There are two desks in my home. One looks out towards mama’s bird bath and the field across the road. I write there. It’s quiet and clean, serene and special. The story was written, “Angels and Teachers of Grace”. I am satisfied with its message.

The other desk is marked by paint. Walls covered in funky and beautiful, memories and paintings by my children.

 The solitude of my empty home calls me down the hall and I begin slightly half-hearted until I continue.

This is my pattern. 

Until I go from believing the ability has faded, the inspiration has waned to taking away and adding to, blending and stepping away for drink to return with new eyes. 

Then, I’m back there, me again. 

The place unexplainable, the place of what rests inside, in maybe a little hollowed out sort of cocoon, my soul is there, is found and is given its due.

Yesterday, I shared some thoughts I’d been thinking when our teacher asked for comments. Men and women glanced my way and, I believe wondered, “Is she different?” 

Dazed looks that I can’t decide are either, “Where does she come up with these thoughts?”  or “Who on earth thinks so much?”  or maybe “There she goes again, will she always have something to say?”

Empathy, noticing, feeling, understanding, contemplating, I was born for that. 

We discussed being in the “family of God”  and I offered up it can be difficult because of human nature to always get along and for people like me who truly prefer to be alone, for people who must be alone to sustain their souls and sense. 

No comments, just looks. 

This is why, I listened to the songs, in the way too cold because of the thermostat sanctuary, I prayed with open hands for all mentioned and then about three quarters of the way in,  I picked up my purse, my Bible and quietly left the building. 

Because, my soul craved to be alone and I followed its beckon.

And I listened and returned, to my place of peace. 

Art and words, free and freeing. 

“…to guide us to the path of peace.”

‭‭Luke‬ ‭1:78-79‬ ‭NLT‬‬