ~The Perks of Being a Wallflower

am

dear self: 

you have to hear me now.

this is what i am not.

because this is what you keep telling me i am. 

knife-point. razor edge. whispered screams that never stop chanting this mantra, as though you are tucked between my earlobe and my throat. 

i'm sick of hearing what i am not. 

your voice is too sweet. too smooth. too easy to take in, this poison pill.

empty. broken.

measured in loss.

worthless to all. 

you have been weighed. measured. found wanting. 

no. one. loves. you.

i hate to break it to you.

but YOU. ARE. WRONG.

because you have failed to take into consideration

the other voice.

the stronger voice.

the gentler voice.

the voice of Love. 

Strong. Beautiful. 

Fixed. Repaired. Adored.

Loved THIS much. {arms outstretched to fit the rugged cross}

I love you. 

Mine. 

your voice will fade to white noise.

you will be one day be forgotten.

it is His voice that will endure 

through eternity. 

Linking up with Emily: imperfect prose on Thursdays
Yes, this now a weekly song for which I wait each week. 

Stitch

Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern; it will come out a rose by and by.  Life is like that - one stitch at a time taken patiently and the pattern will come out all right like the embroidery.  ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

I am not a seamstress.

Not by any stretch of the imagination.

People often ask me why I don't have a shop on Etsy. While I do have an Etsy account, I tell them that I could never have a shop because my gifts are not something you can sell.

I cannot bottle my voice, sell my poetry as a garment, or send some moment in theater baked into a lump of divine chocolate goodness.

All of that to say, I cannot sew.

I was not one of those homeschooled girls who threw herself into the world of fiber, needles, and intricate stitching. It just never interested me all that much, despite how hard my grandmother tried to lure me into the magical land of her sewing room.

I wanted to like sewing...it fascinated me, but i never found myself called into this world like so many others.

But yesterday, all that changed.

I went to the store and made a few small purchases: five yards of red and white satin, needles, pins, two spools of thread, and a small spool of black ribbon.

I sat down on the floor, took a deep breath, and proceeded to spend the next eighteen hours in the world of the seamstress.

And finally, from the ashes of well-poked fingers and sore hands,

...from staying up until 2am to the welcome accompaniment of the fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer...

...a beautiful two-sided superhero cape was born.

I could not be more proud of my pattern-less creation...for all of its lopsided and crooked stitching, random moments of gathered lumps, and maybe one or two blood drops from my own battle wounds.

And as I stared at this creation...once only a pile of fabric and miscellaneous materials, now something wonderful and beautiful...I heard the whisper of my King.

See. I am making all things new. 

See, I am making you new. 

You are My creation. 

You are beautiful. You are perfect. You are Mine.

And oh, how I love you. 

I am His creation. He poured labour into me. He poured all of Himself into me...yes, even His blood. 

And I am His. 

And He gazes on me with pride. 

I see crooked stitches.

He makes my way straight.

Stitch by stitch.

"See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." ~Isaiah 43:19

Voice

Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
~William Cowper

I was recently given a very great compliment by a blogging friend of mine. She commented to me that she loved how I had "found my voice."

It broke my heart and yet gave me such freedom to have to tell her that she was mistaken.

I don't have my voice yet.

Every post is an example of over-analysis...self-deprecation...doubt that allows nothing but perfection to escape into this blogging world.

Or into any part of the world, for that matter.

There is a tiny voice in my head that points out my every flaw...makes me feel guilty for mistakes I have not even made yet...for posting things that might offend my readers.

No, I have not yet found my voice.

Posts like skyeyes and grace alone. are slow steps of bravery.

Slow steps to freedom.

I won't even begin to pretend perfection, as much as I wish I could. Even as I wrote those above posts, my fingers shook at the idea of releasing just broken imperfection to the world at large.

I'm a broken mirror...I don't want my fractured reflection to ruin me.

I don't have my voice yet.

I'm currently undergoing vocal surgery.

I'm under the knife...

...it hurts as each cleansing pass of the blade cuts away more and more of my self-shame and indescribable fear.

He's changing me. He's mending the mirror.

I won't be the same when He's done.

I'll finally have a voice that I will be unashamed to use.

I never want to go back to prison.

To bondage.

To silence.

If I could hear Christ praying for me in the next room, I would not fear a million enemies.  Yet distance makes no difference.  He is praying for me.  ~Robert M. McCheyne

Musing {24-32}

A man is not idle because he is absorbed in thought.  There is a visible labor and there is an invisible labor  ~Victor Hugo

The beginning of another week has arrived. And with it, the start of a fresh page on the calender. It is so very strange for me to realize that we are already in the eighth month of 2011.

The way time passes is, in itself, a blessing for me. No matter what happens, I always know that the sun will set and rise again on a new day. Time is a constant, regardless of what I do or what decisions I make in each day.

But as always, this past week has overflowed with so many beauties that I can hardly bare to see this week come to an end. It was another watercolour week...one blessing after another, blending together to paint the most stunning portrait...another adornment on the wall of my life.

• 24. The official beginning of OZ!...a tumultuous read-through crammed with details and information, bursting with whispers of the next two dramatically theatrical months to come. 

• 25. A surprise package bursting with a six-page epistle and a beautifully scented patched of knitty goodness from the heart of a precious friend...one of those reminders that I'm not alone, and I am loved.

• 26. Three nights, interspersed throughout the week, but three nights of sleep all nightmare-free. There is such beauty in rest, such a deep sense of peace found when one lays herself down into the hands of the King, trusting on Him to bear all the restlessness.   

• 27. The start of a new Inspired Monthly Giveaway...another chance to lose oneself in whimsy and beautiful things, immersed in stunning talent from the workbenches of others. 

• 28. Hearing a Word, straight from the heart of the King of the world...the sweetest balm for my soul..."See, I am doing a new thing. Now it is springing up; can you not perceive it?I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." (Isaiah 43:19)

• 29. Rediscovering my seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer after almost a year-long lack of viewing. Sometimes, dusting off old fictional friends is a sweet reminder of days gone by and dreams once imagined. 

• 30. Brand-new brown and teal swirled dayplanners, lemon drop fudge with a sprinkling of sugar, and neatly organized theater schedules. 

• 31. Laughter. 

• 32. My niece resting her head on my shoulder, tucking her thumb contentedly in her mouth, and clinging to me with a little sigh of infant sleepiness...gazing over my shoulder at the world of cardboard boxes. 

Each time a new month starts, I cannot help but wish to look ahead, to see what might be in store for me in the coming thirty-one days of life. To start August off in such a way...to be surrounded with so many blessings...I can wish for no better way to begin a month. 

As my list of blessings grows longer, I am reminded of what a beautiful thing this life is...what a beautiful place this world is...and oh, what an even more splendid Home awaits me in days to come. 

This is a watercolour list...

...in my watercolour world. 

It is a good idea to be alone in a garden at dawn or dark so that all its shy presence may haunt you and possess you in a reverie of suspended thought.  ~James Douglas


(For this post, I'm linking up with Carissa at lowercase letters.) 

Detailed

The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.  ~Henry Miller

In a recent blog post, I asked my readers to comment with any and all questions they may have regarding me, my blog, my delights, or any sort of random conglomeration they could concoct.

Before you ask, no, this is not the post in which I will be answering those questions. In fact, that particular post is still open and available for more curiosities to be posed, and will be until the end of the week.

This post is a reflection of one thought-slash-question that was posed to me by a dear friend and fellow blogger. In paraphrase, the questioning statement was this:

You see such vastness and reflective beauty in such small, everyday things. How?  


I suppose that the answer is as vast and as simple as the question itself.

I just do.

Allow me to explain.

Ever since I was a very little girl, I have been captivated by this world, and by the small things to be found within each passing moment.

The delicate placement of a golden green leaf against the cracked sidewalk...the way a butterfly's wings feel as they brush your face in a brief moment of on-the-nose landing...the jewel tones of light reflecting through an old glass bottle.

Each of these things exist to be experienced. Any man can be a poet if he would only open his eyes...any woman can become an artist with her words if only she will take off her sunglasses and inhale.

I gaze with chagrin at a world that is lost in cynicism. We were placed here by the Hand of the Mightiest One of all...the most passionate Artist and the most beautiful Poet in this universe.

His beauty is inexpressible. The world only seeks to cast the barest shadow of His glory...and even these things fade into darkness in His brilliance.

I want to soak in His details.

I want to lose myself in His rapture.

That is how I want to live my life....

...as naturally as breathing.

"He loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of the steadfast love of the LORD. By the word of the LORD the heavens were made, and all their host by the breath of his mouth." ~Psalm 33:5-6