An Occasional Journal

This is an occasional journal. It is supposed to cause me to write more since I feel that I should, but I never seem to actually find the time to do so. Madeleine L’Engle once said that we must be obedient to the art we find within. Most of the time, I don’t feel that there is anything even remotely close to art inside of me. But occasionally, very occasionally, it’s as if little tendrils of light are stretching out from the sky, like ivy, tendrils gently wrapping themselves around my mind, awakening words inside of me that I didn’t even know were there. These words don’t always seem to match up with what others see, but somehow I know they are more true of me than I will ever be able to comprehend this side of eternity. They are real. In the gut real. For my spirit real. They are gifts, and real gifts are art. I don’t want to lose these moments, these gifts so generously, so personally given to me. I have lost way too many already. Thus, here I go. For those tiny tendrils of light, I say, “This is an occasional journal. Let the journal begin....”