Pen to paper, like fire to the flicker, coal to the lips, like basswood to the carving knife. Wordsmithing thoughts and ideas flare out. A billion brilliant poems seem to be written across the silky night sky, the Milky Way, dusting it for an extra frosting flourish. Jane Kenyon’s words echo between my ears, “the pressure of emotion, which many of us prefer to ignore, but for you,”…dear writer, she seems to say, holding her hand out and beckoning us in her open door, “is the very substance of your work, your clay.” The terra firma of it all, the LEGOs of words and the Lincoln Logs of spoken forth being. She goes on to weave more, the shuttle flying back and forth, the secret truth behind this tapestry called words. “There’s a need to make sense of life behind the impulse to write…,” minute moments become deeply remembered, the pebble dropped in, ever widening at the bottom of the well. An act of taking the swirling mass of murk and “bodying forth” the feelings as a co-creator to something potentially bigger than us. The very Word became Flesh and set up house here. The pens dipping and scratching, that ink pressed to the white tree pulp, tattooing, if you will, something sacred on our hearts. The Living Word. Just maybe our ink can drip, drop, trail, and trickle down through the cracks and crevices into the flow-age of our hardened hearts. Streams of black, inky living water. Echos of the Great Pen that dash off those diamond epics of the sky leaving an indelible mark behind forever.

{I highly recommend A Hundred White Daffodils by Jane Kenyon. ❤ Happy Monday!}~