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.
Your words and thoughts resonate with me. So do our spirits stand with arms folded, surveying worlds we have yet to explore. Do we take “the road less traveled?”