This is a story I am sure to rewrite again and again until I find exactly what I am trying to say.

I have my mother to blame for my love of flowers,
which is not such a dark thing to blame your  mother for.
It is most definitely her fault though. 
I remember, summers at the farmer’s market.
Always waiting until we were ready to leave 
to go to the vendor we had asked to save our favorites.
It did not occur to me then 
that we did not have money for flowers
--but she bought them anyway. 
I learned from her
to love summers and flowers;
and that beauty is worth the price you pay.
At least, it is worth it for flowers
--More than makeup or high heels.
Flowers cause no pain.
And so I learned to love those summers, 
just us girls: my sister and my mother and I,
between my father and my stepfather,
between one school year and the next,
deep in that place of rest
between one remembered event and another.
It is a gentle space
too quickly unappreciated
for its lack of busyness 
and for its brevity.

changes, requested and otherwise

For some things to make sense, you need a change of scenery. It's unavoidable at times. Your imagination is not always big enough to handle the static. Your muse is not always inspired enough with the same material. Your mind's eye is not always full enough. Often times, I am entirely unaware that change is exactly what I need to get unstuck. Fortunately, I am not the final authority or even the main person in charge of my affairs.

So I wound up in the desert.

I was born there, allegedly. Well, not in this particular desert... but pretty close actually. It is really a small matter of borders and names... how does the government decide where one national 'forest' or park ends for another to begin? Anyway... I was not raised in the desert. Though I love the hot weather and the colors and the sunrises/sunsets of the desert... I love water entirely too much. And mountains. And clouds. And trees. Tall trees. Even if they block some of the stars. But the desert has its beauty (like how far you can see and how amazing that rare storm is) and its things to teach.


It was there that my chalk pastels made sense. And faces made sense. I have not a clue why faces made more sense in the desert, but I know that the colors of pastel that I was working with suddenly just worked.



Color. Texture. Shape. Lines.

It is not that I have arrived. But it is the feeling that now I have somewhere to go. I could not see where I was headed for such a long time. And even though I have left the desert and have no intention of living there; I see beauty from a new perspective. And taking that home with me gives better light to all that I see where I am.

Respite. (I apologize for the ironic haste of this post)

A little rest. A few dreams. A little art.

It is funny what creeps into my mind's eye and gets lodged there when I am not looking.

I have finally had the space and freedom enough to unclench and remember a little more of art. You know. The art that I loved and breathed and was before mechanic's classes and Bible College and Portland. It's been two years and only this week have I come to terms with how much I need to budget art supplies in because it is a matter of sanity and life and living...not a question of "

responsible stewardship" or whatever else I use to justify these last two years.

And so now that I have reclaimed my imagination. Or at least come to terms with it. Ya. I begin my summer term in...8 hours. Sweet. This is going to be interesting. Also, these are the saddest photos I have taken in awhile, but I start my summer term in 8 hours and have every intention of going to sleep...twenty minutes ago.