Little by Little (A Memory a Day) A plastic container of Clorox wipes sits on the bathroom counter of my late father's bunker. We call it that because it's a concrete block building, and I believe it might be the best place to be in a disaster. One of the drawbacks is highly mineralized water (I don't mind that part, honestly), but it includes RUST! Agh! The toilet bowl could be cleaned daily. I haven't attempted the shower yet. It's orange. The steam from said shower has left a rusty two-year curtain on the walls. That's why Clorox sits in sight on the countertop. Every time I use the bathroom, my vow to myself is to take one wipe and make an improvement somewhere. It's been over a year since I've been here, but the purpose of that visit was to bury my brother. No cleaning projects happened then other than to reclaim desk space and have at least one clean kitchen counter. This feels like writing memories--or rather, not having them written and wishing I did. My daughter asked me a question about a place where we used to eat after church in Georgia. I barely remembered what she described and had no clue about the name. That's when I wished I had kept a proper diary. I'm an advocate for capturing memories--especially in writing. Those reflections are wonderful and revealing. I especially love capturing the stories that involve family or even objects used that may have gone by with the times or need to (like during downsizing). But what might be even better is to capture the history when it is made. If I wrote a story a day about the day, imagine the collection I'd have! Or if I am collecting memories, just documenting one in some form would be priceless. Yes, I am a writer, but it doesn't have to be in writing. Find a picture or an object. Make bullet points of the memory it holds. Write a poem. Paint something. Scrapbook it. It's not so overwhelming when it's just a little bit at a time over time. Eventually these walls will be clean little by little. Eventually your story will find its full form bit by bit. Don't be concerned about how it appears today. Just capture it raw and keep moving!

I have a new obsession. And I will likely never taste this again! It started with Thai chili shrimp yesterday. Frozen. Oven baked. Delicious! But the shell, legs, and tail were still intact. I asked Google if shrimp legs were edible. It said yes, but that many people found them too "chitinous." Oooh! A new word! There are too many big words in the definition, but it basically refers to an exoskeleton. I removed all the "chitin" as I ate. I had learned some time ago that a broth can be made from such things, so into a tiny crock pot the pieces went. Today I needed to use up tomatoes. They go well with a shrimp taste, right? What else? I had tiny potatoes. I couldn't determine if I thought their flavor would contribute, but I know they take on flavor. Good enough! Besides, I just wanted to say "potato tomato" soup. Fun! Himalayan sea salt went into the batch along with the remainder of Thai spices from a restaurant years ago. They always put them on the side in miniature containers. They don't believe I actually like it hot. But I do! I emptied the last little bit of dehydrated onions to the mix and set the pot to simmer until the potatoes were soft. Oh. My. GOODNESS! YEP, I am obsessed in this moment. I don't know what the spices were. I don't know the seasoning on the shrimp. This mystery may never happen again! It reminds me of a soup I made in South Dakota when our pastors came by for dinner. Everyone raved! The secret ingredient was cola. Did I remember the spices I used? Sort of. Did I measure anything? No! I tried to recreate it, but it fell short every time. That was at least 25 years ago. It still haunts me. By the way, that's an element of obsession--to be preoccupied or haunted by some idea, interest, etc. (Merriam-Webster) Is there a lesson in this? Maybe keep track of experiments? Or maybe even better, just enjoy the delicious moments and be thankful. And that I am! I shall call this moment An Accidental Lunch Date With Thai Chitin Potato Tomato Soup and remember it with fondness.

Senses The capture of curiosity Hear raucous birds Feel twisted wind Smell lapping water See tails of sunshine Taste scented air Be Be still Become

Words arrive in ragged moments---quiet answers to desperation. To capture them is like finding jeweled hope dressed in plain clothes. They could be voice memos, a text to one's self, or scratches on a new faux blackboard with vintage chalk. My dad had a chalk holder ever since I was young. It had grips that tightened around the chalk and encased it in a metal sleeve so that it could be used much like a pen. Both of my parents are teachers, so it never seemed strange to have something cool like that. It still sits in Dad's desk after his death. I saw a mini chalkboardboard at the dollar store and imagined nostalgia rising with tiny "chalk talks" (a thing I do when researching words and finding treasure). Blackboards gave way to whiteboards over the years, so I tingled with anticipation of using chalk again---especially in Dad's chalk holder, which I haven't held since I was a kid. When the words "SHOW LOVE" arrived in my heart, the little board was still wrapped in plastic. My imagination saw it written cutely in chalk, so I tore off the wrapper and retrieved the chalk holder from Dad's desk. It slipped over the slick surface. No nostalgia at all. Instead of the familiar powdered grip on slate, my chalk slid as if unwilling to give up its pigment to the imposter. So much for cute. But words don't have to be cute to carry power. "SHOW LOVE" rose as I fell sick and preferred isolation. My son, agitated with a fresh bout of alcohol and anger, seethed against me. I returned into his world after a year, and the rollercoaster sputtered to life once again. One moment up and hopeful, one moment hurtling downward---scary and cruel. In the days that followed, I spent much time in bed, but "SHOW LOVE" reminded me to emerge and sit in the lone living room chair. My son lives nearby on the couch, where he eats, sleeps, smokes, drinks, and fills time on his phone, depressed. Despite the rise and fall of perspectives, the constant aim to show love opened small doors. I cried plenty of tears (mostly in secret), but when unavoidable, they seemed to soften resentment into hugs. The rocky desperation that rolled in my heart had a simple solution: SHOW LOVE.

My Minnesota neighbor, Snook, caught me with Dad's big loppers, snipping rogue trees by the garage. "Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack?" I laughed, "No! There's an urge in me saying, 'DO SOMETHING!' But I suppose I should be careful." The lawn is a jungle again. An enormous thistle is growing by the sidewalk and grabs anyone who tries to navigate to the front door. It looks like a colony of small needled trees. It's gone now. Lopper power! I cleared several weeds and thistles but scurried back to my outdoor writing station when I heard a rumble in the grey sky. I want to take advantage of the "desk" while I can. There's a remote for the awning, so even if it begins to sprinkle, I'll be okay for a while. A fish jumped out in the lake. I looked up and locked eyes with a curious squirrel staring at me. He ran. A tiny bird pipped down the walkway. I could probably fit six of him in my hand. SUPER-TINY! I'm surrounded by new plants that I picked up in a nearby town after church. It was the last day of the greenhouse at the grocery store. Everything was $2. One is a pepper plant with 4 peppers already hanging from it and many blossoms. Another one I'm excited about is kale. Spearmint is waiting by my yellow planter that I brought up north to try and transplant lakeside mint (which did not work). I have two tall planters that were supposed to be a part of the Airbnb project on Green Lake (also unsuccessful). Most everything is in my dad's workshop. If we decide to sell his place, it will take a lot of work to rehab, but I can furnish it! I met Murphy, the neighbor's latest dog. Mid-conversation, raindrops came. Down went the awning enough to protect me but still water the new plants. I grabbed a few more dandelion greens while the rain was light. I'll wash them and eat them in a salad. And now that I've done yard work in my church clothes, I guess I can settle in and write again. Today would have been my dad's 82nd birthday (he passed in 2020). I like to be in a place that reminds me of him on his birthday and write a letter. I started at the church we attended in Pelican Rapids (where I started life) then the river. I'll finish here at his home.

With a kiss, Katherine handed out miniature bouquets made from her massive sprays of floral love. She didn't plan to celebrate her 75th birthday, but someone rounded up a group of friends to celebrate anyway. We were all invited to a gracious home and brought a favorite homemade dish. Katherine is known for her gourmet cooking, so when it came to my choice, I had to make it a special one: quinoa and kale salad with pomegranate seeds, mandarins, and toasted pecans. When we sang Happy Birthday, I watched Katherine's eyes brim with tears as she made eye contact with each person and mouthed, "Thank you." I could have wept. I love her so. These days have been increasingly difficult. She has become a caregiver for her husband while believing for him to be (and stay) healed. She is more brave than anyone I know! Before my own challenge with health became critical, I sometimes came to sit with her husband so she could attend events or meetings. We go way back to the 90s. We often stayed with them when traveling through Springfield, MO. And later, when God spoke to us to move there, we happened to find a home for rent across the street! We both burned the midnight oil back in the day. We try not to go so late these days, but the clock quickly hits midnight when we sit and chat ... like we did after her birthday party two days ago. I am amazed and thankful that we can have this time together after decades apart. She and Bob went to Russia. I and my then-husband went to South Dakota and then Georgia. Life explosions happened, and one tangled path brought me to Oklahoma. I still remember the day Katherine was asked to teach about prayer at Millennial Church. It was impromptu. I was just checking out the church. The pastor began by saying that he asked Katherine to speak because she and Bob were in the States. I gasped and wondered, "MY Bob and Katherine?" I cannot adequately describe the excitement I felt to see her face! And afterward, when she told me they were praying about moving to Tulsa, all I could think was, "BE STILL MY HEART!" This little bouquet of love sits on my sill and reminds me of fierce dedication and a brave, beautiful warrior. ♡♡♡♡

Three years ago today, I hit a deadline from the "storm shelter" (aka bathroom) at Fergus Falls Public Library. My new friends shared adventures with storms, and in one case, I looked up from my laptop and asked, "Have you ever written that story?" I encouraged the woman to do so, of course. I still have images in my head of her memories ... a tornado ripped through their land, and she was unable to get to the root cellar with her baby sister because the door had lodged shut. The devastation was huge, though no lives were lost. Wind dug up the crops, and it was too late in the season to replant or salvage--not that there was money to do that. They left the farm in search of jobs with paychecks that year. My assignment that day was an auxiliary project, an illustrated PowerPoint to accompany a speech I edited. I became an animation fanatic, which brought back memories of my own. Early 2000s. Late nights. Church announcements. Making little "movies" of slides. I often stayed up all night to finish the presentation for the next morning after my (ex-)husband came back from the church. "You can do it so much better than I!" He slept. And it seemed right; he had to rehearse early with the worship team. Not that I didn't! I was also on the team, just not responsible for worship other than to show up and sing ... after getting our two children ready on a few hours of sleep. I was often late! But somehow--and I don't remember if he seeded this or not--it didn't seem important for me to practice because we had been doing music ministry together for at least a decade. A storm was brewing! And it ripped our family apart much like the land in the woman's story. It had been more than 20 years. My son lived in Fergus Falls, MN, where he came to help his grandfather in his latter years. We teamed up as my dad's hospice team a year later and said goodbye. As I traveled back and forth to settle my father's affairs and help my disabled brother, storms swirled between my son and me. The years still hurt. Our "farm" never recovered. I learned to depend on the library's peace and internet. Thankfully the tornado sirens are more silent now. We are healing.

And finally, a breakthrough. The last transcript has been processed! I owe some of this milestone to another ghostwriter who shared her process with me. (Connections are important!) One evening prior, despite being in the midst of the key process, I faced yet another meltdown. For hours, I did not sleep while thoughts spiraled. Yet, when I rose up in the wee hours of night to pace the floor, relief peeked through my racing thoughts when I spoke to the resistance in me: "You are a liar!" It reminds me of this principle: You can't fight thoughts with thoughts. It also reminds me of two scriptural principles: 1) Take no thought saying, and 2) Cast down vain imaginations. Overall, there comes a time when battles in a writer's mind must be faced and conquered. I have found that a key to killing giants of thought is found in the mouth: speak the truth in love. Concepts can be abstract, but clarity comes when I take action. There is a two-edged sword of Word and Spirit that equals truth ... and it seems that the scriptural principle is mirrored in my natural self. My heart and mouth are connected like the Spirit and Word. When I wield both, I can cut off constraints. Cut off doubt. Cut through fog. Cut away the inner critic. Close the doors of attack. Cut off the enemy. This is what self-love looks like. There are destructive thoughts--vain imaginations that won't produce anything good--and if they are entertained, it's like a slide made of razor blades. Don't be deceived by the shiny surface! Slipping away might not bring relief but leave you cut up in ribbons. Yes, you can be healed. But I don't want to climb a treacherous path again! I'd much rather scale a mountain once. Wouldn't you? Protecting a writer's mind may mean putting away the pen and wielding spoken words instead. To my fellow writers out there, I pray you face your giants with courage. May you rise up with a sword that is bigger than you and cut away resistance. Win battle after battle. Speak the end from the beginning, and keep pressing forward! #writinglife #finishstrong #battle #mindset #victory #heart #mind #mouth #truth #spokenword #stamina #climbyourmountain

Textures of the morning beckon a sharp camera and soft words. Their patterns draw my attention ... and a wish. My "big camera" is packed up states away awaiting my return (a year and counting). We used to be inseparable, my camera and I. This incredibly smart phone fills the gap in some ways but doesn't make up for the satisfaction of a prime lens and shot that took some time and skill to capture. In the meantime, my paper sits blank on the patio table as I contemplate Isaiah 30:8 (TPT): "God told me to write down in a book words meant for the coming generation as an eternal witness." I have another Bible with me (NCV): "Now write this on a sign for the people, write this on a scroll, so that for the days to come this will be a witness forever." Ink pools in the corners of the stars I draw by the number 8 in both Bibles. Today's testament of my presence is a thick, sparkly green. The verse reminds me of Habakkuk 2:2 (NKJV): "Write the vision and make it plain on tablets, that he may run who reads it." It also leads me to Psalm 78, which talks of telling the stories of ancestors to our children so that they would trust God and not forget what He has done. I draw a bracket around verses 1-8 and a chunky heart by verse 4 (NCV): "We will not keep them from our children; we will tell those who come later about the praises of the Lord. We will tell about His power and the miracles He has done." I imagine the pom-poms on my outdoor umbrella as stories, one after another, a fringe of spiritual legacy encircling the family. Beautiful thought. Not-so-beautiful reality! Have I done this? No. Do I wish I had? Yes. Immediately, I hear, "It's not too late." This is true. I am alive, and I can write. I realize the day is colder now and decide to head inside to my desk. The ink in my Bible looks wet, and I touch it to make sure it's dry before I close the book. It's not. A green heart is temporarily tattooed on my thumb. This heart on my thumb will be a good reminder. Maybe it will be for you too? (Go ahead and draw a heart on your thumb!) Gather the stories. Tell your family. There is heritage in the path you have traveled. #tellyourstory

A bundle of sticky weeds rests in my mug--the third experiment in my current lineup of four. I hear it is called "cleaver tea." This earthy brew my favorite so far. These weeds had no names in my mind last week. I've always adored the ones with miniature flowers. I liked their presence in my lawn because of the blooms. But sticky weeds? Their entertainment waned after a few bunches were swiped with a paw of my hand through the grass. Has anyone finger-combed a yard? I have! I know, I know ... that's what rakes are for. A friend once asked me, "Why do you always make things so hard on yourself?" I didn't have a good answer. Actually, I didn't realize I was making things MORE difficult. Life is already hard. I was raised to work well and not take shortcuts, so why would I look for the easy way to solve anything? I suppose I have some of my dad's perfection in me. He taught me how to mow lawns in straight lines: north/south, diagonal, east/west, opposute diagonal. I remember taking scissors (of my own volition) to trim remaining grasses around a tree--where I later sat with my journal and wrote a story. If my brother had shared that same perfection, I'm sure I would have figured out a bribe to have him mow instead of me. I didn't like it! But even in little things like trimming blades of grass, I would have been an unbearable task master for him. My mom told a story of the first time my brother's mowing chore came up after I was gone at college and dad had left us in a divorce. Paul asked if he had to do straight lines, and she said he could do any pattern he wanted as long as it got mowed. He had A TIME! He gleefully zoomed every which way over the lawn and land (we had 6 acres at the time). I can see it! He had a way of laughing with his head thrown back when he let loose and was being goofy. Maybe harvesting weeds and drinking mysterious elixirs is my version of letting loose? I suppose. It's a semi-useful distraction at best. I do NOT stick to endeavors like these sticky weeds do to me. I enjoy experiments while they are at hand, but if I turned them into an ongoing intention? Nope. Not going to happen. That's why I am so glad ... (con't)

Okay, Lord. It's You and I. Fresh start. Soup simmers on the stove. Morning goodies are arrayed by the keyboard. I am well rested and grateful for it! Time to put the "vehicle" in motion. (U&I just happened to be there. How could I resist a photo?) #productive #aligned #forwardmotion

Here's what's on my whiteboard this morning after a weekend of reacclimation. I'm making a new list! What's yours? I'll just keep this up and add to it as things come to mind. Anyone who needs to get unstuck may find this helpful. A clean slate is wonderful, but I find I need to redefine my expectations (among many things) to keep from getting stuck again! I suppose it's a little like adding elements for traction under the tires when stuck in mud or snow. Get out, and don't go back! LOL. #unstuck #identity #thoughts #beliefs #faith #dreamagain #vision Image description for visually impaired or language translation: whiteboard with colorful words depicting where we often get stuck (cycle of escape, consume, distract) and the instructive statement for the list: Put things in your mind that you WANT to think about. Dream again (with God)!

I was not sad to leave Ireland. It wasn't an emotional trip like we humans expect: "I fell in love with the land and don't want to return!" No. This was not a selfish consumption I longed to cling to, and yet it was extremely self-centered ... a personal pilgrimage of sorts that rattled and rebuilt foundations. My vows were of another kind entirely, and the budding change I feel is not tethered to an experience of land and learning. It was more like scooping up handfuls of dirt and finding a cornerstone below ... something under my feet all along. I blew dust into the wind. I read ancient etchings. I saw my shape. I breathed fresh air. I sat in memories I did not know I had and returned to a place now aching for more of what I can breathe. Cleansed purpose. Clear silence. Fragrant motion. The less is unwanted. The contrived lifestyle is meaningless to me. The gain of goods is worthless unless it builds a legacy. The sacrifices we make do little unless it saves another life from decay. So similar and so different are a gravestone and a cornerstone. One marks a life lived, and the other marks a foundation to be built. Do we walk about our lives with no view to what we are building? Do I have a vision of what my foundation can become? What is my holy design? It seems that to see it, a death is required. So that's what I did this week in Ireland: I died. I buried decades of chaos. I renounced past vows. I dedicated my future to the Lord. I betrothed myself to His land for me.

The Rock of Cashel is neither a rock nor a stone. It is neither a rock wall or stone abbey. It's the entire high point overlooking land for miles on a bed of limestone. Everywhere you stand is the Rock of Cashel. All five ancient buildings are built on the Rock of Cashel. "On Christ the solid Rock I stand .." I couldn't help but sing the hymn in my mind. I stepped where ancients once walked and wondered how they wintered there. Survival must have been brutal! Not just weather but raids threatened their existence. Even though they preferred linen to armor, they were no pansy group! They stood watch in windows they could shoot arrows through and on monastery walls in which they could run. Even the round tower had high windows and doors. I'd like to think that we do the same in prayer and our ways of Christian life ... only better, never to be defeated or succumb to enemies. I sat by one window, and it reminded me of my first real castle in Lewes many years ago. I wasn't with a group and didn't have a guide, and I wish I would have asked our guides today about these archer's windows. I believe one name for them is loop-holes. It sent me on a full-fledged rabbit trail back in the day. Today, however, I have a more developed strategic view. The scope of what one can see from behind that watchful place is amazing! I imagine this place in prayer ... inaccessible in the secret place of the Most High. An arrow finding its way in from the outside is nearly impossible! And if it did, it would not be likely to hit a person who is shielded by the flared angles of the rock. Add to that, speaking of us spiritually, we are equipped with God's armor. Could an arrow even reach us? How could any foe ever withstand if we are on our watch? This gives me a picture of life without letting down our guard. Whether by tower or wall or window, we have a post to scan the horizon. Can we live this way? On Christ the solid Rock I stand.

Today I learned that scribes sometimes left notes in the margins. We went so fast that I didn't get to satisfy my curiosity about it. With these painstaking projects, why would they take up precious resources just to say they're cold or tired? Did the margins get trimmed before the book was bound? Was it a system of checks and balances? Proofreading? I also learned that they could scrape what they had penned off the calfskin vellum they used as their parchment, so maybe they spent time scraping off the notes later. I imagine it would be a useful process to include notes in the margins. But I'd also want to make the next monk laugh when he reviewed the manuscript! Silly scribes. It also reminded me of a time two years ago when I had an opportunity to give myself over to the life of a modern scribe on the Isle of Iona while following the footsteps of Saint Columba. We were each encouraged to seek the Lord and spend time with Him for a day. I woke that morning and still didn't know what my divine instructions were. I had started to transcribe one of the previous meetings, and my equipment barely fit on the small wooden desk by the window. I made my own instant coffee and carefully placed the cup in a tiny spot reserved for it on the corner of the desk. That's when the scene hit me. I WAS IN IONA AS A SCRIBE! The impact took my breath and brought tears. I could offer myself in service to God and men by doing (in a modern version) what Saint Columba did all those centuries ago! As I gave myself to the work of a scribe that day, I paid special attention inwardly and stopped to make note of whatever happened within. I hopped back and forth between desk and bed (where I had a notebook). I made comments in the Word document, which was faster. It was my "margin." But no one saw my notes. I let time unfurl on its own and followed inward impetus. It led to an amazing adventure that day, and I ended up in a tiny "cave-like" space making a formal petition to God for some mysteries--protocols and mechanisms--to aid end-time publishing. It is no wonder that I viewed the Book of Kells with awe and tears. I believe I'm here now to pick up the petition again.

Remnants of fall linger--a scattered, windblown testament of a season gone by. I sit in their swirl and listen to the gentle trails traced on concrete. It won't be long until they are dust. Cars come and go. Songs on the not-so-loudspeaker pass by in a vague queue. A man scooted from car to store with Hispanic music blaring on his phone. He picked up an order large enough to obscure his vision and tripped on the curb near his car. Thankfully he parked close. I think about how much noise we carry with us. This is why I am here--to slow the pace, quiet the noise, and notice what would normally be a blur. The parking lot is ever-emptying. I think it's just employees and me now. It's about to hit rush hour. I am one mile from home. There is a mini post office here that I never noticed before. My errand brought me to the nearest USPS. It's right by Starbucks. I haven't been to one of these coffee haunts in a very long time. I could have gone home (and I will soon), but the scent of travel is close, and the opportunity to calibrate myself to my notebook and noticing wafted strong. I inhaled and found an outdoor table where I could observe life around me for a little while. These recent days seem to be designed for recalibration, like a change of seasons with swirls of the old and signs of the new. On Saturday, a prayer image passed through my mind of fuzzy buds on branches. I don't know what trees have buds like that, but it caught my attention. I'm on the lookout now--both inward and outward. May new life come to you as easily as spring rises from the winter. If you listen, there is a soundtrack playing too. It may be wind. It may be leaves. It may be the dance of a tune only you can hear. It may be the hum of tires of lives rolling by. But I hope you let it tickle your ears. Be blessed, my friends! ♡♡♡♡ Welcome, spring! I think I shall groove to my car with the next song and not care what anyone thinks.

"Give me a heart that has ears." The words came with melody, and I held the reverberations close like a reunited friend. Imagined sound curved into me, unsurprising and comfortable, yet captivating anew. It felt like an invitation on repeat. Familiar circles rang through my chest and called me from my bed of lazy, numb scrolling. No words showed up for this sense, but it felt like the "good old days" according to Spirit--both Holy and my own intermingled--awe and anticipation--as if He longed for those days more than I did. I scuffed myself to the electronic keyboard, still hearing the music, but the warm wood of the piano beckoned its heritage. The rainy-day window melted its reflection into the walnut sheen. I went to it and raised the lid that covered the piano keys. Record. Capture. E-flat melody. Tears said more than I could express. Welcome home.

"What am I? Italian?!" My words blustered in a fake accent as my hand gestured toward the ceiling. This is why I hit pause while listening to "Prayer Coach" videos* in the morning. I must make room for moments like these. When a certain word or phrase tickles my curiosity or wonderment or some edge of understanding, I stop to give it attention. I ponder. I write. I chatter. I reenact. In whatever expression I find, I give it in companionship with God--ever aware that He is listening and aware of me. This morning, as I lay in bed, I found myself exclaiming my findings and making the points accompanied by my hands. Oh how I laughed! These tiny delights are massive. Small freedoms open large doors within me. This feels like healing. As my open question punctuated itself to God, it came to me that "they" (Italians) were His before they were Italy's. What is it in us that prompts gestures to the point they become cultural? I didn't analyze. I enacted. "Exclaim!" My sturdy hand is an exclamation point upward. "Explain." My softened hand is offered to another as in conversation. Making a statement and seeking rapport. One does not require understanding. One seeks it. Back and forth I went, acting out what may seem like silliness to an observer, but increasing my awareness of a truth taking form without words. Insight. It's interesting how insight doesn't need words to operate fully. There are things I know and can exercise on a deeper plane of reality which I cannot articulate in words to you or to anyone other than God ... yet. May we all take time to nurture our inward life--whatever that looks like for each! For me, on this day, it looks like ungraceful, manly, and sturdy Norwegian hands punctuating prayers with Italian flair! ----- *Prayer Coach is a private Facebook Group with Pastor Paul Brady that features sessions led by many pray-ers throughout the week. I missed this morning's 6 a.m. live session but listened on extended replay--me being the one to extend it by my pauses and moments like these!

I came here to write about making a place, but it is not easy to find words when this sense of holy purpose descends and infuses my awareness. Attention. Awareness. Come to think of it, those elements create a secret place with God. I had forgotten this new thought of mine! But here it is again. It tugs at me from the inside out. [interruption with a phone call for medical scheduling] Interesting exercise. I yield to that internal tug again and give my attention to "that place" in Him. There is a slow soak of awareness that brings me near. I find explanations siphon the sensation away. Where I sit, I look through one pane of a double-door that leads to the back patio. Snow is thick and pristine. Unusual for Oklahoma. Icicles and wind-whipped snow perch on the roof with dramatic flair and stabs of ice. The snow is like a wing in mid flight. I remind myself to get a photo as soon as my thumbs are done typing. Back to my original purpose ... my office has a new secondhand bookshelf. Rather than stack more reference books on top, I realized that my little nod to travel already present in the room (my photos of a viking ship and a framed "art paper" piece from Imogen Heap) could continue on in some heritage pieces and memories. I was "made in Micronesia" when my parents were in the Peace Corps. Most pieces came back with them in the 1960s. I have yet to find my Zebra purse from South Africa and Namibia in the 1980s, but this twirly drum reminds me of the sights and sounds. I was there with a music group on tour for a month. The "U" and "I" is a theme throughout this room and my "Iona" house, which is being redesigned to foster intimacy between the Holy Spirit and myself. It sounds so impersonal to describe it! But every visual U&I is my direct thought to Him that life is all about us now. Ages ago, I dreamed of making my bedroom a sanctuary. Now my entire house is becoming a place of sanctuary and all that it holds--rest, healing, purpose, learning, and fortifying for future exploits! The more I pay attention to the Spirit, the more I feel like a monk. My life feels best when in service to His purpose. Maybe one day I will have words for it?

One Goodwill mug intact. It's twin broken, but handle only. Imperfect repair leaves it on the shelf unchosen. These colors saturate me. Peace. Purple. Blue. And flax. Teabag warming. The original mugs when I moved back into my bare walls. My first. My only. And now two of many. Thrift stores. Estate sales. Hand-me-downs. Now I can have company, and we can have tea. Some pairs are not as fortunate as these. One half lost to shatters when my hand lost its grip. Surviving orphan unmatched in cupboard order. I'm more careful now. My slippy, less grippy hand sees daily therapy. More tingles and nervy sprinkles. They say it's a good sign. Wake up, nerves! Wake up, body! Wake up, brain! I station myself to write as the afternoon fades away.

This little guy caught my attention. New Wave '80s hair and skin-tight jeans. It reminds me of an afternoon walk with two friends in the streets of our small town. Both were progressive and stylish--far beyond our rural culture. That day in particular, one wore jeans I had never seen before. "I love your jeans! What are they?" "Guess," she said. Silence. Thinking. Walking. More teenage girl talk. I whisper-asked the other friend. "Guess," she said. "I've tried to guess, and I just can't!" That's how I, a naive farm girl, discovered the Guess brand--all the rage in the '80s. I don't think I ever owned a pair. As far as I knew, they were designer and expensive.  The closest I came was something called Palmettos. Those I remember! Mine were vertical pinstriped denim, cropped just above the ankles, with a button-down fly. They also had a triangle patch on the pocket, if I recall. Probably an inspired Guess knockoff. I'm sure I found them on a sale or clearance rack in a larger town. That's usually how I acquired a rare item of cool clothing. I did have ways to dress cool, however. My mom and I had sewing machines up our sleeves! Maybe "cool" is the wrong word. Unique? I probably took it too far with the ultra-high-waisted polkadot pants. Clown-like? White with large turquoise dots, and inside the high-waisted part that turned down like a tuxedo collar was the opposite, miniature pattern. I wore it with a preppie, collar-turned-up polo. Brilliantly fun! "Fun" is a good word to capture my intention during those days. It is also the word that slowly died across the decades.  I remember as adults, one cousin urging me to help her confiscate a piano during a reunion. I don't recall why it was a big deal. Our meeting room just didn't have one, and she spotted one elsewhere. She tried to recruit a "fun cousin" for the covert operation. But I was no longer fun!  What helps me perk up in these days of solitude and healing is often a moment of fun or silliness. No one sees it but God. But He knows my frame. He created the unique spirit of "me." I believe He is interested in radical restoration. I feel a little like this garlic sprout behind closed doors.

64?! No wonder I felt cold for hours! The thought to turn up the thermostat drifted through my mind more than once, but I didn't want to leave my desk because I WAS FINALLY PRODUCTIVE! Something broke tonight ... much like a fever, only not a sweat-induced haze, more of an inward discouraging fog that started to clear. I think I worked for 6 hours straight. Lately, that's a record. And to happen in the evening hours? Miraculous! I cannot find words to convey how hopeful this is for me. I'm kind of stunned that my eyes can still see! On a decent day, I could get a maximum of two hours at a computer screen with breaks--and best in the morning--before the blurriness prevented me from working. But my brain was just as blurry, I think. This week in particular felt like the tail end of a slow-motion train wreck ... until tonight. I don't know why. I slept most of the day--or part of it. I'm supposed to be keeping a sleep diary, but my "health watch" broke (twice now--and this one unfixable), so I had no clue how to interpret through the fog without having some sort of data. It was yet another frustrating element that tumbled in on the backs of others. Health has gobbled up a lot of money lately. BUT ... after looking at replacement options for far too long, I had a brilliant $3 idea to use my unfixable watch: A WRISTBAND to tuck it into! I think God reached into my noggin' and helped me out. LOL. I mostly need it to track my sleep, but it is also more accurate on blood pressure than my automatic cuff! So a glimmer of hope has entered my writing world by way of a surprise productivity stint, an inexpensive fix (for once!), and waking from a cold fog that seems bigger than a thermal event. I am celebrating this glimmer with another round of infrared therapy under the covers (mostly to warm myself!) while I think myself to sleep, pondering the many God thoughts that are gathering in my awareness.

My sunrise/sunset perch holds a place for communion elements. The cup and saucer was a gift from my maternal grandfather to my grandmother brought back from Canada and passed on to me by my mother. The wooden plate underneath is my own purchase from an estate sale, but it has its own cool story told elsewhere. I currently don't eat bread, so my tiny bread platter is a bit lonely! I'm considering making cauliflower crackers. But the interesting thing I learned this morning (email newsletter from Dr. John Bechtle, ezraproject.com) is that the word "maranatha" is only used once in the New Testament and is not Greek but Arabic. It can be translated three ways: The Lord has come. The Lord is come. Lord, come. (How cool! Past, present, and future!) In the communion setting, we see maranatha described in 1 Corinthians 11:26 (NLT): "For every time you eat this bread and drink this cup, you are announcing the Lord's death until He comes again." It connected with 2 Corinthians 5:21 (NLT): "For God made Christ who never sinned, to be the offering for our sin, so that we could be made right with God through Christ." (Also verse 17--go read it! Powerful!) I don't know if it's the electrodes I'm connected to for neuropathy treatments, but I immediately thought of a wire and Christ (the Anointed One and His anointing) as the insulation so I can connect to God. He took on death so I can connect and live (instead of being zapped)! Not that God kills, but sin can not exist in His presence, so therefore, without being shielded, I could conceivably be consumed along with any sin! And that's exactly what happened in the Old Testament if a high priest went in to make the annual offering for sin and was not pure--a rope was attached around his ankle so he could be pulled out of the Holy of Holies if he perished! I am SO GLAD to live in New Testament times! These implications astound me today, and my mind is thrilled to see a glimpse into how I connect with Power*. I went on to study how electrical wire works, and it correlates quite nicely to life in Christ. ♡♡♡♡ May you also be empowered today! *My phone changed Power to PowerPoint! LOL

Silas is a friend's beagle currently stationed on my couch. I'm writing at my "zen station" to be near for a while so he can become accustomed to me. Despite his reservations, we shall be friends for Christmas! Last night was our first together. He was silent. His doggie bed seemed comfortable in the bathroom. He didn't make a peep this morning as I went about making coffee and preparing my neuro foot bath. I found myself "being different" with the awareness of another creature in my space. It's as if I needed to know what I was up to, like actually have a plan! Silas stirred when I peeked in on him, so I folded up the gate. He darted past me and made some nervous rounds--not too far from me, but at the same time, not near. Outside? Not right away. But he was most intrigued by the door in my bedroom. That's when the pee started coming--while he stared out into the yard! I scooted his little self all the way outside, washed down the inside, then came out and rinsed the deck. He stationed himself on the sofa afterward. Maybe because that's where his people sat last night? Maybe he just likes couches? Either way, I'm sure he feels safer behind the pillows. It's interesting what we do to "feel safe." I've noticed a "defensive mode" in myself that braces for expectations and obligations. But I want to tear down that half-built wall! I truly do have the freedom to give what I can or want with no strings attached--both ways--freely give and freely receive. There's a delight in there somewhere. I accidentally bump into it, but I want to be more conscious of cultivating it! Personally, writing has always been a safe space for me. I remember retreating into basements and desperately scratching a pen across tear-stained pages. When I was young and on my own, I'd sometimes disappear to an all-night diner to scribble and nibble through the wee hours of the morning. A handheld recorder was usually a part of the excursions. Even then, in the 80s, I obsessively collected sounds and thoughts. I wonder what the collective bend in me is leading to? I imagine recording plants and making music--a topic for another day! First I'll make friends with Silas.

12-12-2020 to 12-12-2024 Illuminated branches caught my eye as I walked to a meeting from my friend's house. I almost missed the moment, but I backed up and took a picture. I wish I had taken a photo of my feet on the concrete because I was imagining the dirt paths in Guatemala and how different they felt in the same shoes I was wearing. My feet remember!  There was no jarring step in the dirt.  Yes, there was dog poo to navigate in the village, but there were also flowers. I often rescued perfect fallen blossoms and pressed them between the pages of my notebooks. Sometimes the paths were so full of nature's offerings that it looked like confetti! I adore confetti! I don't remember where my fascination began. Maybe it was with the celebration the New Year when we could stay up until midnight? I do remember many of those nights where I diligently ripped up newspapers to make ragged chunks we could throw when the clock counted down and hit zero. The rule was that I had to clean up the mess. It was worth it every time! My confetti-making efforts expanded through the years. I discovered paper streamers to be the most interesting. I salvaged the strips from birthdays and cut tiny lines off the ends that I crumpled between my hands. Sometimes I cut miniature squares. Bright colored paper and envelopes got the same treatment. I even used the hole punch from my dad's office and meticulously created as many circles as I could and cut the remaining frame into arced triangles. I still remember the large white tin that held my ever-growing multitude of tiny celebration bits. I wish I still had it! There was always a party waiting under the lid. But on this day in particular, my thoughts go to my father. He passed on to Heaven in 2020. I didn't throw confetti. Maybe I should have--not to celebrate death, but to celebrate his life.  Instead, that night I sat on the steps near the lake in silence. My tears fell. My hands froze. But I captured one image of the still night that reflected life. As I waved my camera, lights from neighboring homes and stars in the sky left a trail through the lens. It reminded me that we shine while we live.

Broken relationships are an epidemic ... especially between parents and adult children. I ♡ Zobeyda's journey in this space. God orchestrated a timely opportunity for me to help with this book. The message was crucial for me (and continues to be). I wish I had this book years ago! But I am so glad I do have it now. ♡♡♡♡ A Family Restored by the Holy Spirit has three parts: 1) What to Do When Parenting Hurts; 2) What to Do While Waiting; and 3) Where to Find Help in God's Word. There's a chapter at the end that summarizes key moments called "Quick Help," which highlights the keys (and where to find them in the book) so you can act fast, target a need, or stay refreshed and strong. Zobeyda "wept her way through the scriptures" and came out full of joy. God taught her how she could still freely fulfill God's plan while waiting for restoration. That's a sticky area for many people. It's one I know all too well with too many mistakes on my part! I have intended to share this book for AGES, and I am finally taking the time to do it. If you are estranged from your children, the perspectives in this book will bring comfort, protection, freedom, and joy. I highly recommend it! I believe the Driscolls have it on their website at driscollministries.org (or use the QR code to go directly). #books #recommended #author #parenting #adultchildren #restoration #family #godspromises

"Hey, Sasuke!" Ty got his attention. "What are you doing sitting on the toilet?" Sasuke looked around and scrambled to the ground.  Yes, I have a toilet as one of the seats around my outdoor table. With only two matching chairs and a glider love seat, it left one spot open.  I had one fairly new toilet that was replaced when the bathrooms were done at the end of last year. FAIRLY new. Yep. It was a secondhand toilet! Thanks to my mom and stepdad, who replaced theirs, I was the delighted recipient of their former, well-cared-for throne. The plumber who fixed a leak in the valve was kind enough to install it since I had all the pieces necessary. It was a big step up for me at the time! I felt bad replacing it, but I had wanted to "bling-out" a toiled and turn it into a writing chair. Poop Stall Diaries (a blog idea with "revelations from the throne") had not yet launched, but I wanted to be ready! In the meantime, it could serve as extra seating.   I like it! It makes me laugh! As for Sasuke, I don't think he likes it anymore. The moment when his dad, Ty, asked him about it was his last on the special seat. He has never climbed on it again. It is now his sister's place to sit. It's also my foot "stool"and a handy brewing spot for sun tea! Sasuke doesn't speak about it, and I wonder what goes on in his mind. He knew it was a toilet. He played with trying to flush it many times. It makes me think of how our perception can change when someone calls attention to what we do.  Suddenly another's opinion (stated or unstated) enters into the picture. Is the simple awareness that someone notices us enough to shut us down? If so, why? It's something to think about! If not for us personally, it may be good to be aware how others may perceive our awareness. In the meantime, I'll kick my feet up, make some sun tea, and post a picture so the world can see me.

I found this verse super-encouraging! "For you know that when your faith is tested it stirs up in you the power of endurance. And then as your endurance grows even stronger, it will release perfection into every part of your being until there is nothing missing and nothing lacking." (James 1:3-4 TPT) It encouraged me because a health circus has set up camp in my body. It is not staying. "Nothing missing and nothing lacking" is what I'm stretching my own tent pegs to encompass. These health challenges have impacted my writing, stamina, focus, mindset, and energy. I suppose finances also, but I haven't seen the bills from all the visits and testing yet. This morning I said, "Lord, I want more clarity on my purpose." The unsaid part of my request was, "so I can write." His sweet Spirit answered, "You will find it as you write." So I am sharing my encouragement with others. Whatever you may face, your gift makes room for you. ♡♡♡♡ And a tidbit about gifts making room for you (Proverbs 18:16): the word for "make room" (rahab) means "to broaden, make large, or enlarge." One form referred to a wide open meadow. Isn't that beautiful? If you feel restricted by circumstances, your gift still has a wide open place to move and create. I'm going to stretch into mine!

My "Iona House" received a new gift on Saturday! This expanding table came from my step-father, who is even more sentimental than me. It was his late mother's table and made the journey from Canada to Missouri to Kansas, which makes it very special to me. ♡ They recently made a big move and downsized their belongings. Iona House also made many downsize sacrifices in the name of disaster recovery. At one point, God showed me that in restoration, my home would come back to life as a "house of kindness." This is one of many. After my son-in-law helped bring it in, I started staging it with my collection of old hymnals. It's not complete, but I already like it! One reason I'm thinking about this is because I know how tough it can be on emotions for those of us who are sentimental to "let go." I'm learning a lot about that in this season! I had an idea a few years ago about how stories connected to objects can pass along legacy. When it comes time to down-size, I encourage people to write their memories and at least pass on the stories if they cannot pass on the item. Or better yet, if you do pass it on, send it with a note of its origin and meaning. Now I just need to hear more stories connected to this table! I also recommend a delightful book by Margareta Magnusson: The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning. ♡♡♡ In it, she shared about an Optimist dinghy that no one in the family wanted to take on: "If that little boat had been able to speak, no one would have believed all the stories it could have told." And she shared some of those adventures. What a great way to preserve family stories and history! I will start to do this at some point. I just wish I had more written stories from my heritage. Watch out, family! I have questions! Maybe you'll think of this the next time you go through storage or take note of what's on your shelves. Write your memories! My father left many such things behind when he died. I know some stories, but not nearly enough! If you're eager to start something like this, the upcoming holidays could be the perfect time to gather memories from loved ones. You don't have to write--yet--but at least capture videos. No regret! ♡♡♡♡

I've been going through hundreds of my books. I happened to open the cover of See You at the Top by Zig Zigler and noticed that he autographed it with Ephesians 2:8-9. "For by grace you have been saved(*) through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, that no one should boast." (New Americam Standard) *In the Discovery Bible, this is noted as an action whose results or effects go on. You could say, "and now still is," as it leaves a condition or state of lasting significance or status. I do not believe salvation is an easy thing to lose. God made it EASY to become born again. Romans 10:9 "...if you confess(**) with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and you believe(**) in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you shall be saved." (Read verses 8-13 for fuller context.) **In the Discovery Bible, these words are indicated as a one-time action: "an anticipated fact; indeed; to effecrively ir successfully bring anout; action conceived of as a single whole; a single action." Single and whole! Salvation is sure. God is not trying to keep people out! He's trying to get people in. ♡♡♡♡

♡♡♡♡ FINALLY!!!! ♡♡♡♡ Painting the door has begun. Indoor/Outdoor Primer Base with Tint Kangaroo Paw top coat (tomorrow) I wanted to do this the first week I moved in (January). But I had been exposed to COVID and was exhausted anyway. I slept. A couple of weeks later, actual COVID hit. More rest. After that, I was behind and never caught up! September? I caved under it all. It's temporary. I tried to de-stress my environment. In the meantime. I expected to get a headstart on health once new insurance kicked in. OOOOOHHHHH MY! I won't even go there! Does it ever feel like challenges emerge out of nowhere while you're just trying to keep your head above water? Yeah. I get it. Somewhere in the midst of the crashing waves, I bit the bullet. I MUST CHANGE! I CAN'T TAKE ANY MORE! Oddly enough, or possibly most reasonably, the color of the front door came to mind again. I have put the project off for 10 months. This resurrected place of peace was languishing...just like me. I called my home "Iona" when I knew it would undergo a renovation to be livable. Why Iona? Because I tasted a new way of life on the Isle of Iona during my trip to Scotland. It was the core of me ... a scribe and even a bard. Simplicity. The smell of rock and sea. And that's what I wanted my home to be: a place of simple service--writing, primarily. Bungled though it may be, I think the tide is turning as I build on a new foundation--or maybe an old one. When I touch the deepest parts of me, it seems like an ancient path. So let's start again, shall we? This is Iona. This is where doors are closed to chaos and open to kindness. Now, under the tint of another layer, Iona is declared and claimed. May this home be blessed.

SERENDIPITY : the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way. (According to "Hey, Google!") Two years ago, I had an impromptu overnight in Fargo, ND. I found a bargain hotel and stepped into this happy-matchy surprise. The flooring matched the colors of my Guatemalan wrap! By chance, my toes matched too, which is rare. Before I left Guatemala, Alex and I gave our bodies over to the up-and-coming Kula Maya spa. Practice clients. These were students we and many others helped with scholarships to learn estética. (I hope that's the right word!) Bold toes? Neutral toes? I chose daringly. Red stands out. I am not comfortable with that--especially on my "Fred Flintstone" feet! But I was (and still am) on a journey of discomfort. So it fit. That day, I had broken monumental barriers! They are the kind that seem insignificant to others but astronomical to me. My dear friends invited me to their Forgiveness Conference ... AS A SPEAKER! I had not been on stage in a ministry setting since 2004. It had been 18 years. I spoke about forgiving my former husband, and I sang the hymn "Great Is Thy Faithfulness."" Yet another step on the path of freedom. In the early years after divorce, I expected an immediate bounce back. When I was frustrated with my seemingly slow progress, my counselor asked me how long we had been married. "13 years." "It took 13 years to get here. Give yourself at least that long to heal." Transformation always takes time. I'm still on that path. At the 14-year mark, I hit a milestone. Our daughter wanted both of us to sing for her wedding. As we practiced the night before, he broke down. Before I could unthink it, I found myself assuring him there was a grace for this--and I was in it! Compassion. Truth. I prayed for him. It was like Job when he prayed for his difficult friends. I blasted past the last hurdle! After that, God restored to Job twice what was taken from him! It was also like Jesus when He was moved with compassion. It's more than emotion or empathy. Compassion moves toward disaster with an answer. It's powerful and possible! I believe forgiveness and compassion are keys to freedom. ♡♡♡♡

At this time last year, I had been gaining weight for some time--just gobbling up pounds I had lost before. I braved a scale last November while staying with friends. "Is the scale accurate?" (It was.) Happy disbelief! For the first time in that long upward climb, the numbers changed in a good way! I attributed it to being in peaceful settings. A pattern had developed in recent years: Guatemala living = THRIVE; Oklahoma and Minnesota living = health nosedive! Even my doctor noticed and asked, "What's keeping you from moving there (Guatemala)?" My answer? The same situations that held so much stress were the reasons I felt I couldn't make an extreme change. Medical check-ups with him are like therapy sessions. I like that part! Hopefully by the next one, I'll have some success to report instead of more struggles with stress. Last night, with a view to de-stressing, I accepted an invitation for comfort food at 4:30 p.m. Early supper. Perfect. That means early bed. After we ate, I realized the sleek black square on my friend's floor was a scale. I tried it. The screen said, "HI" and showed digits lower than I had seen for years! Friendly little scale! I took pictures.. "Is this scale accurate?" "It matches the one at my doctor's office." Wow! I guess I've re-lost almost 50 pounds! Yes, people have complimented me on looking healthy and losing weight. And that makes me feel good! But I have also wondered if they notice the circles under my eyes or the thinning hair. Tiredness has been brutal! Menopause too. Same with decades of crises. I don't feel fresh and beautiful, but I receive it! If others see it--even if by faith--that means I can grasp it by faith too. I know I have a deep need for rest--TRUE REST--where my mindset can recalibrate and shift out of survival mode. I'm sure MANY have need of true rest too. What if we broke out of suffering and became warriors? Or what if we just discarded the low complaints of earth and flesh life to pursue higher battles of prayer and love? What if instead of steeling ourselves against the present hurt, we put on spiritual armor and fight for one another regardless of pain? Change is happening. ♡♡♡♡

Bloom Another Day My eyes are little slits. If someone walked into the room, they'd probably think my eyes were closed. But I see best this way. Not always. Just when my eyes are tired. And they are tired a lot. BUT this shall be temporary. Today was my first day toward "real" rest and recovery. There are reasons. I won't bore anyone. I am liquidating stress. Actually ... that sounds way too ambitious and energetic. I am in yet another stage of letting go. This one is not a slow sift. It is not a finishing to free up anything. It's a cold, hard stop. You see, I have a strange collection of pressure. It's rare that someone actually pressures me. But it's common for me to ascribe pressure. It used to serve me well (or so I thought). Today I let almost everything fall away. I wasn't holding on well. I need a smaller grasp. I cried so many times! One moment was sad, but the rest were BEAUTIFUL! Little desires peeked through. Simple. Clear. I haven't felt an un-leveraged desire for SO LONG! Each was like a sparkle through a thin coma. I THINK I'M WAKING UP! Colors were more colorful. Food was more delicious. Even laundry was glorious today! ☆MY☆ ☆☆BEDDING☆☆ ☆☆☆SMELLS☆☆☆ ☆☆☆☆SPECTACULAR☆☆☆☆ It's almost as fresh as the air of Iona in Scotland. The scent is indescribable yet unmistakable. You must smell it to know it. Maybe that's what I did today? I "smelled" a life without "shoulds." That's what I really dropped--the pressure of SHOULD. It felt good! Unbound. Productive. It's a sensory sample of freedom. I like it so much that I can bury my face in it and inhale! Have you noticed that other living things have no "SHOULD"? I'm thinking about plants and animals. My hibiscus plant creates flowers that bloom for one stunning day, fold up, and move on. The plant doesn't say, "This is beautiful! I should hang on to it!" No, all that fabulous design is in its blueprint for a one-day show. May we all embrace our design! As my uncle told me today, "If a bearing operates outside its design parameters too long, it can fail, and that engine stops." (I may share those musings soon. They're powerful!)

Fast plops of bare feet meant serious business. Astrid barely looked up when we met in the hallway. Her feet didn't miss a beat. Plip-plop-plip-plop. It was almost a toddler run. Again and again she went from my office to my personal writing space carrying index cards. I found her organized collection side by side on the keyboard tray. Later her brother came in from speech therapy with his mom. He broke out a few Michael Jackson moves. His performance and my applause didn't break Astrid's project. She had piled a handful of alligator clips by my transcription station and had bright index cards mixed on the small exercise trampoline by the table. Sasuke accidentally disrupted the clips with his spins and exclaimed, "Oh no!" He promptly reorganized them and kept dancing. Astrid didn't seem to mind. Plip-plop-plip-plop. More and more cards. She is a model of focus! On my desk in the office is a devotional book in progress. I had just added words about not acclimating to the world around us but instead focusing God's presence and His Word. So today as the grandkids leave, I imagine myself plip-plopping back to the desk for another round of work. Focus, Ingrid, focus! I may borrow energy from Sasuke's obsession and do some Michael Jackson moves as I enter my office!

My stomach interrupted the transcript on my computer. It's rumble asked for coffee and "birthday toast" (a gift from my mom and step-dad who have access to Amish bread in their grocery store). I could live on toast if I had access to that bread! Day-old waffles occupied the toaster. Oops! The grandkids were supposed to take them as a snack when they left yesterday. They've developed an affinity "affos," and I now have a box in my freezer. Signs of their presence remain even though I mustered up energy to pick up the toys and dishes. Two grapes are stationed outside the back door, and three half-eaten strawberries are on the woven mat under the patio table. A squirt gun from the July 4 water wars was discovered in the grass and now lies on the metal table. These scattered bits of life are evidence that I am not alone. A laughing child occupies a memory with each forgotten element rediscovered. Day-old flashbacks bring smiles and wishes that I had taken more pictures. But this morning I remember the day before with gratitude. Astrid, my quiet explorer, lit up when I found worship songs for kids and made a beeline for the piano bench to play along (she can climb anything now). She carried my ancient ipod like a phone and tucked a folding desk light under her arm. She's a slow-motion tornado like her mother. Sasuke, my Michael Jackson entertainer, made his entrance with dance moves while flinging his hat (a part of the choreography). I wonder how long he will continue to wear jackets and hats every day? Yesterday's ensemble was his bathrobe and an anime boat hat. He's not picky. At least not about that. He asks to "wing" and we go outside to the swingset, his little hand pulling mine. It makes me want to notice more of God's presence in my life. What evidence does He leave? He's not messy like my grandkids. Actually, I'm the messy one with Him! Maybe my messes are evidence of some kind. I don't want to dwell on those, but I can always be grateful for the help from Heaven available to me. I have no idea how much the Lord cleans up behind the scenes and prepares future moments. He is always healing and bringing wholeness. I guess that's His evidence!

Luminous pearls of water clung to the clothesline. I stopped and noticed the moment. Why? I don't know. It seemed like a picture, so I captured one. (Well, many photos, but this is the one I chose to write with.) My first thought was that I need to bring my cameras back from Minnesota where they are packed up and dormant. My thought now is a reminder of how ephemeral life is and to capture the moments that would otherwise slip by. This isn't a large moment--but it can be. In the minute there can be reflections of truth and opportunities for gratitude. In this one, I think of the blessing of rain that waters the earth. The evidence was gone after a while in the morning sun, but the gratitude lasts, held in a picture. The supple sparkle (not captured well by my phone) is still resident in mind. I liken it to the shine of a new day and what has been provided. I also liken it to the innocence of inspiration that appears without prodding or the voice that has a gentle brilliance--if only we will notice it. May you capture these moments! May you shine. May your voice be heard. ♡♡♡♡

Post-Passover sale...yay! Matzo! I thought these would be ideal for my personal communion time. Two boxes have been on top of my fridge too long. I was going to bring them to Minnesota with me, but the target keeps changing. So today I am starting a fresh week, and before I get to work, I am taking communion. HOWEVER, as a non-Jewish person, I had no idea the scale of matzos. Wow! A cracker as large as a plate! This will be a mammoth communion! LOL!

I felt the curl of hunger begin to tighten within. I thought of Frank Laubach's words--or rather God's words to him in Lanao as a missionary to the Moros people: "You must awaken hunger there, for until they hunger they cannot be fed." Full stop. I think about this often in recent weeks. After that in his account, Laubach wishes for words to tell what happened next, but it was "all emotion, a painfully sweet stretching forth of arms skyward to receive and Lanao-ward to give." For ourselves, how do we become hungry? Often we see or think about food. If thoughts or senses dwell there, we are sure to work up an appetite.  May we all turn our appetites toward God and be fed. His sweet vine supplies us if we but remain connected, vitally united to His vine. ♡

I have had a "kink in my hose" lately. I didn't know what to call it until one of our pastors used it as an analogy during Volunteer Team Prayer yesterday. When he turned the hose on and nothing came out, he went to look for the kink. Until he "unkinked" it, there would be no water. Our lives kink-up sometimes. Find the kink; solve the problem. "AHA! I just need to find the kink!" I thought maybe it was my time or priorities or schedule or diet or not saying no or laziness or maybe grief. I haven't ruled out the last one, but now that I've started looking for the "kink in the hose," I think it may be energy. Maybe. This morning I complained to the Lord that I am having trouble connecting to my drive, my gumption. I expected help. But I sensed that it was a "hands off" area for Him. My heart felt the words, "I don't want you to be driven." Well. I guess I didn't really want THAT either, but it's mostly what I've known. A phrase from The Message Bible floated up about learning the "unforced rhythms of grace." "Don't go back." True. These are the ways I knew before. So far my solution has been to merely make it easy to do the work. I set up my home office for everyday work, and I like it. There's a meditative place in my living room to write for myself. I have a transcription station in my bedroom and my "communion table" in the windowed corner. I reconfigured my coworking office for ghostwriting. There is a "dream project" opportunity awaiting my attention there. Yet I am moving at a snail's pace. Why? All I want is drive and gumption! PLEASE! As I write now, I hear, "Don't go back to Egypt." My lands! Egypt? There was bondage there for the Israelites! And yet it was a temptation for them to go back while they were on their way to the promised land. Evidently I'm familiar with bondage. So I've learned that gumption is not my problem at all. I basically asked the Lord to help me go back to my "comfortable" bondage of pressure. So if I am not responding to pressure, what should I respond to? I am not sure, but I know this: I can find it in God's Word and the quiet, contemplative sanctuary of my spirit communing with God's Spirit.

I had a craving. It was not for cookies, but here I am with sweets waiting on the rain to calm down. Just down the sidewalk under a covered awning is a store that carries Inis, a fragrance I adore. I "NEED" THIS SCENT! I was on my way to my coworking office, so it seemed like a good time to add an errand. Inis has a home and linen mist ... a must! By the time I reached the store, the clouds unleashed their plenty. This location only had the tester spray. I was tempted to douse myself and go roll on my bed! But with an "order" to one of their other stores, I was on my way. Rain seems like a good reason to take a moment to write ... with cookies. I walked under the awning, bypassed a salon (which I probably need) and a very pink workout place called Blush Boot Camp (I think). I notice their slender bodies and hard work. "Pay no attention to the chubby girl on her way to the cookie shop!" It reminds me of times in Guatemala--one when I accompanied Alex to the gym after we shopped. Among the fit, I sat my less-fit self on a bench writing with a tiny loaf of bread in my pocket (that I ate and shared with his puppy, Lily). Another memory when Alex and I bought trash bags and cut them to be our rain gear during a deluge in San Marcos. We landed in the same little gym. He worked out. I wrote. And now that the raindrops are few, this time of writing is over too.

A cluttered mind is like my "dining" room--a holding port for incoming to-dos. Nothing is high enough on the Urgent List to be handled immediately, but they're next in line ... with EVERYTHING ELSE! *sigh* My usual priority (work) has been beset with snag after snag. So what do I do? EVERYTHING ELSE! *grin* At the moment, it seems I can only garner fuel from frustration to clear a space (and with it, my mind). Leftover flooring and underlayment claimed the spot under the window with two flat trolleys. The gathering place was started by the contractor, but I added a small shop vac and a new kitchen faucet found on clearance. It will be cheaper than repairing my old one (and cooler!) ... once I have the appropriate tools. Several items have been muscled inside from the salvage stash in the garage. One cubby unit needs intense cleaning along with two lamps that have survived 18 years...the length of time I have lived in Oklahoma. New lampshades wait in clear plasticwrap with red clearance stickers: 14.99 (plus an extra 50% off). Two-for-one! Not bad for a refresh. Boxes of benevolence hold the fort down on one side of the fireplace but are disappearing slowly as I create more "homes" for their contents--basic necessities. But one particular box has been commanding the entire room since January. It holds a small couch. Two empty boxes (too big to fit in the recycling bin) and some cleaning supplies have temporarily perched on the sofa box long enough for my eyes to gloss over it all. I've procrastinated on this one. But no longer! Today is the day! My scruff-scrubby, gloved-up self dove in. Each element I dreaded. But momentum came once I started, and now I'm the one who needs an intense clean! Sweaty and a bit grimy, I'm happy with how it looks. My mind is relieved, which may have been the purpose for the entire detour. In a moment, I will sit down with my laptop ... after I figure out where I stashed it. Who loses track of a laptop? Me. I guess. LOL #clutter #uncluttered #dosomethingelse #write #clean #renovate #procrastinate #mind #relief #dothework PS. I found my laptop. It was in a magazine rack. Of course!

One-Minute MIsty Morning ... Join Me? It's "raining" in the trees. The breeze makes it so. I hear the drops so loud that I almost stayed inside to write. But then realized it was only in the canopy of limbs and bird life. The fog has set the dew, and the dancing leaves rain it down. There has been a foggy mist hanging in the neighborhood for hours. It has lifted only lightly, but I still expect... I didn't expect to see fog move! A thin curtain of it traveled through between the yard trees and the ridge trees as if it was one of a pair being drawn. The air moves ... and another curtain travels across the stage! I have never seen this before! I gawk. This one feels more like a race with a finish line nearby with fog-runners stretching themselves toward it, overlapping each other. The table is wet with dew. Finally the area I wiped with a washcloth is accepting a slow, creeping dryness. I can't watch it. But when I put my attention elsewhere, I notice progress. Yet it tricks me too. I glance and see a lace-like advance ... I think. It stops immediately as if it realizes it is being watched. This feels like me attempting to make room for healing, considering that grief may be worthy of observation. I look, and it freezes--as if disapproval is present. Scrutiny has been present in the past. And even now I feel the squeeze of it. I'm surprised to know it still has an original face. It dampers me somewhat--like the last fog that swept in, which didn't go through but descended into the yard with a thick, cloudy edge--good for muffling voices. Even so, nothing dampers the wildlife. I hear the unusual call of a bird that sounds like a wooden engine winding down. I catch myself smiling--and not a normal smile! I'm grinning toward the sound as if the bird can see me and know I've been entertained. A woodpecker is hammering away at something that sounds metallic. It reminds me of an old phone. Another bird sounds like a cat. So at the end of my musings, I think I should be like a bird and unapologetically embrace expression. I want that for you too, my friends. ♡

Glimpse of me working and traveling ... -- Nearly falling asleep driving -- Plan to snooze near a covered bridge -- But first, must write! -- Imagine a scene taking place -- Too curious to write, so explore and take photos -- Did not snooze -- More miles while asking Google weather questions -- Put a state park in GPS for am 11 a.m. phone meeting and noon writing session -- Another pit stop -- Park and notice enormous buffalo silhouettes -- Reviewing email in the bathroom Email: Can we push the meeting to 11:30? Me: Absolutely! (imagining buffalo selfies) -- Pick up travel magazines -- Walk in the prairie to meet a metal Buffalo -- Take photos -- Meet Sadie the poodle -- Back in car and destination still works for meetings and avoiding storms ... WOOHOO!

It's the eve of a return journey--always bittersweet. The water's edge is crisp and lively with sounds of nature--geese, loons, frogs, fish splashing, cattle lowing beyond, unidentified tree birds twittering in their network, and the party birds who gather and gaggle across the lake.  In the sky, bright orange-rose reflections and soft lavender clouds say their meltaway farewells. Colors are calm and soothing compared to the bird cacophony. I'm glad I don't live on the other shore! It's just gearing up.  Homestead lights begin to twinkle through the trees and dance on the water. I'm wrapped in blankets and emotion. Some kind of insect calls me to attention with It's percussive serenade, birds follow, and I remember that I can pray with tears. I hold this place and its people in my heart. Unlike the birds, I don't squawk as my soul glides and gathers.  It seems that's how the world is--people haggle-gaggling over trivial things long into the night. They have no idea who is listening, watching, or even present whispering prayers underneath their noise.  But there is also a time to shout across the waters. It would be simple for one voice to distupt every living creature on the lake. If there was danger, I could warn with a single cry. At my home in the city, however, only my nearest neighbors might hear...maybe.  How long have I been here? Three weeks? More? It feels like a breeze blew by.  Maybe I'm the breeze that blows by.

What am "I" doing? Reviewing manuscripts at a diner. And tasting my first @peace_coffee [nice!]. And having spicy cheese curds [delish!]. And trying to taste the Hi-Lo burger after my tastebuds have been spoiled by the cheese curds! And ... watching the young waiter dance behind the counter. And ... noticing that Kate Bush came up in the music. [She's the first artist that sparked my creativity in a HUGE way after I started doing music in the 80s.] I asked who was responsible. The manager. Kudos to him! I don't think he realizes that I was listening to her 35 years ago ... he made mention of the movie that used the song for its soundtrack. There is a girl in the back who washes dishes (from what I gathered) who hid behind the counter and attempted to surprise the manager. LOL. It is not an uncommon occurance it seems. So all in all, I'm glad I stopped in here before I hit the road for the other side of the state. I came to represent my family at the eye donor recognition event today. I am impressed with what the Lions Gift of Sight does! PS. The burger is GREAT! I had to let my tongue rest. #manuscripts #ghostwriter #travel #eat #coffee #burger #cheesecurds #fried #music

North Dakota is under my skin. It's near my heart in a way no other territory could ever be. Technically it is my origin and that of my parents. I met the world in Fargo, ND, after my mom and dad were sent home from the Peace Corps. The island doctors could not guarantee my mother's survival nor mine in childbirth. Yesterday, my mother and I drove through ND as survivors. We buried the ashes of my brother's body in the plot next to my father's grave. It wasn't designed to be a ceremony or a gathering--just a quiet moment for Mom to express her goodbyes. ♡ Yet family came. ♡ Stories were shared. Farewell letters, after fluttering away in the wind, were gathered and added to the grave. A purple and gold bouquet (Minnesota Vikings, my brother's team) awaited its part in the goodbyes, becoming windswept as well, while the sound of a storm approached. I watched my dear cousin kiss a tulip and place it in the dirt. I wept. My aunt knelt at the edge with hers--she, our godmother--and rose spry in the midst of canes and walkers. I wept. I placed the purplest flower and added confetti. "I was here," it said. I couldn't conjure words, but I left my mark and wept. My son was on hand with agile strength. He did what none of us could do whether physical or emotional. By the time he covered our offerings, our tears were joined by rain. We exited the cemetary as fast as we could--wheels over grass, canes trekking soil. I lugged my bag of preparedness--protecting tissues and toilet paper. It happened so fast! We were back on the road. I gazed at prairie and farmland, a rare treat for one who usually drives solo. Three generations now on the boomerang route back to Fargo--this time to the hotel of my mom and stepdad--before my son and I return to home base at my late father's house. I asked my mom to tell me again what I said when we moved to a farm in North Dakota. She missed the Minnesota trees. "Oh mom. There's trees. They're just farther apart!" My elementary optimism stuck with my mom. Now it sticks with me as I consider family and so many recent departures from Earth--especially for my mom. "Oh mom. There's family. They're just farther apart!"

No Tears Yet in Spinks Family Restaurant They've threatened! Tears well up every time I think this might be my last time in this precious place--a stop along the way to my northern roost in Minnesota. It's been the norm since I decided to take this route yesterday. My first waitress cry was at my favorite Sapp Bros. stop on I-29 in their Apple Barrel Restaurant. This might be my last time ... or at least a long time. Oh wait. I wrote too soon. I have tears now.  The waitress, Kat, asked if I was doing okay. I couldn't keep the tears back as I explained I was on my way to my brother's funeral.  I watched her face change from cheerful to concerned.  "You want a hug?" Her arms were already extended.  I don't gravitate toward hugs but responded anyway. Her kindness blessed me. The way she speaks reminds me of a young version of my Aunt Edie: kind words punctuated with precise Dakota consonants. But unlike Edie, Kat wears chunky glasses, rainbow socks, and pigtails peeking out from a bright handkerchief on her head. When I paid my bill (which included locally roasted coffee to bring to MN), I mentioned the first time I came and how she was either dating or engaged to one of the owners sons.  "Are you married now?" "In 19 days we will be!"  These lives I've adopted along the way are precious to me.  Excuse me while I cry again before I leave!

I gasped when I saw the rug in a clear garbage bag. "I have it?!" This wasn't a question of something thrown out or stolen. I thought it was still in Minnesota (where I'm headed soon). I guess I'll edit my "MN to OK" list. The colorful rug and Guatemalan pillow covers (pic. 2) are already here! Yay! It's a nice little thrill to find something "pre-done." What's the opposite of deja vous? Maybe not so much sense of memory with "I've done this before," but the surprise without memory of "I did that before?" Despite it being "finishing night" (wherein I do whatever it takes to hit milestones), I took a moment to decorate. The bright, randomly bound colors livened up my tiny, shiny kitchen. And the pillows added memories to my increasingly travel-oriented living room. It felt good to see more warmth--like a little kiss to encourage me. I hope I stumble upon more "pre-done surprises" tonight. And it's highly likely! When I work through manuscripts. I try to make the first read-through just a pure read, but I don't--or haven't yet. I am often compelled to make notes, highlight for later, or outright fix things. It's FOMI2X--fear of missing it the 2nd time! You only have new eyes once. But you can have fresh eyes again. Sometimes I have to do something completely different with my brain and come back to the project. Maybe that's what this is? It wasn't just the decorating. It was me unloading my car so it could be ready for a vacuum tomorrow. It was returning the photo albums I scanned and restacking the tubs I took them out of last week. It was organizing home project supplies together. It was bringing in my rolling whiteboard because I need lists--not just any lists but BIG VISUALS! And finally it was looking for shoes, which is how I found the rug. I think God is helping me finish with fresh eyes--which I desperately need. I guess that's also a "pre-done" surprise! I'll take it!

Delicate tones landed soft. Piano on strings. No recognized melody. Just gentle expression. I slipped a dusky blue set from its bag. Loose knit pants. Long sleeved crop top. Clearance. Target. I recognized it as a dancer's pair. The shape grabbed my glance. I wasn't looking for dancewear. My mission was wrist relief. Much typing. Much more typing. Thoughts did not form. Memories surged instead. 1986. Modern dance. 1991. Dancing for breakfast. 1992. Dancing until I danced no more. I remembered the toes of real dancers. I remembered lithe bodies in warm ups. Why not dance again?! Exercise. Worship. Expression. Google gave me music. I slipped my pudge into blue fabric folds. Bare feet on bare floors. I rose and reached. Awkward, beautiful muscles. Heart on fingertips wrapped into God. When had I last done this? Ohio. My apartment before marriage. My apartment shared after marriage. Shag carpet. Open staircase. Open everything. Two doors: bathroom and outdoors. I cried then. I cry now. Dance moved me. Expression of heart, music, body. Nothing cut to my quick like choreography. I remember what stopped me first. My pregnant body needed bed rest. I don't remember what stopped me later. Many things stopped. Invisible walls. 13 years. Him. Not even a closet dancer. Not even a basement writer. Tears rarely fell. Armored up. Guarded. Watching for crazy. Was it me? How would I know? One day his secrets surfaced. Shock. Disgust. Strange release. I'm not the crazy one! Years explained over years. Slow healing on a jagged path. Four sufferings each their own. And I with all somehow. Decades. Sufferings remain, buffered by miles. But the walls and floors are my own again. And ... so ... I ... dance.

I hugged a desk tonight. As soon as I leaned on its surface and wrapped my arms around the sides, I burst into tears. Emotion hit my insides like intercession, so I stayed and prayed and cried. You see, my little bedroom received a big gift from recent friends already dear as years. But they left more than a desk with me. They are both seasoned pray-ers, and our conversation has been soaking into me for hours since they left. Possibilities. Encouragement. Stunning things that I can't speak of yet. Such things are deep treasures. I wish I could adequately express it--especially in the moment! But that would likely be impossible. Wisdom unfolds. Impartation germinates. How can a seed adequately express anything? So much is coming its way. And that is how I feel too. So much is coming my way. I say that with a trembling of readiness--almost like a warning to pick up the pace. So now that I've christened the desk with my tears and ordained the "new office" with prayer, I guess it's time to move in! I'm trying to remember ... it has been a long, long, long time since I've had an office--one I can shut the door on at least. But I've always had desks. Even in gradeschool, my dad built shelves and a desk in my room. Again in junior high when we moved to the farm site--Dad's handiwork. As an adult, I've been known to have a desk in every room! Ohhhhhhh wait. There was only one past home large enough to have a dedicated office. It's where we lived in Georgia when we discovered my husband was a pedophile--2004, March or May, I believe--almost exactly 20 years ago. Life blew apart after that. Today marks more restoration. ♡ Maybe that's the container I can use to write through my life--desks. I guess we shall see if that's where this seed grows. May God bless you all, and may you have a desk to write on (or whatever it is that you need). ♡

Pink morning. No filter. Just silence. No music in the background but what nature and neighbors supply. I have added nothing to my ears. Yet I hear more. My mind speaks first. I think and write. My pen cannot keep pace. I select. Thoughts coast then settle. Isaiah speaks next. Holy writ in print talks through my eyes. "This is all vision," I say. Resonance begins. Spirit entunes. I now hear God. You are entering a time of vision. It is of no concern that you have been stripped of belongings. You will strip yourself more. For in the place where there is space--inside and out--you will expand. Put your pocketbook away. There are no answers to buy. Clear the clutter and trust Me. I ponder much then hear a bit more. You will find yourself here.

After a day of floating rest, my soul stubbed its toe on a desire to submerge. It's as if I tumbled headlong over a beautiful stone, and in the slowness to rise, I heard an overwhelming call to contemplation. Shed the surface. Release to the deep. Surrender attention. I ... I ... I hesitate. If I go, I may not come back, For it may be too lovely a world. My head is in the sand longing after the sea. Will it come retrieve me? I am tired of land. When I let myself breathe, I sense that these waters only wait. My own peaceful feet must carry me into the edge of the deep. My sword must pierce the surface along with me, spirit versus soul. It is a deliberate and gentle surrender. I want this. The magnetic urge to sink into solitude is countered by incompleteness. There is much yet to do. My space does not yet offer the comforts I reclaim. My attention clings to lists and calendars. But I much prefer to be aware beyond. In my mind's eye, I watched fabric sink into dye. Fibers broke the surface--slow. Color spread like a hungry virus-- Thread by thread-- Dye consumed. Weave consumed. Who consumed whom? There was no pattern, no resist, just hues playing through linen. Somehow I clicked into place and my shell cracked. Maybe this is communion.

Sacred Bridge to 2024 Holiness. Fire. Wonder. Jesus. Sanctification. Purity. Simplicity. Communion. Silence. Peace. I staked my claim tonight--my house, my life, my family, my finances, my mindset--this is a quiet war as far as the rest of the world is concerned. But it is real. I am a gentle warrior in training. I heard fireworks at midnight. We celebrate. I watched a video of Israel under fire. They fight. I read hate, complaints, fear, and hope. Social media cries for attention. Slick sales. Sob stories. No one wins there. War is everywhere. But there is a deeper win. It is neither diverted nor distracted. A clear, steady intent. A fixed purpose. This is what I pursue. Yet I feel like a child. Four "pops" slide into my awareness. I hope it isn't a gun under cover of fireworks. I turn my light out. There are no window coverings, and I don't want to be a target. "Google, pause the music." The requested silence *plink* is interrupted *plink* by the faucet *plink* dripping in the kitchen. I wait. No more pops. But I can't stand the plinks. I slipper myself to the kitchen and navigate the chaos with my phone's flashlight. I swivel the faucet so it hits the enamel sink and not the bowl of water. I'm using it to soak a tiny glass crock (once filled with yogurt) to get the label off. The kitchen is currently being reclaimed. Now that I have appliances filling the holes, it seems small--and very shiny! Everything is stainless steel. Tonight the stove had its inaugural performance with Lipton soup. My "Guatemala cookware" (destined for the airbnb) had its debut as well--at least for me. It was another thrift store find brought back from Minnesota. I long to go back to Guatemala. When I do, this pot and it's matching skillet will be in my suitcase, and I'll go make another kitchen possible. I imagine traveling again and laugh at how my furnace sounds like an airplane. Once it "lands," my house is truly silent. This is where I thrive. Sirens break the serenity. Accident? Drunk driver? Both? Fire? Heart attack? I never wonder if it's a terrorist attack. We who don't wonder are more fortunate than we know.

Do you ever feel like God is trying to get a message to you? I do today! I have a new daily practice at my temporary dwelling. Since my house is nearly ready for me to move back in, I take something from my stowed items with me every time I make the trip "to town." It's getting tricky because I want to find things that will be immediately useful or easy to put away (when a place is available). Today I peeked inside a bag and spied my bottle opener--a thrift store find from this summer in Minnesota. WOOHOO! I bought vintage style sodas for the Christmas celebration thinking I had an opener on a keychain. I didn't. I was tempted to buy one last night. I didn't. Voila! Right next to it was a garlic press which started traveling with me back in February when I house-sat for a month and "needed" to make a garlic soup. It traveled to Minnesota and back too. And right now, I need to make a soup while the ingredients are fresh--one is garlic. WOOHOO AGAIN! I grabbed both of them out of the bag of chaos and realized something else was wedged into my hand. A gift I never gave! It has been traveling with me for a year and a half. I opened the gift bag and pulled out a charm, a reminder to "Enjoy the Journey." WOW! What a timely reminder! I wrote about finding joy yesterday. I just transcribed a sermon and highlighted a tiny portion about enjoying life--words from 3 weeks ago that hit me then and again today. So now I feel sufficiently apprehended! God got my attention. I believe His Spirit leads us as much as we will allow--even unconsciously. His guidance met two random needs in one odd place and then added a "Pow!" with a current emphasis. I'm listening! "Enjoy your life, guys. It's the only one you have. Enjoy it. Enjoy it immensely!" --Pastor Paul Brady, Millennial Church #joy #enjoy #enjoylife #findjoy #findyourjoy

Fancy Campground

There's a toilet in the dining room. This seems like my brain, my thoughts, my life. The old is undergoing renovation. The new looks great! But none of it is finished. I think about this while a rooster crows in the background. Wake-ake-ake up! Waaaaake up! Sun is u-uu-uuu-uu-up! He is right. The sun is in perfect position. I go to the window and bathe my face in light. I slide the sash so I can breathe the morning air. Mmmmmm. Fresh! I should listen to more roosters.  Should -- could -- but will I? A brilliant therapist I know says that "should" is a "could" with shame on it.  I say "should" a lot.  Could I say "could" instead? Will I ever say "will" with confidence? (I have good intentions, but life is always messier than I imagined it.) My wrestle with "will" is too big yet.  But this should-could thing? It is a shift I want to make. The rooster crows again. Its voice echoes off the houses in the neighborhood. This time it sounds tinny and too late to be an appropriate crowing moment. But maybe not! The sun's position has shifted, and now it streams directly onto the bed (which I have since reoccupied). I turn to face the sun again. I crave this. I wish I could have my bare feet in the grass too. But that requires getting dressed and being "peopley." So I will take this rest as it is. I will be slow. I will give myself a break from the "shoulds." They are relentless. I fogged through yesterday. I couldn't get the right thoughts together in the same place at the same time. I cried in the parking lot at Lowe's because my brain seems to turn off when I cross the threshold. It felt like having a toilet in the dining room instead of a table with dinner guests arriving. [Note: This should have been a Sunday morning post. I fell asleep without finishing. And so went the rest of my day. But similar to taking rest as it is, I too take this post as it is.] May you find rest on the way to where you belong. It's okay have unfinished days. Be kind to yourself! #blessing #hardwork #renovation #emotion #foggy #muddymind #grace

PART 3 - I spent most of the day in my late brother's bathrobe and sipped the same coffee from morning through the afternoon while I wrote. The size 7XLT robe was new--my brother never unwrapped it along with its twin, which my mom has. His group home said he needed two more for laundry rotation, but he was in the hospital by the time the robes arrived. He never recovered enough to be out of bed to wear them. I thought it would feel like wearing my dad's bathrobe--an oversized, warm, cozy, comforting memory. It was mostly awkward. The belt was twice my height, and the belt loops were at the top of my thighs. If I snugged it into all in the right places for my body, the top half gaped over itself, the bottom half looked too short, and the tails of the belt tie dragged on the floor. After a variety of laughable arrangements, I settled into the kimono look. It was supposed to be a short-sleeved, light jersey robe on a big and tall man. But on me, if I ignored the belt loops and doubled the belt at the robe's armpits (my waist), it was a floor-length, long-sleeved kimono. I think it's a picture of my life: make do with what you have. It may be awkward, but I usually find some way to make it work. Sometimes it's even cute or fun or exciting! Even so, there's discomfort somewhere. I've been making do for a long time. I'm good at it. That's where this dreaming thing comes in. God spoke to me about the season of making do: it's over. He's been at this for a while with me. Dream. Enjoy. Design. Create. Write. Desire. Imagine. Take charge. Live again! Maybe that's why it's important to strive to enter into His rest? Dreaming is is easy and natural when you sleep. Speaking of such, I should sleep instead of musing through the darkness. May you all dream big dreams, color beyond the lines, and think outside the box. Rest well, dear ones. ♡♡♡♡

PART 2 - This morning, my "DREAM" reminder reflected a foggy world. But after musing and churching in my bathrobe (I do love being hidden!), the dreamy, silhouetted trees outside had sharpened into a red display. It is December now--three straight months of borrowed bedrooms--the tail end of autumn. I am grateful for God's kind provision. To be in such close contact with people beyond family is a rare gift and a wonder. I watch these lives and learn. I am also grateful for a place to hide, which I do easily when I am tired. I hide to rest. I hide to focus. I hide to work. I hide to be still. I hide to know God. Today I am "hiding" because of the ornament, a recent addition to the sill. There have been more gatherings than I am used to. It's more than holidays. It's two birthdays and a memorial. It's career opportunities. It's prayer invitations. I love all these things! However, when it came time for the ladies of the church to have a cookie and ornament exchange, I was spent. But I went anyway. I signed up. I committed. I showed up. Lovely people. Lovely conversations. Deliciousness came in, but even more energy went out. Before I left, I chose an ornament that didn't need a tree to be displayed. No more trees for me. My former Christmas tree went into one of three huge dumpsters that emptied my house. There may be some ornaments in the garage with the other salvage hopefuls, but I no longer want this extent of storage responsibility. It is not a depressive thought (though it could be if I let it). It feels more like freedom now. I have wanted less stuff for a while. I already removed one ironic item from the hopefuls: A lighted, glittery, lettered "HOPE." The team had staged it with a big cabinet desk for possible salvage before they moved it to the garage. Had they not noticed the "writing" on the wall? It spelled out "HOPE" in roach droppings. The electrified letters had been a roach hotel for a while! I slipped it into the trash. HOPE has gone. I scrubbed it off the walls too. DREAM has come, and it will be given a place along with the star on my Christmas mantle. I'm definitely downsizing! But I am also upsizing intangibles. (Con't)

PART 1 - The blue room hides me, yet it also reminds me to dream. Only the vase greeted me when I arrived here at the end of October with my car still packed from summer. I had been back for some time--just not home. I left Minnesota at the end of August for WriterCon in Oklahoma City. It is held every year leading up to Labor Day. I would not have left if I had not prepaid. My disabled brother was just getting settled into yet another group home. September had conference bookends--one in Oklahoma, the latter in Utah. My plan was to return to Minnesota in October. And I did. But it was to clean out his room. He passed away. In that time, my home in Oklahoma exploded with situations that had been brewing for some time. I never unpacked--at least not at my house--because it greeted me with roaches. My kids moved out, and the extent of infestation became increasingly clear. This was not a simple cleanup and move in. It was a full cleanse and restoration. It was only a matter of time before roaches would venture into my master bedroom. So instead of moving in, I scrambled out. The light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be a train, and I was left flattened on the tracks! Dreaming is hard when you're flat. October turned into November, and I happened upon a small home decor "DREAM" made of metal. I found it during my many trips to a dollar store for "disposable" mops and brooms and brushes and gloves and masks and plastic things to cover shoes. I thought about putting it in the empty, deconstructed home as a statement while work progressed. But I forgot and ended up setting it on the windowsill as a daily reminder to focus on the future. If I didn't, the challenges consumed me. I thought of Jesus--how he endured what He did for the joy set before Him. (Heb. 12:2) The first morning I woke and saw "DREAM" glowing in the window and wondered if it was some spiritual vision about to unfold into an encounter with the Lord! I caught my breath. I love God's supernatural ways--things we can't explain other than, "It was God!" Upon inspection, I realized the metal "DREAM" was simply reflecting the sunrise back upon the windowsill. (Continued in Part 2)

I Googled. I read: "According to a study of 20,000 Japanese individuals with hypertension and normal blood pressure, people can reduce their systolic blood pressure greatly by taking six deep breaths within a 30 second period. Sit still in a quiet place. Close your eyes and relax. Set a timer for 30 seconds." Mmm. Perfect. I can do that. I am on the back patio at a friend's house in a quiet, distant suburb. My eyes haven't been focusing, and I think it's high blood pressure. My thumb hovered over the link to full instructions but was diverted to the camera function when my ears picked up a low rumble in the distance. I twirled in the grass looking for signs in the sky, phone camera poised. A helicopter? Two? The beating in the air appeared. A tandem cargo helicopter? *snap* PEEK *snap* Cool! The noise jostled my awareness to my surroundings. A rooster. A bark-to-howl dog next door. A neighbor's outdoor project. Heavy equipment. Construction. Digging. Clanking. Beeping. Birds. Wind. So much for silence. My eyes still can't focus. Two manuscripts and a red pen wait for me to see clearly. My alarm rings, and I have 5 minutes before my next meeting online. Maybe I'll breathe then? #writerslife #writingcommunity #focus #sounds #aware

The remains of a vine curled through the holes of an outdoor iron table had hardened with squatters rights. I noticed it when I sat to eat a meal before working on the house. The tiny bark-like knuckles held a serpentine death grip. Simply tearing out the vine wasn't enough. A team of people had already done that. The chaos and overgrowth appeared to be dealt with, and the patio seemed free from everything but decay. Yet there it was--a miniature, twisted fist claiming its place in the home drama. I expected to loosen it easily. It held like a root. Soon my quick glance turned into a focused session as I wrangled it with my fingers. I had no tools--apparently they had been stolen during the cleanout phase--and maneuvering the wicked bit was not easy! When a key portion finally gave way, I was able to unwind it. The whole scenario seemed like life. We are so busy dealing with "big stuff" that small shoots can make their way under our distracted eyes and start winding around areas that require less attention. It could be a hurt or a habit we barely notice or think we can deal with later. Maybe it's grief or regret that we pack away. Sometimes we make sweeping changes and cut out or clean up big things. Maybe we do sever the life of the vine. Maybe we do gut out the garbage. Maybe we do get down to the bones of recreating ourselves. But did we find those hardened bits that grew into our lives? It reminds me to go deeper than the broad sweep. This little knot on the table wasn't visible to me until I tried to eat and write. It interfered with my water cup and my notebook. Maybe you have something interfering with your life--an unexpected bump or a repeated barrier. I encourage you to investigate it. I know I will be! #learnfromnature #learnfromlife #writetounderstand #writerscommunity #writewhereyouare #digdeep #befree

It's the third or fourth wakening where I could have started my day--the strongest one being first at 5:38 a.m. This one will probably win because I'm writing. In just these sentences and contemplation, the sun has moved from a suggestion to a spotlight, a blinding demand. I look at the patterns in the sheers and realize one of the shapes creates a blank face. It calls me to create too. I imagine electronic doodles, Mr. Potato Head parts, iron shavings, curled paper, and needlework. There are three other people moving about the house. The day has started, and I wish I had started earlier. My laptop waits on a round table under the window. The tabletop is made of pennies on glass, poured over with resin or epoxy. I drag my feet. Actually I do not drag anything other than myself to the bathroom. I think about how each time I woke, I asked the Lord, "How should I wake up?" "With Me," was the answer every time. I'm rebuilding my life, so I need to know these things, but I was hoping for a more specific answer. "With Me" doesn't seem helpful. "I AM your help." The Holy Spirit peeks at either my writing or my heart--probably both--and treats it as a part of our conversation. " 'With Me' is all you need today." His assurance carried more word-like expressions, but they tumbled into my heart as a knowing: He will always cause me to know specifics when they are necessary; I am not a robot; He enjoys me showing up as me. I realize I am not off the hook. I need to know "me." My mind pauses on the subject then touches the to-dos for the morning, day, week, month, life ... and ... I've drifted away from "with Him." It happens a lot. The rumble in my stomach suggests "we" go down, get coffee, and pull apart pomegranates for the luncheon. While in the kitchen, a conversation comes my way about hiring versus doing ... how some things are therapeutic. "You have to know what brings you release." I don't know what brings me release. I think I stumble into it. The blank face on the curtains comes to mind. It needs some definition. I hear within: "'With Me' is all you need."

I packed last night. This unplanned stay evolved by breathing it seems. Days melted into weeks as challenge by challenge unfolded with my own home. To stay so near to chaos and yet retreat into peace is a curiosity for me. Usually my respite is in the travel, and my car has been a portable haven. But I also realize that I could call this the year of unusual (and unplanned) respite. A prairie basement in Kansas. A missionary's home and dog. A Scottish island. A farm not far from where I grew up. A hotel room and friend. And a room much like mine in Iona. It felt like Iona here. The simple desk by the window. The single bed tucked into the opposite corner. The soft light. The placement of my wonder in touching ordained places and words. The slow motion moments of learning peace by tasting, stabilizing by staying. There is power in staying. So I linger in this last morning. The bedroom door is a portal. When I open it, time will be caught up in the wind of transition. I already feel it's tug. The first email of the day has announced its arrival with a manuscript to sculpt. My transition is not yet to my home. It is empty (save for a piano) and getting emptier. The flooring left yesterday. The appliances leave today. So where do I go? My next steps involve a plane and a conference. Then ... Another friend. Another voice. Another gift. And soon ... Home. I'm beginning to see what home can be.

The simplicity of slatted sunlight captured my attention today. To wake into a morning where only daylight is needed to illuminate a desk feels good. A simple turn of strings and wood ... I desire more of this. More simplicity. More serenity. More paper. Less technology. More sunlight. I am collecting desires--attempting to notice them and set them to intention, to invite them into my lifestyle as easy as a shift in the blinds. I have turned a corner. I am rebuilding. ---------- Writing tip: Attention is powerful! Take time to notice. Every time I do, something good comes of it. And when I take another step to ponder and write, a new dimension opens. More memories and possibilities come to mind. Forward and back seem to come alive in the moment if I will simply yield one thig: my attention. Add to this now the element of spirit. Attention there produces far more than mere cognizant recognitions. To me, this is where the "magic" of revelation thrives. It needs no invention. It is organically available. This Godward place has its own life. Attending to such ... oh this I desire! Of course these desires require much. In this space I could linger all day ... all week ... all month ... maybe even ponder/pray/write for a year! And yet there is much to attend to in the world around me. Taxes, for one thing. Laundry, for another. I suppose showers are in that category too. Speaking of ... #writerslife #writerscommunity #writingtip #reinvent #rediscover #rebuild

There's a basket of notebooks on the floorboard of my car. I rescued them without having anywhere to put them. My office is already stuffed full with plastic tubs, crates, and random bags. Office stuff. Guatemala stuff. Travel stuff. Filing stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Are you tired of STUFF yet? I am.  I am recalibrating to LESS STUFF! My desire for simplicity has been seriously growing for over two years. As it turns out, my house is suffering. The people who came to help discovered more problems than I ever imagined. I got the text while I was in Minnesota with family after clearing out my late brother's room. "What we're facing is much worse than we thought," wrote the man in charge. "It's much like those who have gone through a fire." I wept. There will be very little left.  Today I sat in the parking lot at my coworking office trying to "peopleify" myself. You know--be around people without crying. (I blame it on lack of sleep and an abundance of work--last night until 3 a.m.) I stared at the basket of notebooks I squirreled out of the house--also last night. The team handling disposals might not know these are precious to me! One binder was the lovingly preserved adventure from my college years--an all-night road trip to a Christian music festival and the hilarious "group journal" we all wrote in (including the recording artists). My heart tugged toward those days. I reached for the binder and heard these words in my heart: "Remember who you are." Page by plastic page protector, I relived the moments. I used to hoot uncontrollably! Today I just smiled at the wacky girl from the 80s. At least I smiled.  I hugged the pages to my chest for a bit. It composed me enough to get out of my car and walk to the door. Yes this slow-motion loss has been hard. But I know I will be glad for it on the other side. With God's help, I will face chaos and bring it to order--demand recompense. My home will be peaceful and safe. It will truly be my sanctuary. And maybe that zany, fun-loving girl who used to design furniture (and almost studied interior design instead of music performance/evangelism) will come back to stay now that she can come out and play!

PART 3 - I wondered, "Is that how we sleep?" Eyes half open. Silent. Immobile. I didn't know it was possible. For some reason I forgot that I had seen people sleep before. Prayers slipped through my concerns and wove questions with a theme: What should I do? It was the last day. I couldn't justify another hotel night--not for something as small as decor. I immediately regretted that thought. Decor is not small. It is the difference between transient and home. The more familiar, the more important--like ragged posters waiting for their walls. Decision finally rested. "I may as well do what I can while I am here." I separated strips of tacky putty into bits and tried to keep from wondering if people could spontaneously slip into comas. I was satisfied when the posters were all up and viewable from his mechanical bed. "Paul?" I spoke loudly, "Can you wake up for me, Paul?" I rubbed his arm. "It's time for me to go, but I wanted you to know I was here." His hand appeared from under the sheet in a "thumbs up" sign. I laughed. "You hear me?" His reply was soft and nasal, muffled by his CPAP machine, "I could tell you were here." His eyes remained closed. Paul slipped in and out of consciousness and words. He revived for a moment and asked me to plug in his razor. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was out again. His body never moved. The CNA walked by, and I stepped out to tell her of my concerns. She promised to keep a close eye on him. Saying goodbye felt different that day.  "I love you, Paul." I said it with every goodbye. He always said it back. I don't recall if he said it that day. My tears were already spilling. "See you in October!" We made more lists and prepared for a Christmas celebration. I had cookbooks and chairs to bring when I returned. Two days ago, October 2, I came back to an empty room--full of belongings but empty of Paul. Mom was with me. I showed her my half-done handiwork. She stepped into the world Paul called "home" before he went Home. I introduced the staff who called him "brother" and "friend." We shared hugs--skin white and black, Kenya to Canada, Uganda to USA--and became family.

PART 2 - Paul squinted at the screen of my phone when I showed him photos of the spacious room that had become available at another home run by the same group of nurses. I zoomed in on the details and described the room the best I could. It was bigger than any room he'd ever had. The doorway was at the end of the hall, so no turn to make in his wheelchair--just straight into the hall. Paul perked up! I didn't tell him I was suspicious of the doorway. It was smaller than the others. He never wanted a wheelchair. He never wanted a walker either. I measured the doors in each group home. Three-and-a-half Birkenstocks--the same. Could they widen the new doorway? They already widened them. But I had measured all the doors with my feet. The other room on the same hall was four Birkenstocks wide. A man named President gave up his room so my brother could move in. President is a rock star in a motorized chair. The staff moved Paul in, and I came back with his fragile posters--some 30 years old. We did the boring stuff fast and saved fun stuff for last. "How far can you reach?" I arranged things there. He was no longer mobile. I rearranged. I reorganized. We made his habits handy--pen, stylus, notebooks; phone, charging cables, remotes; snacks, water bottles, and flavor packets. Missing items required a mad dash to the old house before Paul's replacement resident arrived. I filled my car with forgotten things. I said it was hard stuff, but honestly, it wasn't. It was sweaty labor. It was definitely inconvenient! But it was a step toward my brother's dreams of having his own apartment again ... and maybe a farm one day. I think our farm site was the last place he was happy. He started every dream with, "When I get healthy..." On the last day--Poster Day--Paul didn't answer his door when I knocked. He had called and asked me to come earlier because he wasn't feeling well. "Paul?" No answer. "Are you ready for a guest?" Silence. I peeked inside. His body looked too still to be sleeping. I watched up close for a while and spoke to him. I don't remember what clue I saw, but I knew he wasn't dead. (to be continued ... again ... sorry!)

Lights were already on when I stepped into the room. This hotel. This floorplan. The same pristine white bed in every room ... at least the rooms I've stayed in since June. A cry choked in my throat. I stayed here to do hard things this summer. I worked on books. I wrote devotions and articles. I transcribed powerful voices. I madly pulled two all-nighters in the lobby trying to grab WiFi that wouldn't reach my room. It became yet another home away from home. But those weren't the hard things. My brother moved across the state into a group home--not his first. I came to help him settle in. When I say, "he moved," it sounds like he did it on his own. Not the case by a longshot! The nursing home social worker where he had been for nearly two years moved heaven and earth plus several government and nonprofit organizations. Many potential moves had fallen through at the last minute. I stopped visiting in person ahead of time. Then I stopped calling facilities until it seemed like every approval had been done. And inevitably it seemed that something small snagged the whole affair and unraveled. This time, I told my brother, "Hey Paul, how about if I don't make plans until you actually move?" I learned the hard way that trying to be a part of the move is a good way to get stuck In Minnesota! Well, this time it happened fast, and I was the one being dragged along behind yelling my questions after it was too late. I showed up dusty and bedraggled, I'm sure. Paul was squashed into a small room with his boxes around him. His clothes were already in an awkward closet--black modular components built into the wall with two hanging bars above three drawers. The bottom drawer couldn't be used because there was glass, glitter, and goo on the bottom. I unpacked and sorted. I organized and solved logistics puzzles for days. I wore Paul out with my questions. But he was a trooper, and by the time I left, he had a place that was "his." Then he fell. And he fell again. When he fell and couldn't get up, an ambulance came--the first of three. The last hospital stay was quite long. During one of my visits, I also visited a different home with larger rooms ... (con't.)

"Father, I don't know any of this." "But I do." Relief came with Holy words. I saw myself spending mornings at a desk in a consult with God. Noted. I imagined my desk in the living room in front of the fireplace. Noted again. The words were nothing new, of course. But when spoken by the Holy Spirit, they carried life and hope in them--exactly what I was struggling with in that moment. You see, I have a problem. My life is a mess, and I don't want it to be a mess anymore. I have no boundaries and help others to my own hurt. And ... I don't want to hurt anymore. I want compassion to remain, but I want boundaries too. Boundaries feel hard and uncaring, which probably reflects how I grew up and surely how I evolved while married. The poison ingested there has damaged generations. The invisible bends over those years and in all the crisis years that followed--three+ decades--are feeling the scary hope of alignment and restoration, the painful present of future joy. There is much ahead I do not know. The little glimpses I have only have hints of direction. But even if I do not understand how the Lord will bring it to pass, I believe His plans and purposes for me will prevail. So I will continue to trust in Him and praise Him for the fulfillment of His promises until I see the manifestation.

Consider these to VERY SIMILAR words (two images). I love using epigraphs in book manuscripts. Imagine my shock when I realized I had labeled an epigraph page as an epitaph! #needsleep #writer #OMG #oops #notwhatimeant #edit #editor #proof #proofreading #help #helpme #epigraph

I can barely breathe. Once again, I have stumbled into a waterfall. I gaze in amazement. These words. These orchestrations. This desk. This home. God knew I would be here. I found my thread in the back of a tapestry. The strands intersect in places where words fail. Red ink on white pages travels from past to future. One song across generations --- a grandmother's poem to my young melody --- twice penned destiny. My soul is not satisfied with man-made plans. The quill is my apex, my tipping point. All else falls away. This precipice was reached in silence. But these very days give voice to the pinnacle and shall continue to speak --- guidance from the anchor --- I shall not drift. Red ink marking mistakes on my path now swallowed in holy Blood. Stunning perfection. Slow motion miracles. I am where I should be. One key now passed turned spirit to song to word to wind. Unlock. Unlock. And gone. Like a mist, I taste and smell the atmosphere I breathe. It is rich. I remember its gift. Fragrance finds me again. ---------- Writing tip: Express and edit until you're satisfied. Others may not understand, but you do (and that's what's important). ♡

I took a detour--three so far, and a fourth is pending. I realize this is not an efficient way to travel other than it does good things for my soul. That said, not all places are full of happy curiosities. Had it not been for an episode of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives featuring this place, I probably would have kept driving. You see, I lived here before. It was not for a long time, and it was long ago (for me). It started as an adventure and ended more like a nightmare. I'm not here to tell this story but rather to look at what happens when hurt resides in a place--a place you no longer inhabit. Twenty-six years ago, I was enjoying my first South Dakota summer in a yard curated for scent. Bloom by bloom through the season, there was always something fragrant wafting through my open windows. If that had continued or transitioned well, I would have more good memories. I do have good memories and funny stories, but they are a bit overshadowed by the happenings that affected my family on many levels. Much has been forgiven, and I am not stuck there, but I am curious about the way I perceive this place. It feels dark. I feel foreign. Usually I have a resonance of belonging in towns where I have memories. This feels emotionally blank. Is that from my past? I happen to be in a trendy area that is developing more sleek condos just past the intersection. Amidst the construction, I witness conversations between people who all sound like me. It is certainly along my "vibe" ... kind of? Usually I dive in with adoration. Today I just observe. So I give God room to reach into me and just be. It may not matter whether I hear anything or not as long as I spent these moments here with Him. ----- Writing Tip: Quiet time can be immensely valuable to writing. Give yourself time to ponder in places--even if they are painful. When your heart has a safe place to express, you will begin to hear what it has to say. And even if no words come, you've nurtured this tender inner space once again--a treasure indeed. #writewithingrid #writeanywhere #letyourheartbreathe

My favorite pinks were in the sky tonight. If I could have plucked paint chips from the clouds, I would have grabbed three of each shade: one for Oklahoma, one for Guatemala, and one for the future. You never know when the perfect blush fits the perfect design. Maybe the Minnesota lake place will become "Sunset House." One room could be "Blush" in honor of this night. "Starry Ice" could be another. "Rich Robes" could be the warm counterpart. I could frame sunset prints or commission an artist. But I'm a writer, not an interior designer. Maybe I just want to name the rooms. Maybe I just want to have a cozy place to write. Maybe I want to invite more writers to a retreat. Maybe I want to design an experience so easy and fun that any guest can write. In all the maybes, could it be that I am looking for possibilities in the future so I don't derail when things get hard? Yes. These are all possible. They are tiny dreams that don't "have to" happen. I won't be disappointed if they don't happen. But they do pull me through some days when the past has built a daunting case of chaos. There are days where being "in the now" gives my feet a taste of quicksand. I have to slam on some boundaries quickly before I get sucked in. And some days that door gets slammed so close to conflict that I feel it's breath on my neck. I want to run. But there is work to do. I must move forward, and escape is not forward! So what do I do? I breathe. I ask Chat GPT to make me laugh. I listen to a friend's voice and remember a scripture that settles me. I am reminded that we carry power beyond what we know. And I notice a heather-pink sunset that helps me dream again. So now that the sky is dark and I have exhaled with expression, I tentatively sit on the edge of renewed determination. I pray that your feet find solid ground too. May you renew your strength or help someone renew theirs. ♡ ~i ---------- Writing Tip: Pay attention to what gets your attention. The sky did that for me tonight. Then give yourself room to explore. Fun fact: I almost went to design school in the 80s. These home projects and Airbnbs have awakened that side of me. #writingtip #writerscommunity #renew

Insta made me do it. LOL. How did they know that I miss my desk? (And Guatemala!) #autoreel

Coffee stains mark my journal. The coconut oil from my spilled coffee may condition my leather Bible, but my notebook just feels greasy. At least everything--including my tank dress--smells good, like tropical caffeine. An oily paper towel lies crumpled by a small, white plate with a few toast crumbs and tiny dabs of yellow yolk. I spilled an egg this morning too. A fragile shell broke too soon, and the egg white slithered between the stove and countertop. Cleanup job after cleanup job. "What is wrong?" I know the answer as I ask: SLOW DOWN. I don't remember hurrying, but I did pile on everything when I took my breakfast, coffee, Bible, and journal outside. Breakfast too--I deliberately balanced two eggs in one hand so I could keep stirring a homemade dressing for the cucumbers I just cut. It's a state of mind. Ahh. That place I touch and know I need more of--the one without words when I am attentive like slo-mo as life spins. My mom and I discussed a sermon recently about the "pile on" technique and other strategies God's enemy uses against us: Weary Distract Hurry Pile-on Harnesses that direct us onto paths we didn't choose ... like my cleaning projects. It's just a tiny picture of larger scenarios. Like when I wanted my kids to have a good father and I took on a relationship too soon--half of my life slipped between the cracks, and I'm still cleaning up the mess. So as I sit to write, I remind myself to be intentional: egg by egg, no stirring on the side, no piling it on plates on cups on books. Life will still be there when I finish. ---------- Writing Tips: 1) Absorb the value of life moments by taking a moment to write about it. And when you do, 2) give yourself time to slow down mentally and reflect. The attention you give to anything will reward you, and the inner life is the richest of all. #writewithingrid #slowdown #writingtip #writenow #writeslow #writerslife #capturethemoments

Fog hung heavy this morning. Tonight the same scene is lit by landscaping lights and bulbs strung to a tree. It is black beyond the early reflections of light on bark. Trees fade into the darkness where coyotes call. My heart is full and empty at the same time. I've breathed for a week. I had morning coffee with farm cats. I planted myself by a meadow and wrote. I parked under the stars and listened to the night. I hid by the tall corn and reclined on the "duck" with my bare feet in the air on its roll bar. I became familiar again with the crunch of gravel under tires and feet. Though far away, I enjoyed my church streamed to this same grassy grove where I sat with notebooks and without shoes. The quiet sureness of a curated lawn tended by expert hands held me too. I rested in their work. My lawns are not like this. My worlds are not like this. I blessed my reprieve. All this makes my heart full. The generations tied together in this place and the kindness I have tasted is rich. It resonates with childhood. Sound, scent, and sight bring me back. And that's where a wistful bruise waits. It feels like this is what could have been. I did not walk this path with my own family. What should have been familiar is foreign. I ache for my kids to have what I had as a child -- even if it was fractured -- because their worlds have splintered far beyond my comprehension. Today my tears carried prayers for my children. Desires only God can fill cried out for attention. I let myself feel the demand in this place of peace. I let myself reach for more in this safe shadow of hope. I watched another family in these few days -- a respected patriarch guiding, a gentle matriarch loving -- I see it mirrored in their children who reflect it to their children. Perfect? No ... and yes. Perfectly imperfect, maybe. Or imperfectly perfect. They choose God and family above all and protect their own. They bloom together, each wildly unique. And so I too reflect in the light of their influence. It softens me, inspires me. When I leave, I will bring this refreshed vision to my children also. May God's blessing rest upon all.

I've heard it's good for writers to periodically focus on things in the distance when working on computer screens. So here I am visiting a cornfield just down the road. The stalks are much higher than my reach to the sky. They touch the moon. A breeze blows through and brushy waves ripple through my ears. The sturdy sound reminds me of how they feel. I remember from my childhood. They are the same today. I don't remember their roots looking like round, bony hands grabbing the ground. I take off my shoes and feel the same dirt with my stubby toes. I stand with them and listen to birds. They multiply with my attention. Insect chirps and songs become distinct. This is solitude. I remind myself to breathe deep. Deeper. Past the shallow, normal pace. It's shocking how little I am used to breathing. Even a half-hearted breath here carries the identity of livestock. Time flies as I gaze with my senses. I push back thoughts of others wondering what I am doing. I wonder about myself for them. I lay on my back and type these thoughts as I hold my phone in the sky and shake off flies. Maybe I should get back to my computer screen. Maybe I should still myself further. Maybe I should stop writing and listen for God's words. I turn my head to focus on a far place again. The clouds on the horizon are gold. I heard there may be rain tonight, and the air feels a little like it whispers the same. The opposite horizon looks dense. I hear a plane that first sounded like very distant thunder. Somehow I am doubtful of the helpfulness of this diversion. I think I want more of this and less of computers. ---------- Writing tip: Mushy mind? Eyes? Ears? Bottom? (LOL!) Take a sensory break. Seriously, even if you can't take a full break, at least give your eyes a focus break often. Consider the ergonomic conditions you immerse yourself in while writing and help yourself stay focused and energized. ♡ #writerslife #ruralplaces #cornfield #writingtip #sensorybreak #takeabreakwriter

The unheard moments of my 55th birthday are many despite the barrage of goofy personal posts (see @indigobleue). It was more than a day of frivolous wandering with a giant, fuzzy letter U and taking selfies along Highway 55 in my silver-spangled "55" glasses. The need for a breakaway day was intense, and I leaned into levity. But after my car was packed, I noticed still waters on the lake. Adventure could wait. Stillness couldn't. I launched my kayak and tuned in. I tried to write as I drifted, but I couldn't keep up with the detailed wonder. I started a list instead. My friend tried to call me for a birthday chat, and all I could talk about was the antics of bugs. Our call got cut short when I thought I saw an eagle. If I spot wildlife around the lake, I want to go see, make friends, join in. There's nothing more magical than being in the midst of nature surrounded by living creatures that don't care if you're there--or even better are curious! Thus my journey around the point began. I navigated with my eyes on the silhouette of the bird. It seemed to sit like a vulture. Once I could see from the side of the sun, it was sure. A huge bald eagle sat on a dead branch of a craggy tree. He seemed to ignore me. Regal posture. Looking out, beyond, past. I knew he was well aware of his space, but somehow he tolerated me in it. I admired him in my heart. I did not speak. I drifted closer. I'VE NEVER BEEN THIS CLOSE TO AN EAGLE IN THE WILD! I navigated the shallows by the shore, and when I looked up again, his eyes were locked on mine. I smiled. He went back to his sentry position. It was almost as if those British soldiers had broken their command and looked into the eyes of an onlooker. But then he looked again. Face to face from limb to lake. Thrilling! And again. And again. Serious, wide-eyed stares. I tried to capture it in a picture. I missed each one! He extended his white tail feathers and flew shortly thereafter. "Thank you," I whispered. Time had also flown. I paddled back to the main lake. Near to home, I heard a tight wisk sound over my head and looked up. Wings! The eagle again! I hope I've made a friend and not a foe! #eagle #nature

I wished this week for a companion--not just any companion, but one that could pull off an "I'm famous and incognito" routine better than I could. I wanted to play along, pretend to be famous. Why? Not sure! Be a kid again? I think it was mostly because I felt kind of incognito with what I wore that day--especially the hat and sunglasses. The hat hid my "day number whatever" of no shampoo (and always makes me feel like an explorer). My colorful cape from Guatemala hid my flabby arms (and always makes me feel exotic). The shades hid my eyes, technically, but I was wearing them to keep the crack in my windshield from blinding me. They also made me feel ... something I can't identify ... rich? Supposedly, they are expensive. Jeremy (my son) used to sell high-dollar sunglasses. I started wearing these Ray Bans at his suggestion. He claimed some feature (polarization?) would take care of the periodic laser-beam in my eyes from the crack in the windshield. I was skeptical, and since I have been driving him to work lately (a story for another time), he finally brought them along. Pretty cool! They reminded me of Roy Orbison ... maybe? Or Tom Cruise in the 80s? Definitely better than my $15 splurge shades from a truck stop. "You can keep them," Jeremy said. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I don't wear them." He explained, "I bought them for grandpa." *zing* The Ray Bans hid my tears. "Thank you. That makes these very special." So now I'm a "rich, exotic explorer" who can drive without putting electrical tape over the crack in the windshield. It still blinds me a little, but I just hunker down in my seat and look a certain way to avoid the light ... and it makes me look famous! ----- Writing tip: Pay attention to wishes and desires. Turn them into writing prompts! #writingtips #writingprompts #writingcommunity #capturememories #wishes #desires #famous #explorer #writer #incognito #pretend

Take Your Gift Back Last month I had a dream in which I went to a local grocery store in my mom's town (not a "real place" but in the dream, it was her town--one I had spent time in as well). I went for an exotic fruit or plant, and when I got there, I discovered it was far more fabulous that I realized. It wasn't the fruit or plant itself, but the roots. They were vibrant! Yet they were underground and unseen ... and for me, a delightful surprise to see. But even more of a surprise was when I perused the aisles of what seemed to be a grocery store. I rounded the back corner, and there was musical gear--some for sale. They were in the process of clearing it out from the back rooms. I recognized a keyboard then a microphone and it's stand. MINE! I had forgotten that I used to come there to a back room to write/arrange/practice/record music. I went back to track down the person in charge to claim my equipment. I finally got to a manager whom I did not know. He was hard to deal with and refused to believe me. I woke with lingering frustration and disappointment. And the Lord said: YOU'RE IN A FIGHT TO GET IT BACK. YOU HAVE TO GO TO IT & TAKE IT BACK. I began to ask Him how, and His reply hit me with force. It was a command: TAKE YOUR GIFT BACK. I was silent. His explanation followed: YOU BELONG BEHIND KEYS. BUT YOU WILL HAVE TO FIGHT FOR IT. THE TIME OF TALKING IS OVER. Today when I read those words, more came. It was as if the letter L from TALKING was booted out and it turned into TAKING. The time for taking is at hand. No more Lethargy. No more Lying around. No more Lying! No more Leaning. No moee La-la-la-la. No more Lollygagging. It's time to stop talking and start taking. Take back your dreams. Take back what was stolen. Take back your gifts. Redeem! Redeem! Redeem! ----- Writing tip: Dreams can give excellent writing material. Capture those too! PS. I am learning that redeeming and restoring is HARD WORK! It's not just a magical alignment that drops into place. Maybe sometimes, but that's a miracle to catch you up. There's work involved. Get it back! Then keep it. Make it a lifestyle. ♡♡♡ This is my journey! It may be yours too. ♡♡♡

I moved a stack of plat books yesterday. Evidently they are so old or out of use that spell check wants to turn them into "plate books." My kids probably don't know what plats are. These directories are rural phone books on steroids. Oh, and phone books are books of phone numbers and addresses listed by name. Add maps. They used to be printed on paper. Imagine if Google Maps had an overlay of property boundaries, landowners, acres, and homesites identified with stars, renter or owner names, addresses, and phone numbers. Now imagine if they sent you a hard copy of everything in your county every year! That's what these farm and home plats and directories are. This stack almost went into the recycling pile with two boxes of paperwork that need to be shredded. But I lingered long enough to let my instincts override the pressure. I don't remember my dad teaching me how to read a plat map, but when I saw "Chippewa County" on the spine of directory, I went to work. We owned a farm site outside Montevideo, MN, until 1986, my graduating year. While I was away at college, it was foreclosed upon. I think I remember Christmas or New Years break spent bringing my beloved collie to my cousins in North Dakota. It was a hard year. I don't remember a lot. I forgot which highway we lived on, or any of the roads for that matter, so I looked up a neighbor on the same stretch of paved road. Dvergsten. The address had changed from county roads to streets, but the phone number was still the same. I could have dialed it in my sleep. If cell phones had existed then, Lisa and I would have been up all night talking. We practically did when we had sleepovers--they were talkovers. She and I were in the same grade and made our own adventures whenever we could. I pored over the maps to orient myself. Schultz. The dirt road cut through their farm and led to my . . . There it was. I cried then. That place I thought would bring my kids back to visit just like my parents did with us--walking in their memories--represented by a little 6-acre asterisk on the corner. ----- Writing tip: What's on the shelf? Use it as a writing prompt. (See comments.)

"Classic Norm!" My uncle chuckled as he showed me Dad's handiwork on the Cub Cadet tractor. On each side of a black plastic cover that lifted from under the seat toward the steering wheel, metal had been bolted to protect the edges while down and easily swiveled out of the way when ready to lift it. We set to work sorting through my late father's garage and getting the mowers working. The push mower had life again, but it was small potatoes against the overgrown lawn that stretched from the lakeshore to the township road. I wanted to drive the Cub Cadet! I had not driven a lawn tractor since high school, and it was tiny compared to this. If I had to weigh the factors of nostalgia versus intimidation, it would balance. But with my uncle there to show me the ropes, there's no way I wouldn't try. Having him help me was the next best thing to having my my dad. "Come check this out," Uncle Gayle said and pointed to a place on the engine. "This used to be the oil plug." I looked at him with an "AND?" in my eyes. I didn't understand engines. But Gayle had been telling me how my dad did -- not just an interest, but deep understanding that led to inventiveness. My uncle explained how the oil would normally be drained and then had me follow a small piece of hose from the fitting where the plug would have been. The valve-tipped end was tucked up in the framework. I think there was also an open/close mechanism from the engine. My brain lost track. But the cool thing was that instead of dripping oil down into a pan, it could be directed into a container. I found a plastic jug and watched my dad's invention work its magic. My uncle and I both took pictures of Dad's modifications and probably choked back a few tears. I know I did. These little signs of Dad are precious! And who better to recognize them than his brother. My neighbor's daughter told me that when she saw Gayle yesterday, for a moment she thought it was Norm ... my dad. We hugged and swapped stories of the creative inventions family members had come up with. "You should write about that," I said. ----- Writing tip: Little marks of a person's ways are endearing--fiction or non!

Sunset glows on the water while damselflies mate and chase. Here I listen and wait. I ponder and pray. It is my reward for a draft complete. A curious sunfish rises and looks at my foot dangling in the water. I move slowly and draw it in, then touch my fingertip to the surface. She swims near and looks at me. I look at her. A crack splits the sky at one end of the lake and rumbles around the shoreline behind me to the other side. The sound feels like it pushes into the lake's center as it circles and reverberates. What a thrill! I laugh out loud. I wonder if I will be here for the Fourth of July. Two birds, and then more, waggle their gaggles with a piercing shake of a cry that rises and wanes together. They almost drown out the church service I'm listening to on my phone. It's live. I'm far away. But I place my heart out beyond and connect with the Spirit we share. Yes, I am here and there too. I only scribble a few words in my notebook as I float--reminders not to fear or be too serious. My pastor's voice hits my heart: " You laugh, but you're not light. Responsibility can make you like that." I cry. Responsibility. I creak like a saddle under the weight of a rider. Responsibility is cinched up tight. There's a sound to each step. A cadence. A rhythm. I remember the feel of a horse beneath me, the power that carried me latent and lazy but rippling nevertheless. The clop of the hoof. The groan of the leather. The smell of chewed grass and clink of metal as the horse mouthed the bit. He sensed my anticipation to let him loose. The explosion! The breathtaking release of the run! We both lived for that moment. I rethink that saddle, that responsibility. I must carry and be carried, so it must be tight ... strong ... snug ... safe. No more complaining when I feel the cinch squeeze. We're about to fly! ----- Writing tip: Two things are in play here for me. 1) Have tiny dreams to keep forward momentum in writing projects. A kayak is my tiny dream maker. When I hit a mark, it's my mini splurge. 2) Truly give yourself time to immerse in those splurges. Float with sensations a while. Inner thoughts will share secrets when you linger and let them speak.

A toboggan caught my eye in the front yard array of a brown-bricked townhouse in Fergus Falls, MN. I assumed it was the handiwork of children who may have built an elaborate playground for themselves. That's what I did as a child. My children never experienced toboggans*, but it is one of my earliest memories of winter. These memories take place in the woods on a slope. I think it may have been the farm we lived on in Vergas, MN, before I was in school. I remember being terrified of hitting a tree or flying off the sled. There were "handles" made from a rope that ran the length of the sled, so in a way, each "square" had a set. Just hang on! When I say "square," I'm referring to the sections created by crossbeams. It's not unlike a guitar fretboard, but the "strings" would have been on the side and go under each fret instead of over. At the curl, I think there were chains that connected the top to the base. It looked like the safest place to sit because I could have most of my body shielded by the wooden curl. It was also the most frightening. I imagined hitting my face on a tree. It is not unlike being in the front car of a roller-coaster, but instead of following a track, you are loose in the snow and traveling downhill at ever-increasing speed not knowing where you will finally stop ... or be stopped ... or by what ... like a tree. My dad had me sit between his knees that raised around me like side walls. His feet were under the curl, and he could "drive" the toboggan with his body weight and the ropes. I still had to hang on to my ropes myself, which made me feel like my fate was in my tiny, mittened hands. I remember losing mittens under that rope and exposing my chubby fingers to the cold and snow. I couldn't seem to pull my hands out from under the tight rope and retain my warm mittens! Today that memory feels like parenthood and childhood all wrapped into one. We're all on the slope together--experienced or not! We learn to navigate whenever we launch. ----- WRITING TIP: When an object captures your attention, don't let it go right away. If it brings up a memory, try and capture it!

Synneva and I walked this morning. She trotted and sniffed. I followed and prayed. We spent most of our time at one patch of grass in the ditch (pictured). My hip was tender, and I was glad to stay put before walking back to the house. Something in the grass captured Synneva's attention. She didn't dart into the grass like I expected. She took a flying leap! I guess it was more of a vertical pounce, but she leaped high into the air, folded herself like an upside down letter U, and landed in the middle of the grass. I didn't know she had that much spring in her! After six jumps, I stopped counting. I watched her sniff and paw and flinch and flatten over and over again until she came out of the grass covered in dew and seeds. The only time her tail stopped wagging was while she watched like a sentry and leaped again. I marveled at Synneva's ability to see into and beyond the scene I would have described as an idyllic country morning. And then it hit me--I had a friend "see beyond" yesterday. It surprised me! Almost as if I was a field mouse existing in the grass and weeds, and with one comment like a targeted leap, I was spotted! The call came while I was driving into town to let my son's employer know he was in jail (I couldn't reach them by phone). I had already been to town with a neighbor to find my car, which my son was driving because his own needed a new tire. No headlights? Police. Sobriety test. Failed. Jail. Facts. I shared them. I don't know what I expected. A pep talk? A "kids will be kids" comment? Something to reframe my perspective? He pounced. "That is a shi**y thing to do. I'm sorry you have to deal with that." I glossed over it. "I see what you're doing," he said. The glossing over. The minimizing. The chinning up. The keeping my head above water. "Survival," I explained. Stick to the facts and keep emotion at bay until I can be alone. "That's where I cry." I started to break. Much like Synneva, my friend didn't trot by. He caught the scent and stopped. He listened. He jumped in the middle of the weeds and simply saw me where I was. ----- WRITING TIP: Use "word pictures" to illustrate moments without physical action.

I take my transcription headphones off and go sit by the lake. A dragonfly lands on an inflatable ring that washed up on the rocks. A boat motors by a little faster than the pontoons and creates waves at the shore. The lapping only lasts a little while. By the time I start up video on my phone, it is half done. The sound draws me; the rhythm soothes. Three houses down, children splash and play. It is a different kind of soothing sound with motors in the distance and birds in trees around me. There's a symphony if I stop and listen. I decide to get in the water too--up to my ankles. A larger spiral shell sits amidst the tiny ones. I wonder if there is a creature in it? I Google first and then do what it says--just look into the open end. I don't know what I'm looking at, but I think there's something blocking it down inside. I assume it's alive and drop it back into the water. There are versions of the same spiral shell that are so miniscule that I imagine I could line up at least four dozen of them on my toenail. But there's an even more interesting life form floating gently under the surface. It looks like a tiny green jellyfish with no tentacles. What?! "Ask a Naturalist" had a post with a photo. "These blobs are made by a colonial microscopic single-celled protozoan called Ophrydium versatile." They have cilia on the surface that sweeps through the water, and the jelly inside can nourish a very long list of microscopic organisms. Some call them a floating zoo! These tiny lives are fascinating! There's a whole world within a blob. As far as they "know," they are the world, and the lake is the universe. I want to ponder. I need to work. But I am slow to move from my rock. The water feels good on my feet. A small party of paddleboats, paddleboards, kayaks, and swimmers cross over on their way to the point. One swimmer calls out, "Hello, Miss!" I call back a greeting and realize I didn't pay attention earlier when the paddleboaters said, "Good morning!" I was consumed with a dragonfly. These larger lives are fascinating too, or at least they should be. I sense conviction and shift my focus toward people. I pray for them as I return to my work.

"PROFOUND" - I searched my photo archive. It retrieved a poem from 10 years ago. I had forgotten that Google can read! I expected it to be less literal in its search, but the poem did have the word in it! Maybe A.I. is influencing me more than I realize because I fully expected its interpretation of "profound." But this is also interesting. I used to indulge myself fairly often with camera and verse. Right now I couldn't tell you when the last time was. Oh wait. I can. It was Christmas 2020. But that's a story for another time. This image brought me immediately back to the day it was taken. An old fire engine was sitting in the tall grass off of a country road somewhere between Tulsa, OK, and Pittsburgh, KS (where my daughter and I, with two of our friends, went to tour a photo imaging lab and production warehouse). I didn't plan to write. But it was common for me to stop and take photos of something that caught my interest ... many, many, many photos. (I added a few to this post.) At some point later, possibly years, I must have had the urge to make poetic art, but I don't remember that. I remember scrambling through the ditch. I remember discovering textures brought on by decay. I remember the wind in my hair. I remember friends on an outing. ENGINE 263 Time. Elements. Rusting gradients The sliding of the sun. Tell ghosted stories Of days gone by. Simple. Profound. The setting of the sun. Pitted scars Share secret sorrows Of weathered storms. Proud. Strong. The hiding of the sun. Profiled silhouettes Whisper silent triumphs Of heros in the night. --------‐ WRITING TIP: Sit with pictures and express what they mean to you. It doesn't have to be abstract and poetic. Consider adding stories to the photos in family albums. Or write a memory of a loved one celebrated this Memorial Day. #photowriting #art #poetry #write #express #stories #family #memories #capture #collect #share #legacy

The scent of Iona greeted me again when I unpacked a bit more of my suitcase this morning. Remarkable! Only certain items carry it--two dresses and three cape-like, long vests--the items I hung in the closet there. During the trip, I marveled at how the essence was retained and regularly buried my nose in the rolls of fabric. It reminded me of stepping into my room at the inn and smelling what seemed like the most amazing essential oils--light, fresh, earthy, heavenly. There were no essential oils. It was not the soaps or any bathroom amenities. I checked! It was just how my room smelled. I kept the windows open, so it must have been what the air carried in. Today I bury my nose in the fabric again and cry. Earth, wind, rock, grass, water, and clouds swirl in my memory as if calling my feet again to stone paths. The tears are neither sentimental nor selfish. They feel like prayers. Awe is mixed into them. Gratitude, mystery, and hope ... renewal and destiny ... as if a master alchemist has unlocked heaven and earth with my own personal elixir that I have somehow stumbled upon. And it is true. There was an unlocking as I soaked in Iona two weeks ago. It would take a book to tell it, but God met me there. If I could chisel a stone to mark that day, I would. Then again, knowing my propensity for words, it would take me a very long time. Come to think of it, this technology of a phone on which I write now is basically stone--just a highly crafted version. The elements and chips and crystals all have molecular content that came from somewhere in this earth. Time will tell how ephemeral these social media memorials are. As I ponder the land I just explored, the idea of memorials and what really matters plays in my mind. I witnessed a level of purpose, dedication, and reverence unfamiliar in my modern world. For example: HEAVENFIELD WHEREIN OSWALD BEING ABOUT TO ENGAGE IN BATTLE ERECTED THE SIGN OF THE HOLY CROSS AND ON HIS KNEES PRAYED TO GOD AND OBTAINED THE VICTORY AS HIS FAITH DESERVED A.D. 635 LAUS DEO Who raises a cross before battle, prays, and chisels a stone in praise of God? Evidently Oswald, the king of Northumbria. This stirs and humbles me.

I grab moments to write, to slow down and reach into the atmosphere with my attention. In these stunning, wind-whipped ruins, I found a desk of stone in what once was a pillar, a vestige of power first spiritual. Yet the influence is not gone. The ancient voices in their call to Christ only echo what God has spoken through the ages--latent even today--awaiting an awakening, a stirring, a quickening, a fulfilling of the fullness of destiny. It is not without opposition. The battle still rages seen and unseen. But holy voices cannot be erased. They resonate and reverberate when another like voice is raised. In my pages I wrote: My heart heard, "Stand in your redeemer shoes." So as I step, as I ink, I call for redemption. I invite its power. When I did this, my insides shook. I hid behind my hat and wept while the wind swept up my back. Like lush grass against austere stone, I felt small and quivering and new compared to the towering presence of bygone ages. But I still felt rooted and strong--like a secret weapon under every footstep, a planting to flourish and release the scent of destiny to life and land. I saw it later like a cord between Heaven and Earth. I had the sense that every step, every word, every heartbeat was stitching past to present (not just mine, but every life--especially those on this trip) as we went ... and as the horizon diminished, an invisible hand pulled the cord, and everything in between was swallowed up in a seam. I sat up straight with a gasp. I felt as if my origins had touched destiny and all else was gone. But the mending also felt much larger than me. The entire universe could have been lovingly sewn up in that great moment! This I do know: It is a call for redemption. It is not only for the grand. It is for the miniscule. We might be surprised to find that the things we thought small (including our lives) significantly matter. May you find your redemption. May your past be sewn up in destiny. May your life and voice rise in your time and place. It does matter. You matter.

I found a viking! Actually, I found @tartanviking (to be specific) and took a short video of him sitting upon the Stone of Destiny at Scone Palace. I'm sure he is an interesting follow! But if you fancy a trip to Scotland and want to go off the beaten path, @tartanviking can bring you there. #travel #tour #guide #Scotland #scotlandtravel #scotlandtravelguide #bespoke #adventure #tartan #viking #tartanviking

The day has been spent in a tangle of to-dos. I am not sure whether the progress is significant enough to warrant the claim, but there has been some success. One proud note is that my boots feel comfortable tonight. I will be able to trek through Scotland in a few days. In less than 48 hours, I will be on an overnight flight traveling from Salt Lake City to Amsterdam. The final destination is Glasgow. My suitcase is not packed. My backpack only has transcription equipment. This feels like chatter compared to the moment that prompted me to stop and write. So I settle myself. I resist the tendency to explain. And I go back to the place my imagination took me moments ago. I imagined arriving at the airport ... unsure if my daughter would be able to bring me or if I needed to ask a friend ... insure if my car would remain in my driveway ... I saw myself clutching my suitcase on my lap and beginning to cry. The tears in my reverie were not from sadness but from significance. Tears came when words could not. There is something about this trip that goes deeper than my understanding. I seem to touch bare honest wonderings that hold tears when my thoughts approach. These are the things I share with no one but God. I think this is good ... maybe. My heart can touch God's, but I cannot imagine the same with another human. So this remains veiled. It even remains veiled within myself because I do not express such depths to human ears or even to black and white words on pages. I do not think I could find words anyway, and I am content. When I get to Scotland, I will stand in ordained places. I feel as if my heart is catching up to ancient blood and breath that still lives in me and awaits a resonant call to awaken it. These words feel holy, and I feel small in the shadow of something large. Maybe that's what destiny feels like? Maybe that's the quiver of coming upon divine intersections? I do not know yet, but my anticipation is poised. ---------- WRITING TIP: Moments of vulnerability do not need to be shared in public, but I do recommend "bare honest" writing in private. Try to silence the editor in your mind. Close the door on what it looks like to others.

Honesty. "How's the water?" It was the only question left to ask. And honestly, it was good. Nothing special, but good. I put as much enthusiasm into my answer as I could. Let me back up. When I was ordering, I wondered about the coffee. I asked if there was any special coffee they used. There wasn't, but the waitress said it was flavorful and brought me a sample. Ritual was the brand. Instead of saying it was weak, I asked for a cup. Oy. I enjoy supporting commerce in small towns. I'm prepared to be supportive. However when the patty melt arrived as a dry, open-faced thing ... well? It wasn't what I expected. Maybe the bread was sourdough, but if it was toasted, I couldn't see any evidence other than it was hard and white. I asked for mayo. It didn't help enough. I googled recipes for sauces and asked if they had Dijon mustard. Nope. Brown mustard? Nope. Any kind of mustard? Nope. Wait--honey mustard dressing on the salad bar. It was my turn for a nope. "I think you'll like how he seasons it." "I just don't do plain and dry burgers well," I explained. The waitress resonated. She also adds mayo ... and grilled mushrooms. I perked up. "Is that a possibility? Mushrooms?" "Sure." She scooted back to the kitchen. In the meantime, I tried adding some ketchup. Nope. Fast forward ... mushrooms, more mayo ... "How is it?" I had to be honest. I peeked at her through my hair and grimaced. "It's not my favorite." It was a generous statement. "I'm so sorry! Would you like more coffee?" "Sure." *sigh* This must be the new restaurant Beef Burger Bob talked about when I came through last time. I won't tell them that I originally came to support Bob. But his flag was not out, so I thought I'd try this place. Nope! It's more expensive and less tasty. BUT--here is what I like: community can gather here. That's HUGE! Big enough to make me think I could meet family halfway here. But I will not be ordering a patty melt! ---------- WRITING TIP: Honest writing is a big deal. A well-known author urged students to keep it pure when writing ... your experience is true, stick to you (without throwing others under the bus by implying their motives). That stinks!

I wrote here. Was it a year ago? More? It was where I was introduced to #vanlife (absolutely with a hashtag). I was not aware of such a thing. I feel the pressure of time and weather, so reminiscing seems too luxurious for today. But I also didn't want this moment to be left unrecognized. As soon as I pulled off for a restroom, my heart leapt! This is where I met the pilot car, which was actually a van ... a nice one, practically a micro tiny home! I met the driver too (LOL). Krystal, I believe. I will be ever thankful for her tour and our conversation. I count it as yet another adventure. ----- WRITER TIP: Follow curiosity! That day I was introduced to #vanlife would not have happened if I did not give curiosity room to bloom. I almost got back into my car after using the facilities. Actually I did, but I really wanted to write ... so I climbed back out of my car and brought a notebook to the picnic table (the same one pictured here). In those moments, I slowed down, I noticed, and I wrote. But I almost didn't have an adventure. When I was done writing, I went back to my car again. But I was curious, and that's when I realized that curiosity was practically jumping up and down for my attention. I got back out of my car again. This time I went across the parking lot to the van and met my new friend. STAY CURIOUS, MY FRIENDS! #writerscommunity #writerswrite #writingtip #followcuriosity

I FORGOT AGAIN! On this very seat, I had a conversation in September. A homeless man on a trek with his bicycle was on his way to see his son. I was on my way to see my son too. I asked if he was hungry. He was. I offered to buy him a meal, and he followed me into the store. He asked with every selection, "Is this okay?" Of course! We sat on this bench, and I heard some of his story. Prison. Drugs. Anger. All played starring roles. Rejection was the end result every time. Even that day, he was not traveling so much from desire to see his son, but he had run out his welcome in South Dakota. I do not remember his destination, but it was a long way! I asked if I could pray for him. So on this little bench, we did. We prayed. I blessed him on his way. And he reached into his backpack and gave me a fishing lure. "Give this to your son," he said. It still sits in my car! That day, I ended up on a detour. I forgot to add it to my son's birthday gifts. My son's Christmas gifts were also missing one important gift! And I just left him with a hug today ... and forgot AGAIN! Maybe this little memory will help me truly remember next time. (Or maybe I will do an old school package and tell the story.) ---------- WRITING TIP: I often start writing sessions with, "I remember ..." but I also encourage writers to keep momentum by alternating it with, "I don't remember ..." #writerscommunity #writerswrite #writingprompt #iremember #idontremember #tinydetours #tinymoments #tinystory

Blue sky White lake Ragged weed Bright chirps The sun warms my face and heats my grey clogs. I wonder if snow and ice reflections of rays will make my face and ankles tan. My left ear says yes. My right ear stings with cold in the shade and says, "That's ridiculous! Let's go inside!" I examine the bare stems that grew between rocks. Some look like grasses. Three types appear to be weeds. But the ones with miniature truffula tufts confirm my guess that mint grows by the water here. Light breeze Heavy memories Dad's lake My respite ---------- WRITER TIP: Sensory elements and patterns can be a place to start when you don't have a specific writing objective in mind. By the way, a moment does not have to be significant to be worthy of recording. I almost left Minnesota today, and I had not had much nature time because of the snow. When one conversation went long, I realized that I could not leave until the morning when the Toyota dealership opens. Everything is packed, and most of it is in my car. But since it reached 50 degrees today, the sidewalk was finally clear and dry ... and sometimes that's what it takes to slow down and find a heart moment. I'm glad I did! #writerscommunity #writerswrite #writingprompts #nature