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

I am always amazed when I read my own notebooks. It both grounds and inspires me. When I find myself drifting, maybe I can train myself to do what I did this morning ... pick a notebook (any handwritten, personal notebook) and start reading. What I saw today made me so thankful that I took time then! I was writing through a day of airports and planes on December 17, 2021. On Page 14, I mentioned my gratitude for Guisela, the woman I stayed with one night in Guatemala City. I said, "She refreshed me. I should try and record what she talked about ... I feel a bit tired for that at the moment--maybe some notes." Those notes went on for nine more pages. As I read my own words, the moments came alive. One particularly strong one was the "Believe God" story. Guisela had been burning the candle at both ends and wanted to quit. The Lord said, "I didn't make you so you could sit still." She reminded herself, "I am strong and athletic. I've got a good heart and good lungs. I can do this!" The next morning, she woke in pain so great that she had to crawl to her bakery to begin the day. It was on the top floor of her home, but not an easy walk up a staircase. She crawled outside through her courtyard to a ladder that she had to climb up into the space. While she baked, she listened to a preacher and realized that she had been trusting in her own strength for some time. She repented and was instantly healed. When she asked God what made the difference, He said these powerful words: "You believe in Me, but you do not believe Me." She committed to Him then and there to believe everything in His Word, even if it was outside her comfort zone. She has become a powerhouse by humbling herself to God's Word. She is now "Spirit inclusive" (which she was not before) and strongly advocates for the power that should be present in Christian churches and lives. Inspiring! ---------- WRITER TIP: Just do it! Write in the moment or at the end of the day, even if it is just a few notes. It will anchor your memory. #writerscommunity #writerswrite #iremember

How many writers adore coffee? Or an ice-cold Coca-Cola? Or some form of caffeine? I just saw this (highlighted portion): "The implication is that the mechanism of caffeine action may be similar to hallucinogenic drugs." What?! [Source: The Journal of Orthomolecular Psychiatry, Third Quarter 1981--Volume 10 Number 3] #thingsIfindatdadshouse #caffeine #hallucinogens #coffee #writerscommunity #writerslife

Yesterday was 80s day. I didn't realize it when I woke, but that's what it became. It all started with this moment. Meet Scout. Everywhere I stay, there is a dog. I am house-sitting, and Scout is my buddy. She doesn't know I am also dog-sitting. Life is her self-sufficient party, and I am her guest. Scout is usually low-key unless a tennis ball is involved. But even then, she is well-mannered and focused on one thing: the ball. Not so on 80s day! It began with tiktok upon waking ... two guys played songs on calculators, appliances, and whatnot. "Guess the song!" I started humming the melody. 80s. Familiar. No words come. Do-do-do-do-do ... *thunder paws* A leap and a flash of fur was all I saw before a canine writhing session took over the bedspread. Rough paws tangled my hair, poked my eyes, covered my mouth. A wet nose pressed my cheek, hands, forehead, lips. Scout panted on her back during momentary, wild-eyed pauses. Do-do-do-do ... *wildness* "Are you an 80s dog?" *paw in hair* "Yeah. I know the hair needs to be a bit wilder." As if to illustrate, more wildness and paw magic burst out of Scout's furry body. She probably would have stayed in bed all day like that. It was not sustainable on my part. After 15 minutes, I got on with my morning and work. Scout never settled down. Nose nudges continued all day at my laptop. Late at night, she incessantly barked in the yard. She has a dog door and goes out as she pleases. I was still working and had to focus on my computer screen, but all I had to do to get Scout back inside was clap and begin the song that started the day. Do-do-do-do-do ... *thunder paws in the yard* *zoom through dog door* *flop* *wild eyes* *rise and paw on arm* *nudge nudge nudge* *flop* *run to the water bowl* *slurp slurp slurp* *zoom through dog door* *bark bark bark* Do-do-do-do-do ... *shenanigans* Do-do-do-do-do ... Do-do-do-do-do ... Do-do-do-do-do ... Oh that I could so freely respond to the joys of life like Scout! #tinystory #80s #dogslife #wild #joy #findjoy

I'm reading an essay this morning because I am a nerd and I desired to soothe my soul (which somehow translated into desiring an essay). I think I am not soothing it so much as stirring the pot. For my fellow creatives--or anyone who many be alarmed at the thought of distorting your soul by not allowing the Will of God to have free play--I share these pieces. The portion below preceeds what is said on the images. I want to post SO MUCH MORE! (And I may find a way to share the entire essay. Let me know if you're interested!) "Modern psychology has been slowly realizing that many human ills are traceable to mental suppression, but our study of fundamental Truth teaches us that all trouble of every kind is really failure on the part of the individual to be a completely free focal point of expression for God. "You say that you are unhappy, dissatisfied, perhaps ill or impoverished, a failure; and this is simply another way of putting the fact that you are now allowing the Will of God to have free play in your life—you are not doing the thing that he meant you to do. You are drifting; or else you are trying to do something that He never intended you to do, and doing it badly, and distorting your soul in the process. " —Emmet Fox, "Your Heart’s Desire" (essay) #quote #emmetfox #creative #outlet #willofGod #godswill #inspiration #artofliving #clearchannel #soul #soulwork

So today "I" hung out in the trees on a hillside, met some thorns, and learned some lessons. Here's the story. ---------- There was no sting. My skin was not pierced, not even scratched. Yet I was stuck. I felt my shirt snag on something and stopped. When I turned to look, I saw nothing but felt more snags. I turned the other way. Again I saw nothing but felt even more snags. I reached behind my back and fingered tiny knots of fabric twisted around many thorns. It took several minutes to do the gentle work of releasing the gauze thorn by thorn ... in reverse order ... by feel. Each prick to my fingertip led me to a target, and I attempted to unloop it. Sometimes it released; sometimes it remained bound underneath another thorn. *prick* *pick-pick-gentle pick* Over and over. When it was all clear, and I could fully turn and see what had held me, I realized why every motion seemed to bind me more. The thorns were on a single vine from branch to ground. It moved with the wind. It moved with me. It struck me how it is not dissimilar to sin. I didn't see the vine as I set up a folding outdoor chair on a large flat stone on a hillside overlooking a railroad track and a river. My intention was to spend some silent time with God in nature. Just one step back, and I was caught. The very tiny thorn behind me didn't care whether I saw it or not. It did its job. Once it caught and stopped my progress, every move I made was met with another thorn. Insidious! LOL But truly, the things that hinder and distract us are like that. That little thorn hanging on a vine blends into the chaotic overgrowth of a neglected environment. Is my life environment neglected? What if my slow and gentle crisis days have only produced chaos? But what if it's time to rise up? What if it's time to run instead of walk? What's in the way? Could I? Can I? Will I? How about you? I believe now is the time. Let's clear the land. Let's cleanse it from thorns. Let's remove the trash and evict unwanted guests. Let's prepare the "land" of our lives. Let's develop ... dream ... build.

I take a tiny detour through a large parking lot to avoid two nefarious speed bumps. Today there were two geese by the entrance. One was pecking through the rubbish gathered by the curb. One was nestled near a "goose-like" metal structure as if it assumed friendship. The metal piece looked like it had a beak and was squawking its half of a conversation. Cute. I laughed at first. Then I wondered how many times I settle in similarly. You see, I have this little rectangle that squawks its half of a conversation. It has many people, many voices, and very few are a true part of my world. How many times do I settle in at night with my phone feeding me one-sided voices? How many mornings do I wake to the same? Don't get me wrong ... I am not against it. Most of what I listen to is extremely beneficial. But have I nestled myself into a non-relational zone? Is my comfort fed by consuming information without actual relation? Does technology pacify my human desire and design for connection with messaging, phone calls, and Zoom? Do I even notice? So today I thank a goose for sparking self-examination. I don’t want to settle into my day staring at an inanimate object as if everything is normal. I want to notice life around me. #tinydetours #bigthoughts #takeamoment #writeitout

I had not noticed the daffodils were in bloom. The keen eye of a friend did, and the simple stem plucked from the yard became a symbol of kindness. There are kind people in the world. They truly care about others--for real. They can't fix everything but wish they could. And sometimes a little burst of yellow is all it takes to remember that kindness has not been forgotten. ---------- TIP: Write about super-tiny moments! #capturememories #capturemoments #writetiny #smallthoughts

I'm weepy! A cowork friend gave me a book. I've been slowly making my way through the front matter (Nope. I can't skip things like the forward, preface, dedications, prologue). Instead of bringing it home where it could get overwhelmed by other piles of books, I kept it at the coworking office ... which makes for slow reading because I'm (duh) working. LOL I turned the page to chapter one and saw a handwritten note. I can't wait until I see him in the space soon so I can thank him again. Personal touches like this are SO WONDERFUL! In the meantime, Fields, thank you! Your note has refreshed me already. #gratitude #kindness #makeadifference ---------- PS. Gifts like this make excellent legacy story moments. After my dad passed on, his library has been a comfort to me. We had conversations about books in the past. He sent me many titles over the years ... little paper-shaped pieces of his heart. I have stories I can tell my kids about my father's books. Priceless. So if you have special books on your shelves, I encourage you to write tiny notes in them. What does this book mean to you? How did you acquire it? #capturememories #tellyourstory #leavealegacy #legacy #memories

Home is not far, just 22 miles, but I feel as if I have traveled long and hard. I slept as soon as I arrived. Colors and patterns adorn my temporary resting place. Peruvian weavings drape the antique furniture much like my Guatemalan weavings at home. Bright wooden birds are suspended near the window, which I have opened to take in the sounds and smells of an Oklahoma Osage night. Familiar and foreign, the mixture of acquisitions has me curious about the stories connected to each. The vintage bee fogger. Oil lamps and dried flowers. Hand-carved animals. I have stepped into another life as I house- and dog-sit. I take note of the comforts. I tell myself I will rest and revive here as my eyes hang heavy again. ---------- PS. Decor holds great writing prompts! I have partially designed a writing program to capture memories, and one of the exercises involves scouring your shelves. (Sorry it's not available yet, but I will probably work on the plans while I am here!)

This Little Man He pauses, Looks sideways, And jumps ... knees to chest ... a laugh when he lands ... adds a twirl ... and a skittly-whittly dance step ... blonde hair flopping over his eyes He peeks, Grins, And beelines ... prancing pajamas disappear ... my bedroom door closes ... happiness returns ... grins and squeals and laughter ... they scale the bed with him He settles in, Looks into my eyes, And squeezes fake laughter into the air ... blue eyes gleam ... my laughter ignites his ... silly faces, silly sounds ... he flops back on the comforter ... tiny fists rub tired eyes It's naptime. ---------- I always encourage people to capture little moments. Why? It's history unrolling in real time. Yes we can always reach back with an "I remember ..." writing exercise, but will I remember details like this down the road? Probably not. One day my grandson will read this and maybe even recall those early days when he lived with me. Even if he doesn't remember, I will. And he will see himself through his grandmother's eyes. #capturethemoment #writeit #pictureit #paintit #sketchit #singit #scrapbookit #bulletit #rememberit #family #history #nuggets #tinymoments

As I leave @tagcoworkingok (a godsend of a place to work), I notice a familiar flicker in my belly ... the old shadow is a flicker of worry, and I notice it. You see, I kind of settled in. In the past, I moved a lot. Once I was on my own, in almost every place I lived, once I settled in, something happened and I moved. It was like the grand signal: photos on the wall? May as well start packing. So recently, when a burst of inspiration from fellow coworkers resulted in me having my desk switched out (because it was heard that I like big desks), I sensed the words inside: SETTLE IN. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT IS? I have been transient and grateful for every space I occupy. I love the freedom to come and go, to work from anywhere--like here. I am so thankful! And yet I live like I am ready to bolt. A coworker asked if I liked my desk "that way." (I am the first person to face a desk on the north wall, evidently.) I didn't know if I did! I never let myself ask what I liked for myself. Consequently, I didn't know. I procrastinated for many days because of my weirdness. I heard, "settle in," so I brought my birthday gift from 2021--a floor lamp from a Scandinavian interior design store, which was still in its box. I was nervous! Finally last night I unboxed it and played around with what I liked. This is the initial result. I was even so bold as to throw the entire box away in the dumpster! These little things might not be a big deal to others. You may even think I'm neurotic! But maybe I've been unusually at home being a UFO that never truly lands, just hovers. At least there are no pictures on the wall. I may be safe for a while. Until tonight, I didn't realize the old pattern brought a fear of settling in. So here I go ... not "go" as in moving, but inwardly shifting toward a new mindset, finding limiting beliefs, and becoming freer than ever. Here I go ... possibly discovering "normal" instead of a hovering, hummingbird life. Here I go ... fighting a newly realized but long-standing fear. Here I go ... letting myself feel at home somewhere. May we all find where we belong and settle in. ♡

Where did "I" write tonight? At a fancy conference table with prompts that involved tin foil balls, dead cats, and musical jellyfish. I didn't break out the confetti, though. (But I do have some planned for the next write-in!) As noted by one of the writers who fancies puns, these are I-balls. LOL Much thanks to @tagcoworkingok for the great space to gather and write! #weirdprompts #writerslife

Where am "I" writing today? Mostly at Toyota. Carszzzuh!!! LOL. But I brought @redinkrevival work with me, which includes a fabulous tool ... the Emotion-Sensation Wheel illustrated by @lindsaybraman. So I am sitting at a cafe table in the midst of strangers trying to hold back tears as I scribble and do "story work" (which is MY story, not a client). I know tears are healing, but I think I'd rather heal in private! I might have to switch to writing my own curriculum for Saturday's meetup! Message me if interested. The first two hours are online and free. #writewhereyouare #storywork #mentalhealth #mentalhealthart #emotions #sensations #misbeliefs #roots #truth #writetoheal #onlinegroup

Adventures in coworking. Brazilian vs. Aussie ... Brazil wins. Rare action shots of computer gurus. *supergrin* #pingpong #coworking #coworkingspace #interiordesign #Tulsa #Bixby #Brazil #Australia #entrepreneurs #remoteworkinglife #coworkinglifestyle #competition #motivation #achieve #together

Do any other writers procrastinate regarding showers? Oh my gosh. I do. If I can work in my PJs, I am thrilled! All that other stuff just seems like it's taking time from my productivity. HOWEVER ... I believe this view will lure me in often! Pic1: view from the shower Pic2: sleep and write Pic3: indoor/outdoor write and muse What is this place? It's my mini miracle. :-) Everything was designed with a writer in mind (me), and when I'm not there, it will be available to other traveling writers and road warriors. I am a bit overwhelmed to see a vision come to life ... literally. A prayer, a vision, some years, and an opportunity. Now it is here! The property was listed yesterday, and the first reservation is already in. Wow! Curious? Airbnb: San Marcos La Laguna, Guatemala, "Writer's Mirrored Glass Penthouse 360 View" #writerscommunity #writerslife #travel #write #work #airbnb

So I "had" to watch a movie (Out of Exile) to get to the Q&A ... and it was impressive! Thanks @kylekauwikaharris @rodeocinema and OF+MO for an informative evening! Special thanks to my new friend @boo_kay (i shall call him Yosef the Unique) for letting me post my FAVE pic of the night. Bless y'all!!! PS. Also fun to see @willbern11 and @larabern10 briefly before the show. Love that I recognize writers at these things. ♡ #oklahomaproud

Find Your Mountain Recently I transcribed a message relayed a snippet of one man's spiritual journey. He often left the comfort of his bed to meet with God on a cold, dark mountain. No one pressured him there, yet he found the Lord and learned His ways. There were no systems to be put into, no program to follow, no ambitions of ministry, no religious machine to churn out an approved disciple ... just the pursuit of God. On that mountain, this man was offered life. He fell in love with the Lord and learned to follow His voice like a sheep follows a shepherd. (See Psalm 23.) I heard within me: "Find your mountain." Ummm. Okay? Sure, it lit up within me. But the practical steps evaded me. I couldn't see a place in my surroundings like that where I could go and be alone with God. When I travel, I think my car is my mountain. Maybe I could go drive circles around the city? I tried it. Nope. I wasn't going anywhere, so the driving felt like burning gas and wasting resources. Maybe a literal mountain? That's where my glass penthouse is built--at the base of a mountain. Should I move to Guatemala? Not sure. This morning as I sat down to the laptop, I put those transcribing headphones on. My task was not to transcribe but to get things in order for taxes. I wanted "brain music" to stay on task. Lush and dreamy textures hit my ears and heart at the same time. Something in me must have been thirsty. Gentle strings over a bed of lingering keystroked pads soaked my soul and woke emotions. I wished my desk faced the back of my office so I could cry unseen. Maybe my mountain is more than a location ... maybe an inward environment. Where is my place that's free from pressure and programs? I don't know yet, but I think it includes music. Where's your place of freedom and development? Where do you thrive? Where do you fall in love with your life and the God who created it? (Seriously--if you made it to the end of this writing, I'd love to know if you have found your mountain. What does it look like? If you haven't, do you have any clues?) #findyourmountain #findyourvoice #findyourself #find your God #findyourfreedom #freein23

Bob wanted to be a writer. Bob died a gruesome death. Bob can no longer write his memoir. Ghost Bob: What about my memorial? Me: Bob? Is that you? Ghost Bob: Who else? Me: Ummmm ... I don't know. Ghost Bob: I see things haven't changed. Me: What is that supposed to mean? Ghost Bob: Your "I don't know" when you really do know? Still there. It's avoidance. Me: Oh come on. I don't do that. Ghost Bob: *silence* Me: You sound like Donovan. Have you been talking to him? Ghost Bob: I don't like Donovan. Me: I know, but I thought maybe in cat heaven you forgave earthlings. Ghost Bob: This is CAT heaven. Note the emphasis. Cats never forgive. Me: That's disappointing! Ghost Bob: That's your perspective. We don't sin. You do. You're the one who has to forgive. Me: Crud. You're starting to make sense. Ghost Bob: Good. Now that you're listening, let's go back to my question. What about my memorial? Me: I thought you meant memoir! Ghost Bob: There's plenty of time for that, but you are long overdue on my memorial. Me: I didn't know cats required memorials. Ghost Bob: You would if you LISTENED! Me: What does a cat memorial look like? Ghost Bob: Humans praising the cat who endured their shenanigans and declaring well-wishes for their life beyond. Me: Seriously? And what good what that do since you are in heaven? Ghost Bob: One last orchestrated petting of the soul. Me: I didn't realize you still had an ego in heaven. Ghost Bob: CAT heaven, remember? Me: *sigh* Alright. I'll turn my writing gathering on Saturday into a memorial party. Ghost Bob: Now you're talking! [Want to join in? Details are in the comments.] #bobthecat #catheaven #catmemorial #writing #writingcommunity #event

Ice days mean work-at-home days (in Oklahoma at least). It's a happy challenge! This is my little buddy (grandson #3). Somehow I have taken to calling him "Doodles," and today he fully embodied the nickname! After I installed my traveling whiteboards in my bedroom entry (which will now be my "vision cove"), we made the front of my small fridge a "dry erase board" option for Sasuke. This is the first time I saw him really get into doodling! At one point, his tiny hands each held a marker in a small flurry of doodling/dance moves while Michael Jackson played in the background. He shook his head and moved both his feet and hands as fast as he could. Inspiring! I think I need a little more gusto in my whiteboard sessions. He eventually took over my workstation (with a little help from grandma). I haven't really used the standing desk contraption to stand, but it sure comes in handy as a sitting desk for him! I just raise it up, and he sits on top of my desk as happy as can be. Once again, Michael Jackson was present--this time with Pastor Paul Brady. We've got quite a thing going over here! I think I will train Sasuke to transcribe. #workathome #snowklahoma #grandson #grandma #whiteboard #dance #michaeljackson #cutenessoverload

Eight years ago today, I evidently ate veggie soup with Bob (according to Google photos). I ate; I think he only stared. Cats. They want something until you give it to them. Eight years ago, I also embarked upon my exit as a leader in the communications world ... unknowingly. Like Bob, I just stared at the weird bowl of circumstances life served up. Eight years ago, that "new start" my daughter and I experienced (her in an alternative school and me recruited into a new job) looked like fresh horizons at first. It crumbled fast. Crises escalated, and I couldn't keep up with the job I was so honored to have. I was gently but swiftly fired. It may have been a blessing in disguise. The road ahead was darker than I could have imagined. If it wasn't for God, family, and "food stamps," I'm not sure how far we could have gone. Later that year, a spiritual nudge inside reminded me of all the writing I had done through the years for others. I realized that I could write anywhere, anytime, and that seemed to be the kind of job I needed. If we ended up in a psych evaluation at 2 a.m., I could always write while waiting on intake processes. It was a thought, but as it turned out, the writing jobs were not around the corner ... not immediately. Halfway through the next year, the first and second opportunities came. By the end of the year, I was a full-time ghostwriter, and my daughter was stable enough to survive the rest of her teenage years without being admitted to a facility again. I thought of Ecclesiastes 11:1 (NIV). "Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it again." And it still evolves. I am no longer full time; I am freelance. For two years since my father's death, I've been zipping back and forth, working as I go. What a lovely, exhausting adventure! Now I am tired! It is possible that, like Bob, I thought I wanted something until it was served! One thing I know I am to do is to write for myself. Toward the end of last year, I finally pursued a few things. Seven years after I refocused my resume on writing, I signed a contract with Guideposts to write devotionals. One step. More to come. #bobthecat #whatlifelookslike

Gentle music floated over scarred concrete floors and infused the prayers of those who gathered. There in the curtained-off upper room, Beth wrestled her heart long after the others left. Sounds of construction resumed somewhere in the church building and pounded her emotions back into place. She opened her eyes and wished for more spaces like this. A place to pray. A place to breathe. A place to hide away and be. Just be. Be with God. Be with His Spirit and hers. Be where she can hear.

Sometimes coming home is hard. Weird things help. I'm not sure HOW they help unless it's just one more example of my "escape theory." Attention versus distraction. Escape or embrace. Watch the energy. With any action, reaction, or lack of either, these are the first things I think about. But it gets dimensional. I could graph these, but it would be too static. Each set affects other sets and even similar sets could be opposite with a different motive or motion behind the scenes--even though it leads to the same combo. What KIND of energy drives these elements to attract, pursue, repel, or rot? And what opens the door in the first place? Where does momentum come from and why does it compound or dissipate? Can this be illustrated? I close my eyes and imagine a three-dimensional graph with a sphere mapped to coordinates in the space as if it were attached to stretchy threads that run the axis points like cubes within cubes. I reach my hand up to the imaginary point and try pulling, then pushing, seeing if I can anticipate what it might do. I am so aware that I need many more dimensions, but I struggle to imagine beyond four. Why do I resist doing laundry when I have time? Why does laundry seem urgent when I have an unrelated deadline? I think it might all be escape. But from what? And why? Can it be flipped on its head or reverse engineered? Is a distraction welcomed because of a desire to escape? Or is the distraction truly authentic? Or is that impossible? When is an attraction actually a escape-based distraction or a true attraction? Why was I attracted to silly cat gum? It wasn't on my radar until I saw it. Maybe because the radar had a jolt of joy in the form of laughter it ignited my desire? It leaves no hole in my life to walk away from it. It adds no perceivable value to bring it with me. Is this something I need to embrace? Escape? The number of questions and nature of possibilities that have gone through my mind is staggering. Feed me melatonin. Please! These strings could probably make a symphony if I could identify, connect, and command them! Good night. I'm home. It's hard. I have cat gum.

Working while traveling + overloaded brain = surprises!!! I think I need a PA.

I am tired. I am thankful. I am in bed but not asleep. I am thinking about working. I am thinking about family. I am thinking about ... -- balance -- peace -- value -- love -- thereness* I want more of these. *My cousin Mari, who teaches and writes and makes up words like Shakespeare, wrote the most beautiful poem about about her father, my uncle Mel. "Thereness" is what came to her. I hope she shares the poem. I want to savor its words again. -------- Today we honored two people, one in Heaven and one here--a memorial service (my uncle) and a birthday (my mom). Actually we honored more than two. We honored one another. Dear family faces that have changed with time smiled through tears. I often found myself watching their expressions. These precious people I call my family--they move me. I am full of love beyond words. And by some miracle I am also funny when I am around them (at least that's how it seems). Once again I am reminded of how fortunate I am to be born into families with these people (and I can say this of both parents' families). We don't come together in strife. I don't recall any (aside from kids in squabbles at times while we learned our values--but even those have faded into oblivion). We come together in love and honor, laughter and adventure, care and prayer. My grandfather was a quiet man, a farmer who ate ice cream daily, read his well-worn Bible out loud before meals, and made sure we grandkids had plenty of adventures on motorcycles and snowmobiles. My grandmother taught Sunday school, taught us, taught English and German, and taught is all to love and trust God. In all my 54 years, I do not remember a family gathering without Scripture. This goodness has been lavished on me all my life! Today I realized I don't have my own practices to continue or preserve these precious ways. But I want to start. I am a future matriarch with a treasure to share. #gratitude #family #patriarch #matriarch #legacy #treasure

A tiny, silver hybrid made a path through the darkened coworking parking lot and stopped in front of the brick wall next to the glass entryway. Any other night, Beth's messy, half-curly bob would have bounced out of the car next. She would have snatched up hours others didn't use and worked into the night (and often into the morning). But this night, Beth didn't even open the car door. A deep resistance pinned her to the driver's seat. What is wrong with me? Beth tried to envision herself working in the clean, modern space. It usually propelled her. Tonight it felt cold and lonely. What is wrong with me? The "race car neighbor" came out to his truck for some kind of tool. Beth wondered if he was checking on her. She avoided eye contact and kept her eyes fixed on the bricks until he was back inside. What is wrong with me? The question lapped her mind a few more times before Beth countered out loud, "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU!" An internal Voice continued, "You are sensing change." The words resonated. Beth's heart agreed. Her stomach flipped. The only place her imagination seemed to lock in was the place where chaos lived, the place that drove her to the coworking space in the first place--her home. Beth saw herself transcribing at the tiny desk by her bed, bouncing on the springy office chair, singing in the Spirit while she worked. She saw herself having Zoom meetings at the big desk in the corner trying not to bounce on the coiled stool so she wouldn't be a distraction. She smiled at the thought of letting go and bouncing wildly, not caring what people saw or thought. "Okay Lord," Beth whispered. "Let's do this thing." She put her car into reverse, turned around, and headed toward home to face the shrinking space. Her daughter's family had moved in with pets and added two babies, but Beth's master bedroom was slated to become her sanctuary long before everything changed. "So be it," she thought. Beth put on "redeemer's shoes" like work boots and started reclaiming her space. By the time she climbed into her tiny bed, Beth felt renewed. #tinystory #writeeveryday #change #quellthechaos #redeem #sanctuary #freein23

Beth held the steering wheel in a relaxed farmer's stance that she learned from her dad: one knee up, the back of her wrist resting on her leg, and her fingers poised on the wheel for a light guide on a long straightaway ... except that her hand was neither light nor relaxed. Her fingertips curled and clamped the back of the wheel like a bird on an iced wire in winter. She didn't realize how frozen she had become until the light turned green at the intersection where she waited to turn left. She peeled her fingers back and stretched her hand before resetting and twirling the wheel. "Help me out a little, Lord!" The force of her breath nearly spit her words through the steering wheel. An inner Voice replied, "I am." The silence was the help. During several days of quiet and isolation, Beth expected to "hear from Heaven" and come away with "Divine direction" that she could execute and neatly tag with, "I heard the Lord say ..." Decisions that crowded her mind when whe went into silence still needed to be made. There was no mandate. All Beth wanted was a clue--a tiny step to take, a hint of a direction, a yes or no--anything clear enough to act on. But what burned in her mind was a question she had asked others before: What if God wants YOU to choose? A recent aha moment tickled her mind. The biblical parable of the talents held an interesting parallel: THE MASTER WAS SILENT! He didn't tell his servants what to do with the talents he gave them. He didn't lay out a plan. The master did not dictate directions. The servants made decisions on their own. Beth acknowledged the silence and centered herself in the lane she turned onto. She reset her hand into the relaxed position and reframed her thoughts. "What do I want to do?" The question was not new. It was old and rarely answered. But this time, Beth recognized God's silence as her opportunity to answer for herself while His gentle hand kept her centered on the straightaway. It wasn't up to the circumstances to dictate her direction; it was up to her. Beth pried her mind off the wish to be micromanaged and thanked the Lord for her freedom. "Free in '23," she whispered. #tinystory #choice #freein23

Happy New Year! It's close to midnight and even though I'm in the middle of a 3-day silent retreat, I didn't want to leave Day One of 2023 unmarked. I am tuning into laughter, love, forgiveness, and honor this year. How about you? This image is from my prayer walk under Christmas lights. I will be using it to reflect on the chaotic, happy "accidents" of 2022 and set my intentions for finding joy in 2023. I auto-posted this photo as a prompt with a music link in my writing group ("Write With Ingrid" on Facebook). If you'd like to use those elements to tune in and write, feel free to look it up and join. You don't have to share, just click the link for some music to help you settle in and write whatever your heart needs ro express. May 2023 bring breakthrous and blessings! #Write #writewithIngrid #reflect #newyear #20222023 #findjoy

This is "me on a tree." I used to have two of these ornaments ... one interior designer and one writer. The writer one hung from my rear view mirror and is "somewhere" now after that car went to my daughter. I just realized my daughter has this on the tree! Coolio! This year I got to do both as @theingridwrites and @greenlakehideaway (and another airbnb in Guatemala that's close to being finished). Merry Christmas to all. May you be all the things God designed you to be. Follow that heart of yours! It has adventures waiting for you. ♡♡♡

I AM SIPPING THE BEST FLAT WHITE EVER! That is all. Try it. :-) #coffeesnob #oklahomacoffee #brokenarrow #Tulsa