Perle Champion

Journal Entry 3/11/13. I ran away today in time. When the sun didn’t come, I sat back on the sheltered balcony and watched the clouds pour forth to wash fresh my world. The steady din of rain upon the roof of this small place is a song, one of many that I love. The storm passes and I’m free to walk on.

All the sounds of life surround me: the wind rustling the long grasses, gulls flying low and calling to me hopeful for a crumb, and the surf, the ever-pounding surf.

The surf pushes and pulls me as I walk through its flow, shoes tied and slung across my shoulder, bare feet on sand leaving a fleeting imprint on the strand.

Friday February 15 – 10 days yesterday since my last post.  I just decided that I’d proven to myself what I needed to prove.  It started with the January 1 commitment to myself that I could write and post a blog every day for a year.  That I could write on demand without a thought in my head as to what that writing would contain.

I found poetry came easier than much else, and haiku demanded I be brief.  Some were successful, some banal, some just utilitarian.

Thing is I took a lesson from an on-line friend who used to have a blog called Mildly Creative.   He said it’s okay to be mildly creative.

I read that and looked around and found what I already know. Not all that is published by anyone is all pure gold, some is mediocre, some down right bad.  It’s okay to be mildly creative.  The thing is to continue creating.

I’m leaving the day job March 29, for my home office studio.  I’ve been planning, painting, drawing and writing (not blogging).

With this post, I’m back.  There’ll be some poetry, some paintings and updates on my journey through this my 64th year.

• Three-page mini-website is up and I’m working on the full blown one.
• E-book on journaling and publishing from the pages of your journal is almost finished and I should launch it late March/early April.
• Poetry e-book is taking shape.
• Nostalgia essay under consideration at Victoria Magazine.
• More to come…

in dream I oft walk
familiar streets, halls, houses
dream more real than life.

I often wonder which is the reality of our life. Which is the real dream. Which is the real life. What does real really mean.

The yellow brick road beckons

the wheel keeps turning
seen as fast or slow depends
if you’re young or old.

beyond the windows
fogged by lovers heavy breath
nature has her way

miles and miles i’ve
come
some walked
many run
alone and not too
and with you i’d walked
but just a few
but there was something
familiar in the pace
my mind recalls that
gentle face
somewhere, somewhen
my friend
we’d walked in step
before
and somewhere, somewhen
we’ll fall in step again
and share a few
miles more

days are flying by
I dawdle and stroll along
rushing gets me naught

I have so many projects on my to do list. Not having to go in on Monday’s is a such a boon. I have 3 whole days to get something done just for me every week.

But the drive is missing; I read, write a bit, organize, and pretty much spend the time like so much spare change.

I really need to get a handle on this waste of precious days, hit a balance of work and play – no rush.

necessities’ art

salvaged scraps stitched carefully

an eye to beauty

Gees’ own winter count

Each maps a time’s history

unlikely treasures

Sad how often the world dismisses out of hand the work called women’s work.

The women of Gees Bend sewed their quilts of necessity to keep themselves and their families warm.

Just because they were necessary, didn’t mean they had to be ordinary.  Anything worth doing was well.  These are anything but ordinary.  As vibrant and alive as any famous artist’s work, perhaps more so because they tell a story of a time as well as keep the maker and her family warm.

One woman made a quilt of all the clothing of her departed husband’s clothes to wrap herself in when she missed him in the night – art as beauty, function and comfort – art doesn’t get any better than that.

at the precipice
faith that the net will appear
waivers firms waivers

Face the fear and do it anyway. That’s the only way. We often fear the unknown and in so doing, trod the known rut far too long.

The butterfly stomach speaks to that little voice of doubt. I’ve embraced it as part and parcel, boon companion on the path of my new adventure.

“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say”
— Tolkien.