The Road Less Traveled

Stranger

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 03:24:00 +0000

Slouched in a rude, black coat, and shuffling the wind swept streets in stained khakis and boots with a story all their own, he nears his destination. He doesn't seem to ordain a certain spot to sit and sip... seems to be a wanderer of the world with no plan of his own. With coffee in hand, rumpled, red suitcase in tow, and sad, black umbrella shielding his beady, forlorn eyes, he comes to rest outside my cafe window beside a sheltered tree in the sidewalk.

In a manner of almost morbid carelessness he plants his feet. Looking about the place, his sad eyes wander o'er the surroundings which flit past him - carelessly... Fiddling with the flapping edges of his umbrella, he situates his things and standing in sudden, listless attention he just watches the world - motionless. It's then, as I'm thus arrested by him from my perch near the cafe window, that I come to call him "Stranger."

Wind begins her wild song as she ushers more rain to the streets below the sky of tumultuous clouds. Dirty blond curls twitter in glee underneath the rugged ball cap he wears so dejectedly. Sending a free hand into one of his pockets a cigarette is brought to a set of thin, colorless lips... slowly and habitually. Lighting it, he blows the smoke in silent, rebellious puffs into the face of the wind; he doesn't even cough when she sends it all flying aback to him.

So he stands - umbrella twirling in his palms, like an innocent, curious child with a fantastic balloon.

The cigarette rests between his lips. The rain comes. Stranger's eyes look upwards in a catching manner - head doesn't lift for a moment. The beady, little eyes just stare ominously towards the water plashing about.

A gentlemen clad in a neatly pressed suit rushes pas him accompanied by a grand, black umbrella. The cigarette begins to loose it's footing as his eyes drift enviously after the gentlemen and his umbrella. Stranger clutches his own, tightly; then, in a sudden moment, he trudges off. No where to go and all day to get there. He looks like a child yet walks like a man. All the while he cleverly holds the little black umbrella, which obediently pirouettes after him... sorrowfully.

(Now you've met the first of my many acquaintances...)

When The Summer Day Is Done

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 03:59:00 +0000

Dearest readers...
We can finally pick up where we last were... sitting 'neath the shade of Summer's trees I believe... during such a day I packed my things and stole away. With 'naught but poetry and prose to accompany me, I wove about the earth and was befriended by strangers young and old. Within the pleats of city streets, arbored walks and coffee shops, millions of "stray souls" happened upon me and my "friends"... paper and pen don't easily forget a face. And like a pup lapping up cool water from a stream, so have I the people, the stories, the life, I've savored in three months time. Allow me, over the course of days, these faces your acquaintance make. Their eccentricities, their conversations, bizarre habits and trepid glances are spilling out of my jars and cupboards here at home... they need places to go, people to meet.... will you allow me?

Tomorrow then, we'll borrow some moments...

Fondly,
Jo

A Quiet Concert

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 01:01:00 +0000

Last night, I came upon myself in a dark wood.

My walk had led to wandering aimlessly through the forest's depths and just as I began eluding it's fascinating grasp, the vision of myself in the rush of Childhood, overtook me. She reached forward, smiling mystically, and eventually coming to hold my hand in her own, led me out of the wood and into a field whereupon we stopped and gazed upward as we'd been arrested by Beauty - the sort which parades in the sky.

In contemplation, a quiet concert is given to the mind. All else fades into a blue haze while the object which you contemplate rests itself before your mind's eye, speaking, singing, whispering at times... you are unaware of Time and Space, but are totally enraptured by something only you can see - something which cannot be taken away from you. Such a concert was to be given me that night, but at that stargazing moment I was only indulging the prelude, it seems.

After a time, the vision shrouded in pearly white and wreathed in long, dark hair, led me through the grassy blades which festooned a field - each individual blade owned it's own drop of dew which had just settled upon the place, and made me feel I was drifting through a cloud.

A yellow light shone forth in the distance, reminding of me of a raging fire...

She must have noticed my beguiled expression as I gazed after the light, for the vision knowingly led me onward towards a lone oak tree housed upon a rude hill just a little ways yonder. Finding ourselves suddenly entangled in it's loving branches, we climbed and climbed until finding a sure resting place in the nape of the trees neck, we came to see it. There in bold and glorious array of unearthly light and mystery, the moon rested. She'd donned a magnificent glow and well nigh took my breath away - and oh the way she looked at me... I'll never forget. Never before had I found the moon so beautiful.

Suddenly, I felt my little companion's arm stealing about my waist. And then, sitting there, with the world below and moon at arms reach, with Childhood beside me, reminding me of my beautiful past, I wept.

Hot tears scalded my cheeks as Life long past played mercilessly before my eyes to the quiet concert my contemplation incurred. I was reminded of great beauty, and terrible loss, of dreams and reality, of Love and passing fancies, then, of Time and Future. It was that night, in the arms of the oak and my Past that I came to a certain understanding; the future is breathtaking and unexplored... magical. The Past is just that - the Past; necessary for reflection to glean memories and Life lessons from, but not intended for incessant mourning and depression like the sort which has stolen me away of late, and drained me of inspiration, purpose and passion.

Before I descended the tree and bid my Childhood self goodbye, she told me she'd be forever lurking about the place to inspire me when my pen is hoisted motionless above paper, or when my eyes are blinded by tears; that she'll forever persist in my memory and spur me on towards greater things. But that I shouldn't mourn that fact that I now exist. That I the woman am no longer a child, for it is indeed a beautiful thing... a beautiful chapter, a beautiful world.

And so as I walked back through the field and forest and bade the moon goodnight, I found a renewed joy springing up in my heart and mind; a renewed passion and sense of purpose... oh if only I was a poet... I'd pen an ode to the moon and Childhood, for they're never fully absent... only at times, difficult to see.

Summer Episodes

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 03:36:00 +0000

Like a fairy, Summer took me by the hand today. Pushing me along flower strewn paths, into arbored dens and through sacred fields she bid me dwell in her richness. I smelt the delicious scent of grass mingling with rivers stray drops of water upon the dappled land; I marveled at the spectacle of a wuthering storm, and I stroked the gentle blades of grass which danced 'round my legs and arms whilst I stole through a thriving field.

Autumn winds not far away crept cautiously into my mouth and reminded me of the fire side nights, colored leaves and crisp, clean winds yet to come. I walked about the earth wide-eyed and awe-struck, mingling with Nature as freely as possible and dwelling in the comfort of Summer's arms.

Tonight, I've come to rest in the attic of an old, abandoned home. The mystery of this ancient dwelling beckoned me to journey up into its eaves and sit awhile, pondering and writing... the door was unlocked, the sun still visible, and with paper and pen in hand, I stole up the creaking stairs till the attic was found. And now I've found a resting place.

The merry creatures right out doors sing in perfect harmony with each other, sending up their song to my clever perch. They enchant me; hearing their voices I call back to mind many a summer's eve in childhood. Clothes clinging to sweating backs, arms and legs, hair tousled and clad in leaves... a moonless night revealing a star encrusted sky, and the shrieks of little neighbor friends dashing through the forest to meet me for our summer games. Oh such days are beautiful to recall...

Moths stare at me from the attic's one window, beating their wings upon the glass as they hopelessly stare after my faint, glowing light. They remind me of myself; struggling at Life's dim lit window, crying for answers and admittance to the future even though Today's chapter has yet to be closed. They flutter about in turmoil, bleeding angst and weeping earnest tears of sorrow... I know I've been gone longer than usual dear reader, but much has happened in no time at all. Forgive me now - I hear footsteps...

Fondly,
Jo

A lovely gift

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 00:20:00 +0000

If none of you wonderful readers and writers have ever visited Blair at The Creative Writing Corner, then off you go... now! For quite some time her thoughtful and regular posts have sparked a great deal of inspiration inside of me, as well as answered many practical questions I've entertained.

Several days ago she kindly gave me the "Arte y Pico" award which I'm excessively happy to send off to five others. (Though I'd gladly bestow it upon any writer friend of mine for all posses talent, creativity and beautiful muses.)

This award was created for bloggers who inspire others with their creativity and their talents, also for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium.

When you receive this award it is considered a "special honor". Once you have received this award, you are to pass it on to 5 others.

This time it seems there are rules on how to pass it along:
1. Pick 5 blogs that you would like to award this honor to.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and a blog link to be visited by everyone.
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that gave them the award.
4. Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of "Arte y Pico" blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

I send this award on to:

Cheers to all!
Jo

One evening...

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 20:03:00 +0000

The air was a sultry sin - even the trees lamented the shrewd mist settling upon their leaves - sipping them dry. Sweat crept down my cheeks and the wind appeared to avoid me this once. Abandoned to the the forest however, I kept on my way; marveling at the pearly moonlight and the night owls calls.

Entering a clearing the wind found me; tearing at my loose button down, playing with my hair and spurring me towards the street, I entered into one of my favorite respites: a lamp lit street to skirt about.

Evening was fresh and the massive houses from ages past smiled upon me from their perches on ivy covered hills. The friendly glow of lamps from within had illuminated each homes visage and this was where my fun began. In times like that I can have a magical glance at the lives of strangers - people I may never know or see again in my life. It's one of those moments where I become a ghost-like creature, capable of seeing what those immersed in their personal lives cannot see. I'm on the outside looking in... removed from the situations and lifestyles of those inside; I have no emotional connection to these strangers but can create unbiased opinions based upon what I see.

One particular house that evening completely stole my gaze; a massive, grand old thing, with ornamented pillars, grand eaves, loose shutters and an upstairs garret with a bewitching story all its own in my wandering mind.

'Twas a brick house, slightly shrouded by one stately oak tree whose arms gracefully swept the garret portion into its arms, caressing it, shielding it from the harsh sun light of Day and monstrous rain of April storms. Unlike the other houses nestled in the hills of this street, I found but one light blazing. No families bustled back and forth over the creaking floors, no dogs fled up and down the stairs, and no children cried from the living rooms, or played pianos or violins in harmony with Night's creatures. The only figure I could ascertain belonged to an older woman - bent over in age, cradling a book in her hands in the glow of that one lamp. She must have lived in that house her whole life.

Seating myself upon the ragged brick sidewalk, I watched her and imagined.

With fingers skirting a curtain's edges, the old woman was suddenly a young girl with wistful eyes which peered at the world. She stood in the garret by an opened window; muslin curtains flowed out of it and breathed upon the leaves of the oak tree which hadn't yet grown taller than the house. The latter was spectacular. No shutters lay unhinged, no paint crept away from the wood, and many lights blazed inside. 'Twas a night many years ago, I imagined.

She watched the comings and goings of a peopled street three stories below. Even in the dark of night, Summer's spell had coaxed all the children out of their school rooms and into the arms of nature. I wondered why she didn't join the throng below - why she remained in the garret and why she sighed so.

A sudden flash of lightening and clap of thunder interrupted my imagination, bringing torrents of rain with them. I heard windows closing and dogs ushered inside by their masters, yet there I sat - surrendered to the storm. Oh it was magical. Forgetting myself and my peopled surroundings, I stood up and walked down the middle of the street. Casting one final glance towards the old house which had first sparked some thought, I found that in an instant, the lone lamp burned no more. I couldn't perceive the lady - in fact, I could barley make out the house itself, thanks to the brooding darkness only momentarily forsaken for lightening. Everything looked dead.

Walking down the middle of the rain-swept street, I made my way home, marveling at the feeling of rain falling upon my eyelids, the rush of water filling my shoes, and the way the moon had so utterly disappeared. When I returned home, soaked with rain and joy, I stole a candle and some tea, dashed to my garret, and sat to drink in the glory of such an evening. There I called back the image of the young girl at her garret window, and I wondered... oh how I wondered.

I am, I think, I have, I know

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 01:33:00 +0000

My new-found friend Preetilata, recently tagged me with this intriguing meme; I'm always charmed by something like this, for it bids me stop and ponder awhile as I ask questions of the woman inside of me and sit in reticence... wondering. I tag Sharon, Victoria, Spirit, Debbie, and Raewyn - surely they'll have lovely things to write about.
Fondly, Jo

I am: A romantic idealist

I think: of matters past and beautiful

I know: my purpose on earth

I have: many passions and ideals

I wish: upon a star

I hate: injustice

I miss: my childhood and its haunts

I fear: change, yet crave it at the same time

I feel: lonely tonight

I hear: the thrum of rain upon my windows

I smell: the roses of life

I crave: moon lit walks

I search: for answers, beauty and inspiration

I wonder: after nature and its ways

I regret: that I haven't read all the books I could have

I love: being "out of the box"- appreciating small things that pass most, by

I ache: for those imprisoned by one man

I am not: without a book tonight

I believe: when doubt closes in

I dance: when in the forest

I sing: when drifting in thought

I cry: when goodbyes are said

I don't always: sleep at night

I fight: with my characters

I write: for escape, existence, peace

I win: a smile from a child

I lose: my patience with my pen - 'tis never fast enough

I never: say "never!"

I always: look to the sky

I confuse: my family with my bizarre idiosyncrasies

I listen: to be heard

I can usually be found: in a tree or on a swing

I am scared: of inspiration fleeing

I need: paper and ink

I am happy about: my future - I look forward in eager expectancy

I imagine: therefore I am free

Surprised by Memory

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 02:34:00 +0000

Meandering down the crowded aisles I saw her; dressed in a pink dress with rounded collar in the shape of a water melon slice. She clasped the hand of her mama and toddled along with mouth stained in lollipop red.

It was the watermelon dress which first sparked my unexpected jaunt to Memory lane. Suddenly, a forgotten world of days gone by suffused the market I stood in and my child hood backyard appeared. Flowers preened from their window boxes in our white-washed house, weeping willows swept the fresh spring grass which was eventually trampled by little feet chasing butterflies, and the air smelt magical - 'twas a spring day, you see.

I watched myself in a watermelon dress; dashing here and there in search of little sister. She was liken to a favorite doll of mine in her billowing gown of pink and white stripes - the watermelon collar, with black seeds sewn tastefully here and there, and Popsicle juice dripping down her chin, reminded me from my perch in Memory lane, of a Norman Rockwell painting and the little girl from the market.

Mama placed us upon a bench 'neath an oak tree and smoothing our dresses and folding our hands, she bade us be still for the camera. Oh how we loathed such days. With the tree house eying us from our right we sat like caged animals, twitching and fidgeting. Our long hair was pulled so tightly in ribbons that our heads throbbed and our starched watermelon collars seemed to prod us off the bench and into the grass. How dare she say "sit still" we thought.

Flashes of light distracted us and looking rather menacingly at the camera, we prayed Mama would be pleased enough with her creations that she'd release us to our play in moments. She knew us too well and never suffered us to sit as long as she could have, so after a gentle nod from her, we dashed off the bench and into the forest, stopping for a moment to unbutton the other's collar and set it upon a tree limb to be collected later.

Mama did fume so when she found, weeks later, the lovely watermelon collars destroyed by rain and dirt, nesting in the heart of the forest. We rejoiced at our luck as most children would, but in the market remembering and watching the little girl and her mother that afternoon, I wanted dearly to steal back in Time and dress gladly in the same outfit, sit on the bench and enjoy the moment.

In just as quick an instance as it had appeared, the image of little sister and me vanished and there I stood - amid the throng of passersby. It was a delightful surprise to remember such a simple thing. Perhaps one day soon I'll sit me down with photographs of long ago and enjoy some unspoilt memories... and then who knows - perhaps a story will come of them.

Goodnight dear reader... 'twas a beautiful day today.

The Heavens

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 16:04:00 +0000

Turn your eyes to the sky and everything is clearer. Life less confusing, trials less smothering, and heart more hopeful. I have a strange fascination with the sky which has matured over time, growing deeper and deeper. In years past, and during tumultuous times, I've always been overwhelmed by the peace which invades my soul in turning my head to gaze "up there" and ponder awhile.

Perhaps you feel you're drifting aimlessly through the world, or you're struggling to breath - to make sense of life. Look up for a moment, will you? Speak your hearts thoughts aloud and ponder the majesty of something we didn't create. There's One who listens and knows all things... He waits for us to turn over our hearts and tell Him everything.

Oh fix your eyes to heaven's gaze,
The moon is bright tonight;
And dappled sky of thousand stars
Bears worlds to say to you.

There's One who holds a pressing urge,
your soul to thus romance;
Do answer whispered heaven's call
And be renewed, O man!

Slip of Sky

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 20:42:00 +0000

One evening, whilst drowning in the melody of a symphony, I dreamed. With closed eyes I surrendered to the haunting tones of violins, pianos and oboes; I allowed the flutes and piccolos to have their own witchery seduce my mind - to transport me far off. Of what I dreamed, well that�??s unimportant; the remarkable thing is that I could be carried off by something other than physical force; music accomplished the task instead. The instruments of the orchestra sobbed at the far corners of the auditorium and played games with me. The music suited the visions which were running about in my dream and in one instant I wanted to sob with the violins, the next I wished to sing as the flutes. It was magnificent.

Eventually roused from the dream, I opened my eyes and beheld a sheet of brave, bold orange let down from the rafters of the orchestra's stage, creating a beautiful contrast twixt the black suited musicians and its own bold colors; I marveled at the spectacle. The colors were so appropriate. Instantly a vision of fire and blood sprang to my mind and this evening, when beholding the finery of God�??s horizon, that same image was called to mind; suddenly, a thousand symphonies seemed to resound from all the corners of the earth, and applaud my noticing such a divine spectacle of extravagant beauty.

I�??ve been seduced tonight by Nature�??s hand; romanced, if you will, by Nature�??s God.

Perched in the sky tonight I'm surrounded by glory. A tinted horizon smiles ahead, with the sky�??s slip of moon a pleasure to behold. Undulated shades of intricate, unearthly colors cause to marvel the eyes staring after them. It is from here, the window sweat of a moving plane, that I watch the world go round. Reticent thoughts dapple my brain which marvels at the perfect spectacle outside my window. The horizon�??s orange and yellow hues catch the blue black of night by surprise as dusk bids her final goodbye to the world. It reminds me of that evening in the symphony... the sky's colors are liken to the backdrop of that enchanting eve. Night settles. Stars smile. Night owls call and street lamps glow. The world is at my feet and bejeweled as a majestic crown.

I�??ve always wanted a time such as this; sitting by the window of a fleeting plane carrying me off and into the blue. With pen, paper, music, and books, skyline and stars amuse and beguile me, each with their own individual eccentricities. I�??m surrounded by works of art, the likes of which humankind is utterly incapable of achieving. The massive buildings etched in stone figures which dapple Europe hold no ideal comparison to the way I behold the horizon of the earth tonight.

The moon �?? she caught me by surprise. I�??d expected the heavens to shine forth void of ivory white, but I�??m happy to be proven wrong. She tells her tale well, shining forth in this region of the sky. The sun has had his turn and the moon is eager to mystify the earth tonight.

In such a state I�??m made to wonder after Beauty. My blue eyes are made bluer by beauty. They sparkle as they watch the extravagance of Nature playing about the earth in twilight; and our Lord above knows it. Catch a spectacle of beauty this night, dear readers. Allow yourself to be transported. And please, tell me what you see.

Fondly,Jo

Returned

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 04:15:00 +0000

Broken

The barrier tis broken;
Shattered as glass
Pelted by frozen tears.

Mind, heart, soul awakened;
Roused from their winter dens of Sleep,
Sprung from their nests,
Released from their cells.

Now, words, thoughts, wonders,
Steal over paper and pages
With long, tenacious fingers,
Swallowing them,
Breathing life, restored.

The spell has been broken.
She writes again.

Well there you have it! Suffused of Life's extravagant rush and flying from one place to the next has been my unruly "schedule" of the past month. I've written long, I've read long reads, I've scoured the countryside in search of inspiration, and explored the depths of deep, dark places. I've done all these things and laid my head to rest in the early morn with words spinning webs of thought in my head, then before I've known it, the sun has stolen into my room, washed the bed and smacked me across the face, ordering me "awake before another day is gone!"

I've abandoned you all, but am come home, in every sense of the word. I've just turned the pages in my Life's story and have come to a chapter I'm terribly eager to read the end of. But we must always begin at the beginning. I'm savoring Life's glories as they arrive one moment and flee the next, and am enjoying those moments of solitude in the arms of the forest with a tear-stained face or a book in my embrace. You'll find me writing you often, asking questions and wondering all the while after many things unexplained yet beautiful in their mystery. I'll be making my rounds to all of your "homes" more regular, and dropping you a frequent line; meanwhile, we'll sing Life's song together as we walk the road less traveled.

Oh, it's wonderful to be home!

Fondly,
Jo

To Steal Away

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Mon, 05 May 2008 17:42:00 +0000

I want to steal away. There's been a pressing urge of late, making me want to hop a bus and invade some quiet, untouched town. On Saturday, after a particularly busy day, I meandered to an empty chair on the porch, swung my legs over the rail, held a pillow close to me, and watched dusk play her song before surrendering to the night.

As I sat there, watching the birds become black silhouettes, and the horizon change colors before my eyes, I was transported into one of those rare, spectacular"visions." You know the kind... when you are literally watching yourself, like a dream.

In this vision I saw myself sitting at a bus stop with a quaint suitcase at my feet; canvass bag swung over a shoulder with a typewriter in my lap. A bus approached, and boarding it, I nestled beside a window and watched the country turn to city, then city to country. The world flew by and I marveled at the spectacle. I was alone with my thoughts and relishing in a little unbridled freedom.

After several hours, a town came into view. The eve was fresh and the sky had yet to be dappled in stars. Making my way across the streets and around corners, I came upon a quaint "resting place" where I rented a room. It was the epitome of a writers nook, and having left my laptop at home I was without the distraction of the internet. As night fell and candles were lit, I prepared some tea, then sat in a corner drowning in pillows and quilt, while drifting into that place of uninterrupted thought as the typewriter bore my overflow of thoughts. I was devoting an entire week to this small town where I would write and finish a first draft of my novel. I was alone.

The vision eventually faded away and I was brought back to reality; sitting on the brink of change while nature had had her say in the reticence of my "withdrawal" from time and space. The vision still haunts me, but in the most delightful sense. I can be walking the city streets, scouring shelves at the super market or watching children on a playground when suddenly I'll think to myself, "Now just where would I go if I could steal away anywhere?" Or, "Would I write in the evening or the morning?" This gnawing desire is good for me. It's giving me the urge to take action and soon I will. I'll board a bus or train and immerse myself in the glories of an unexplored little village somewhere... until then, my novel will grow in my head, sprawl upon a chance scrap of paper, and most importantly it will fester. Then, when that divine moment shall come, I'll feed my brain with paper and pen and then we'll just see what comes of it! I know I'll be suffused with joy one moment then rambling incoherent the next, but such is the joy of a writer's life. We all have our own unique idiosyncrasies and often times prove ourselves to be such intriguing paradoxes. Our thoughts and wonders constantly contradict the other while we seek to derive some meaning out of the corners of our minds. I find it fascinating really; to be lost in thought, overwhelmed by so many things swirling round inside my head. It is in those muddled moments that I achieve the most writing, and my eyes are turned towards the Higher Power. I always need to be in need. (If that makes any sense.) If I was totally self-sufficient, I'd be in no need of a Savior and would be wandering the face of the earth without a purpose. Oh how I'd loath being utterly dependent upon myself. I'm such a disappointment, but He is not.

Well, I've taken up writing "prompts" with a band of fellow writers and tonight, I'm to devote a moment to exploring "opposites." Now, forgive the "blunt force trauma"... I'm merely writing and hitting publish and have taken a poem which came out of me one recent evening as the barrier of writers block was finally broken.

Goodnight to all!
Jo

Symptoms
~~~

Head throbbing,
Pen dancing.

Eyes burning,
Words singing.

Lips parched,
Soul flying.

Hair tangled,
Story leaping.

Heart sobbing,
Paper lavished.

Candles dying,
Story growing.

Brain throbbing,
Hero born.

Eyes brimming,
Villain slain.

Ears ringing,
Peace restored.

Muddled Being,
Finished piece.

Another Meme!

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 13:08:00 +0000

Six Random Things from Michelle:

1. I have to walk up an escalator. I can never just stand still on those things. I don't know why!

2. I can't fall asleep before eleven PM. Its absolutely impossible!

3. My favorite cup of tea is English Breakfast with a spoonful of sugar and fresh lime squeezed into it, with a corner of the lime floating in my tea. There's a heavenly, citrus flavor because of it! I drink this almost every single morning and all throughout the day. Tea over coffee any day.

4. The most inspiring place I've ever been was my childhood backyard; it backed into a forest and swamp. For fifteen years I lived in the same, beautiful, old house, and it has inspired almost any story I've ever written.

5. When I need to think uninterrupted or understand a character in one of my stories better, I take a fishing pole, sit on a river bank or an out-of-the-way dock, and "pretend" to fish. No one would ever interrupt a fisherman (or woman!) so in this state, I can think over a story etc. without any interruption. (I do love to fish for real, though!)

6. I love to swing. Its therapeutic for me and keeps me a child at heart.

And now I pass this along to these six writer friends of mine, along with the rules:

Sharon
Spirit
Mel
Kimberly
Quill
Adaora

Tagging Rules:
a. Link to the person who tagged you.
b. Post the rules on your blog.
c. Write six random things about yourself.
d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog.
f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

Recalling the Past

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 00:36:00 +0000

"The past is such a curious creature, To look her in the face A transport may reward us, Or a disgrace. Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly! Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!" (Emily Dickinson)

Oh, the past. If only it could be re-lived, just for a moment. I've found myself longing to retreat to the past in the days and weeks of late. I long to step into that girlish skin once more, walk the old streets, haunt the same forest, play with the same children, stalk the old hideaways where we lived in our own make-believe world, believing in quiet that adulthood wouldn't steal us away for years and years! In fact, believing, deep down that it would never find us; that we could safely elude its grasp. Oh how I yearn for those childhood days to be returned to me and never, ever be revoked! But then I marvel, "What if we hadn't memories? Where would be our books, poignant essays, moving poems and glistening eyes of those recounting the past? Memories are those sparkling gems of life which greet us at the remotest corner and highest mountain top and elicit flames which refine us, produce divine creations, charm our souls and cause our eyes to tear. They transport us to the Window of Life and there we can relive joy, pain, love, sorrow, tears and beauty. Memories coax our emotions to re-play, re-live and re-capture the Past in all forms. I've had to go "there"in the past week. Delving deep into the corners of Memory and re-live the past (and not the loveliest parts of it) for a vast deal of writing I've decided I must commit to. Some of these areas of the Past I'd have liked to keep buried away forever, but the time has come to unveil the ruins and remember... recall the past. Sometimes I feel I'm drowning in the pain these memories are bringing back, but there's always the blessed retreat to happier times when I was but a little girl, and Life had yet to take me by the hand and whisk me away! Dear readers, retreat for a little while. Take yourself to the window, look outside and remember. Cry, laugh, and rejoice, dear readers! And write, paint, sing a little something while you're at it.

"Look back on time with kindly eyes,

He doubtless did his best;

How softly sinks his trembling sun

In human nature's west!" (Emily Dickinson)

Springtide

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 00:53:00 +0000

"One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow." (E.M. Forster's "Howards End")

An ode to Spring seems an order this evening as I relish my opened windows, inviting the crisp night air which has brought the whole world to life once more, to rejuvenate and redeem me tonight. Don't you find something so jubilant and bracing about Spring and all it represents? It is the time of "rebirth" they say... and so it is. Our souls are replenished with what winter drained us of; the trees, fields and streams come to life with greenery, songs and life, and the birds nest, feed and sing - they sing what we are incapable of. When Spring evades the winter trees and sky, I feel a sudden spark inside of me. Usually, that is; but this year it's different. I can't explain this sudden loss I feel. For a time I thought I'd drawn out all possible words or thought from me, and so I rested for a while. I'd expected to be replenished in a days time. But now, weeks after my "surrender", when I sit down to write in a coffee shop nook or at my desk, I feel void of anything worthwhile. Surely this bout of "nothing" shall pass but for now, could I covet your thought and prayers? There's so much inside of me and I have an outlet, but can't express these things to my liking. I don't just desire to write... I have to write, but that elusive demon of "nothing" is stealing rather responsibly about my head right now. Oh if he'd just leave! But why should I share morbid thoughts when I've really so much to praise? Forgive me... on to brighter, springlike things! Well, earlier this April, I had tea with a fellow writer.

I've divulged every ounce of the inspiration this lovely women offers at her heart-warming blog, Ramblings Of Lovingcjm, so meeting her for tea was an such an honor! It was a sun stroked morn of golden glory when we met. We talked of books, writing, poetry, the joy of children, the thrill of falling in love, and I have so much respect for this woman who, like so many of you dear writers who correspond with me and visit here, has invested in my life and spurred me on. I think it a perfect way to christen Spring... having tea with a fellow writer!

We writers are a unique kind, aren't we? Plunged into the depths of despair one moment, and floating on a cloud the next. Another one of my dear writer friends reminds me when I'm in such a state of complaint, that if we had all the pleasures of life and writing combined, minus the pain and difficulty, we really wouldn't have anything worthwhile or compelling to write about! The dark, foreboding depths actually play us into the hands of inspiration, so forgive me. I shouldn't mourn my "loss" of words and thought, or even the malicious bout of "nothing", but should rejoice in knowing that this is a season which shall grow me and refine me.

I must abandon you readers now for a jaunt to the forest to indulge in a little moon beam delight, but rest assured, I'll be thinking of all of you and how the same ivory face "up there" may be inspiring some of you, at that very same instant, to create something marvelous.
Yours,
Jo

Bookshop Whispers

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 23:44:00 +0000

A wuthering storm encroaches upon me; housed in a book shop alive with whispers from time worn books and the smell of coffee beans wrapping their scent in the old book's pages, browned with time and use. I adore an evening such as this; escaping into a quiet, withdrawn nook of the world and immersing myself neath eaves of ancient wood and listening to the tales poured forth from great minds which created some of my favorite companions: Anna and Vronsky and Katherine and Heathcliffe, to name a few. (Perhaps you've heard of them...)

I've cleverly seated myself in a rather neglected aisle of this bookshop, and for the past two hours (if I can honestly tell time in such a delightful state!) have been drowning myself in a sea of pages as I've tried to reconstruct several short stories which are in dire need of a home. If not by the end of March, April shall certainly see me sending several of them off to publishers hands; then we'll just see where that takes us! I've greatly needed this respite with my thoughts, and what better place to write than in a bookshop I say! You can write with absolutely no restraint for you've the blessing of great minds looking down upon you from their perches above. From their nook upon shelves they applaud your voice and urge you on, reminding you that they too have encountered those moments of doubt and fear when muddling through disheveled but oh such glorious thoughts! "Just write them all down; polish and refine later" they whisper. "No need to rush and thus deprive your readers from the stories they desire, or your characters the voices they must exercise. Just write!" And so we should.

A chance glance out a rain-strewn window has yielded the bewitching site of dark, almost black clouds descending into the blue of the horizon which is nestled amongst the silhouetted frames of trees. The moon will not shine bright tonight. Lightening will perchance grace our skies and illuminate our bedrooms. Its the beginning of those enchanting spring showers, dear readers! The time of nature's rebirth and the renewal of the forests, fields and streams song. I know that Spring will watch in ecstasy as our artists minds are further cultivated, our voices made stronger, and our canvasses enriched. Its such a beautiful time of year...

I'm not yet willing to abandon my nook in the aisle - to forsake the ardent gaze of Tolstoy, Miller or Twain - nor the camaraderie of those beloved books which spur me on. But the bewitching outdoors demands a walk in the rain, so for just a moment longer, I write!

Fondly,
Jo

Have You A Canvass?

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 10:53:00 +0000

I've found in the glowing light of candles, the dark of early morn, the silence of my soul, and the rest which houses my surroundings, a joy - a peace which passes all comprehension. I'm alive with a renewed sense of worth and purpose. Every inch of me is brimming over with praise to the Higher Power who makes all things new and who gives my life meaning. Through this prolonged absence from you dear readers, I've been swept into a glorious river which is carrying me to places unexplored and mysterious in their realm of unknowing; yet the undulated waters of this river bear a sort of peace which tells me not to fear and that this is one of the most exciting moments of my life. The writer in me has been awakened from her sleep, and I'm somewhat overwhelmed (in the most glorious sense though) with the leap my life has taken! Yet before I forget myself, I must extend my deepest thanks for the prayers and good wishes sent me by your wonderful selves regarding my search for publication. The Pedestal Magazine did reject my story, but I've kept in touch with the chief editor and he has told me to submit another story so I don't worry. I'm thrilled to have had my story read, and now my "child" and I will work our way through another series of editors until we find a home. The joy is in the journey and rest will come in time. But again, thank you a thousand times for sharing in this excitement with me.

Writing has been my joy from my first step it seems. As a little girl thousands of stories crept upon many a stray piece of paper, and my little pen created them gladly. The stories delighted me, and I would often stray to my little nook in the attic and would sit for ages and enjoy my little girl fantasies. For many years did I carry on this way, and when I was twelve, my journal was born and now, many years later, we're closer than ever and have walked an eventful path together. There was a span of four years however which saw me almost completely void of paper and pen (save for journaling which ultimately saved me) as I listened to the voices around me which said I could and would never be a writer... that it was not "in the stars" - it was not my "calling." I listened (to my detriment) but just in the past year the "spell" which had barred me from paper and pen was broken, and I began to discover myself, if that makes sense. I drew closer to my Lord and He in turn drew nearer me, and in the depth of self discovery, I was reunited with writing, and a small yet sufficient amount of the future was revealed to me, so as to render my soul incapable of hiding from writing any longer. I shall write. It is my only voice at times.

Almost half a year after my "revelation" or "redemption" (whichever you prefer) this blog was born and I'll tell you in all honesty, it has proven to be one of the best moments of my life. Every time I click "publish" I feel a greater part of me comes alive. I've made such dear friends in so many of you, and I am inspired by the emails we exchange and the comments which spur me on, and the delightful blogs I'm treated to because of your own individual creativity, oh! its just wonderful. Most of you are so much farther along this writer's path than I, and it is because of you all sharing your beautiful voices, that I believe there is hope for me: an unpublished writer.

Just in the past two weeks, steps have been taken which I'd never believed were possible for me at this time of my life, and I'm overwhelmed with a divine sense of purpose. I know we are all created with a voice unique to ourselves - we are given our own canvass to paint what only we can paint. For some it may be expressing yourself in song, others may be friends of paint and brush, perhaps a musical instrument is your other half , or you crave a pen and paper to satisfy your soul. Whatever your canvass may be, may I encourage you to embrace it? The world is in dire need of your "voice" - your "canvass!"

The sun has peaked his head above the pines and lakes of the world around me, sending forth a message of intrigue and promise. Today is going to be a wonderful, beautiful day and may I beckon you to drink it up... every last drop of it!

So here's to you, my writer friends! I leave you with a word of hope from a favorite writer of mine:
"We never know how high we are, till we are called to rise; and then, if we are true to plan, our statures touch the skies."(Emily Dickinson)

Fondly,
Jo

A New Season

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 18:22:00 +0000

Wafts of coffee infiltrate this bustling coffee house, stroked in gentle sunlight, and alive with the mirth of voices intertwining with smooth music singing in the remote corners of this lovely place. Myriads of laptops keys whisper amidst the hum of voices, and the entrance of a wandering stranger lets in a chill from the outdoors which causes all of us to hold our warm cups closer, and pull our coats round our shoulders. Some sit by the hearth, others like myself, comfort themselves in arm chairs, and are lost to their work, reading or wandering thoughts. A bell rings, and we glance at the door to see a little girl clad in pink and red, rush towards the pastry cabinet, and press her dimpled hands upon the glistening glass and chirp, "Ooh, Mommy, I want that one!" Valentines day is near, thus inspiring the little one to don pink and red socks, bows and dresses, and to demand the heart shaped cookies and peppermint beverage. Her mother seems pleased to be seen with such a darling child, and holds her close while allowing her charge to order food and drinks without her mother's help, and the cashier reveals a smile at such charming innocence running 'bout the place. Clasping a child-sized cup in her hands, she trips across the room and hoists herself upon a leather couch, bidding her mother come and sit, and her curly head disappears from sight as she bends over to pull her stripped socks up towards her knees, yet that unmistakable voice lingers in the atmosphere of the coffee house as she prattles on.

Don't you love an afternoon where nothing demands your attention, no one depends upon you for anything serious, and you may return uninhibited to a favorite novel, beloved paper and pen, or entertain careless thoughts whilst sipping some coffee or tea? I am in just such a state and place and am now at liberty to share a great joy with you, dear reader - a new season of my life which begs to be explained.

I lay in bed on moonlit night, dodged by sleep itself, and drowned in thought. I had been burning to write a short story and send it into an online journal all week, yet my mind was void of any plot or characters. My mind is usually wide awake at night and that is when most of my writing is done and so that night, it finally happened. This story unfolded and I couldn't wait for hours alone the next day to write it all down. Naturally a week unfolded before my story was satisfactorily completed and now, my story hath fled and I'm eagerly anticipating an answer from "The Pedestal Magazine" which is the online journal I'm hoping will gratify me by publishing my work. And so, thus begins this new season in my life. I've abandoned fear of rejection (knowing that it WILL come but I must rise above and persevere) and the like and am highly resolved, to expand my horizons through sharing the myriads of fiction I've kept hidden inside of me for so long.

I've desperately eager to share my "children" with all of you, but cannot, for no one accepts previously published work thus the fiction must be kept off of this blog, but when that happy day comes, and I receive my first "acceptance email" I'll gladly direct you all to it. Pray for me in this new season of my life. For some reason I always thought my first query would be in the realm of publication of my finished novel, but no. Things are rapidly unfolding and much sooner than the deepest part of me had ever dared hope. It is the acceptance of "One Summers Eve" (my story) which I desperately crave. Please, share any advice you may have for me: an aspiring writer. Surely many of you can relate to the worries, joys and marvels I'm experiencing right now, so I look up to all of you for I learn worlds more than you'll ever know from readers.

But before I leave you may I simply state, that there is scarce a joy as great as penning before your very own eyes those glorious words, "The End."

Fondly,
Jo

For My Reader Friends

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 22:28:00 +0000

When first beginning this blogging venture, I was anticipating the worst. I doubted a soul would find their way here, thought the comments would be rare, and I never entertained the thought of "meeting" fellow writers who would become such dear friends. I don't believe any of you will truly understand how your one visit, or your hundredth encourages and spurs me on, and so I hope that the following will somewhat explain how much you mean to me. Two of my writer friends have kindly passed on this "friendship ball" to me, and naturally, Michelle and Nedra, I pass it back to you. But also to you the reader, this is for you. Claim it if you want to, or just look at it and know that I deeply appreciate your comments, emails and time spent perusing these somewhat vague reflections of an aspiring writer. I sincerely pray that there will be more here in the future for you, and that the Lord will be glorified through what this pen says. For those of you who've blogs of your own, I hope you understand that I'm moved, inspired and encouraged through what you write, and believe there to be marvelous things awaiting you, in your writing journey. And for those of you who are just chanced readers of this blog, I owe a special thanks for the time you spend here. I know there's a million blogs out there, and the fact that you are here means so much. Visit the blogs on my blogroll though, for there are better blogs out there! Thank you all... you are such dear friends. Fondly, Jo

Ah, Books!

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 03:23:00 +0000

I've a dear writer friend named Michelle at "Life in The Midst of Writing" who is a fellow lover of books, words and writing; she has tagged me with a "book meme" which I think will afford us all some fun.

1. One book that changed your life:
Aside from the Bible, definitely Captivating. (John and Staci Elderidge)

2. One book you have read more than once:
The Master's Violin (Myrtle Reed)

3. One book you would want on a dessert island:
The Bible

4. Two books that made you laugh:
Little Men (Louisa May Alcott)
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)

5. One book that made you cry:
A Walk to Remember (Nicholas Sparks)

6. One book you wish you'd written:
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)

7. One book you wish had never been written:
The Elsie Dinsmore Books (Martha Finely) *As a little girl, I took those books so seriously that I didn't eat butter for a time because Elsie didn't, and I wouldn't sit on the floor or read anything other than "Pilgrim's Progress" on Sundays. I'm sure those books may be a favorite for some of you, so don't judge me too harshly for hating them. (smile!) She was just TOO perfect!

8. Two books you're reading:
Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
Absolute Surrender (Andrew Murray)

9. One book you're going to read:
Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchel)

And there you have it! I'm to pass this along to five others so do yourselves a favor and visit some of my dear friends and their inspiring blogs. I guarantee you, they will become some of your regular haunts!

Quill
Sharron
Mel
Susan
Victoria

Gentle Morning

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 06:11:00 +0000

I greet you in the dawn of early morn, having found myself the victim of surprise by my impromptu drive of only an hour ago. In my life, there's ever-lurking a surprise or two, and the simplest things engage my soul in a manner which is mysterious and strangely inspiring. I am a "night person" so this early morning jaunt proved even more exciting, and gave me a renewed desire to make rising early a habit of mine. Yet, despite these resolutions, I'm kept up so late that I never fulfill my wish. I can scarce explain it, but at late hours my mind is awakened to new, thoughts, possible characters or plots for a budding story, and lately, a poem or two has managed to crawl out of my muddled brain and lie upon paper, awaiting the first pair of human eyes to discern their bearings for themselves, and walk away with something. I'm often loath to share my poems with others for generally they are inspired from very personal experiences, but I'm eager to put something out there so perhaps one day I will. But, before I forget the glory of my early morning drive, please allow me a moment of your time for I must tell you how beautiful everything was at one o'clock this gentle morning...

A distant, white light played upon the pages of deep grey clouds of fleeting storm and rain, reminding me of the day ahead which begged to be embraced. The feeling that I was alone in this early moment spurred on my child-like excitement, and I felt so close to the Lord that I found myself turning off the radio and pouring out my heart to Him, relishing the freedom which comes from casting burdens to the Higher Power, and resisting fear. Street lamps revealed scattered puddles of rain, and the surrounding towns held such an intriguing face of peace that I marveled for some strange reason. "Just think," I told myself, " in hours time, these very streets will be cloaked with hurrying people, cars and Life itself, but right now, you've the opportunity to savor this unspoiled day all alone. What a gift!" Perhaps you'll scoff at me, dear reader, and think me merely a tired writer whose nothing better to do, but I tell you honestly, there was this bewitching melody playing throughout every corner of the world this morning, and I had to answer its cry and write something.

The moon hid herself from me, but I'm determined to find her tomorrow on a late night walk... perhaps I'll find some little oracle of beauty I can't resist, and there'll be more to read here tomorrow, but come what may, let me urge you to drink in the passing beauty around you, savor the richness of some unexpected time alone, and just sit in silence.

May your day be one of great joy dear reader, and good morning!
Fondly,
Jo

A Thousand Glories

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 16:01:00 +0000

Seating myself upon a gentle dune I watched the sun dip into the ocean and paint its azure waves a golden shade of glory. A flock of birds ran across the sky and my camera captured the image perfectly. The wind murmured gentle thoughts into my ear and I found myself inspired as I savored the glory of the fleeting day. I've ventured to the ocean with my kindred spirit - my dearest friend of seventeen years, and for one delightful week we've been soaking up all the little glories of life which can slip so easily by.

Ours is a friendship which doesn't demand constant talk or detailed plans. We delight in the unknown, the mysterious. We explore the whiles of our imagination and take joy in the simplest things of life. Many friends have come and gone in our lives but God has seen fit to keep us in a special bond which I pray will survive forever.

Yesterday, we biked islands decked in flowering bushes, swooning palms, and calling birds, and reveled in little girl delight at this freedom to roam wherever we pleased, with no particular duties to perform. We rode side by side amidst the looming scent of flowering things, and made plans for the future, laughed at old memories, and gazed at our surroundings in wondering awe. There's this impenetrable beauty lurking 'round every corner, here and the promises of my Lord are whispered in my ear every passing moment.There's worlds of inspiration in the simplest things here, and I'm loath to leave this place.
Before turning our bikes in, we sauntered into a beckoning bookshop where I searched for Anne Lamot's acclaimed, "Bird by Bird", yet, finding myself without a copy ended up purchasing "The Situation and the Story" (Vivian Gornick) which I'm certain will satisfy my writer's heart for a while. A gladsome journal managed to jump into my lap, so with book and journal, I'm elated with my purchases, and am entertaining high hopes that I'll be able to pen one of my short stories inside the journal.

Don't you find the keenest joy in penning your souls thoughts in bold, black letters and then being held in the loving gaze of words, thoughts, and muses you created? For me, its one of the greatest joys of life. A blank page can be so foreboding and inhibiting at times, but once you jump off the ravine of your own fears, and entertain the mildest thought, worlds of thought beg a hearing, and before you know it, you've a full journal of beautiful words.

Entertain a quiet moment dear reader, pen your hearts thoughts, and you'll find yourself escaping into a world all your own.
Until another time,
Jo

A January Song

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 18:21:00 +0000

The wind is singing through the forests, fields and streams as I savor a quiet day by the hearth with tea, books and waxing thoughts. Now that Christmastime is past I'm reminded of just how long I've abandoned you, dear readers, and can offer no worthy excuse save for the fact that Time (which and I'm sure you'll agree is not very kind to us ) swept me away without so much as a gentle murmur. Now 2007 is past and 2008 has begun. The older I get the more aware I am that all things shall come to an end one day, and that gives me this inextinguishable desire to live life to the fullest - for a purpose; still, there lingers a sadness in that I can not pause everything and gaze for a while.

There is something in this second day in a new year and chapter in my life, which sings a song of wonders, mysteries, delights, sorrows and joys yet to be had. I feel like a little child anticipating her birthday in that I'm eagerly looking forward to finding what this year will hold. There's the same joyful anticipation in a new year as there is in beginning another chapter of a favorite book.

And while I talk of books, I must share something with you. There lived a woman of France who was an ardent writer and keen observer of all things small and beautiful; she captured these glories and sorrows in two books which have only been recently published. Yes, the works of Irene Nemirovsky are available in any bookstore and will transport you into the mind of a woman who found herself a victim of the holocaust of World War II. After her death in the Auschwitz concentration camp her manuscripts were thankfully recovered by her two daughters and are now published works of pure art.

There is a kind of lyrical grace posing upon the pages of "Suite Francaise" and "Fire in the Blood" which will literally transport you into a time where innocence was living one moment and extinguished the next. Nemirovksy's words and thoughts blend together in such a beautiful manner which leaves you breathless and wondering hard after the fictitious characters wrought so splendidly by her pen. So, if you are searching for a book or two, engage yourself in a world gone by, and experience the splendor of the woman Anne Frank herself aspired to become.

The walk I took on New Years morn seemed a symphony of glories likening themselves to what I've read of in Nemirovksy's books. We'd welcomed the new year with toasts of champagne and clashing pots and pans, but once all were asleep I ventured outside for my annual walk in the first hour of a new year. The dappled sky spoke wonders with its starry eyes gazing upon the world, whilst a cold wind wrapped its arms about me and carried me down a weather-beaten path. I saw no moon yet all was bright, and in the still of morning, the Lord and I walked and talked. Beginning a new year seems so much more promising when I lay all my cares, fears and worries at the Lord's feet. There is such a calm that rushes over me, giving hope where there is doubt, and peace where there is sorrow. Do I make plans for this new year? Certainly! But only what He wills is going to be brought to fruition, and I am content with that. After many hours, days, months and years of battling with my future time after time, I'm always brought to the same point of absolute surrender, and renewed faith in the One who made us all.

And so, today you find me resolved to live this year with joy, vigor, and great faith. There's worlds of bright hope ahead of us in this new year, and for the writer, the reader, the artist, the musician, the poet, or wanderer, may there be an ever-present urge to live life to the fullest- unwaveringly and boldly.

Fondly,

A Beautiful Mind

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 22:51:00 +0000

"When I write, I can shake off all my cares. My sorrows disappear, my spirits are revived! But, and that's a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, oh I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies... So, onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It'll all work out, because I'm determined to write!"

Well , you may thank dear Anne Frank for penning our writers thoughts upon paper so brilliantly. I was captured by her diary and beautiful mind earlier this year and shame myself for reading the library's copy instead of purchasing my own for I was obliged to close it without a helpful mark, side note or underline in it. I did however, take large, significant sections and write them down for future comfort, but am determined to purchase a copy after the Christmas season when money is restored to my wallet! If you have not yet treated yourself to exploring Anne's mind and heart, you must! Her childlike innocence, and passion for writing will warm your heart, inspire you, and take you to a world you've never known.
Cheers my friends!
Jo

He Answered Me

nobooklongenough@gmail.com (Jo) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 03:50:00 +0000

The Lord met me in my room tonight and because of the faith he gave me so gently, I believe him to be here still, drinking in the quiet and beauty of this moon-bathed night of a December song as I'm brought to revel in the peace and comfort he has replaced with my loneliness and depression. On this road less traveled there's ever a lovely path, quiet stream, field of glory, and a mountain top - a place of rest. Yet there's also lurking valleys of darkness, crevices of fear, and sloughs of despond liken to the one "Christian" encountered in "Pilgrims Progress". It will not do for me to put on airs with you, and pretend to be someone I'm not, so I will speak plainly and honestly and tell you that in the past couple of months, I've fallen for many a clever snare. I've flirted with danger and locked myself in a dark room where faith has been tested and I've been brought to cry out for my Lord. I've been slowly sinking under the weight of the loneliness, depression and fear I've been sadly reluctant to give up and hand over to him, and just when I thought I could take it no longer, he rescued me. He answered my heart's cry tonight, and shared with me the message of Truth my heart has been yearning for and he did so in the most surprising manner.

In the quiet of my room I was settled with a cup of tea, Josh Groban's inspiring melodies playing softly with the glow of bewitching candles, and my well-loved columnist from World Magazine, Andree Seu. The title of her recent article ("Letters to God") intrigued me and so I read a while. Coming to a sudden standstill I was riveted to the following words: "God gave Job no answers. Nor did He apologize. God is God, He does what He pleases. We are all clueless like little children..." Suddenly my eyes gave way to tears as my life flashed before them and all I could see was that I had been demanding answers from my Lord and that I had based my ability to exercise true faith on whether or no he would just tell me what he was doing. I eagerly confessed this and more, and I cannot begin to explain the blessed peace which poured over me as I laid my fears, worries and cares at his feet. Oh for tears like that more often...

The Future is ahead of me and I am worried. I'm worried because I am lonely, my family is lonely, and there's still so much about my own life which holds up an intimidating question mark and so my faith is being tested. I know that but why can't I take up the shield of faith and avert my eyes form the charm of the Deceiver who would lead me to believe otherwise?! I write as if these are my questions at the moment, but really, they are my questions of a moment ago, before I was lifted up to gaze into the face of my Lord, and be reminded of the Truth by the hush of His voice, and warmth of his hand. This is the refining fire and all the pain and loneliness is necessary and I will come to praise him in due time. Patience, patience, patience... Perhaps you've been in such a place of conviction before so I'll hold you captive to personal details no longer but as I've the opportunity I simply have to say, "praise the Lord for his faithfulness, his presence, his peace, and his promises."

Well, the hour draws late, the candles are dying and I'm eager to begin a new day filled with promises and hope, so goodnight dear reader! And thank you for indulging my bursting thoughts random and as personal as they are!
Fondly,
Jo