Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your Story?

Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your Story?

purple pen.JPG

Tonight, effortlessly, I draw my pen across the paper.  The smooth, colorful, purple ink magically adhering to the paper. Something about this is inexplicably enticing, mesmerizing, and familiar to me. The pen seems to dance across the page like a ballerina on pointe. A stream of beautiful, powerful words appear as the pen moves. These words are permanent and indelible.

Pausing to read what has been penned, I realize that these words silhouette my heart's plans, desires, and thoughts. Both ink and words flow effortlessly.  There is more begging to flow out.

I continue. More ink. More words.  More sentences.

Finally my fingers pause, the pen drops and my eyes focus in on the penned purple words. Oddly though, after one casual reading, I find my thoughts centering in on the permanencyof the ink.   It feels like the writing is calling out to me. It is telling me that I have a say in my life, trying to convince me that it means I have control over my journey because I have used ink.

I pull the soft yellow blanket over me and ponder the "Writing" which is precariously resting on the arm of the overstuffed purple chair.  

studio blanket.JPG

It reminds me of a new chickadee ready to take flight for the first time.  Snuggling deeper into the coziness of the cushions, my mind races back to a similar piece of writing done with the same type of ink ten years ago.  Suddenly, I am propelled up and out of the chair.  Like a human cannonball being shot out of a rocket, I fly with abandon into my bedroom, drop on all fours with my bottom in the air and dig in the tub under my bed.  Surfacing with the paper, I return to the safe coziness of my purple chair.

Gingerly I unfold it.  It reads like this:

  1. Quit teaching at 20 years
  2. Design clothing
  3. Have grandchildren
  4. Live on the beach in a tropical climate

Closing my eyes, the realization whacks me in the head that NONE of these things have come true, even though they were written passionately in purple ink.  Hum.....

I like ink.

It is smooth.

It flows freely and almost effortlessly.

It comes in pretty colors.

It is continual.

It is permanent.

Why had I been thinking that if I wrote in ink, it was supposed to happen?  I even discovered additional notes with "steps" to ensure I reached these goals. However, here I sit with NONE of them accomplished. My mind is vacillating between amusement and disappointment.  Honestly, at the moment, it is giving me whiplash.  What kind of "False Beliefs" have I had about who is really in charge of my life?

How plank-eyed of me to think that I would or could "plan" the trajectory of my days, let alone my life by putting it in "ink".  Very little of my life has turned out as I planned or even thought it would. God has orchestrated my days for His purposes and it has been one unpredictable, marvelous, painful, and wild adventure that I wouldn't trade a moment of for accomplishing any one of those goals.   


Maybe this plank-eyed girl will try writing in pencil.  

Until We Chat Again,


The Plank-Eyed Girl

Gluts, Subway Trains, and Eight Minutes of Life

Gluts, Subway Trains, and Eight Minutes of Life

Shades of Gray, Dumbo the Elephant, and The Power of the Pen

Shades of Gray, Dumbo the Elephant, and The Power of the Pen