It’s time for my annual autumn post. How I love this season! The quiet, in between time. The time to be still, to rest.

My tribute to Fall 2021 is a poem by Maya Angelou called Late October. We do, indeed, begin to stop, in order to begin again.

the leaves of autumn
sprinkle down the tinny
sound of little dyings
and skies sated
of ruddy sunsets
of roseate dawns
roil ceaselessly in
cobweb greys and turn
to black
for comfort.

Only lovers
see the fall
a signal end to endings
a gruffish gesture alerting
those who will not be alarmed
that we begin to stop
in order simply
to begin

A Picture and a Thought

Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly taking
The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
Under the pines, or above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky.
                                                        ~Mary Oliver


*Photo by Dixie Lawrence


Faith and Art

A while back, I re-read a book called WALKING ON WATER by one of my favorite authors, Madeleine L’Engle.

Walking on Water

In it, L’Engle talks about how faith and art are often connected.

She says, “When the artist is truly the servant of the work, the work is better than the artist. When the work takes over, the artist listens and  is able to get out of the way, to not interfere. The great paradox, though, is that before the artist can listen, he must work.” She goes on to explain that the principal part of faith is patience, and that this applies to art of all disciplines. “We must work every day whether we feel like it or not,” she says, “otherwise, when it comes time to get out of the way and listen to the work, we will not be able to heed it.”

Wise words – about a writer’s work ethic, belief in the work he or she is doing, and belief in the process of creating.

Another point L’Engle makes is that if the reader cannot create a book along with the writer, the book will never come to life.  She says that stories, no matter how simple, can be vehicles of truth, and that stories are able to help us become more whole. “We do not judge great art,” she explains. “It judges us.”

“We are too busy to be quiet and listen,” she says, “to see our creative attempts as a reflection of the Creator of the universe.  All true art is incarnational.  The artist is a servant who is willing to be a birth-giver.”

Doing the work daily is difficult. It’s easy to be discouraged and wander. Or completely run away. But perseverance pays off. And we learn something about ourselves in the process.

Perseverance. Taking time to listen. Faith in the art we create. I’m telling myself these things as I get back to my writing.


It’s time for my annual fall post. No poem this time. Just a thought, something that reminds me how much I love the fall. 


                                                  “Autumn is a second spring, where every leaf is a flower.”
                                                                                                                         ~Albert Camus


A Picture and a Thought


Oh, the plums. The sweet, bright taste of plums. William Carlos Williams said it so well in his poem This is Just to Say:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

And which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

We picked these from a tree in our backyard. It was astonishing how quickly they ripened. Green one day, a deep purple red the next. Mother Nature is truly amazing. And now, we have our own plums…waiting in the icebox.

A New Year

I missed saying goodbye to the old year and welcoming in the new one, so I’ll just say hope your Christmas was wonderful and…Happy New Year!

As the year 2020 opens before us, I offer this quote by C. S. Lewis, in whatever your endeavor.

And if you haven’t watched ‘The Failurist’ TED talk by Marcus Zusak, you should. Here’s the link.








Thanksgiving 3

I can’t believe Thanksgiving is already here. Where has this year gone?

I am grateful for so many things. But, sometimes, my ‘gratitude attitude’ could use a little work. Well, a lot of work. However, I’m reminded of things larger and greater than the tiny dot of me when I look up into the stars at night.

Looking up…it’s a good thing to do.





A Picture and a Thought

“When I was a small child, visiting my grandmother at her beach cottage, I used to go down the winding stairs without touching them. This was a special joy to me. I think I went up the regular way, but I came down without touching. Perhaps it was because I was so used to thinking things over in solitude that it never occurred to me to tell anybody about this marvelous thing, and because I never told it, nobody told me it was impossible.”

From Walking on Water by Madeleine L’Engle

Musings and Mindfulness



Everyone has them, even those who don’t think they do. Did you know that, ahem, according to a medically reviewed website, we spend an average of two hours a night dreaming, which supposedly adds up to six years of our lives? This seems pretty amazing to me. And a little disturbing.


Some fascinating inventions have been inspired by dreams (Elias Howe’s sewing machine and Mendeleyev’s periodic table, for instance). And many stories have sprung from dreams (Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, for one).

According to those who study sleep habits and dreaming, dreams are simply thinking in a more intuitive state. Parts of the brain sit back to let others take charge. Our daily experiences combine with information from past memories and create interesting results. Sometimes really interesting results.

Writers often compare the act of writing to dreaming (go here and here for examples). A question, though: If writing stories is akin to dreaming, how is reading them any different?

Why do we dream? No one really knows. But can dreams help us dwell in possibility? Maybe.

Here’s one of my favorite children’s poems about dreaming.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 
by Eugene Field

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe–
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked of the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!”
Said Wynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea–
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish–
Never afeard are we!”
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam–
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
‘T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought t’ was a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea–
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed,
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
And Nod.

Picture source: Capadia Designs