Below these pictures is my full blog post. Oh, and as you can see, I've changed my blogger template. Not by choice, mind you. The other template was misbehaving. I'm not really sure what the problem was. But the top half of it was going black. So I guess I'm stuck with this template until I can figure it out. Also my wonderful playlist malfunctioned while I was away, as well. So I'm quite bummed. Awe, fare thee well, my music and old cheerful template. I'm very sad to see you vanish. Perhaps I will find a better one. I hope. Crosses fingers.
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| View from the side of the hill |
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| These look like ancient castle walls |
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| just so pretty |
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| gold |
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| Storm is coming |
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| storm is here |
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| more gold |
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| a moment |
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| a quilt of colors |
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| love the mist hugging the mountain |
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| contrast |
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| royal trees |
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| richness |
I love that quote. It reminds me that even though I want things all at once, my time and God's time are totally different.
I have to be patient.
I have to write one word, drip, one sentence, drip, one paragraph at a time, drip, and do all the in between stuff that makes up my life. Drip, drip drip.
God is in the pauses just as he is in the tempests. Sometimes it's just hard to see it.
I'm slowly dripping along with my work. Though it has taken a long time. It's funny how you have a goal in mind, and then life happens. People need you, and storms come.
I get frustrated when I can’t reach my goal in time. Yet, I'm glad for these breaks as much I dislike them. They give me writing perspective, more to write about, and more depth.
It's been while, I know. But don't think I have totally neglected this special spot. No. I came here when I was quite out of sorts and wrote, and wrote, and wrote. Then, I decided that though I wanted to share with you my frustrations, I probably shouldn't, at least not now.
My Grandpa just died a few weeks ago. My last living
grandparent. So now I'm officially a granorphanny. The week he passed was hard
for many reasons, and since then, all the things that have happened in between
have caused me to shy away from writing. First because my creative juices felt
dried up under emotional drainage, and secondly because I was needed in so many
different places, and directions. By the time I had time to write I was too
tired.
So suffice it to say that I have wanted to scream at the top of my lungs on many occasions, but had to be perfectly understanding, agreeable, and calm, when all the while, I wanted to do was run. It's downright making me feel like I'm going to burst!
I wish I could go into details. But lets just say, dealing with a number of bipolar people who are going manic, paranoid, is very frustrating.
Maybe that's why I write. Because I get to air my thoughts without someone taking and twisting them into something I didn't mean. Here, I can put my words down and they are merely words. Nothing more. Thoughts with no real power whatsoever except what I give to them.
Life is odd. It seems no one is immune from problems, and sadness. Lots of sad things have been happening to those around me. It seems troubles come in waves, and at this point and time, it seriously has. Friends, and neighbors all around me are going through sickness, pain, divorce, and even death. Problems I wouldn't wish on anyone. But there they are. And here we are, bundled together in the miracle called life.
I guess, the only thing we can really do when troubles happen is to be there for those that need us. To be their shoulder to cry on, if we can. To be an ear. To learn greater compassion from the loss and sadness in our own life, and give that kind of understanding to others hurting around us.
I sound really morbid I know. But its true. Lately with the seasons change, a cold wind has blown in again, bringing with it all sorts of problems. The only way I know how to combat its chill and remain unscathed by the frost, is by huddling together, and offering a blanket to those who don't have one.
I'm hoping the cold winds will stop blowing, at least for awhile.
Today the sun is shining. And the sky is blue, and there is a hint---slight glimmer of good things to come.
So I am happy. I will take all the sunshine while I can, and store it up for a cold, winter's day.
The past few weeks I've been intensely involved in helping my older sister with a book she has been working on. It's a children's book, and if all goes well it should be released soon.
Now that her project is over with. I'm going back to work on my own projects. How I do relish writing, delving into my own thoughts and creating characters and worlds that are quite their own.
I had planned on getting my next book out before the autumn. But plans are often postponed. And it is autumn. Maybe it's fitting because of my chosen pen name, Ivory Autumn.
Even though I love the fall colors, the reds, brilliant yellows and oranges, it makes me feel wistful, and pensive. The changing season is so apparent. The fall tang is in the air--- the empty forsaken quiet of the trees after all the birds have left. The north breeze. The startling emptiness when the neighborhood children are whisked away to school, and the awaking bareness of all the college students leaving. How lonely it feels.
I'm staring out my window. The green of summer has changed dramatically. I can see hundreds of marble-sized, orange-red crab apples weighing down the branches of the tree beside my window. Beyond, the lime-green leaves of the ash tree is tinted with golden leaves, and further on, a line of rust-colored weeds await the farmers torch.
Summer has really gone. I'm not sure how it vanished. It
seemed like it was summer just a moment ago. Hot, and humid, windy, and
wonderful. It was fast, beautiful, and
sweet.
The harvest is here. Our kitchen is full of apples, tomatoes, squash,
watermelon, pears, and lets not forget fruit flies---those lovely bugs that
reproduce in seconds. Abundances is everywhere.Yesterday my mom and I picked the huckleberries she planted in the spring, staining our hands in its royal purple hue. They are beautiful berries, a deep purple. As for their taste---well. They are a work in progress. They taste awful when first picked. Blah. Yuck. But after they are cooked, and doctored with a lot of sugar, canned with time, their rich, tart, purple flavor comes out. Huckleberry pie is wonderful.
I could learn a lesson from the huckleberry. At first glace they look scrumptious. Yet it isn't until they are picked, cooked, smothered in sugar, canned, and aged with time, does their true glory come out.
Writing a book is a lot like that, something whose flavor doesn't come through until its been through a long process. At first, you get this beautiful idea. But then it isn't that great until you really prepare it, cook it, fill it with good things, lots of time, and waiting. Only when it's time has come, does it truly become the kind of book-pie you knew it could be.
Yes. Perhaps I too am a huckleberry.
Maybe the problems and bumps in the road are cooking the bitterness out of me, making me sweeter. Hopefully not making me the opposite. Sigh. I guess time will tell:)
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| Bottled huckleberries |
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| Huckleberry jam |
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| Making jam |
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| Basket full of fresh huckleberries |
I came across this music video from my favorite artists, and loved it. It expresses my feelings at this moment.
Hope, frustration, change, trust, and a firm resolve to keep on going even though I don't know what the outcome will be---finding joy in the journey, in every season.
