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Writing, learn-ing, jewelry, deconstructing t-shirts and reality - it's what I do. I live to be inspired, and to inspire.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

From the imagination

“Live out of your imagination, not your history.” Stephen Covey

The artist begins with a vision of what she wants to create. She figures out what she needs to make it: should she use canvas or paper, watercolor or acrylics, wood or stone, pen or pencil? She goes through the plethora of options and routes; determines what tools and skills she needs to achieve the effect she desires, the vision she imagines. Decisions are made and she begins her search… she already has this, she knows where to find that; she’ll have to buy this and maybe ask around to get a hold of that. Oh no! She doesn’t have that! But maybe this will work instead. She gathers what she needs and, taking a deep breath, sets to work. Sometimes she knows what she’s doing, other times she’s learning as she goes along. Some brush strokes are deliberate, some pencil strokes are just “winging it.” She makes some mistakes, but there’s no erasing.

She realizes early on that this may not go exactly as she planned, but she pushes on, believing in herself, believing in her vision. As the creation unfolds the creator understands – it’s not exactly as she envisioned, it’s even better! With a tweak in perception here and a change in method there she begins to discover her own masterpiece. She releases the reigns of her creativity and lets the art flow because she has exactly what she needs to do exactly what she’s doing.

She steps back. She looks at what she has before her. She knows it is done. She releases it to its own existence. She has done her part, and now it is finally over. Her creation may go on to inspire the world, or it may sit in a quiet room unseen. The important thing is she acknowledged her vision, sought what she needed, used what she had and created something beautiful – a life lived out of her imagination. She exhales for the last time and smiles.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

First born

by Kelene Blake

Dear Mother,

I miss you. I miss feeling the muffled pound of your heartbeat. I miss tingling with the medley of emotions that you felt, that I felt, when I was in my water filled cradle… the intermingling of joy, fear, worry, hope… love. I miss the safety of you, surrounding every aspect of my being. We were one then. You nurtured me before even you knew I was there. And when you found out I was in you, you nurtured me more. You didn’t even know me yet, but you loved me.

When my cradle became too small, became cramped, I felt you gently squeeze me, coaxing me out of my warm cozy world. Then you pushed! You pushed me out of the only home I knew. I was so frightened. I didn’t know then that my new home in your arms would be so much better, because from there I could see your face beaming down at me like the morning sun. I miss your face.

I was here for two days… two beautiful days when I had you all to myself. You held me, fed me, cleaned me, and answered my cries. You held me close to you. I can still taste your sweet, comforting touch. You sang to me with your cottony voice. You loved me, like no one else. I was your first born.

Now I look at my four siblings with envy. They have so many experiences I never had. You held their hands when they were learning to walk. You picked them up and comforted them when they fell. You put band-aids on their bruises. You cooked them Sunday meals and Christmas dinners. You swung them on swings, took them into the water at the beach, carried them to see fireworks on Independence Day. You took them to Church every Sunday and taught them about God. You taught them to drive. You let them use your car. You gave them relationship advice. You taught them to love. If I knew how much I was going to miss I would not have left. Now they have you, and I don’t.

They get to give you gifts every Mothers’ day, Christmas and birthday. If I were there, Mother, I’d give you a gift every day. They get to kiss you and hug you. But from where I am, I long to touch your face, but I cannot. They don’t deserve you Mother. My siblings do not treat you the way I would. I would bring you flowers every day. I know you like flowers Mother. I would hug and kiss you every chance I get. I would tell you I love you a million times a day. I never even got the chance to tell you I love you.

You never tell my brothers and my little sister about me. They don’t know what by birthday is. They don’t know the color of my eyes. They don’t even know my name. Do you remember what you named me Mother, on the day I was born? Sometimes I wonder if you have forgotten all about me. But there are times, those rare moments… when you’re gardening, or holding one of your grandchildren… that I see it in your eyes. You remember me. You feel my presence. You still love me.

Mother I am sorry I left you so quickly, but the angel said it was time. It wasn’t your fault that I left. I heard you cry out when my body stiffened and I stopped suckling at your breast. I saw the anguish on your face. But it was too late. I couldn’t come back. My purpose on this earth was fulfilled. I came to teach you to love in a way you never before knew… and to be loved by you. I had two days. Those two days I will treasure for an eternity. I never really left you Mother. One day you will understand…

With love,

Your First Born