Two days after Christmas. I would like to give a shout out to my friend, NP! When she, a most contemplative, brilliant, analogy-maker writer, creates her own blog, I will try to put her on my blogroll, which has not been edited for a while, due to remiss, ignorance, forgetfulness. Yet, it's good to keep old blogs regardless if they are used any more -- they were a stage for me, when I was home alone with a son who needed lots, a teenage daughter who broke us down, an escape needing a depository, a way to make new, smart friends, a room with a view to call my own. Blogs, an interesting room with a view. Now, we have Facebook where epigrammatic, superficial, or agitated sentence blurts are the norm. I don't think I would ever say, "Yay, Mizzou!" on my blog which I have many times on Facebook. It seems important to share team wins with others, immediately getting those gratifying thumbs-up. We're in this together, right now, in real time -- no need to pretend that anything else matters in our life right now other than a Tiger victory!

With a blog, one must be more thoughtful, perhaps that's why I don't write as much any more. However, I still do think. I still do wonder. I still hold open my hands for understanding regarding relationships, hope in God, a child with high functioning autism, a daughter who has turned the corner, and sees me now as a person. Life is good. Age is good. I can still run three miles, although running away from things doesn't matter as much as it used to, thankfully. God has broken me of that, still with the freedom to make my own choices and reap my own consequences, though.

My friend NP, the brilliant, contemplative, analogy-maker, beautiful writer, shared a video link by Brene Brown who is a researcher on shame which I watched today. In it, she says one of the keys to being happy is having the courage to accept your own imperfections. I've gotten better at this through the years, still walking the path into knowing that the outlines of perfection are illusionary blurry lines which mess with my perceptions and cause me angst. I am accepted the way that I am, created, loved, held together by the encompassing Grace of the land. I can relax and relax more into being imperfect but worthy of love and acceptance.

Yes, I wish I was better at things: loving, accepting others as they are, forgiving, hoping, believing, being more like Jesus, that historical and exemplary figure => for this I lean into the source and dip in my cup. And, dip desiring the dip.

Snow-locked

Yes, Jack London wouldn't think it's that bad at all. I should remove my flowery robe, dress in thickness, and go outside to tromp. The wind isn't even whistling; wolves from an upper NW pack have not even descended into my state. The one to three mountain lions spotted in rural areas do not like this university town. A malicious deer with a weaponry rack only exists in the imagination of a city-slicker.

It's tame. Each sequestered back yard here might have a cat's trail, or a squirrel's brush, or a dog's plow marking the snowscape. Yesterday, I saw one terrified deer bounding into our yard and over the neighbor's fence, marking wide leaps of horror. Yet no danger exists.

I could go outside and walk off this fancy cabin malaise. When I was younger, I always did just that, dressing in old green coveralls and an old Chiefs hat, some old tennis shoes, some old black work gloves. I would dodge the heat wave from Mom's wood stove. I would dodge the loudness of Dad's television. I would dodge getting involved in the third book of the day. The cold air would hit; the dog would fall in behind; freedom came from striding down the hill, past the pond not quite safe for skating, past the summer's blackberry bushes, past the Mulberry playhouse tree with the old teakettle swinging coldly from a branch. Finally, into the back acreage; finally down the steep hill where the quartz rock could always sparkle to be found. Down to the secret pond, surrounded by cedar, and away from everything.

I never was not greeted graciously in the winter-time outside. Some sort of beauty awaited. Some sort of treat presented itself. Some type of freedom assented inside my spirit.

I would focus on small things, and they would focus back, like two aliens studying each other's habits; two aliens living under each others' noses until one says, "Hello" and the other says, "Finally!"

Prayer and love, or release from loneliness, or spiritual un-chokedness would always happen. In the winter-time, the desperation for such would be extreme. In the winter-time, such outlines inside and outside just occurred. The snow on the branches gave me pause; the greyish ice on the spring-fed pond made me think; the sound of the branches spoke. Wow, I'm a bit crazy like Thoreau and Wordsworth themselves! Yet when a country girl needed a vacation which was never taken otherwise because of money, she could find it on the land -- the Ozarkian land especially. I don't know what the crazed city kids did, and for them, I feel sympathy.

When walking back up the steep, rocky hill towards our small house, I would be ready for it again. Another night of television or books and thick wood heat. Another cancellation of school or basketball practice. Another grapple with closeness, sounds and silence.

I think I must try to walk today outside. I think I will just be one of those neighborhood women who walk to shape up. I think I must go find a creek bed too if possible.

Amen and amen.

Not forgotten

Writing in the blog, non. Living in the life, oui. I was reminded this week of how powerful writing can be to capture the fast-movement of life. I was reminded of my place here, an open square for words to write and capture.

For a writing assignment given to my freshmen students, I wrote about homemade ice cream. I created a sensory map in which I captured all the sensory details of the ice cream family event which we used to have each summer at Grandma Cora's house. The piece has captivated me. I keep reading it over and over again reliving all of those southern Missouri moments of that specific time which represented complete harmony in the universe to me. Grandma's laugh, the smell of the grass, the spicy smell of hydrangea, the feel of the hugging humidity, the sight of aunts, cousins, uncles in the lit circle by the food table, the cicadas, the men hunched over, turning, turning the crank, pouring in the ice, the creamy delectableness of the gift. Grandma's bustle and joy. The wealthy life. God and pleasure.

Therefore, motivated by the writer's desire for preservation, canning, going to the cellar and unscrewing the jar which holds experience.

Grateful for the ever present possibility.

Submerged emerged

On Friday, I wrote a short story and painted my first canvas painting. It was an ecstatic day for me. I loved both of my productions, even if, in fact, they are not, or won't be, critically acclaimed. But, I was in heaven. I had produced. I had expressed something buried inside of me. Not one but two forms had emerged and waved their hands to say, "I am here. Finally, you let me out."

This was especially true with the painting, which was supposed to be a base coat for a bigger plan. Yet, a face emerged after the base coat dried. My husband and I both described it in similar ways, as if we both turned as the ghost departed the room and both bore witness and could testify. A young man with a well-proportioned face appears in my painting. I had no intention or skill at drawing such a face, but there he is. I knew immediately that I couldn't paint over him, so I went to the art store for another canvas. Now, if another face emerges, I will be wondering and worried, but yet, strangely and unexpectedly . . . . honored?

My short story is quite expressionistic, drawn from a painting of Kokoshka's 'The Degenerate Artist" which I found in my art book. Yet the story has clear progression and unity, of which I'm thankful. I need to fill in the gaps and make it less bony and more muscular. I think I'll get it ready for a competition in November. I wrote it in two hours, and I really did like the results.

Now, I'm writing curriculum, which is also a creative act of gathering and/or bringing forth.

My husband has been jokingly calling me an artist all day. When I rode the bike with him, he said that I was an athlete artist wonder woman beauty. I love husbands.:) He is supportive of me taking a hike in a mountain meadow while he counts things somewhere. I am blessed. Thank you, God, for wonder and goodness and support. Amen.

Abandoned blog

Greetings from the desert. The blog desert, i.e. Mine has turned into one of those blogs where the last date signals a wander, a refusal, a hike over another scape. I've been busy, and I, gasp, have reunited with the scratch on page, my hardback bound, specially-picked-for-beauty, journal which has this irresistable saying on the cover: Go placidly amid the noise and haste, & Remember what peace there may be in silence. How can I refuse those haunting words for a time like this? And to drive in a point, among other quotes, it directs only me, its purchaser five years ago: Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
Therefore, I've grabbed it, forsaken blog-to-world, and sipped my coffee quietly contemplating, contemplating, scratching, scratching. One must think. One must scratch (ah). One must caffeinate. One must escape. A journal welcomes like no other.
But, now, this early morning, I'm back. The boys sleep. I had a dream about a past acquaintance (a word). I remembered a communication. Writing opened up again. A space, a password, a cup of java in my "Etude" oriental china red-floral cup, silence for the tip-tapping of the letters upon the blankness to send out, a longing for more time, more expression, more thought. Is this good enough? One might think of this in relation to the blog. I often do. However, the act itself of writing should be reward enough. I'll let it remain there, with happiness of wording, instead of insecurity with output. Language love upon the eve of a new year. I'll go with it "placidly amid the noise and haste & remember what peace there." Happy New Year from Bo of the Bales!

It's early. The cats have been served. The children lie in bed. I need to crack my big literary research guide book soon. But, one moment to breathe and yawn before it all begins. One moment to think about walking in the footsteps of the One who rose, breathed and exhaled life and love, during the dawn, or noonday, or latenight.

My walk is often replete with pauses where I observe how others are walking. Some walk tightly with lips pursed, carefully outlining their feet into His marks, fearful of looking around. Some walk in circles. Some walk meanderingly, feeding gulls, picking shells, pulling pods from sea oats. Some, I've known, walk liltingly, with a smile, and a regard for those who suffer along the way. Others walk with a spirit and a bravery and a sense of adventure and humor. Still others walk in various combinations.

It's interesting how we all walk once we've made the choice. I find myself, though, hearing some of these walkers bemoan how we don't all do the same strut. I myself become tired of the pursed lip, fearful type, who often look up to scorn or reject. Or, the loud and yelling ones who attack, in the name of God, those who want to walk upon the sands too.

It's often difficult to focus upon His marks in the sand while the winds-of-walks swirl around you. This morning, I rededicate my focus, my loyalty and love, toward the reason, toward His footsteps and ultimately to Him. He knows my walk and willed it. I should trust His design. I will walk with a leap and a skip and a pirouette and a softshoeshuffle in confident jubilant trust, regardless of what others think. I will go toward Him the best that I can, upon the sands, following my Master and Friend, following faithfully. Amen.

Candlelight

This entire week has been one of early risings (well, okay, not one morning!) in order to embrace the quiet of the morning because.... I have a new writing project which envisions a novel or a book of sorts. It's just ... all my life, I've desired and then procrastinated, desired, procrastinated. I even want to deny my actions towards this end even now, even here. The confession is hard because in some ways I'm ashamed. The shame voices of "as if!", an untoward ego ("as if!"), the echo of false starts ("as if!"), crescendo as I state. However, I can't help it. The decision has been made to myself, that I shall undergo a writing project: a book attempt. Why not? I have that English degree (as if that matters!), and, most importantly, as I, girl of about 13, kicked around in the cow lot one hot summer Ozarkian day, all glazed over from one of my numerous reads, I knew that I desired wholeheartedly to lead words into some sort of order, for some sort of reason, for some sort of joy.

Therefore, I confess and hope and arise early.