Lovely Mudpies
Two days ago, as is my habit when finishing a current journal, I returned to reading the first pages to gain an overview of what might have had significance during the time it covered. Eighteen pages later (nine days for eight entries), I re-discovered a drawing, embraced by impish prose:
This was a spontaneous bit of creativity that I liked a lot, (though of course the drawing was inadequate through lack of colored pencils, the too-brief appearance of the rainbow, my own hesitation about the quality of writing, yadda-yadda-yadda) but it delighted me, nonetheless. It could be read as THREE poems, not just one. That tickled me most.
I sent it to my cousin, who is a good poet and sends me all her stuff. I've pressed her to further illustrate her work with photos as well, and she has indulged me, so she was the only one I thought I could safely showoff what I'd made. Sort of like sharing mud pies for each other's approval when we were kids.
Sigh. We're not kids anymore. We're busy, distracted, or maybe I just didn't catch the nod and smile when she opened my email, the acceptance. So I let it go. No big deal. It's Okay. Not deathless prose nor museum quality art.
It had made me feel good so that was enough.
I forgot about it. Until two days ago, when I rediscovered the art, smiled broadly and patted myself on the back, "Hey, not bad!"
This morning an email newsletter from THE SCHOOL OF LIFE arrived, providing an intellectual excuse for an emotional desire to again show my 'mudpie':
"Language may not wholly create feelings, but it most definitely and beautifully deepens and clarifies them. The right words help us to know ourselves; through their agency, we can more accurately and securely identify the contents of our inner lives."
That's all the permission I needed to publish a post.
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