I haven't had the ambition to write lately.

But the fir tree and a voice inside changed my mind tonight. The reflections of the Christmas tree lights hung in the glass sky of the framed door. The lights remained there like a mini constellation. What a pure thing. I did nothing more than lay there on the couch peering at the clustered constellations.

It sounded quiet. Then the thuds of window frames loosed by the wind, rumbled. Then the quiet sound of snow joined. The snow, the wind, the constellations shining in front of me, a pen I haven't had the nerve to carry more than an inch or two tucked in my hand.

I just want to write one good thing from it. Complete and concrete.


painting instead of writing- this is new. when words can't be, there's color.

The disappearance of a trait is unsolvable. At first at least, it seems so. And then you realize, it is merely a response. The disappearance is a response. So go ask questions. Find a bed of smooth crushed land where deer rest and notice the bended grass. Throw a cold stick on a half frozen pond and watch it skid, bouncing on chipped ice. Drown your ears in a child's good natured laugh. Say thanks for the warmness that almost burns your arms as you claw hot fresh clothes from the cold basement dryer. Don't get ahead of yourself. Don't get lost behind yourself.
Listen when someone says, "That's what you think. I think. . . "
Say God's name out loud and find Him gladly in the thicket. Decide what to do. How will this be?


so much to see 

Learn from the honesty of children. After the disappearance of something lost, something new is born.

Reappearance is relieving and as new as the first slice of light spreading on a bare floor of a dark room. The invasion of one span of light is a path for one step forward. Which, I'm finding, is more than enough to start on.



I entered a room and when I looked up, there, high in the corner,
a new chorus of stars.


He put them there