Like a stack of books...

Today, I'm revelling in the small things.

like,

a stack of books.

 

A cold, wet morning.

Dark looming clouds.

A globe.

words.

Someone playing piano on youtube.

Irish books.

A chubby cup of coffee.

Brutal honesty.

Chicken soup bubbling on the stove.
my head full of thoughts.

Agape love.

algebra problems.

Bambi.

Clean floors.

Hugs.

Writing.

Savory pancake breakfast.

pictures of granola.

Reading from Esther and Psalms.

prayers.

Whistling to birds.

kittens.

Stacked rocks.

Wind.

Being a sinner saved by grace.

 

 

 

today.

today.
is one of those days
where the 'to do' lists
loom long.
and the wind blows cold
and hard.
the sky hangs still
and grey.

today.
I chased my golden-colored dog
down the street.
I cleaned.
I folded laundry.
I put on an argyle sweater.
I made mounds of sparkly,
red and pink
valentines.

today.
I want to crawl inside
a book store,
and I may not come out.
I will take french roast coffee with me.
a thick cable-knit sweater.
notebooks.
red pens.
I will find a small little nook
deep inside the bookshelves,
on the top floor
and I will read,
and wonder,
and ask,
and answer,
and watch.

But today.
I still need to make piles of
pastry dough.
cookies with pink
m+m’s in them.
bags of plum tarts
for a party tomorrow.
Spaghetti for dinner.
I still need to add words
to my paper hearts,
and words to white paper
for a blogpost.

the bookstore,
I suppose,
must wait
for another cold,
blustery day…

 

A page with words.

When I don't write. It's not because I have nothing to say. When I don't write, it's because I have too much to say. Thoughts crowd my mind like so many books weighing on old shelves. Thoughts. Fragments. They float mid-air. If I don't write, I don't give shape and form to these floating things. I feel that I fail.

Lately the thoughts come thick and fast. They fill the shelves of my mind so full they tumble off into a cahotic heap. When I lay down at night my head is heavy as lead because it's so full of thoughts.

I know very well my thoughts are not always, if ever, original. My small mind contains questions that have been asked by millions of minds before me.

But there's something satisfying in expressing something in your own words even if it isn't your original idea.

What is the good of having thoughts, opinions; ideas, if you can't give them flesh and bones in clear words? Thoughts without words are faceless clocks that can't tell time, croissants without butter, books with empty pages.

I feel as though I could lock myself away for a long time and just write. The words would spill reckless over the pages. In the end, I wouldn't have an incredible manuscript, something brimming with oringinal ideas. I wouldn't have a New York Times Bestseller. But what I would have, would be mine. It would be my thoughts and ideas made flesh.