Art Journal 10.8.15


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Beyond here there’s no map.
How you get there is where
you’ll arrive; how, dawn by
dawn, you can see your way
clear: in ponds, sky, just as
woods you walk through give
to fields. And rivers: beyond
all burning, you’ll cross on bridges
you’ve long lugged with you.
Whatever your route, go lightly,
toward light. Once you give away
all save necessity, all’s
mostly well: what you used to
believe you owned is nothing,
nothing beside how you’ve come
to feel. You’ve no need now
to give in or give out: the way
you’re going your body seems
willing.  Slowly as it may
otherwise tell you, whatever
it comes to you’re bound to know.

– Philip Booth, Heading Out”

Sunday Selections


We walk through half our life
as if it were a fever dream
barely touching the ground
our eyes half open
our heart half closed.

Not half knowing who we are
we watch the ghost of us drift
from room to room
through friends and lovers
never quite as real as advertised.

Not saying half we mean
or meaning half we say
we dream ourselves
from birth to birth
seeking some true self.

Until the fever breaks
and the heart can not abide
a moment longer
as the rest of us awakens,
summoned from the dream,
not half caring for anything but love.

– Stephen Levine, “Half Life”

Simple Homeschool!


If you are visiting from Simple Homeschool, welcome. The post I wrote over there is really a condensed version of what I affectionately call my homeschooling breakdown/breakthrough. If you would like to know the whole story, start here. If you like what you see, consider subscribing to my blog. You can expect posts about art journalling, poetry and trying to navigate this thing called life with a contemplative heart and a sense of humor. Thanks for stopping by and Happy Friday!! xoSheila

Full Corn/Blood/Harvest Total Eclipse of the Heart Moon



I caught only the slightest and cloudiest glimpse of this Super Moon and had no answer to her question: What dreams do you wish to bring to fruition? Actually, that is not true. I have a list of dreams I long to bring to fruition, however I am feeling intensely unsettled in so many of these areas that the tension between the question’s impulse of completion and my inability to act in any concrete way about brought me to my knees this past week. I do love these two dream boards though, and have abandoned the companion written journaling that I used to do with them. I’m letting the images alone speak for me and to me, and I’m not worrying about words. I also love the fact that I am continuing with the journal form I started last month. Thank you to Jamie Ridler for introducing me to this practice – it’s so, so good.


I’m off to see Brene Brown with my mom today. It’s her birthday – my mom’s, not Brene’s. Have you seen her new book? Wow! I still remember walking along the beach listening to this podcast and thinking “This changes everything.” A year and a half later, I have read everything she has written, taken her “O” course and listened to a huge chunk of what she has recorded and I can say the same thing about her current book: This changes everything. If you haven’t heard her interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, take 30 minutes today and listen. It might just change everything.

Big love from the soggy mountains of western North Carolina. xoS

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Sunday Selections


All night
the dark buds of dreams

In the center
of every petal
is a letter,
and you imagine

if you could only remember
and string them all together
they would spell the answer.
It is a long night,

and not an easy one –
you have so many branches,
and there are diversions –
birds that come and go,

the black fox that lies down
to sleep beneath you,
the moon staring
with her bone-white eye.

Finally you have spent
all the energy you can
and you drag from the ground
the muddy skirt of your roots

and leap awake
with two or three syllables
like water in your mouth
and a sense

of loss – a memory
not yet of a word,
certainly not yet the answer –
only how it feels

when deep in the tree
all the locks click open,
and the fire surges through the wood,
and the blossoms blossom.

– Mary Oliver, “Dreams”