Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Gwen, desks and a stone....

I love the English painter,Gwen John.Her best known work, "Corner of the Room" speaks to me in so many ways.The colors are subtle,a small violet on a desk, a window with white sheer cutains,pale yellow walls ,a wooden desk and to make the scene more homey,a blue shawl on the wicker-like chair.This is a writer's corner.

Writers love desks, especially ones with some character.I purchased one in 2005 at a now defunct shop in Woodstock,N.Y.for ten dollars.It was left outside,has gashes,peeling paint.Wouldn't I love to know who owned it before me ?Did they love blank paper, pens and quiet?

Adding to the uniqueness of this purchase, when the shop owner ,who is a welder by trade, heard that we were from Georgia ,she grabbed her guitar and sang "Georgia On My Mind",down by the stream.I teared up.

This desk is meant for stories.

After I write a story, I own that person, place or object,that memory, in a new way.I have gone deeper to the roots and moved them around,looked closely and found the true meaning for me.I can't find this truth any other way.

This new truth has been called out of my center where the Spirit lives and I can no longer see just a wind chime, painting ,lilacs.They have spoken something new to me.If I shed tears over a chime that whispers to me of my sister ,that thing becomes holy.

On my desk is a plain grey stone,picked up on a trip to Germany in 1997.I took it from under a bench that was a quarter of a mile from the Bed and Breakfast that was our home for the night.I had taken a bike ride with my book of Psalms and sat in the deep shade of an oak next to the path.This time of just sitting and praying seemed like a miracle to me.I gazed across the field and could see the lady who was our hostess.She was stooped and bent over her garden in the hot sun.No shade for her.

An impression came and would not leave;a request from the One whose praise is sung in my psalms.I wrestled for a minute;the breeze,the oak and the bench were so agreeable.I gathered my stuff,rode back to the B&B,got a glass of cold water and went to the garden to offer my help.The hostess politely declined and went back to her gardening.I had carried out my mission.

This stone is more than that,it points to a moment."Every moment is holy ...do not soil the moments."-Gwen John, painter 1876-1939

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