After the recent publication of my nun book, and with the approach of spring, I welcome the return of my writing self. Today began with the following:
Words are stuck inside me, along with my drawings, paintings, and other expression of what might be. I keep them, like dessert, on the shelf until after.
After work. After spring cleaning and the walls and woodwork have been painted. After I’ve cleared my list.
Why? What if I die before?
Who will then record what my spirit beholds–the lines and colors? The fading away of edges into nothingness.
The inevitable softening.
If I could but ignore the part of me who stands, frowning and with arms firmly folded over her chest, between art and me?
What havoc might I wreck–what beauty?
Quite possibly another delightfull expression of me.