Shed Appearances

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

Nothing remains
at the end
of every truth
a handful of stars shine -die.
The same person -born
changes appearance
new thoughts and old
intermingle within our DNA.

There is always something worth fighting for. Some times those things are greater than ourselves. Other times, it is ourselves we fight for. When we are able to simultaneously fight for all these things, we triumph.

Personally. Collectively. Battles.

Currently I am reading a very short book Sacred Geometry and set out to notice shapes and patterns in my photographs. Actively identify the photo’s composition, that was not purposely planned out, retracing my whimsical approach to life, intentionally finding what was pleasing to the eye.

This flower sums up life. Do you recognize the flower able to bloom wherever it finds footing? Often called grounding, it is connecting with ourselves, whereby one is able to calm the soul. Learning to thrive in a foreign land set against you, name the battles.

Notice the petals, some tattered, are not symmetrical. The space is full and empty. The rocks worn smooth from salty waters, leave stained memories. Immersed into the green, jagged leaves, symmetry unfolds. Layered upon each other, they peek from behind, nourishing each other with their varied position in time.

Odd. Count the petals. Twenty-three. One petal missing, to make it an even 24, or is this space purposely left open, as a fill-in-the-blank? This question remains unanswered, teaching us to be grounded while going along, while the tears flow.

A Face in the Crowd

Weekly Photo Challenge

Another person doing his thankless job and keeping all safe on the slick Chicago streets. This post is for those who do their job, not knowing who is noticing their hard work, “Thank you!”

Indy Reads

Indy Reads is a nonprofit bookstore run to support literacy programs for adults and families in Central Marion County and the City of Indianapolis.  This was my first visit and well worth a trip from anywhere in Central Indiana.  Paperbacks are $5.99 and hardbacks are $6.99 and they have rare books for sale as well.  Currently (1/12/2018) they have a complete set, five volumes, of Virginia Woolf’s Diary for $60.00.  And they have a great collection of Poetry….

I ended up purchasing some modern poet’s books I had never read before and whose style I enjoyed by a quick glance.

Nicholas Christopher The Creation of the Night Sky
Carolina Ebeid You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior
Chuck Carlise In One Version of the Story
Catherine Barnett the game of boxes

Indy Reads has a quality children’s book section. Do note the children’s books are not organized in any fashion so you should plan on spending some time looking through the shelves of books.

They have a Facebook page, a website, and always need volunteers.  Oh, not to forget, they enthusiastically support local artists and writers with ongoing programs and opportunities to display works for sale.  If you ever find yourself in Indy, do stop by.

December 22, 2017

Photo modified with Pic Collage

Beware the sun setting. This encourages the claws to rise within.

Early this morning i was doing well. It is now mid-day. I feel myself sailing off into the abyss.

This abyss is not heaven. Its hell on steroids. Whether its the packing up of my beloved writing room, or the thought of getting on an airplane Sunday morning, my mind is working up into quite a frenzy.

It has been days of this craze. I am unsure where it stems from. But it has arrived. And I best chill or I will be so agitated nothing will scrape me off the walls.

January 2, 2018

I am quite fearful of sharing the dark existence but on occasion it slips and sails. I am safely back into my cocoon. Well, what was my home. This once rapturous dwelling now expects me to hurry up and wear my wings indefinitely. Be vigilant and ready for take-off. I much rather undress and retire. Lie wistfully contemplating the atmosphere. The soul immersed in each layer, teetering between and through.

So how will my blog look going into 2018. I wish i knew. I have no idea. It most likely will stay this raw, unedited mess that lacks direction. On a whim i may post my photos. Or get ambitious and finish my quilts. Or unpack my paints and create worlds unknown to most.


Roots (questions)

A feminist as Virginia Woolf?
I should say
my concern is not
as you think I should be
rather, I climb the hayloft to dream
passing cautiously
the tangled bull cow
desperate to be free.
A Room of One’s Own
she declares
I hardly agree
despite this venturous
solitude of heart
only room for words
fictive and unconventional.
So which am I?
I suppose
I garner to know
more than my acquaintence cares
each walking briskly -past
as an autumn leaf
we turn to be and become.

Roots (a million dust particles)

Collage  Have you made yours?  Written your book of life?  It will serve you well.


Childhood school 3rd-5th grade.  It is now for sale. 

Memories are stepping stones to future endeavors and concurrently sticking points to moving on.  I would go out on a limb and say most of us have recollections somewhere tucked away, perhaps yours in the back of the mind.  Memories are the collage of  life and when painted, varied and unique.  Mine would be a mixture of social responsibility and natural endeavors.

“For myself, the only way I know how to make a book is to construct it like a collage: a bit of dialogue here, a scrap of narrative, an isolated description of a common object, an elaborate running metaphor which threads between the sequences and holds different narrative lines together.”  Hilary Mantel

I am a country and city girl and one without the other would be unacceptable.  One scenery fulfills the needs the other could never replicate.  My father was a farm boy, the middle child and the first to do many endeavors.  He was the first child in his family to be bused to school, was a terrific student but with a will to be independent he took off to explore.   He worked odd jobs to buy his first piece of cool transportation.  That car triggered his solo flight to somewhere, anywhere, leaving his mother to mourn his departure.  My mother was a city girl who touted education as a way to success.  Their individual outlooks on life seem to clash but it worked for them.  They eventually sharpened the other to be respectively educated and likewise garner a love of the natural world.

The foundation of life was set long ago, centuries to be exact.  The million dust particles are but the sand dunes we are destined to crawl through.  I believe it is education and a love of reading, inquiring philosophically, psychologically and spiritually, regarding man’s destiny, that serves us well.  And when we need a break we can rely on the beach waves to take us far, far away.

“Suppose within each book there is another book, and within every letter on every page another volume constantly unfolding; but these volumes take no space on the desk. Suppose knowledge could be reduced to a quintessence, held within a picture, a sign, held within a place which is no place. Suppose the human skull were to become capacious, spaces opening inside it, humming chambers like beehives.”  Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

Click here should you like to hear Hilary Mantel’s five Reith Lectures, Resurrection: The Art and Craft.



Roots (storyteller)

“Are you a teller?”

“Do you mean a confessor?”

“No. I mean a teller. A teller of stories?”

It seems fitting one should stop here and think, am I? Are we?  Someone once encouraged me to be a writer. She was a shield from the world. I hid behind her in fear. 


Eyes pierce through tender skin, skin as transparent as vellum. One could see through the intricacies; blood flow and muscle tissue forming that lacked strength. Passersby would watch the skin peel away each day, parting a course for a larger skeleton that housed parts of her most ignored. Everyone but me. I saw more than I wanted to know. 

One in a million (along the seashore 7-11-2017)

Roots (endless conversations)

“Bet you dont know?” smirks a friend.

“No, i dont.”  A splendid confession I was proud to concede as honesty has always been a good friend.  The problem was doubt sunk in.  “What should i know?”

“I dont know.”  A pause ensues and confusion from both parties.  Together we pondered “What is there to know?”

From there we politely parted ways, perplexed as to what next to do with our respective lives. 


Do any of us really know our purpose?  I recall as a kid having a myriad of dreams. I wanted to be a teacher, lawyer, school counselor, dancer and even a missionary in the inner city for single moms and their kids. I am none of those. I am exactly the opposite in all regards but as I head into the second act I return to my roots. 

All dreams stem from seeds and what heart is fertile produces endless blossoms.

Illinois prairie restoration 7/7/2017