I haven’t felt creative lately. No desire to pull out my sketch book and draw or paint. No desire to put a pen to paper and scrawl out pretty words. I really have been struggling, but I am happy that I don’t have to create.
I can look out the window or stand on the deck or sit on the stairs and stare up at a sky perfectly created by a God who loves me, trees with their leaves turned, silver shiny expressing that the sky will soon cry too. The black clouds with blue poking through. The rainbow with a full arch and all the colors after a rough storm.
Then there are the blades of grass, the pretty thistle stretching through the stairs to stab me in the back. The dog chasing a ball while the others look on wondering what sort of masochist she must be to allow a human to control her in such a foul way.
God created it all, every stone unturned, the rocks been flipped, the blades of grass, the dandelions that lay down when they feel the mower approaching, the drops of rain on the car window, wild roses in white, light pink and fuchsia backed by the sound of frogs and crickets as the day goes from dark to light and back again.
I have been writing on here though, almost every day. It’s been dark, scary even, but it’s the pain in my soul being broken raw exposed.