Making Real My Loss

When I was a child in bed and about to sleep I would think of someone close I might loose. I would not stop until I felt my sadness real with silent tears. It took many years to know this search for comfort was how I coped with the separation of my mother and father, and them from me. I was fostered at three. My surrogate mother died when I was fourteen, my mother at nineteen, and my father three years later. Despite my loss I knew love, given and received. My music art and words become my silent tears.

When I Fail To Give

I came upon a work of art that moved me. I wanted to share this, however as I researched the artist my response grew more complex, and I kept the experience to myself.

Despite its undoubted force at the time, the art faded from my view until someone brought that same work as one that was deeply affecting. At first I did not recall the artist's name.

When I fail to give I begin to forget, I become impoverished. To share rejuvenates my heart and mind.

The Love of Little Things

When I am in the company of nature, a friend, or someone I meet for the first time, it is the little things that stand above the rest.

I walk into the quiet early morning and crouch down, close to a small clay pot that is home to an oak seedling I planted from an acorn in the spring.

At times the changing tone of a leaf or spurt of growth captures my attention. At times it is a thought that sprouts from being close to such a fragile little thing.