I've been trying to name this latest painting of mine and the first word that comes to mind every time I think about it is “Freedom”. Or maybe “Flying Free”. It seemed a tad unromantic and a lot unoriginal at first but it stuck around so I guess it stays. There's all sorts of different kinds of freedom. You know. Freedom from chains and freedom from fears. Freedom from pain or freedom from the Missouri heat. Freedom from sad times or tough times or scary times or trapped

I have just done something a little unthought of and a lot exciting. I have up and moved to Stella, Missouri for two. whole. years. I planned it about six months ago, so it wasn't exactly a whim. But now that we're actually here it feels a bit unreal and one wonders once in a while what makes a person do the things they do. But. I'm at The Brooking Healing Waters Camp with some amazing teenage girls and some more amazing fellow “chiefs” (as they call the staff here). So

It's a handful of strawberries, still warm from the sun, with a few grains of dirt. It's the slant of the sunbeams early in the morning. It's walking across the lawn barefoot and soaking your toes in the dew. It's brushing away the dirt and eating fruit warmed by the sun. It's picking a dandelion and remembering the wilted bouquets you used to carry in to your mom. (Who then very graciously arranged them in a tiny special vase and made you feel like you'd brought her

To have it with Jam or to have it with Butter. Or even better-Both. To have it with Butter and Jam or Peanut Butter and Jam. Or Peanut Butter and Honey. Or Butter and Honey. Or Honey and Cheese. To have Cheese with Jam or Jam with Cheese. To have your Toast Toasted Black or to have your Toast Toasted Hardly at all. Or just a golden In Between. To butter it Hot or to butter it Cold. To butter it Thoroughly or to just Scrape the butter knife across it. To

I found him on the New Arrivals shelf at Tilly's, one of our local thrift stores. I already had an artist's mannequin, but this one was different. It was thrifted, after all. Already worn smooth and darkened from age. And a tad loose-jointed from use. This little mannequin didn't need to be broken in. That's the love of thrifted things. They come feeling like they already belong. Like they've already been loved and they're used to being worn. And you feel a little bit

Is the song of the wind The tide coming in Or is it the voice of a storm? And the sea gulls that cry From what do they fly For joy or for danger to warn? And the sun glowing red When it finds its sea bed Will it know when it ought to arise? Should I wait by the sea Just a lantern and me To coax it again to the skies? Has the tide really learned At the black rocks to turn? Will the shore folk be safe while they sleep? Do the captains at sea Know where they ought to be Or o