Woven heart

Riding in the back seat, my two dear friends talking in the front, I chose to listen to music on my phone and just kind of zone out for a while.  Sometimes in the morning I’m not ready for a lot of conversation, and this was my introverted way to cope.

We traveled smoothly along a highway free of snow and ice, passing a few towns, seeing farm land and old barns now and then.  The sun was partly obscured by thin, high clouds, giving everything a creamy white softness, gentle on the eyes.

Many of the sights were familiar because we have been on this same road many times, either in this annual pilgrimage or on our own separate journeys.  Winter had made it all brown and dull, but even in that, it was a beautiful ride.

Passing one old barn yard I noticed the holes in the roof, the broken down fence, the rotting wood siding, and wondered to myself for the hundredth time what it was that drew my attention to those old relics of the past.  I thought of how the man made stuff rots and decays eventually.  

A still, small voice told me that yes, what man creates will be lost, but you, who I love, your soul is eternal and will never go away.  In that fleeting moment I was inspired.  I held those words in my own heart. The music in my head phones continued and we soon reached our destination.

Later that morning, I sat in a room that was quiet except for soothing music in the background, listening to instructions by a dear friend for making a woven heart, hearing and reading about meditative practices.  A place to create, an opportunity to simply be in the moment.

The still, small voice called to me again.  

I have woven you together, 
every cell, every hair, each heart beat.  
Woven, from the first strands of love. 
Delicate fibers spun by my hands,
gathered together in rhythm and cadence, 
each tiny fiber of divine.
This, you. 
From my weaver’s loom, 
draped around this beautiful soul.

My woven paper heart was coming together, and it took a while to pull it into the shape it was intended to be.  A simple bit of creating, but so full of inspiration.  My pencil was busy writing the words that poured forth, words that now covered the outside of a large envelope.    

In the weaving
we are born.
From the shaping and pulling comes our strength.
As we share this fabric
that is our life….
which has no hem….
blankets the lives we touch.


Monday Inspiration

Art for sale

Everything you see on this table is artwork created by young people, some very young, some with special needs, some who are home schooled.  They all participate in activities where they can create through an organization called Awakening Minds Art.  A friend of ours works with them, making home visits, and we provide space for them to meet at our church.  

Saturday evening they had an art auction to raise funds for the coming year, and that is why you see this table full of artwork here.  I had the privilege of taking photos throughout the evening.  If you are on Facebook, you can view their page here and see the many images of the kids as they showed their masterpieces during the auction.  The smiles on their faces will warm your heart!

We spoke to the mom of a little girl who had done a painting and sold it that evening.  Mom talked about how her child has been helped simply by being able to create the artwork.  Just telling you about it here is kind of difficult to relate, because you can’t see the light in mom’s eyes as she spoke about it, nor can you hear the gratitude in her voice.  

Creating. Celebrating. Sharing it with the world. Who knows how many lives will be touched by the art that was shared that evening! 

Happy Monday!




Monday Inspiration

Frost on sunrise

When the Frost is on the Punkin


When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! …
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Frost on the pumpkin
Sharing a bit of inspiration with you to start of your week…
This was a favorite poem of my grandfather’s.
Read more about the author at The Poetry Foundation