Tag Archives: gratitude

“I wonder if you can”

This week’s artist’s way lesson has taken a turn for the worst!
Every morning, since the beginning of this adventure, I have started, almost, each and every day with the stream of conscious writing known as “The Morning Pages.” For whatever reason, when I write my to do list, at the top is always MAP. At first, I wasn’t even aware I was doing it. Then one day I realized with stunning clarity why my subconscious brain had done it. Morning Pages equated to MAP,  for this is exactly what morning pages do. They sort of map out the frequencies of your brain, so you can fine tune the radio station to the music of the day. Sorry for the metaphor, I’m just weird like that.

 

This week. This week though. *sigh*

This week, I must incorporate the Night pages.

Now, I am to ask myself what it is that I want. What is the free-flowing river of consciousness streaming at the close of each day. It is a moment to reflect. It is a moment to vent. It is a moment to once more check-in with that little inner artist and say, “Baby girl, tell me what you need.”

 

The trouble is… this is it. This is my night pages for the evening. The dogs are settled in, snuggled as close as they can possibly get without me swatting them away for being a hinderance to my typing. The room is cleaned from my earlier morning activities. My sketchbook is waiting for me, perched upon a box of markers and a box of pencils.  There is also the orbiting thought I had moments before coming inside from my cigarette break and the moonlit back yard. This is it. This is my life.

I wouldn’t want it another way. Sure I wish my room was a little bigger. Absolutely, I wish that there was someone other than two dogs nestling in beside me. Sure, I want this, and I’m praying for that. Yet, for the first time in my life–the first time ever publicly stated–I am at the most blissful state of human intelligence and inner peace. I am home.

I may have dreams that seem far-fetched or not worth believing. I may be the dreamer with her head in the clouds. It doesn’t matter. Hey, Mr. Lennon, I’m not the only one, right?

In the end, it doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t believe. In the end, all that matters is what dream you chose to wake up inside of.

Peace and Love,

Kris

Imagine Peace

 

 

 


“Journeys, like artists are born and not made…”

Assignment #1

Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will–whatever we may think. ~Lawrence Durrell

Thank you.
You stared up, from the bottom of the Christmas tree, dazzled by the blinking lights content with the magic scent of it all. The water drips from the broken branches you couldn’t avoid watering in your quest to complete your volunteered goal. Had to prove you were big enough to do it. You were big enough. (And just small enough)
You climbed up onto your window ledge, pretending you were on a cushioned window seat. The kind you once on a T.V show. The kind you wanted as your own. You rested your head against the cool pane of the glass. You stared down to where your mother’s rose bush once bloomed, watching the moon sparkle in the snow. The wind whispered with snowy dust and your mind wandered to the whimsical sky, the stars singing in silence back at you. Thank you.
You tucked yourself away in your closet, crammed in between your dresses and shoeboxes. Each of your stuffed animal comrades close enough to hear all your thoughts. Mr. Bear, your first love, cradled you in his oversized bear hug back to you. The green velvet ribbon soft against your cheek, and always coming undone. His soft brown hair was like a pet beneath her fingers, and his dark ball eyes providing comfort in times of fright.  He held your hand through all of the fights.
Thank you, Mr. Bear. Thank you.
Thank you for remembering the star filled eyes of Grandpa. For the time he pushed in you the cart over the wooden planks in the Ribbon and Fake Flower gallery in the little Nursery on the way to the mall. Ba Bump. Ba bump. Just like the cars traveling on Sunrise. Ba Bump. Ba Bump. Brrrrum brrruuuum. He pretended he was a car. Racing you through, stopping and slowing. Making you giggle out of control. Thank you for remembering the way your grandmother would snap. “Eddie, Eddie knock it off,” scolding a child who humble acquiesced his wife’s remark with a gentle nod and an affirmative, “uh huh.” He waited for her to turn back to your mother and ribbons and the motor would start again, quieter than before.  Thank you for remembering his whistle, the touch of his flannel shirts, the love swirling in his eyes. Thank you.
Thank you for your imagination. The fake tests and roll call you made for “School,” the fine French dinner in yellow Playskool chairs. For days tromping through the redwood forest, finding forbidden creatures beneath logs, leaves, and rocks. Thank you for the twirl of pretty pretty princesses, for the colored monsters living in the trees, for the flight off the swing, for the award-winning goal during recess.
Dear Child,
Thank you for painting my childhood with color. Thank you for tucking yourself away in the lost and found bin. And thank you more than ever for waiting patiently among the lost in order to be found.
Thank you inner child, for showing me the Way.
Peace,
Kris