Broken Birdsong

There are days when I feel like an inspired writer. The image in the mirror actually looks the part. The stars hold hidden meaning. Worship songs hold depth and meaning. I sit like a lady and I write things with actual rhyme and reason to them. My work has structure, points, and sometimes even pictures and poems to go with it. And then there are these days, or nights, I should say, maybe. Everything makes me want to cry. I'm sitting at the computer, Indian-style, in my grungiest pajamas, past my preferred bedtime, with Pandora playing. Partially because watching The Brady Bunch right now would be considered pathetic by most people. Mostly due to the fact that I was inspired to write today. Not the pretty kind of inspiration, though. One of my favorite poets died. Maya Angelou. I knew her story. I had written a paper on her. I'd read her poetry, and I even posted one here . She was not just a name to me. She was one of my heroes. I know she had faults - we all do - but her st

I was running on less sleep than I can function with, and praying hard, because oh how I needed to function. And not just your average survival mode functioning, no. I needed to be cheerful, Christ-like, efficient, creative, loving, and focused. I slow down for a minute because I actually have the chance to. He pours himself a cup of coffee, and I smile at his kindness. We both know that's my job. We ask each other about life. I talk of weeks that just race by, and there's hardly time to even think, let alone make art with my life. He speaks of the busyness too, but there's a difference. In his world, he makes the time. He fixes someone's toilet while preaching truth into their lives. "She told me I should be a preacher. I already am a preacher, I said. I don't need a pulpit or a congregation - I just talk about Jesus one on one." He's caught onto something and my stressing heart almost can't believe it's that simple. Can we really just li

To tell the truth, I felt more drained and spent on this day with no to-do's than I felt all that week past that just refused to end. My friend tells me that sick people need rest; everybody needs rest, and if there's anything I've learned today is that I am sick and I am human. I cough and sniffle as petals fall from the wildflowers I picked the other day. I relate to them. One day, all fresh and dewy, beautiful and fragrant ... then the next day they're fading. Pieces of them are falling off. Nobody look at me, because I'm not supposed to look like this. Give me a second to put on my makeup. I'll be acceptable, I swear. Because somebody told me that when I wilt, I'm no longer beautiful. I think the name beneath that quotation was my own.  Breathing is a fight today. I had intended to rest and prepare myself for another crazy weekend. Halfway through the mandatory TV show, I get an email that changes everything. Finally, a diagnosis for my condition

(Photo by Anna Hart ) Have you ever wondered how it is that not a portion of nature is considered to clash, color-wise? Think about it. God used every color imaginable, likely inventing new ones as He went along, and we do not say that those willow trees really would look better in a different field ... one not quite so green, maybe. It's unheard of. We put two articles of clothing together, and suddenly, it's unthinkable to wear that outside of your bedroom. What a disaster. But we can't look at an unmarred piece of God's nature and call it an eyesore. Because He made it beautiful. Society tells us differently. They lie when they chant that age and beauty are not synonymous. They present them to us as enemies. They scorn wrinkles and grey hair, saying they are no longer signs of wisdom and cues for us to respect. Now we look at them as symptoms of a disease: old age. One step closer to the end of the road. It would be a bad thing if the end of the road was some

What sort of a thing does one write when the wind is blowing, their head is pounding, and frills and nonsense seem useless? I'm in a rather practical mood. I am wearing plain, comfortable clothes that take the chill off, and my wild hair is pulled back in a most unbecoming bun. And yet I should write something worth reading. Shouldn't I? But who's to judge? I'm beating around the bush. I shan't keep you waiting much longer. Sometimes life doesn't make sense. There comes a time when you realize that all your childhood dreams may not come true. I found a page in a box under my bed the other day. It's one of those sheets that makes you see just how poor your handwriting and logic once were: "If I was an Artist" If I was an Artist I would make tons of pictures and hand some out for free at church. I would sell others at an Art Gallery. I would draw cards and send them to people. I would frame some and use them as gift's. I would use th

(Photo by Tara Gourley ) The rain drips gently, steadily, and I have time. Time to just be . I've found that it's what you do in these spare hours that defines who you are. When you're longing for a little peace, what do you do? Some days, I just browse Pinterest. It's mind numbing, yet you feel almost useful, because who knows? That recipe you just pinned could very well change your life. Most of the time, I crave something more. I often stop that craving with a heavy dose of laziness, but I know it was there. Today, I use the moment to think on truth; to write it out in black and white, so I won't forget it ... and maybe you won't either. I'm a day ahead of schedule, and that's satisfying. I stop that word before it rolls off my tongue. Savor it. Satisfying . The secret of life, or at least one of the big ones, is that only Christ can truly satisfy. Only His love will leave your cup running over. Only His truth will be firm enough to st