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.