Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, Soul Journal

Do not despair

Sunny days are here again
darkness pervades air 
sheltering prayer covers face
one more night to bare

The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss – an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. – is sure to be noticed. —Søren Kierkegaard

Have you noticed yourself slipping into the quiet of thought? What can you do to keep yourself afloat? Who answers your call when you shout?

Posted in Art, Memoir, Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose, Soul Journal

Unintended Consequences

I write to write. I paint to see.

How else do i explain my temporary insanity? Other than my thoughts overflow into print. And then i run with them, as a flirt to power.

Decipher 2022

I study human behavior as a hobby. I honestly believe we all strive for attention. What is my excuse? We would all be far better off climbing back into our suitcases and traveling on to a promised land.

Am I beginning to make sense? Finally? I took an Advil Pm 30 minutes ago. And instead of falling asleep, my mind started racing towards the finish line. “Don’t die yet? The best is yet to come!” Oh, how i dearly want to believe.

So i write. A love letter. A flirtatious epic to myself. With all the obvious jargon of the day. And i secretly stash it into a back pocket, hoping someone would come along and steal all the selfish bull crap ive stored. The letter now written, better explained as love hoarded for myself.

Which brings me to my favorite life artist, Van Gogh. He was not part of polite society. Yet he loved the world more than those who bothered to say “Pardon me.” to fellow men waiting in line for their stab at being known. Ironic that the most evasive was the winner.

Aesop understood human behavior far better than i ever will. And i beg to differ with him as well. I dont really want to know much. Just warming myself by the fire and reading the smoke signals left to inform me, i am still alive.

If you make sense of this, you are far smarter than me. Please explain to me how you know!

Into the Abyss
Acrylic on board. Circa 2020 or 2021?
Posted in Photography, Soul Journal

Into the abyss

The kind of books that make us happy
are the kind we could write ourselves
if we had to.

It matters not if i am known. Or remain a mystery. The matter is that i am wholly me.

Not wanting accolades or seeking a tribe. The tribe always moves on to bigger houses and better views. I choose to stay in my shell.

And in my space, i read the kind of book that stabs and wounds. If the book doesn’t wake me with a blow to the head, what am i reading for?

We need books that affect us like a disaster. That grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves. Like being banished into forests far from everyone. Like a suicide.

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.

Posted in Art, Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose, Soul Journal

Week in Review: Voice Gone Dark

My blog is on hiatus. For a long time? For a short time? For an unspecified time.

I need a break from my head. I need to sail away from life.

There are plenty of questions with no answers. I wish I could say differently.

I already miss you lovely people. Stay well and take care.

If you need me, you probably know how to reach me. Peace.

Always Happy Writing with you, Jeanne ✍🏼

And please don’t forget about Crow Gifts, my first collaborative chapbook. Submit your 1-3 poems, short bio, and links to soulcollective67@gmail.com. Thank you to those who have already done so. 😘❤️

Posted in Advice, Musings, Poetry, Soul Journal

Crayon’s Voice***

Why do we limit ourselves? There is no simple answer.

Life is a celebration and we miss out on possibilities, cornering ourselves into a box. Unless that box is shut off from the world, by well-meaning friends or loved ones, we should not be afraid to be used. (But never abused.) If someone chooses to pick us, color with us, there is no need to cry. A lonely crayon is perfect. A used crayon, worn from tired hands, are memories to linger, lines in the sand.

Happy day to you. Just be. Linger a while in the joy of whatever color(s) you are today. What color are you at the moment? Feel free to let the world know in the comments. ✌🏼 🌈 🎨 🎶🎶🎶

***This is a post from June 2018. Ashley wrote about the drafts folder and mine is plumb full dating back to 2016. I plan on revamping some posts and letting them loose. Others will be trashed. Honestly, my blog(s) need an overhaul. I have changed so much from 2008 until now. My old selves certainly don’t recognize the new me. The me taking on life one day at a time.

Hope you will stay on this journey with me a little longer. Watch for all the changes to come. And know you are always welcome here. ✌🏼🕯🎶💙

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, Soul Journal

New Wineskin

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Proverbial Position: Sit and ponder.

The cliche that “nothing stays the same” happens every new season. Autumn is upon us now and we say goodbye to the childish ways of summer, as the groaning of winter approaches.

I grab my wrap as I head out the door to tend to my six sassy chickens. There are fewer clover plants to pick in the yard. So I bought fresh dandelion greens and watermelon at the grocer. This delicacy, beyond the grains, entices them to brave the morning chill. A chill they never knew in June, huddled beneath a red heat lamp. Where once all six chicks fit into the space of a three month old hen.

This new environment is a challenge for me too. Soon snow will blanket the dirt. Chicken feet are easily frost bitten so I must be cautious with how long they stay outdoors. To grab my scarf and trudge into the bleak day, instead of hunkering on the couch with a good book and fire, will challenge my devotion.

I choose the chickens during a March morning, my daughters texting me, as the two-week, 2020 lockdown, was fresh in mind. There was scarcely tp or eggs, flour, milk, and least of all bravery, on store shelves. We hunkered into fighting mode.

I had always dreamed of having a brood of chickens while my kids were young. Fishers Indiana laws and neighbors kept us from acting upon those noisy desires. Nothing in this town was blocking me from ordering those cuties from a hatchery. With a bit of research and a strong sense of the present world, I added six female Australorps to the online store bin.

This new wine drunk celebrates life seasons and I will keep up. My life stretching to fill new wineskins, to reach the warmth of others in community. These chickens hatched all possibility into me. The bourgeoning of the Little Free Library, my expressive arts training, and Shed 33.3. A renewed outlook sprouting from tilled soul.

At least until the final transformation of ghostly dancing sets eternally upon my bones. My spirit ever free from the confines of flesh. A new wineskin ever new, adorned with ebony feathers.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, Soul Journal

Thoughts unleashed…

Color Captioned

Every day starts with a new thought. Today was no different.

The past few days I have woken to water views of The Atlantic. Her blue waves are far worse than mine. The first day we met, I settled into the sun breaking free from her horizon. The warmth cut the chill enough to sit on the deck chair and zen the morning away.

I suppose this morning is a warning that the carefree moments never last longer than a brisk wind’s cold slap to the face. She woke up wild. I woke, arms wrapped around a blanket, hot mug in hand, giving thanks for her hospitality the past week. And for a relationship that has just begun.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Soul Journal

Alone

Yesterday, so many old feelings returned. Im angry. Im hurt. The relays of old films played all day in my mind. Scenarios I thought Id forgiven.

I was triggered into old patterns of behaving. Im utterly sad. After the heated emotions, I remind myself to keep forgiving them, so Im spared further damage to my heart.

I suppose I’m depressed too. My soul is tired and art has lost all color. Damn if I haven’t fallen hard.

I know this too will pass. The sun will shine again. But I am broken and hurt and mad.

Forgiveness promises very little in the midst of anguish. In the morning I plan to rise.