Part two.

I looked for you in the ocean bed
and the silver threads
and the feather-head

I looked in all the dust of the air
and the quietness
but you were not there

In houses and cathedrals, in windows and wells
But nothing I have found can ever seem to tell

me anything of safety
Or rest of weary bones
nothing else can spell with silence

“My darling, you are home.”

– where the heart is



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I think I love bagels as much as I love coffee and that’s saying something.







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I’ve been discovering and learning that home really is where the heart is. It is a state of mind, a person, a feeling. The things or the place that makes you feel safe, and loved, and completely yourself. That’s where home is. But it usually takes being sick for it to know where your home truly lies.



part one.


we come from glory into grace
in an ever-changing face
like rocks with secrets beneath the surface
geodes of a fallen world.

The cold hard surface of the rock is unfeeling and seemingly impenetrable. Wintry hearts turn to rocks sometimes. I’ve been hiking in the mountains in the winter. It is a wonder and horrible thing. But me being tired of walking and bitten by the cold is not the point here. If you’ve ever seen the rock faces in the woods I know you have marveled but what I sometimes forget to marvel at is the way the water, running continuously over, can cut rocks. But depending on the flow the waters does not always break rock, it shapes it into something smooth and refined. Our hearts are refined in such ways. Either broken in two or refined to be smooth, but each time by the same forces.

“For I am about to do something new.
See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make pathways through the wilderness.
I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.”

Isaiah 43:19

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Happy New Year, darlings. In a sea of resolutions and goals and broken promises, where are you? People joke about breaking their resolutions or trying so hard to stick with them. But we bend and we break and we become like willow limbs soaked in winter rain as we bend the rules we set for ourselves in weakness of wanting to change but being afraid to at the same time. So here’s a little tip or two: find out where you are. Take a breath and a step back and look at yourself. In Genesis 3:9 God asks Adam and Eve “where are you?” even though he already knows, and in Genesis 4:9 He asks Cain “where is your brother?” even though He already knows but there is still a reason for this. Sometimes we don’t know where WE are (or what we’re doing). How can we possibly set realistic goals for a new year if we don’t have a realistic view of our own lives. Isaiah 58:9 says “Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help and we will say: Here I am.
So before you let out a frustrated suspiration because of your own rules you break, or the goals you fail to achieve, take an inventory of yourself. Say thank you to all the wonderful things about yourself, and only then focus on the things you’d like to improve. Because no matter how many times you fail, new beginnings will become evident if you look.



“In the snowy white of winter
All uncleanliness made bare
I was broken in a tied up way
Like taped up pieces on a chandelier”

– january


“If a tree falls in the forest
Does it make a sound?
In December, barren earth
you can feel it
In the ground.”


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We give what we get. Like sponges we soak up other people’s energy and when squeezed all that we’ve been saving up overflows. “Out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks.” December brings a season of cold and a season of giving. Rather you like it or not the world around you will be full force, head first, all in to this season. But what we sometimes fail to remember is that our actions speak. When all we care about is being with family or getting/giving gifts for our own name sake, then as many times as we say them–the polite, cordial things undoubtedly become worthless. We pay for interactions in emotional currency and those expenses can sometimes weigh more heavily on us than the financial ones.
When do you feel loved? Is it the one time in December when you see that person you haven’t seen all year and you exchange “pleasantries”? or is it when you find mercy in a friend who knows you?…We are all filled with what we receive so why not be the giver. Grace and mercy will follow you all the days of your life if that is what you give to others. Let your life be worth a thousand words simply because it graced the earth with the presence of a picture of love, and give what you wish to receive. Define yourself and your own standard of beauty by the actions you commit and the poor in spirit who you paint into your life picture. Everyone needs grace.


by me

Beauty is as beauty does
In the month of December
For actions speak louder than words
Like the sound of, alone, fallen timber

We sing the song of giving
And we look for our name sake
Under the whispers of heaven
What hands will beauty make

Stories told in lines
On hands and on pages
Are worth a thousand pictures
Of what kindness, mercy graces.


“Now the seasons are closing their files
on each of us, the heavy drawers
full of certificates rolling back
into the tree trunks, a few old papers
flocking away. Someone we loved
has fallen from our thoughts,
making a little, glittering splash
like a bicycle pushed by a breeze.
Otherwise, not much has happened;
we fell in love again, finding
that one red feather on the wind.”
–   Ted Kooser,   Year’s End

As this year is drawing to a close we are drawn to a pause and reflect. But I ask you, as a friend and as one who knows the pain of it, not to dwell on the past or on your mistakes. Let yourself move forward and learn from the things that presented themselves to you this past year. None of us deserve to be chained by a false reality of what is behind.
This next year may be a little different for me blog wise. I was not sure for a while if I would continue passed this year. But I hope you all will continue this journey with me, though I won’t tell you what I have planned…thank you all for reading.


W  I  N  T  E  R


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“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