“Did I lose my voice when I learned not to cry too loud or make too much noise so I didn’t wake up Daddy? Or was it when I learned that talking in church was a sin (unless it was to a priest)?
Was it the first time I didn’t say what was inside of me because I didn’t want to make someone mad, or was it the first time that I said what wasn’t true because I didn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings? No matter now. Now, I am finding my voice! Read the rest of this entry
I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by heroes and heroines, (though I hate to make the distinction because anyone can be a hero regardless of gender, I don’t know why I have to use heroine to denote a woman!). Almost everyday I hear a new story of heroism, a story of how someone has over come odds, how someone has discovered something new about themselves and has entered a new phase of understanding or how someone has tried something new and loved it. Read the rest of this entry
I wrote this poem, that then turned into a song, in quite a short space of time. It became a bit of a song that told in words, the journey that I am on to find myself. Read the rest of this entry
“While walking along a beach, an elderly gentleman saw someone in the distance leaning down, picking something up and throwing it into the ocean. As he got closer, he noticed that the figure was that of a young man, picking up starfish one by one and tossing each one gently back into the water. Read the rest of this entry
So today I have been musing upon where inspiration goes when it goes! Is there a giant cloud upon which all the inspiration gathers once it has floated off and left a person? Does it sit there mocking those that try to write without it? Does it leave undeserving people and are some blessed permanently with it? Is it just luck where and when you find it and lose it? Can you catch it again or is it like trying to grab a fish in water? And the 64 thousand dollar question, can you still write without it? Read the rest of this entry
“The expectation is rising, ideas crash colliding, the juices are flowing, anticipation growing. Your fingers itch and dance, as they clasp the pen for the perfect chance. The blank canvas sits and waits, your thoughts with which to fill and chase. You search for inspiration high, chasing at darting butterflies. You search for inspiration low, in the darkest depths one dares to go. You grasp at thoughts as they fly on past, desperately reaching in case they’re the last. And words they tumble, boundaries crumble, as on and on the ink just flows. Read the rest of this entry