Another Week

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On my table this week

On my table: Composition book for daily pages and exercises from The Creative Call.  I’ve just finished Chapter 6, and although a good part of the discussion does not pertain to my situation I’m enjoying they journey, as they say.  I am still looking for that secret door that will open the creative, word-stream of my writing mind.  I may be getting closer.

The Message, a fresh and helpful look at scriptures that have been familiar all my life.

The Face of the Deep, a brand-new and totally unexpected surprise. It was nothing less than a thrill to meet and listen to the author at a writer’s meeting last week.  This man is my kind, in language, spirit, and faith. It was an altogether remarkable experience. After his talk and reading there was dead silence, then a collective sigh and we came back to life again. I will admit my disappointment when the questions started—people wanted answers about the technical and practical aspects of producing the book.  I wanted to stand up and say, No! Let’s talk about what he wrote and the language—let’s talk about the words!  But I didn’t. I have much to think about.

Poetry, March 2016. My one-year subscription, a generous gift of my daughter who also encourages me to find the secret door to my writing mind again.

Invitations: Over the last week, on separate occasions I invited three people into conversation with me in an effort to develop a deeper and clearer understanding of what we’re doing together, and what we could be doing better.  In each case I could have, and probably would have told them what I needed to say but I prayed, and worked to find a creative and authentic way to be in partnership with them. I am grateful for the outcome in each case.

Serving: This morning I said yes to the opportunity to walk into the suffering of another person. It was a nearly a fearsome thing to recognize the opportunity and know the call that came with that recognition.  And then to go. To bring practical help in a small envelope, to sit side by side with raw grief, to offer no answers, to listen, and to hold her tight.  For today it was what I was supposed to do.

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It was a beautiful mercy to come home to an empty house after work this afternoon. To pray again for the woman I was with this morning, to build a fire to chase the chill from a damp spring day, to watch the birds and the rain. To be still.

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