Home

Home. 

A place of Peace Joy, Me Myself and I, sittin' back with a cup of coffee, Marlboro Silver, and music. Sweet Soft  Perfect

Like the sweet sounds of the ocean wave upon wave. Sweet Soft Perfect!

     I started the day in a way I thought was perfect, could only lead to a perfect day. Between reading Psalm 119 and writing in my journal, I discovered parts of me that I had hid in the closet, things I never wanted to think through because the memories hurt. But I did.

And the morning felt right, accomplished, and blessed. Every line of the so familiar psalm spoke new meaning to me, and I was thrilled. I was thankful. I wrote "O Lord O Lord" over and over.
     So how could I have slipped into the old habits of degrading self talk, and overwhelming frustration at work? How could the day that started so summer warm turn so gray cold?  I wanted to walk away. Quit. I had had enough of housekeeping. I could glamorize it as 'innkeeper' since I was the only one working the rooms through this Corona virus pandemic. But making myself feel important wasn't going to cut it today. Even when guests stopped to say hi or thankyou, wasn't enough to keep the grungy self talk from returning by mid-day.
     I worked at what felt like a snail's pace. More than an hour in each room? If business ever picked up, I could never keep up at this rate. Years ago, I used to be the fastest and most thorough. I felt time slipping past by the sun through the windows. The owner began to text me about guests wanting their rooms. "They are not done!" By 5:00 pm, I locked all the doors and just sat in my car. Trash and laundry would have to wait for tomorrow.
   

 But when I finally pulled into the parking lot where I live, when I finally peeled my tired body from the Fiesta seat, when I finally unlocked my front door and stepped inside the apartment, love and peace swept across me like a woolen cape on a cool afternoon. The cat cried, telling me how late I was and how hungry she was."Ya, right, Fancy. You're always hungry!" The older cat wobbled across the linoleum and looked up at me without words. We share almost thirty years of memories that need no words. "I love you, too Risha!" I obediently fed them then sunk into the old cat clawed sofa chair. "Hey google, play Lauren Daigle." and opened Where Women Create. I flipped through all the photographs of artists' havens, beautiful mirrors of their artistic gifts translated into the beams and floors of their workspaces. O Lord, I envy that she can say "I think I was born to be living life like this." O Lord, what is my 'this'? But when I read the article about Rex Foster, I put the magazine down and closed my eyes. Rex Foster followed his heart, not just one form of art but any and everything that made his heart pump fast. And he believed in himself. O Lord, how does that happen?
   

 If you could see where I came from and then where I landed...

But this is home now. No one else would understand the peace here. But in each corner of each room, I create:

prose and poetry

videos and blogs

masks and funky stuffed animals and floppy hats

     Our God is a creator, and He has put that urge to create in each of us. That's why my home feels so safe and complete, because this is where life grows for me, through His Word into the silence of a moment and then into the corners of each room. I can wish I were like the other artists, or I could learn from Rex Foster and appreciate my need to create to be happy. O Lord, I thank You for each corner of this small apartment. And when I can take the time to be silent for just a moment, i can hear my own music. 

Sweet Soft Perfect. 

Thankyou!