cupcake daffodills

Hi! I've moved! Formatting entries on WP took so long, was frustrating, annoying -- the cons began to outweight the pros and, after asking the advice of Lia as to wether I should switch to TypePad or not (as you can guess, she had a lot of good things to say!), I decided to make the move.

The journal prompts previously in a sideblog are now on a page of their own under the Pages heading. Over there are also all the articles and tutorials I wrote; the entries wouldn't import no matter how many formats I tried, and so, they will continue to be hosted on my domain indefinatly.

Because I no longer have the sidelog, I'll let you know when the prompts page is updated -- probably every day, as I post to the list every day.

I've only been using TypePad for two days, and already, I love it!!


The piece above is something different for me; I haven't tried any realism or playing with painting over a magazine picture, so this was a result of my overwhelming silence during my time away. Trying new things.


The sermon given by today’s guest speaker moved me so, I found tears sprouting in my eyes. It was called “The Dance That Matters,” and the above quote is from it.

She spoke of how, for her, dance became a spiritual practice. That when the beat began pulsating, the melody singing, her body reacted without her permission, and soon, lost herself in the music. By dancing, she did, indeed, find herself.

It’s true for any activity that takes your complete focus, your passion; for me, working in my journal has become such a practice. Hours can pass, and often do, when searching for the right color, or perfect scrap of paper -- it is in this time I'm the closest to whatever power above grants us the gift of creativity. Of art. Julia Cameron says creativity flows through us rather than from us.

Doesn't that take off all the pressure? Knowing that you can never be tapped dry of that creative spark because it's not a well inside you fill yourself, but capture from elsewhere. Outside. From trees and grass and late night moonwalks, from puppies falling sleep in your lap and children showing off tricks in the pool. Burnt corn and perfect steaks.

The world is full of inspiration, of material for your work. Blocked? Take a walk. Lie in the grass and stare at the sky through the swaying leaves of a tree being tossed by a summer breeze. Listen to children giggle.

Today, while standing on the wooden steps down from my brother's kitchen, I heard the tinkling of a windchime to my left. Tearing my eyes from my puppie's wanderings in the foreign yard (she'd never been to my brother's house before), I sought out the source of the wonderous sound. In a patch of woodchips stood a young tree and a hanging windchime, so small, you'd almost miss the silver tubes. At that moment, I became saddened because I'd only have my memory to record the beautiful sound.

Why is it we can record what we see, smell, touch, and taste in our journals, but not the sounds of our lives? Can we glue tape recorders to the covers and play them back whenever we need a moment of peace or joy?

Such questions gave only negative answers. I listened to the chimes, felt the wind graze my cheeks, then the tug of my pup roaming farther than the leash reached. Pulled back, I returned my attention to her, called her back inside, and returned to the chaos of children, dogs, and adults inside.