Bluest Ever The Indian Paintbrushes are jealous of the Bluebonnets, and maybe that is why they riot along the roadsides and highways. Bluebonnets don’t care. They prefer to silently parade across the new sprung grass during their seasonal spell in the spring; and certainly, they do not compete with paintbrush strokes of garish neon orange. … More Bluest Ever
The Slice that Cuts Once you grasp the fleetingness of life — and it dawns on you in tiny increments as you grow — you are always savoring the sweetness of living and vitality of those living around you, family and friends who join your journey and increase its treasure. Yet on some indefinable level … More The Slice That Cuts
Resisting Ceremony There is something in the conceit of youthfulness that resists ceremony. Maybe I am a middle-aged woman who still dresses up for church, remembers the Pilgrims on Thanksgiving Day, recites the pledge of allegiance to my country with joy and pride and thinks that formal observance transcends post-modern culture. I am a one who … More Resisting Ceremony
Rusted Filigrees It will not be said of me that “I staggered not” at the promises of faith, rather that “my hand held the sword.” I’ve altered and swayed, plummeted in despair and hoped to hope. Yet I held focus in all the shifting on that which changes not. I’ve lingered much on … More Rusted Filigrees
Skull Hill In heaven, Skull Hill will never be a faint memory, rather a mountain we climb daily. The practice of devotion will continue, learned from our earthly courses and lessons in overcoming in victory. In Paradise, we can stop the climb, but we won’t desire that. The journey to the cross is too familiar … More Skull Hill
Creative Synapses My creative synapses will make sense to me someday. They will not sputter in chaotic release, release, yes, but that utterance of halting expression which I must tame and strengthen to the core will one day flow in order. Ideas that I must now systematize and pull and push into place, stuffing into … More Creative Synapases
Hip Struck I crave silence but not just any, rather the kind that slathers the soul like a soothing salve and leaves a blanket of protection, soft luxury upon the skin. The kind that penetrates the crusty rim and reaches the brittle reed within. Layers and layers of lanolin, silence swathes a path of healing, … More Hip Struck
