I don’t know really what to write today.  And writing is a strange art, you sift through your head finding thoughts that want to, need to be explored, and you gradually place each word carefully on the page to see if it fits.

Like a jigsaw of many pieces, there is only one piece for each space, and writing is much the same.  Although a number of words will appear that they fit the wordless space, as you move on to the next word and the next, you can see that the line is becoming clumsy, knocking letters out of order and weaving like a drunk.  So you have to go back and unpick, like a tangled piece of crochet or knitting.

I prefer to leave a wordless space to hang there then, while I build around it and suddenly all that is left is that perfect word for that convoluted space, and I breath a sigh of relief and drop her in.

The clocks have gained an hour.  In UK they choose midnight on the last weekend in March to spring forward, I find it annoying!  I feel I shouldn’t because it heralds spring, with its leaky blue skys and vibrant beginning greens with rampant florals erupting everywhere.

Sadly, its the little things that scratch at the inside of my head.   The fact that I look at my clock and it says 8 but I know I lost an hour and it is 9 and I haven’t even started the day yet.

The fact that when I get up for work tomorrow I will be driving in the dark once again.  Its only for a week or so but it scratches never the less.

But then I remember that I have an extra hour of daylight when I get home from work, an extra hour to appreciate the glorious leaky blue skies, vibrant beginning greens and rampant florals, An extra hour to be outside instead of in.

I was inspecting an honesty seed the other day.  These perfectly formed paper thin pods that so exquisitely protect the seeds within.  The intricacy of their making causes me to KNOW there is indeed a God of wonder who wraps his creature creation in spectacular abandoned art.  The same fierce care that is lavished on the creation of an honesty seed and its protection, is lavished on us, but even more so, for we are the messy, bright, engaging, angry, beautiful, perfecting images of his glory and he rejoices over us with singing while weeping over us with sadness as we break and break and break again.  Learning to walk as art in full abandonment to her creator, allowing him to swipe glorious brushstrokes of love and life and beauty in the midst of brokenness, this is Joy.

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