where the writers are
Old Bookkeeping, New Painting
Painting 1.jpg



October 1





What will become of the fine lines I use to divide good news from bad?  How will I handle a life with no screen to keep the silt from shifting across my personal landscape?  A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes; now the checks are bouncing randomly, no pattern or restraint.  My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end, leaving many questions and much uncertainty.  I lift the green visor from my brow, looking for answers from the periphery.  Taking the long view I put down my pencil and pick up my paints, sling the easel over my shoulder and walk away from meticulous survival.  The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes and even bad news is somehow good.



Donate some time.






Saltbox House


Refusing to make reasonable demands

is quite as dysfunctional as making unreasonable demands.

The opposite of an extreme is often twice as crazy

and harder to explain.


I open my mouth and dry toast is the reply.

Nothing should be said when nothing can be done

and to do nothing is harder than one might think.


I fold my hands but my lap rejects them;

I quiet my mind but my soul objects.

I must let my heart sing

and trust you enough to ask for help.