I write for a group of writers :Five minute Friday and this week we ‘Say‘ in five minutes, what’s between our fingers, asking to be said. I’m thinking of Ghezu a local Dancer and she was good to feature on a video shoot for my daughter, but
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we got the feeling she was holding back,
though every word she said was affirmative. Yes she’d be there, she said – terrace shoot, or field, wherever.
Ghezu moves like a swan, she’s a worshipper, a leaner on the Everlasting One. And yet the arms fall a fraction too late, the toe moves a step behind, as if her conversation with movement is being reined by another emotion.
We spoke again, and in person. No, her dates did not coincide with ours. She blended and took my movement to the next level, this was sheer genius.
We’d planned a five second of a Lazarus rising, and one with the woman leaning to touch the Hem of Jesus’ garment. Ghezu worked it like a vision in slashed jean and frayed white Tee. She had more to say than I could even visualize for her. She’s not camera shy, she and the lens meet eye to eye and there’s a story happening that Jesu Himself must’ve designed for her. And yet, she’s not ready yet.
Maybe later I say. My daughter is disappointed, Ghezu herself is. We have a quick limesoda and leave with a prayer….
then I know Ghezu needed that more than any work.She’s tired and worn out with schedules. She’s asking Time and the space to do nothing for a bit.
I start to say something but the words sit down in my tongue. Yea, we all need the Pause;
the space to say nothing at all, before we really speak.
..they travel in our bags and hair, in the lashes of our eyes, in the accents of our curries.The word “Secret” can make you think in darkish undertones, but an “ish” is an “ish”, a suspect emotion.
And Families are fantastic streams of discussion. That cupped with traditional plates and sauce of soul-chat, is sheer sweet goodness…
My Kitsa & her Strawberry Choco cake
we gather in a huddle - yesterday. There’s foodsongs & jabber,
but like a death defying Artery, there is always communion with the Creator. As a child I gawked at the Unseen in the Centre of our elbows and knees, presiding over Ma’s vindaloo
and Gran before her; He brought in fish from the seas He made along with our coriander leaf and rock salt, oh green chilli.
I stared and still do, at Him here, like the Silence of the Sun,
and it happened last night as nephew Sky (name equivalent) played the guitar like a prayer;
it made me think of a Bird-Shadow on sea, going past the night to breaking dawn: its Shadow plucking waves and earth, up a slope to dawn mountain
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where Shadow & bird become one in the Light surrounding all.
Sky* stops playing; he and his gentle blue-grey eyed Eidd’m (name altered:) lock wrists. I tell them about Bird Shade.
Paint that for me, Neph* says.
PicAnchor Lee
Eidda shows me her stunning Fluid Art Collection; we chat on Alcohol-ink from city ArtStore, we look at mediums of water colour & my oils;
there is the Family selfie/ group hug; how we’ve grown! How much more I look at Us, not as Yesterday but as a new Creation winging into Dawn soon enough.
Tradition can be a Purdah – veiling, shawling, shoving our innerbeing away from Freedom or
it could be speechless Chords nudging us toward our Unknown.
Fav Fam Trads. ? in the above mentioned & more in the fingerbones of prayers we don’t know we do; but like homing birds we go instinctively to Where the Light surrounds
.. in the Secret place of the Most High, in the Shadow of the Almighty Who will recklessly follow the human spirit to where our Trust is without borders, and we walk on water…
Bloganuary writing prompt
Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.
Been blogging for years, (love WordPress), before that FB, now Instagram; there’s email, WA, recently Daily Prompts saw me skidding to the next post. Its been fun, till I upgraded. DPs suddenly got shy of my posts. I’m not tagging DPs right? Sure am, always did. But all the kins ‘ mail, and all their Forum & hospitable engineers aren’t able to fix this. WP hon, what’s wrong?
If this one finally gets thru’ on Dp Reader, yayyyyyy!
Unsure what these faces are, but saw them this week in my city😅
An earth, arrested by her own love for all her species. A Love nothing can destroy: not every last sting of hate, not every last sword – it just keeps her alive: Love:
It mutates, re-surrects what all else might kill, for True Love kindles Hope kindles her billion billion pieces of dying Prayers with living maddening Hope.
Mid War & rumors of more, our girl Vihan asks, “Ma, could you do my Video?”
Whaaat?
Single:‘ JESUS’ Co- written By Grammy winning Songwriter SethMosley & Vihan, Producer X O’Connor, of Full Circle Music.
VIHAN“I was nothing before the Word of God touched me, when Jesus moved intoy heart. Everything changed. I found meaning, purpose. The world suddenly looked so beautiful. A shy find girl found strength and courage in the One who gave His life for her.Now I give my life for Him. He’s the only One Who did what He did! (in Description )
Soft spoken, ‘introvert’ but this girl can set a stage on fire with her gentle words of Faith in God, in her love for humanity, and even us, this gang at home.
The sheer grace of God worked footage in highways & temple lane, cornfield, mid December ’23, the fabulous NoelJeffthere to make Sound, Light & Action better! ..via graffitti walk, rain, lake sun, traffic wail, under cathedral bell, looking up tree & double rainbow,
Blessed 2024
This Single is 3 min 16 seconds, from the heart of a kid who dares all, for ‘Jesu‘- ‘Who else‘?!
I must’ve heard this Offering a thousand times, and each time, my storms are chased by the one and only Jesu who makes “new life out of dead ones...”
& each time, I wait for the rhythm of our Indian drum in it, along with the pulse of Jesu Himself in the hum of everyday life: “His Word my Hiding Place“. If John 3:16 were a Psalm, this is it.
Phew.
Blessed candid, 😃off Coorg fields
Warm regards from us all & Vihan who inspires me 24×7 x n with her 500+ songs, near 600 Christian Lifestyle videos, and undiluted devotion to the One Who gave her to us after 8 years.
Ita still the first week of Jan, tender – toeing out of ’23 into 2024 ✨🔔oh Joy & a little tremble😱✨Past Present Futurebwhich am I thinking on the most. Looking over one shoulder, with the rest of me in NewYear gear.
Yesterday, Now & Morrow mingle without permit:
‘Dope as usual ‘ set. Artist Deanna. Drastic GraphicsLA2020 & Marty O’Neill
I’m a Carol of the Tenses: (Read : A Christmas Carol)1843 to now, Mr C. Dickens’ character E.Scrooge is still playing it loud and clear. No Humbug:
So let me wander in and out of this Post, dizzy with goodies of the good. Joy surely outweighs the nasty bits. Another thing,
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When I’m on my knee-bones, praying, looking into the heavens, my ‘me’ gets Grace:
here, am strengthened by Faith in the Power that brought us all this far.
Did you read global news today? I did. Last night:
Red seas. Quakes . Dirty politics. War: Its babies. Columnists Analyists, Prophets of doom, Sunspots lookn’ nasty right at Planet Earth. There is no Plan B,
like the 3rd Spirit in that Scrooge Story* said, we better make good, forgive, be forgiven, accept each other, with TenderCare or else!
We taking down Christmas decor today– what the future will turn out to be, is everybody’s guess. Its still chilly here in our peninsula.
Our neighbour queenbee from local forest paid her respects like she does every Jan (why???). Lejh our pianist friend visited, still sleepy from a Gig. He’s miffed at the bad sound system he’s had to endure on Stage. We chatted on that, over coffee and home made bread and potato mash roasted in turmeric onion. Yona begs for garlic toast and pepper crab:) My mind is a cheerful tumble.
There’s still that Festive air though with undertone of Sad News. The girls and I plan an afternoon at Writers’ cafe: heard they’re closing down. Will wander down Zach’s, let’s see.
These are my thoughts: a scramble of January hungover from December. But if you ask, then yes, I’m thinking more on tomorrow than yesterday:
Cuz everything we were: the good, the bad, & the ugly, pales in comparison with the Joy that is to be,
now “we peer thru a glass darkly, but one day soon, face to face “ with Everything we wondered about.
As this day goes: I wish you Jesus: the reason for my awe & wonder. Whats it like for you?
(👇🏼 more on this, next Post) Have a great Day!)
Daily writing prompt
Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?
Not everyone can give you this one, regardless of the day. I know at least one person if not a few who have that innerspring of Joy welling up from within, a flood of well being,with it a faith that can move mountains.
The truth of Joy isnt a random emotion but security that spills like flowers and trees and mountain dew. So yea there it is. Joy. Nothing less. A gift, that passes all human understanding.
“Feeling loved” does not come easily to Jhali; she & her family are a quiet group of jewelers mostly pearl; their roots are from Mahe, Seychelles, Indian ocean. Odd that she wears no earring or pendant, just her earth toned khadi clothes with shawl and flat chappals.
Unsplash.europeana
The last time I felt love from an unlikely source was when this same Jhali sent home a dinner spread: her way of thanking me for the Christmas musical for the school her kids go to. She has four just hitting / nearing teens. Yes they were in it too, the Musical
It was a rough & tumble funny 45 minutes about an orphanage in a valley that ran out of food one Christmas, but they yelled and wailed in prayer till a Lorry tipped over nearby and managed to send down enough eats to last them till New year (taken from a true life account from the loved George Verwer of OM) credit was given to MrGW, all that.
Jhali for some reason took the story personally and told me how she felt while watching it. I felt an impulse to hug her but held back, a bit uncertain cuz we’d never gotten close.
That was all unusual! After the fatigue of rushed rehearsals, torn costume to be stitched, dance, the tension of memorizing lines
and Jhali later at our door embarrassed at her own sweetness as she uncovered her dishes, with a smile that flashed like a reluctant Lighthouse,
It was too late to abort: there it was –
a certain sisterhood, complex yet as relevant as the stars shining down tonight as I write this one.
We were born to be loved, nurtured, cultured. Yeah yeah, we are the dust, lets just say –
birthed in oysters, waiting our moment to be that special beautiful thing to someone, and in our own eyes. We must look in the mirror and see how we wear that emotion – does it sparkle our skin, does it give a sense of worth, of unspeakable joy and gratitude?
Jhali barely smiles, but she does when she means it. Thank you dear friend. I hope I made you feel it too.
My big resolution this year is to tell people they are loved by God. I tried that at a store, and the lady gave me a strange look. Another florist momma, she grinned it right back at me.
Am guessing a good way to feel loved, is to give it away?
Daily writing prompt
Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?
my bloodshadows are thick with a thousand generations of man,
but Your Vine saps me to the Word
~like swords strip my thorn
Oh Vibe of Heaven
in my branch, awoken, rising
startled.
🧤
Impression
from* Marks Gospel 2
Sapling from wilderness grafted into Christ. “Sap” His Word . His wound , as from the Cross is location for New Birth. Here new Graft finds Freedom to be Its purpose in the Kingdom of God (Vineyard) ‘I am the Vine, you the branches‘.
Love, Acceptance, Friendship, Decency, Sensitivity. In a world slowly turning away into a self centered mob, these remnants make me remember who I am, where I’m from, Who I will return to.
For a few months, I wrote for an NGO that rehabilitates Burns victims. Young women, eyes like stars, lips sealed with somethings too beautiful to easily make sentences. Each of these Survivors startled me with a reality too stark to estimate. Zara*(names changed), Mini, Kayini…. today they are healing from even internal scars that could’ve done their life in half.
I returned from that Rescue Shelter with awe at Its Organizers, awe at the Power that can raise shattered life from a hell worse than basic crimes of need.
One young woman in particular, Disha* said,
” ..we must forgive. ” Words as potent as the scar running down her eyelid, halved ear under new grown soft hair plaited in low bun on neck with more scar tissue under neckline of blue cotton Kurta. She has more than forgiven her husband who tried to burn her. The reasons are mindblowing. There are little children involved, who must also heal,
but Disha made a decision to save herself from the toxicity of Unforgiveness. As her story unfolds my insides curl with horror at how a burns victim must heal: the endless swabs and ministry of meds, surgical intervention, counselling against suicidal attempts…and that first look in the mirror: the screams at how she now is. There will be more surgeries, more pain, more gut wrenching will
to return stronger, under the death defying brute force of Forgiveness that can only stem from Love. I said brute force cuz It must cut back on depression, trauma, pain, physical fatigue and social issues, even self hate..
If you’ve read my Posts here, you’ll know I’m a softie for Love & Its healing. Everything is possible with the Love of God. But
as I listen to Disha, reliving her chapters, am startled by the rage in me.
She goes back home, she forgives the man who did what he could to burn her from the Lil stove in her kitchen, as her young kids watched, and neighbors ran in to help. The husband was jailed. Later she bails him out.
She works with the gritty process of burns re-construction: nightmare of nightmares. You don’t want the details. Disha shows me a photo of him, tucked in her small purse. Yes, she loves him. He’s her husband, she says.
No he did not hurt her again. Her eyes are soft with a new found love that insists on forgiveness. She found it at the Cross. Ofcourse I know about the Cross. But if I were Disha maybe I’d have run miles before I trusted anyone again. Not negating what the Sacred says; but my knee jerk response was, run! “Love” suddenly seems an overrated word, here in this room surrounded by a Thing that stares down basic cut throat human response.
But the man has his share of pain. Today she walks tall, their entire society is with her. The man looks up to her with new found respect. Don’t ask me how, I’m still dizzy thinking what it must be like even today.
But no, he loves her. He’s older now. There was police surveillance. He pleaded guilty, said sorry, stays true to her. I see it in her face, softened with deliverance from hate. The children are growing well, she says. No they have no bad habits. In the aftermath of all that, Disha went from a shy young mother and wife into a gentle loving tigress over her family. No one dares come in here offering bidis to my young son to smoke, or any nonsense with my daughter. And husband better not hurt me or anyone again.
I take a moment digesting the fire in her soft words. What’d she do if it happened again, I am about to ask, but she reminds me that we are all sinners in the eyes of God, and like Christ said, if we forgive others, then He will forgive us, and then we can love everyday in His power.
Pic Leighan Blackwood
Ofcourse I agree. But if Disha were my daughter I’m unsure I’ve let that man in again.
As I wrapt that interview there was the distinct impression of the God of Disha, shuddering at my thought:
He would (shudder). He loves victim and offender equally. Sigh. Is that even Just?
I’m here thinking on the Justice of God that’d even ask us to try feel what He did at the Cross, forgiveness, ouch. And again, who is not ‘bad’?
Am startled by women like Disha, who can start over and learn a new language: its soft syllables shielded by a Thing humans have been trying to grasp and make our own since Time began:
in our deadly pursuit of selfish happiness, seduced by self gratification, pride, pride of possession, insanity, generational hate, contempt of the love of God, even the innate desire to kill for greed, revenge, ….blind to the fact that this Life is also spirit … This life is more than physicality. This is supernatural too. We are in love with Love , for self. We believe in Love, but morph it into lust for power, even in the way we might feed the poor or declare religious rule. The Language of Love is not in syllables, It shies from mortality and sees with eternal perspective.
Jana’s head bends in tiny collar bones but her face looks upward thru the tiny window facing the sun. We have her coffee in steel tumblers, her beaten rice seasoned with coconut shreds and roasted red chilli in turmeric, curry leaf. My throat fills but the words say nothing. She is not as old as she looks, but her face! Crinkly with laughing eyes. “Never alone!” She says with thin fingers in pages of her Bible she reads like as if for the first time.
Jana needs nothing. Except to pray; when she does that it is startling. There’s the unseen in the room, and we trip into another world where mortal requests pale in the Gaze of the sacred. There is no loneliness here, and there is Belonging. You can’t imagine all that. Human emotions are cruelly honest. When Jana speaks to God, you’re included in Company that knows your heart. Here you are fully known. Understood, Taken.
She’s asking Peace, Love and oneness with God. The Bible here is just a little book, worn, torn. But It holds her, sweet captive. And my heart. Not wanting to leave. Not looking away. Fully known. Understood. Taken. Deep sigh.
Her coffee grows cold, the steel shining dusk lights in its rim. She hugs with her eyes, like a child, like a very old woman, but ageless in a Presence that does not bend with evening shadows. The Presence that has no shadow, It is 360 degrees Light, casting me in Its hold, as if for the first time.
The unlikeliest thing in the world is me starting up a Sports team, though I’m one for pranks.
Sports is a discipline, uh … less mindless game. You’re a team, you’re partnering: I’d love a skateboarding team: no petrol, no screaming tyres. Why the Giraffe: not sure . Sometimes we like an opposite thing: a stimuli that starts a smile, a hug in the sky. Amber spotted gawky giraffe in the sky : ring in the Child, like a whole new year of Joy. Colors like blue satin skies on amber.
I know. We’re not sailing pretty as an Earth. But there’s still God- given Giraffes and startling skies begging us to go play.
Daily writing prompt
If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?
Its like wide streets, getting smaller narrow, as we headed past childhood, where “the mind was without fear & the head held high,” (Tagore).
Now I’m learning that Borders are more than hemlines, and Race not just feet running to a Timer. War was in History books; Democracy – a constant;
what never changed was that we were taught from young, to pray for our Governments. Gran did that every morning. She read the papers and listened to political news along with Beatles on Radio Sri Lanka. She was horrified at Mini-skirts, and she wept prayers for us children to be bold, walk tall, good people, not taking advantage of anyone, even ourselves.
Ma after her, was the product of that kind of praying. She ran a Govt all by herself in every locality we lived at; she could’ve run for Office. And she did,that with us girls, raising us like sons next to a neighbour that lived under the Purdah, once a
Unsplash Pic
…landlord who didnt like our nonveg creed. She told him what came out our mouths was important, not what we put in it. She stood up to another Neighbor that beat her daughter for being born a girl. There was casteism, forms of local beliefs that opposed human rights – Ma wrapped her sari round her shoulders, lifted her head high and told them that we were all children of the living God, if we’d take that gift.
One Christmas on a tribal island, she and dad had every one home for dinner, and gave out Brotherhood till no one dared display meanness to each other even in the name of local law.
I saw and still see good people around, that represent the essence of why we are a nation, of what our responsibilities are. How have I changed?
Today I’m not praying for my nation/ continent/planet from a back pew. I’m saying it out loud. Unashamed to say am praying Diaries! Yes I’ve had a prayer diary for my earth, with cut outs of faces, news clips, and dark headlines. Its worked? Some did. Local / cross border chaos has alerted me, like never before to care deeply for our leaders. Every morning I pray that the Lord God will meet our Heads of State/ Ministers/ Chiefs/Presidents/ Heads of Governance… That God will bless them with His kindv wisdom, Grace, Justice and unlimited persistence in completing good works begun.
Watched “Unbroken” last night – a True story, hard to believe that, in a Time where it is survival of the fittest, any which way.
I’ve thought It would be a mountain-villa, ripe with sky, hands-free, minus gravity + acres of Time! But this happens:
PiCredit :Davidson Luna
the perfect Den grows for me – between Rock & Hard Place. Ask Anne Frank, Milton, Helen Keller, Mr.Beethoven, Spielberg, The Wright Bros., even Charlie the Chaplin:
I’ve read some great Blogs here and the best of them are mugged together on high seas, meaning, put together in breathless moments.
So, me: (maybe I have a few paintings worked in Joy), but if I built the ‘perfect’ location, maybe it’d fall flat in its nose, if it didn’t host a fire called “Deadline”.
That said, I dream of a hammock between rock cafe & shore. Hey I’ve been there, but each time, this face does hours staring at color, at Light chasing water, at sun crabs and how human toes need bare sand;
this week I caught a few hours of flu’ – and the laziness that follows. Here I am the uncombed sea, drunk with salt. Hehe, the Salt of Its beds. Nice; nice essays on sluggish ripe laziness.
With healing though, comes the leaving of pain, the dulling of throb. Gratitude. Absence of mess. A Void filling:
and in that Filling, is my Delivery Table, my Den. Here, my ears have eyes, and my toes grow arms. Here, in the departure of what intruded, my belly fills with appetite –
the need to hunger : for This Thing that eats gaps between Us & the Invisible Untraceable Springs: Its right here, where we nice people might be too comfortable to catch It;
or be caught in Its currents:
not a safe place my friend. Its the sweet grief of Adventurers and Travel-lusters. It bares witness to martyrs, saints, criminals, warriors, peace fighters and stubborn Prayerers:
This we humans have in common, that we are Searchers. Seekers. Most of us.
We got the Ache, then we got the Cure. We were Bored, then we wrote Books we Read when we search for what the Other wrote when they Wrote. We comb Paintings and consume movies,
in search of What must somehow gift us the gifts of beauty, youth, life, creativity. The day we stop searching we begin to kill our lights and shut our windows. The day we get the Perfect Plan for our Harvest, is maybe when we become a painting on the wall: a relic, a fable. Maybe.
Maybe I’m saying all this cuz I never got a “perfect writer/ art studio”. The thought crosses my head with steel tiptoes loud enough to scare my Muse. My Muse btw, is my Reality sitting square in the Centre of my clock: these are everyday courtesies between Neighborhoods, Children, Spouse, Spice, all these:
my new friend from across our eastern border, she’s 20 and married four ye ars. Older friends and new acquaintances: each with faces I study when they’re not looking. Shaya, Meju, Kian, Heba, each a Volume of Repair:
I’m thinking of my friend Tobia & her “snakes & ladders”. She plays people like board games. Sanballa her acquaintance however is as lethal: she is Pawn. These two I vow I will never be. But what if I’m a piece of a ladder myself, snaking in and out of dampeners to creativity?! What if – am staring at them between the hedges of my Eden, where
…I take quick sticky notes of God, of the Tree of Life, oh Cain, Abel, the serpent, the altar, every Sweet moan and umbilical pang of creative birth, where you and I congregate our selves to..
stare thru the glass darkly at Life, at What is, Is not, What can be, at Faith, Hope, at Love & games of war for peace, at Hate, at Laughter and the sound of festivals we celebrate: in corners where we unfold into an Eternity we extend into:
this dark glass is my Writing Den. (Reading though, is perhaps just another chair, same venue😅, else it don’t turn on any Lights!)
Daily writing prompt
You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?
We’ve just got back from totally southern appam/coconut milk, chutneys with steaming idlis, prawn stirred rice, mint soup, pickled baby mangoes and stew.
Mou asked for one recipe- I have too many stoves in my head, too many Flavors and spices. Will need to sort out head before we step into new things. At home my kitchen is a place filled with notes on frig, doors, windows. Words, Scripture, One liner prayers, these are my recipes.
Last night
Like a scruffy bouquet, every dish I fix is an all by itself, non repeatable…
MOU! Maybe my fish curry. Its the closest thing I have with my granma, Tara. Its what I share with my Ma too. You’d scent a whole coast of coconut. And chilli shred. Coriander, Jeera, fine roasted, mixed in with onion, methi seed, tamarind pulp, tomato coarse ground pulp.All of that seasoned with curry leaf in coconut oil, before / or after you toss slices in and cook gentle. Coconut milk added as you simmer that pot down. Am told its best to cook this in a mud pot but haven’t done that; should do soon though. Before you close that lid, toss in two or three sliced green chilli, and shredded coriander leaf.
Mou, I am not the best cook, but I believe the best food is served when garnished with love and a prayer for everyone’s wellbeing.
Does all this tally with my Title and Pic? Dunno. Its a chilly day, we’ve not unwound from our trip. It feels good and strong, in the heart where seasons turn turn turn; where colors begin and words can be bold or quiet: where prayers pray at altars wide as an earth tripping over and over on human folly or joy.
Pic I took off a stellar web visit:)
I choose Joy. Mixed with gingery awe. New year beginnings, old year endings, December decor, memos, errands, wishes, lists, shops to shop at, people, some with nothing, some with broken eyes, and my own spirit rising falling rising like the sun & rain, …like prayers I pray in the last week of another run: I pray peace with God. In the end, it is the one flavor that outruns all.
Influenced by kindness, by hate, by mercy and by the profanity of the cheapened soul, so steep they forgot their priceless ness. These things influence me like fire and ice and stones and lesser winds, or storms. They influence me towards or against them – the dark always edging, shying the light. Like windows to the sun, they all, each, in their own inimitable way, whether they like it or not nudge me open to Christ.
with my son Yona whose visual limits don’t stop him from breaking out loud. That with “D sharp” ( my new friend & donkey puppet, named after the musical note Yona and I both LOVE)! Had to face pup.him, cuz he’s not exactly camera friendly. NJ my husband is a Sound Genie and smoothed all discord, did my best though. Recorded in an hour flat, which is record for me. Doing anything for kids is rioting hard, unless you’re enjoying it, and we belly ache- laughed our way thru this one. Kitsy/ Vi, our fabulous girls ofcourse were there with every pat and grin. They know their momma is totally eccentric, but with Jesus.
(…soft toys from second daughter who’s chronically half a baby, and my own inner child that never grows up).
Every December esp, I stand in awe at the Act of Christ who loves us each in such impossible ways: reaching out to us, no matter the state of mind or personal aloofness to Him. I was three days deep in a hammering headache that refused to leave. Post that, this happened, as inanimate objects came alive. Condy Bear the Music Conductor, is really my dad. The scruffy angels : (Chicklet&Iizza the Ostrich), Winnie not the pooh, is decades old! Sheepie (my gift from dear Marija in Czech), Tiny (Giraffe from some street here), Petra rabbit (for our first born when she had her fifth vaccine to help smile, yeah😅) .. who else is who? Its in Description in this UTube upload ;
Repeat Video: but it declares my state of mind still: cartwheeling with the Joy of being loved, by the Christ,
cartwheeling out loud in every voice in my head. Gratitude for influences that gets me on my feet again, with joy & freedom from what can kill the spirit. Am running out of words; have a blessed season.
(Apologies : messy post. Running to another city for a bit)
buying December- herb seasonings in my “Grace-ry” list:
Joy- clusters of vine: deep in my soul where I’m trapped ‘neath the debris of a falling earth. I’m buying Time on eleventh hour mercy, listing reasons for glad-sizzles –
steaming spiced rices, cardamom in desserts, bay leaf roasted in fires ringing in sweet flags of salvation.
My daughter asks, “Ma how dyou do different Character voices/ acts/ ..” ( we just uploaded our tiny Act, attached link below).
She’s serious and waits. I reply, “…only some times; if I’ve rested up.” Little Theatre has followed me a bit. That and the Drama of the Cross stops me in my tracks and turns me inside out.The way He reaches out to all our differences, indifferences….
This year, its warmer: This One Who never ceases to impact my life, and funny bones.
🌿🌾 (Yona my son; blindness isn’t necessarily Puppet-friendly, but he was such a sport!)
Dailyprompt 2155
Daily writing prompt
Describe a man who has positively impacted your life.
Innerdialects 
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