I woke early today.

Up and journaling prayer  of giving of the day back to God for its unfolding in ways He has planned.

For His help in my mind and heart’s accepting of the unfolding, for help in the embrace of and understanding of its revealing or not revealing.

For a day devoid of expectations, only an ear and eye that leans towards joy.

The birds begin then, so early is my rising that I’ve just heard their song.

Thinking of art and of writing, of expression for sake of expression and the weight of possibility and result or not.

I may hear I’ve sold a painting this week.

I heard from a publisher and accepted a small assignment.

The work of craft bending towards approval or disdain.

Pencil in hand, I record another prayer, add detail to a tiny painting I called Pond at Peacock Hill.

It’s home and memory and longing.

Painted on Saturday, time on my hands. Thinking I’ll finish this piece and then reach for the tiny jar and brushes, the little notebook thick with paper, I paint for just a little bit.

Rich blue, mossy green and translucent grey bluish whites.

Moments, just a few is all; yet sweeter, feeling finer and better for them, though.

The dogs are barking, birds clustered together now and bouncing verse from pine to pine.

I wait, intentional in the moments, the finer moments of waking early.

Thinking, trying not to think too hard, deciding I should be more anxious, perhaps.

I’m taking a trip today. Visiting a friend who I haven’t seen in so long I resist calculating the years as it may make more concerning the reacquaintance.

Choosing to think more simply, adding more sentences to penciled prayer, I am slow to move and pray.

Lord, these words, these colors…let them be a legacy of my gratitude for the finer moments of my life. Let my recordings and my rendering point only to you.

Of adding paint to paper and written word to thought.

Because you’ve given me the moments to do this, Lord.

Your hand is with me. You’ve blessed me, indeed.

To wake to early morning and to travel a new road, unafraid.

…a time and season for everything, everything under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

For these moments, I thank you.