I’ve gone and done it again,
this crazy, messed up life.
I told myself
clear it out,
hang it up, simplify.
And then it happens. Inevitable!
Everything in my life ends up in disarray. I changed my blog location…from Sweet Promises (focusing on my faith) to Patchwork Girl (which really says it all) and now, two years of organizing, I birthed Seasons. I started posting my poems with the intent to keep that the focus. And then I added quilting, cooking, photography and gardening posts, on occasion adding snippets of my faith, with tentative plans to add soul journal pages. Ugh! (I actually practiced self-restraint and kept those posts as drafts.)
Too many interests? Perhaps. I thrive on creating. My whole being breathes the art of this world. I see beauty where none exists. There is always an unpolished stone searching for someone or something to make it beautiful. I am that stone. I can be crash and rude. I adapt to my moods. I yearn to always be loving.
Oh yes, did I mention I dabble in photography? If Alice had brought a camera on her journey she would have left us detailed photos of dreamscapes. Objects really are dreams. The small details intermingled with the larger landscape creates our world.
I see myself in Alice. Yes, Alice in Wonderland. My companions on this journey; Jung, Van Gogh, Plath and Woolf. On occasion, Picasso appears. Like Woolf, I journey out returning to my writing desk, in a room of my own. Aptly named “The Refuge”. (Oh, my next blog home?)
There are living souls who enter my life, inspire and encourage, many on WordPress. Your comments and likes give me hope, that what I have to add to the already noisy world, is worth my energy. To you, I am indebted. A little bit of sanity remains within me. Of course there is my family, my husband and three kids, my Louie and a special friend, known to me and I known as well.
And then there is Emily, her poems are dreams. Her reaction to life forever captured in words. Pictures of a heart and soul above this world. I yearn to fly with her. I do fly on occasion but often my wings fail. I understand there is the chance I have lost the light, the clear view of a horizon, being attached to objects down below. Anchors.
Jung and Teresa of Avila developed a concept of rooms within us. Us being the physical, mental, and spiritual. These rooms I see within me are two. One is yellow, bright and cheery, full of books, with the brightest window I have ever seen. A glaring brightness I am unable to look at, occasionally able to glance towards. A security unexplained. Then there is the room of glass. You can see me but not hear me. I cannot escape this room. I am trapped, my mind full of words, unable to speak legibly. Nonsense, really.
“The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite.”Frances Hodgson Burnett
My Promise Garden
open air, freedom and room
there i learn to fly. Jeanne
This is the post closest to my heart.
The tears to wash my soul.
The very being of my mind, afraid of the peering eyes.