On New Birth


On New Birth

I remember. Forgetting is not an option. And if it was, I would choose to recall every fragment of the story. Remembering and forgetting sit with mystery and paint the canvas of today. The brushstrokes of tomorrow hold wet paint of waiting. And the fragments’ fragments, I would recall each one.

We are marked as mother’s by the ways we bring life into the world. The ways. There are many.  Laboring for years of a life changes perspective. Like tears on a page, the lines blur after being soaked by saline droplets racing down rivulets over cheekbones and around earlobes. Salt enhances flavor. Every memory is tinged with vivid recollection. The tear catchers can tell of what they witnessed. They held hope and joy and pain in equal measure.

And seeing life through the lens of infertility becomes a lens for seeing the world. Because the waits and pauses and hold on’s feel again like that. Pregnant pauses weigh us heavy with wonder. The question that shouts from the heart is why. Why slow down or shackle? Why hold back on life and gift and art and the birthing of new. Wrestling and wrangling possibility, I remember what I forgot. Perfect timing demands time. It is the wellspring, the life source, the fountain of new birth.

This thing about new birth and creation and creative birthing?  It is constant. It comes. It walks in the door, it comes through the womb, it bursts forth from the soil and it erupts from the limbs of the pecan tree. And this other thing, its Irish twin is the mystery of when. In waiting on the birth of a creative project, I feel mystery in the infertility of now. Now feels pressed with wait. Now is held by the weight of wait. When is held by mystery.

So I adopt a posture of certainty. It comes in part from the trail of fat bread crumbs on the path of before. I am sure of the sureness. I am at peace with the pause. I am attending the beauty of the mysteries of but when. Because faith and hope and love are in the soil. And that is all I know. They are in the soil of the tree, the soil of the garden and the soul of me.

And when I forget, I come back to this. I am certain of the certainty of new birth. And I am certain of the power of a tear.


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peace and grace to you,


The Blackbird Stole My Poetry And Other Lame Excuses

The Blackbird Stole My Poetry And Other Lame Excuses

I dreamed once in a daydream, not resting under indigo back-lit sky.The scarlet winged blackbird came to visit me. An awakening. Unwelcome.Unannounced. The visit was a robbery of unfinished words, my art.

Every poem left abandoned, in embryonic stages, wet ink pen lying in repose, by the paper’s side, was carried off  by my feathered enemy. Fowl dressed in red and black. Colors of his uniform for war. And I, my own worst enemy.

I cannot blame him. For abandoned art remains fair game.

I cannot hold him to account. He saw that I was sleeping, not attending to my work.

But I must thank him, properly. For while he could have released them, into a angry wind. He chose instead to drop them off for me to start again.

The shreds of paper would have served him to line his feathery nest. But instead they floated back to earth in billowing down-currents and landed by my right side.

The blackbird gives a second chance. Waking me from sleep. In gratitude I offered him a seat. We’re here now beak to cheek sitting in soft repose. At my windowsill. He no longer dressed  for war, but in tones of of papal royalty. Restorer of the second chance.

I dreamed once in a daydream. I found again lost poetry.



When You Want To Start Over From The Very Beginning

I have a young friend who is brave and beautiful. I’ve known her for a long forever. Since she was a child, Bennett has been a sweet part of my world. Gentle and kind, soft-spoken and a lover of beauty. These words come rest on my lips, as I begin to paint her with my words, speaking honestly about the young woman I know, respect and love. I word paint her through the lens of my poetry. And I paint her artist. Lover of all that is waiting to be discovered.

Now I  sit with different  words. I have found joy anew as I watch her enter the world of a painter. Bennett has bravely left a career which required four years of college and  a Master’s Degree. And now I call her bold. And passionate.

This fresh young artist is filled with passion and bravery as she pursues life as a painter. Embracing the gifts she was given long ago with enthusiasm. With energy. And with whimsy in every stroke.

As a child she loved painting and making art. Her determination shows up in brilliant shades of life. On every canvas, she pours her soulful interpretation of the world. Haiti, Aspen, Miami, The South Carolina Lowcountry and Charleston – each of these places influence and inspire her art. Each of Bennett Brown Sizemore’s paintings is a decidedly unique snapshot of the world. Bennett’s style is unique and remarkable and a bit undefinable. It is at once simple and elegant, teeming with an exuberance which is palpable. The world seen through her paintbrush is brilliant and whimsical. Hope-filled and radiant. Her passion was curled up in the cocoon of her heart. Waiting to be unfurled. Fully. For us to savor and enjoy.

What a gift she is using. What a gift she gives. To Him be the glory.


So now I want to start over and begin again with my own art. With my writing. But I cannot really go back to my first day when I stepped into my own passion as a writer.

But in His mercy we can begin again, infused with re-newed passion. Restored to our art. Regenerated in our spirits to see the world, though there is pain and grief, in all its beauty. And to marvel. With a re-commitment to press on as co-creators with Artist God. To live into the privilege we’ve been given. To paint the world or to paint our experience in a way which allows us to live any moment a glorious second time.

As artists we process the world through our medium. We show and tell others where the beauty lies. And point to the extra-ordinary ordinary in a world filled with endless amounts of simple beauty. Extravagant beauty.

Who can we encourage today. Who can we cheer on and say “Go Make Your Art”.

Today I choose Bennett because Bennett Sizemore  inspires me. And in some small way or a decidedly significant way, I am inspired anew to create and to press on with my art. And to marvel at the beauty, wonder and colorful whimsy of the world through Bennett Sizemore’s lens.

Bennett Sizemore Art





Dear Marvelous:

You found me. Perhaps I found you. We found each other. We are now sojourners for a journey of days and weeks and seasons, through the calendar of 2016. While the earth spins and turns, we will look for the poetry. Together.

We missed the early days. We had not found each other yet when January began her spartan dance, slow and waltzing. Fresh with hope. So we are shy a full deck of 365. But we press on in the remaining. Linked. Arms hooked. You are an encourager of delight, a finder of the extraordinary and a lover of whimsy.

You are not the Pollyanna that some may think. You are not the eternal optimist. The wearer of rose-colored glasses. You are green with new birth. Effervescent with joy in the face of discovery. Yes, you are life-giving and eager to delight in the best. Often the simple.

The “m” sits on the edge of pursed lips, determined and brave and pushes off like a swimmer doing the butterfly. A graceful lunge. Into the realm of wonder and possibility. A sea of mystery and marvel. High tides, low tides. Ebbing and flowing. Always tossing up the treasures to be collected on the edges of our walk.

So there you are. Light in the dark. Warmth in the cold. You shade and color the nuances of life with glorious richness. With exquisite simplicity. Elegance in the simple. You are regal as a peasant in her everyday-ness. You are riches in the rags. Hope in despair. Light in the shadows.

Marvelous, you are a mindset. A lens. A capturer of life’s best and rarest. A treasure seeker. A seeker of intrigue.

Thank you for choosing me. Here’s to a year of marveling together. At all the mystery. Through the pain. Into the dark days. Around the deep ditches and past the hurdles of sorrow. Over, under, around.

Here’s to uncovering the marvelous. For you and for me. In the everyday. In every day. In Him and by Him. Glory be to the Creator of the marvelous.