journal entry

No, I’m not easy all the time. My mind decides to tell the truth, my truth, even when it’s not pretty. My heart holds on to imaginations like water quenching thirst. I challenge the status quo by being all that I dream, as if there are no limitations. Dare I grow? I tend to my own garden, harvesting beauty, coaxing life out of the bare patches. Feeding birds, living on their songs sustenance. Is it even possible to live outside the music? Never. My soul will not allow it. The music will sing within me, bouncing through my body, escaping in wails of joy or sadness, body movements flying about. I put away the city life for this country rocking chair.  I wear my face naturally until there’s somewhere to go.  I watch the children with love, growing stronger and wiser. Heels have become slippers more often than I want, but this is okay. I am the princess yearning for the ball, but I am truly the mother mending boo boos after the fall. By the stroke of the finger I send out messages, hoping they find their home in the recesses of someone’s mind. Can you feel my temper or grasp my wit? Can you feel the clay I mold beneath my fingers? Can you smell my honeysuckle or touch my hair? Messages traveling on wires instead of bottles still have the same effect. Castaways reach out into the horizon, reaching into the mirage, praying for that soul to match. Is the chatter back and forth real? Or do we create over and over the background set of another play? What is real is the sound of the children – the laughter and the tears. The dog at my feet, devoted and kind, the paintings and sculptures, the flowers and books, the wild cat and the floors needing to be swept. The writing, the music, the dancing down the hallways…

They are all real. What is real is the artistic mind flying about, testing the waters with this creation or that new project. Right now a bird sits on a wire, looking into the beauty, soaking it in, embracing it for as long as possible. Does he hear me? Who will he be anyway? Does it matter? My heart says yes, my mind says no. Is it about the many ways we can love? Or maybe it is truly about the many ways we survive. The struggle is real. Through creativity we break through pain and allow fulfillment to reign. Cheers to the artist inside of us, yearning to break out and be free!


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