March- in like a snowman 2022

I've decided to be more Irish.

 

Last snow of March,  plant wild flower seeds.  

Psalms 31: 15  My times are in your hand...

Coffee with creamer, one cup- not two - or there will be repercussions.  

"Amen and Alleluia!"  Martin Luther 

I like trees.  Are they for me a sense of place?  Place, that has function, variety, and sanctuary. 

 

Jeremiah 17:8. For he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green and shall not be careful in the year of drought neither shall cease from yielding fruit.  

Chap happy? 

Writing is like painting a picture with words on a canvas.  It sets up.  Becomes the one thing.  I own it.  The story.  A glob of hardened clay.  It becomes a separate something other than the place, the person, or thing that I have written about. Poured into concrete.

 I want to hang onto it as mine.  But fluidity is lost towards that thing, that person, that place.  I  don't want that either, because personal stories keep changing, including mine.

Folk art is organic.  I discover these words in my heritage. Writings can change.  

  So who would revise and edit a Monet or even a Grandma Moses once the paint has dried- the painter.  

I don't get along with paint.  (Except on the side of the house.)

Coffee at the hospital.  The table top displays four sections under glass of whole grains-the crops that are raised in the Red River Valley.  Wheat, corn, sunflowers, and soy beans where I was raised.

I have grieving to do today, and today I need to do it alone.