Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
It feels like Friday, but it’s Wednesday (I almost said Tuesday. That’s how out of sync I feel.) I finished reading another good book last night (Cilka’s Journey by Heather Morris) and now I’m on the prowl for my next read.) The more I stay at home, the less desire I have to go out.
I want to spend an hour or so, virtually, in the company of women, playing with watercolour and conversing, but I have things on the go and a little dog who demands my attention so I steal delicious snippets in which I can be present. It has to be enough. I work on a painting where
Some weeks drag, others seem to pass by in the blink of a eye. This was one of the latter. (On that note, we seem to be moving through February at an equally swift pace. Strange, for a short month that usually seems so long.) Anyway, it’s time for Friday’s Fave Five—an opportunity to look
That I am optimistic enough to attempt to pull together a post for Friday’s Fave Five this week is a statement in and of itself about the lifting of the metaphoric fog I’ve stumbled around in for months. As Martha would say, “It’s a good thing.” So here we go. A pedi. For years, going
I can’t order proof copies of new unpublished books from Amazon KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) because of COVID and the fact that I’m in Canada which, of course, in the grand scheme is insignificant but in my little world is an annoyance. It also makes absolutely no sense. I need to get creative to do
I wake from a dream in which I had returned to work in a similar role as one I was once very proficient in. I was, shall we say, less so in the dream and in my early wakefulness ponder what I remember and what’s lost to me about the technical aspect of my former
As I’ve been pondering blogging, what it once was, and what I imagine it returning to now, I remembered The Simple Woman’s Daybook. Months ago, when I was really struggling, I began listing things in my journal that I saw, smelled, tasted, heard, and felt as a grounding practice. It sounds simple, but it helped.
My granddaughter and I dabble with watercolor in my woman cave. It’s her first experience with the medium and, as a creative, she enjoys every new step. Mixing paint. Washing it onto wet paper and watching it bleed. Pulling tape off the edges of a finished painting. All deemed, in her words, “satisfying.” She hands
When I decided to start playing with watercolour I was overwhelmed by choice. Paints, palettes, paper, brushes. I researched and studied and made decisions that were right for me—all the while washing paint on wet paper and being fascinated by the process. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to paint. Loose flowers, more true-to-life botanicals,
Gerry and I have been playing chess regularly for over a year. When we first started, I made foolish moves and didn’t think ahead. It was a given that he’d capture my king but I was determined to improve so I persevered. Loss after loss. Angst upon angst. Until, one day, I won! I let
I’m at the park, kneeling at my tripod and looking through the viewfinder at some flowers I don’t know the name of. What someone somewhere called them in the past doesn’t matter. They’re growing here today and I’m appreciating their unique beauty and attempting to capture a reasonable digital representation. Sometimes I catch glimmers of