“But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods…for their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them.”

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I am smitten with autumn rain. Something about it, the smell, the chill. It’s all mischievous and wondrous, and calm. I can’t believe it is already November. This year has gone by so quickly. I think writing about each monthly transition has also made everything move a bit faster…It’s strange how as we grow all we do is wait for Friday’s, or that one break from our everyday schedule. A mental break from the reality of simply living. It becomes a phenomenon to live in the moment and something we have to strive for where as when we were very young all we did was live, and that seemed like a daily eternity. Now we like to take naps and escape from the lives we’ve built around, and for ourselves. A child like faith or wide-eyed wonder is what we long for. We speak of something that used to come so naturally to us as the treasure worth seeking. And maybe it is, but i think we all have more of that in us than we believe. I have always been afraid of growing up. I still am, but less so because I’ve realized and still strive for a reality where changing and “maturing'” doesn’t mean growing up. I don’t believe in being wise beyond your years, because wisdom does not come with age but simply with understanding, and sometimes the most understanding person I’ve known is my six-year-old brother. Don’t be afraid of your age, you are always you, and that is enough. What a blessing it is to live through the changing of the seasons and of the tides.


The Picture of November

But the picture of November is a burning of the past
A cleaning out the gutters before winters come to pass
A swift and barren glory that is gone by in a flash
trees no longer making noise, save the creaking of their backs
A words that whispers, sunshine
Of the coil in my heart
Waiting for a whiteness, clean
An edge of season’s start

We all long for a future where our beauty is forewarned
But with melancholy branches, the forest looks forlorn
Just as our bare hearts search for clothing so November seeks her dress
The white covering over darkness, where October had cut her tress
But on every ring inside her etched, the beauty of a soul
That is, that without a story, none of us is whole.


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Just one more thing to prove that art is emotion. How else would we have sculptures such as this? Yes we marvel at the work of the artists hands, but truly what we are so captivated by is the emotion portrayed in such works. Somehow art brings cold stone to life not by carving it into an image but by chipping it away to reveal raw emotion. Who are we but cold stones ourselves until we learn how to be molded, and to mold and create something through our emotion? Isaiah 64:8 says “Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.” If we are created in the image of a creator, then our hands and our hearts have that power as well. So go make some art. Don’t tell me you can’t do it because I know that the very breath in your lungs was given to you to use not to just leave in your lungs. sing, speak, write, make. And in the changing of the seasons feel the beauty of the earth and know that though the tides change, the moon is always there, the same. Don’t be afraid.


In the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greetings,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping,
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest—and it is Autumn

– Alexander Posey


If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman



 “October is about trees revealing
colors they’ve hidden all year.

People have an October as well.”

I’ve hidden inside books and walls and my closet. If you came up the stares, there I was, behind the screen, or the curtain, unseen. If you haven’t guessed this is hide and seek. My house has always been big to fit my big family. When I was younger, I would walk though my house and when I heard someone coming I would find a good place to hide. I’d do that all afternoon sometimes just running and hiding, out of anyone’s reach. In the position of power because I knew where they were and they didn’t know where I was. That’s war tactic for a ten year old, but in a big family that’s kind of how you learn to think, with mock war tactics that is.
Now that I’m older, seven years later, and many tears past ten, I think that I never really stopped playing that game. Less in the physical sense and more in a mental one. We have all played that game, hiding who we are from those around us. Because we are safe if
“I can see you but you can’t see me.” A distance. An invisible arms length stretched out in “friendship” as if to whisper “don’t get too close, don’t get too close.” What have we all whispered into our hiding paces where our fall colors reside? Who are you that they might WANT to see? And what is it worth anyway, what if they don’t like it? Words are worth a thousand pictures, but the true picture of you is worth more than any lie you could tell yourself about yourself. The soul is not to be mocked for its beauty and florescence. I’m not asking you to take down all your walls or bare your soul naked for the world, but rather, take one small October. A vacation from your hiding place. let the chlorophyll escape from some leaves and breathe out. You don’t have to hold your breath when you’re not playing hide and seek.

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All the sunflowers with their heads turned down…
goodbye summer, without a frown
Turn to leaves caressing the ground
Welcome autumn and her golden crown

I’ve looked and longed among the trees
For a season that would feel as free
As dreary autumn, so my soul to be
made the same by binding me

Bound to earth by a brown and red tether
I’ll always live for colder weather
And when the wind rustled leaves like feathers
I feel that i have known ME better

by Glory

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I’m so glad its finally INKtober an I get to be all creative with it! Here are my first two ink drawings this month. Art is so wonderfully versatile.


“October is change
An unveiling
A removing of her head covering
and letting her hair down
A blustery undressing of
nature’s excess
A shaking off of old
A laying bare time
A time to reflect and decide
how we want to clothe ourselves when the time comes
for rebirth.”

— L


If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman


“We know that in September,
we will wander the warm winds of
summer’s wreckage.
We will welcome summer’s ghost.”

In a beginning, there must be, an end. I have little things like this that run though my head, things that I keep coming back to. Little poe-trees dropping the same leaves on my head over and over again.

When I first wrote that opening line it was about the end of winter and the beginning of growth, spring, and summer. And now that I reiterate the statement it is time to address the end of summer and the beginning of a new season. There are so many little “all done’s” and “start fresh” in a year that I hadn’t noticed until I wrote about them. I also never noticed how much we need them. For example: if we didn’t have the ending and beginnings of weeks I think we would all go crazy not to mention the daily end and new beginning we get. Even if it seems pessimistic sometimes the fact that a day will end is the only thing that will get us through it. So as I start this new season of life, new school year which is an ending in itself (of high school anyway), I will be thankful for endings and for beginnings. Seizing opportunities even as they storm my castle and take down my flags. I’ll breathe, in the air of coming autumn, and spit out summer’s ghost’s but thank them for their memories. It all comes around again, so I won’t mourn losses or mix up “goodbye’s” with “see you later’s”. Our world is just ever-beating, evergreen, effervescent light of change and shifting plates. Brush the silky spider threads of this beginning, and let yourself sweep away the whispers of summer’s “until we meet again…”

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September is breathing

by Glory

My emotions are shot
My head is spinning
I’m not sure when
This became a beginning

Because usually that’s how I
feel at an end
But really there’s something
starting again

It’s closer to autumn
Each day that goes by
And farther from heaven
But touching the sky

My fingers are broken
September’s cold lips
Set slightly open
and catching on tips

Pressed to the door
And commonly frightened
Peace in uncertainty
Our ties
That bind
are tightened

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
Not as the world gives, give I unto you.
Let not your heart be troubled, do not be afraid.”
John 14:27
Fear is such a prevalent thing and it makes us into people we are not. Fear can make you freeze or it can make you lash out in ways that are not worth their consequences. I’ve heard that courage is not the absence of fear, but rather it is bravery when fear is staring you in the face. This is all coming from a girl who is still afraid of the dark and can’t watch even the previews of a horror movie. Still there are so many scary things happening in the world but the only way to face them is to choose to find courage and love in fear, to find beauty and grace in pain, and to find beginnings in an end. Be a faithful friend, and don’t let fear cripple your kindness. Jesus didn’t come to save the righteous.

“The lines stitched into highways,
the never-ending seams;
on roads that are less traveled,
dividing you and me.

I wish I could unravel
the fabric in-between,
and tear away the distance,
to bring you close to me.”

— 4000 Miles by Lang Leav

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman







“August brings into sharp focus
and to a furious boil, everything I’ve been listening to
in the late spring and summer”


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Everything feels like its ending, but also like everything has just begun. Uncharacteristically, I wish summer was three months longer. And yet, here we are. August.
All my flaws and all my happiness seemed to be weaved together. I’ve never been my happiest when I felt perfect. I’ve been my happiest when I felt flawed and loved and true to myself. No, this is not a speech about beauty, or about how everyone is beautiful and everyone is perfect. Frankly, I don’t believe that at all. I believe that beauty and perfection or rather our versions of those things, are much less important than we make them out to be. You see the one thing that we all have in common is not that we are beautiful or even that we are all human, but that we all have emotion. To my little Taurus mind, beauty is something I see everywhere and I see it in pain. I’ve never thought my friends were more beautiful than when they cried on my shoulder. That might sound sadistic but I promise you it’s not. The pain is not what is beautiful but rather the raw emotion that manifests itself in those moments. That paper-thin venire of false face is brushed away and all that’s there is you. simple, sad, Beautiful. So don’t be afraid of it, reality is valuable.

fire, lungs, August

by Glory

August rushes
Hot wind sun
life’s now ending
Just begun

Two visions blurring
into one
yellow summer
coming undone.

We long for water
rain to come
but into focus
there’s only one

Thing that I
can seem to sea,
drowning feels like
fire to me.

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I’ve been carrying around this art journal since January and I finally filled the darn thing up. People change, that’s what they say, but I think id rather say I’m growing than I’m changing. When someone says “you’ve changed…” they don’t usually mean that complimentary. Even if it is true that all people “change” and yes we need to all realize that, I’d still like to being growing instead. (maybe it’s because I’m afraid of change) But what I’ve been told, and like to believe, is that we are all growing. And sometimes when we don’t feel like we are moving forward, we are simply growing roots. So…And Still I Grow.

I question not if thrushes sing,

If roses load the air;

Beyond my heart I need not reach

When all is summer there.

– John Vance Cheney

We don’t have to think about if the sun or moon will rise, but that doesn’t mean we take for granted the beauty of the sky.


If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a Watercolor Woman











“The summer looks out
from her brazen tower,
Through the flashing bars
of July.”


I am forced to focus an eye on pain. A world we call home in turmoil and i, lowercase, sitting in my bed waiting to simply stop thinking… I see so called protectors becoming oppressors. A breathing being can say to another your life air is not as good as mine and therefore hate has slipped on a garment of acceptance. Protruding from that elegant soft smock, he wears proudly the mask behind which no one thinks to look. Confusion strikes the heart to fear, and yet all i understand is this; the antonym to fear is audacity, and that is to take action shamelessly.

let's  look  back  at  love.

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July = Relationship
(as in love/hate)

Summer suffer
heat the rain
The trick of freedom
that brings pain

In July, the wind still whispers
Secrets keeping, hidden, shivers

laced up love
on every ray
warmed by yellow
golden bay

A sea of white, green, and heat
miserable, happiness scorching our feet.

Queen Anne’s lace is growing on the edge of the woods. The sun warms the earth before I step outside. Eyes blink slowly open to that shining planet sending wisps through my window. I’ve never been fond of summer but despite the heat I have come to appreciate it, especially in the morning. Trust me, I have never  been a morning person. And yet sometimes, more often then not these days, I wake up and I see the light though my white window and I’m okay. I’m okay.
Heat is white. hot. Not red. We see fire as heat but fire is death and life. Heat, summer heat, is white, light filled warmth. It warms our skin and scorches our earth. You can’t see it but you can feel it. mmmmmmagnified by reflections and things black. All we can do is feel it. Be undone by it. I’d rather not.

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Still stuck on watercolor women. I don’t mind though, I think I’ve found a good thing. I’m ugly stubborn but I also have a short-ish attention span. The combination of those two things makes me surprised and not surprised at all that I’m sticking with this.

But I paint my emotion in these women, my feelings in their eyes. What’s shown is not what’s given, our brief and total demise.

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When all I desired
was promised
to me.

And all have conspired
to keep it
from reach.

There is safety in numbness–
there is solace
in sleep

– Lang Leav

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a Watercolor Woman 








“At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.”
– Edgar Allen Poe The Sleeper

I quoted more of that poem than I should have and less than I wanted to just because it truly is so beautiful. Honestly I’ve been waiting to write this June blog because I have many things to go with it. Such as this: Middle of June by Noah Gundersen . Listen to it, it is also truly beautiful.
It’s strange how meaningful life can be. Life and love and happiness all intertwined in mind. The past is gone and over and yet our memory machines are there and its hard to stop being the product of the past. My methodical memory comes back to say remember me your sentimental soul can’t shake me. The cat on the windowsill, (literally) jumping through hoops to get where she is, brings me back to present. I am grateful.

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I’ve been in a sort of whimsical mood. I haven’t written any song lately, but since the cessation of my scheduled education, I have been creating something everyday… especially in the realm of watercolor. When I started creating art I mostly just did pencil drawings. Then I moved to acrylic painting and after I discovered watercolor wasn’t just the paint set you get when you’re nine, I’ve delved and dabbled in that as well. The fluency of watercolor came naturally to me and when my short artistic attention span kicks in that seems to be my new go to. It’s a little magical, how the water–a source of life in and of itself–flows on the page though colors to make a visual of life.

DSC_0062 (2).jpgThis painting is something a little different. I visualized it in that place between sleep and consciousness.  My inspiration comes from that spot sometimes. If you can imagine it close your eyes and see the red, dark, twiggy, background. Now this fluctuating, shaky, black string continuously tangles itself up, ever-moving (the first canvas). Then the string pulls itself taught (the second). then finally tying itself in a knot. This is perpetual.
I’m not really sure where this came from or if its supposed to be metaphorical. Maybe I just really like making things that don’t make sense.

A scene, a feeling, a memory

I walked alone in muddy fields
That soaked up earth that the rain yields
In this moment my heart is peeled
cut back by the sword your soul wields

No longer am I afraid of what is to come
I sink down at the setting sun
These days I’m happier doing nothing, but ill run
out of my past, flying, ’till not forgotten but done

June bugs hum and I am still
words painted on my windowsill
My whimsy, watercolor brain at will
Inhale. Exhale. I’ve got my fill



This might not be all truth
but ill speak it into being, into youth
Words are powerful, yet don’t always give proof
for lying is easy and makes truth aloof

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

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“The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.”
–  Sara Teasdale, May

Hello, dear reader. The poem above is not necessarily the premise of my post but I thought it was much too beautiful to pass over. My intellectual stand still which lapsed into a creative low has now seemingly subsided. Unfortunately, this has not come with the time to carry out my inspirations.  And yet I am still in a more creative fluency then I was and things May be looking up (pun intended). So here is my outlet, crafted of words and photographs, not always up to par,  but always me…

My need for beauty is apparent in everything I do.
As I am born in the sign Taurus, to that, I guess, I’m true.
Life and love and happiness,
all intertwined in mind
But most my ideas, failures,
so back to the stone I grind.
And when they are not failures,
then simply un-carried out.
To this I am accustomed
Nothing to cry about.
I am my mothers daughter
My father’s blood in my veins.
My body only mine,
this shell,
My guts
My brains.
How can Death and death coexist?
inconceivable and omnipresent.
Not utterly distasteful
but oppositely unpleasant.
A reverse course of fish in water
with all my skin and bones,
I am my mothers daughter.


I wrote this poem on January first but I’ve gone back to it because it reminds me of May. Not simply because it’s about me–a May baby–and mentions Taurus which is partially encased by that month. But it also speaks of a mother–mine–which we celebrate in May. I am much like my Mother, I see my Father in myself everyday. Yet everyday I see myself, different and one soul. Held temporarily in a confusion of muscle and bone. My heart lies in an entanglement of earth and spirit. I love deeply and well, though the world will never tether me. it may weather me. Blood, muscle, skin and bone. Never, forever in body. So freedom for failure is what I’ll grant, because effort is half the battle.

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I carry this little book around with me everywhere. I fill it with my thoughts, surroundings, experiences, ideas and emotions in the form of art. Sometimes words sometimes just visuals but always worth taking a few minutes out of scheduled time and space to create.
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faith in all the things I’ve hated
a complicated
– word bank of a brain

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman


Wax and Wane
(An end within a beginning)
By Glory

The long haul
build up
before an end
all I can say
is you’re
my friend

No shadows
of a
coming wind
But in a
there must be
an end

Yet business
does not distract
or silence
take me
Made of wax

Melting wane
of candle light

 April showers bring May flowers. But first come the rains. That is the part people like to leave out of their minds. Everyone wants the flowers but not everyone wants to go through the watering, even if it is what could end up giving them life.
Imagine being April; always looked over to May. The month that is the preparation for another. “April is the promise that May is bound to keep.” If your name was only ever whispered as a secret, wouldn’t it be hard to feel needed or wanted? But then I think that maybe April doesn’t feel that way. Maybe April’s quite inconsistency of sunshine and rain is not simply overlooked preparation for May but the tricky unpredictable necessity that knows without herself, May would never bloom.
Imagine yourself as April again. April doesn’t care if we do or don’t like rain. She knows the earth needs it to begin its growth. There are always endings in beginnings.  If that weren’t so, April showers would bring no May flowers.

Every new beginning is some other beginning’s end.

My Creative levels are low. The gas light in my mind has come on. We don’t choose what inspires us. In my handwriting i don’t choose where the capital letters go, but when I type the computer chooses for me. My life is slightly illegible and by that I mean I’m just figuring things out. Who isn’t. Yet this art (bellow), inspired by the words written by myself and given words by the saying (above) written by someone else is just one of those things to keep my mind running on empty. In other words, send juice. (The creative kind)

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The use for this book, which was to be read, came to an end when the art began. The little bee you see came with the Wax and Wane. That process of build up and break down goes on until I get to a point of refinement. But like the rains I shall not look over the endings in the beginnings. I won’t be afraid of my leached creation. Let the parasite move on and start again. Here we are, sunshine and rain. This is growing weather and oh how I love these April showers.

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” I have been easy with trees
Too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
This rain.”

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman


“Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.”

Sleepy Winter cast aside. White blankets that padded down our cold nights, now evaporate into fluffy clouds rushing through blue skies like spring break traffic. Deprived of Green and vitamin D, our cravings are now met as immediate gratification in touches and waves of sunshine and breaths of air. Saying “See me. Spring. My sleepy eyes are opening.”
My heart is opening. In uncertain and abnormal hope. I do not claim to know where I am going but I’m willing to work my way forward. I think I’m breathing.


Wind + Sun

In March my life is just a blur
of all the things that I have heard
The shadow of a dawning spring
The wind casts in lights echoing
For future’s all that I’ve lived for
Threaded hope and doom
In realization sorrows pass
if only you can get a grasp
This realization comes to be
in March a wind chime symphony
With winter wind and summer sun
Contentment in unknown is won
Yet in this breath we would seem
a pawn in life’s unruly scheme

I wish not to rest in a man made bed, but nature be where I lay my head. When the things man makes like houses or machines get abandoned, run down, or messy, nature takes img_1247them back.
I’m sure you’ve seen an abandoned house or a picture of those old creepy amusement parks where  in human’s absence, over growth has completely taken up residence. It’s even how life works, when our bodies stop pumping and lay in absolute stillness, nature takes us back to the earth. The depiction of a messy bed: it becomes more so until flowers are growing “out of its ears”. I think I wish life were the reality of that. That no matter how messy my life got I knew that just meant little plants would grow in those areas. But really, that is truth and is a metaphor for how life shapes us. if we take the advice of the vines growing on the side of an old house, we will start to grow in places we thought were unrepairable. Life is messy. Through and through. Yet when we let our soul flowers grow on the old messy bricks of change, though they be uncertain, I think that might just be beauty from ashes. Yes, bloom where you are planted, but give yourself permission to bloom where you thought only desolation and abandonment could reside. Let’s all take a tip from nature.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep” – Robert Frost

(Tulip photos by Lily Miller)

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman


“February brings the rain
Thaws the frozen lake again.”

Cold mind, cold heart, cold bones. Winter has been chilling us for several months. Seeping into our very foundations. The feelings frozen in icy cold thought, now begin their tedious descent into defrost. Though rains fall, and puddles form, it promises icelessness not only in mind, but in reality. The change in weather at first so exciting that November through January brought, February finds slightly hopeless and desolate. Don’t think me not a lover of winter, cold air is where I belong. But even I, like so many, by this time in the year am looking for a single glimmer frozen’s end. February may be just that.

2 and 14

By Glory Miller

February, my life continues
All it’s threads and all its sinews
We brave the storm, the worst of weather
to your heart, my anchor tethered
But in this winter all noises wither
Yet nature and love still call me hither
And with an aching, trembling shiver
I glide ‘cross snow, my mind gone thither
The fourteenth day devoted to thee
Everything is made of “we”
Something warm in the coldest of days
Does help us carry on in our ways…

What you see is all about your perspective. The things you’ve been through, the way you’re raised, and the simple to complex notions you come up with that to your own mind are seemingly original, all effect your perspective or perception of what is around you. Metaphorically, this painting represents that. Stepping back to see the big picture and to get some effervescent,
                                                                                                              p e r s p e c t i v e.
The woman in this painting has stepped back from her blindingly gold encasement to see the flowers blooming in the barren spaces of her mind and in her life. Although we do not always get to see the big picture in such a way, glimpses of it, when noticed, help us to carry on in our ways…

Wait (Live Acoustic) – Glory

Surprise! Above is a link to a Youtube video of my original song “Wait”. I wrote this song one day in my room while it was raining, just me and my guitar. I think it is one of my most mellow yet not too melancholy songs. “Wait” and other songs will be on my upcoming album “Tempest” (Surprise #2). Stay tuned in, big things are coming February 14…

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

 Cover photo by Lily Miller