Time Like An Ever-Rolling Stream

...Seems to keep going on and leaving me behind, gasping on the shore.

I have survived Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, and Ash Wednesday.  Again.  My birthday is fast approaching, (and I don't want to think about which one THIS is,) and my Birthday Vacation Week has been beset by freezing rain and sleet, and all manner of unpleasant weather.

On to the Journal.  Some of the entries are drawings or collages this year.  I will attempt to upload photos, but I make no promises on the quality thereof.

January 3. 2018

My words:  Even the mighty sun must give the cold its due.
Sun at last but still COLD!

Hearts see what eyes cannot

Rumi's words:
"Lo, I am with you always means when you look for God,
God is in the look of your eyes,
In the thought of looking,
 nearer to you than your self,
                                           or things that have happened to you.
                                         There is no need to go outside."


-Vincent and Catherine snuggled up together reading on their ledge in the chamber of the falls
_ Arthur rolled up in a ball sleeping in his corner of Mouse's "Mouse Hole"
- The many bright candles in Father's study, lighting reading, studying, listening, and sharing.
- Just a few BATB scenes that make me feel warm and cozy on a Winter's day.

Music is VERY necessary.  

I NEED to sing.

 

Pauses are important.  Especially in music.

There is no joy so transcendent as being fully engaged in singing or playing.  Music fills in the empty places-gives voice to the hidden things, observes with great diligence the silences.






January 4, 2018

-The idea was to write more.  Why the artwork all the sudden?
*The idea is to create, and writing is creative, and often requires little visual reminders or idea generators.
THAT is why the collages.

The days are so busy at work -
I guess everyone was resolved to use their library more this year!

The World is too much with us- too demanding of my attention.
Too busy to play with my art work -
Too busy to rest -
After I get done on the desk I have to set up for Zumba.  It's a busy night!



January 4, 2018

My words:  It means something when a film will not let you go...

From the film:  "Unable to perceive the Shape Of You,
I find you all around me.  Your presence fills my eyes with your love, It humbles my heart. For You are everywhere."












January 5, 2018

Minor inconveniences
But sometimes
The build up of them
Becomes an avalanche
Of awfulness.
Frustration.
Anxiety.
A feeling that
We cannot even
Handle the small
Business of life
So no wonder
The Whole world seems
So messed up.

That is why anything that makes us stop and really think is always so welcome.  Shape of Water is one of those things that arrests your ever-tumbling mind.
Makes you ponder
Makes you wonder
About the true nature of love
And about which things
Really matter.
Makes that mountain
Of annoyances
Back into just
A little bunch
Of annoying things
Reminds you
That we can do this
We can  make the world better
If we remember how to love.


January 6, 2018

His world: A secret place
Far Below the City streets
Safe from hate and harm


Her world:  Where the Wealthy and the Powerful rule...

I'm just a sucker for fairy tales...

A love like no other -

When a story is so well presented, characters so compelling and brought so skillfully to life,
It's no wonder 30 years later we still share the Dream.


The day is called Epiphany.
A discovery
When the Wise Men found the Christ Child
Christmas is officially over now.

So far this day
I have discovered that I don't know what I'm doing with the Paint program
And that this desk is very busy today
And I'm tired.


Story Idea:  It's very cold in NYC, in fact, a blizzard has blown up
So far, nothing is causing a problem for the world Below, but some of their helpers are suffering a bit.
Power outages have caused some to seek refuge Below - mostly the elderly.
Catherine is just getting over a bad cold,and has been reluctant to bring germs Below-
Vincent senses something wrong through the bond, but the weather  ( and time of day) make it impossible for him to go to her - so he recruits Peter, who takes Kanin with him (Just in case Catherine needs to be carried)
They get her to Vincent, who takes her to Father...
From this point a story of getting warm and sharing warmth, of many kinds, as only the Tunnel family can.
It was all still so new- this situation
...and saw the gold band on his finger...
That ring
The weight of it
 The promises it represented.
It's truth -
That he was hers and she his
The responsibility it represented
It was more than just his right, it was his duty to be with her in this, as in all things.
Not that long ago, he would have run from being this close to her, even though she needed his physical warmth like this - It was a glorious and also daunting thing to actually BE as responsible for her well-being as he had always felt himself to be.
That she felt responsible for his well being also went without saying.  She took every precaution to protect him,and this world.
If only she would see taking care of herself, her health, as part of taking care of him, because it was.
He knew she did many things above to protect both him and his world, but she still ran herself ragged, working too hard, doing too much, and not letting him and his family take care of her.
He sighed as he looked at her next to him.  So cold, so worn out, so determined not to be a burden, not to appear to be getting "special treatment."  Never mind that she was one of them, and also a Helper who did far more than most realized, she felt she couldn't "impose" on this world with her needs.
That would end.  He would see to it.  She would be made to understand that he and their family here WANTED to take care of her, NEEDED to give back at least a little to one who so unselfishly gave so much to them.  The physical closeness was no longer a source of fear to him, but a source of chagrin, sometimes.  He often felt, since they married, as though he couldn't keep his hands off of her.  She seemed equally unable to keep from touching him - whenever they were in the same room.  Well, they were still newlyweds, but all of his hard-won self control seemed to  have fled with the discovery that Catherine was right about their bond, that he simply COULDN'T hurt her, even when "lost" in passion because ALL of him loved her.
She had stopped shivering .  He held her close to him his sense of her conveying the rest and recuperation taking place.  Everything in both of them improved when they were close.
He reflected that there were things he knew about her now that he hadn't  before - The taste of the skin right where her neck sloped out toward her shoulders, the delicacy of her ears, and how his nibbling at them could send both fire and shivers through her, and make her moan with pleasure and reach back for him, if he snuck up behind her and "assaulted"  her earlobe.
He knew how completely icy her feet could be at night, and that she loved to place them on him - legs or back, in order to warm them - she now knew that he snarled when surprised like that.

He looked at her finally peaceful face - she was warm now.  Of course she was.  She was at last home.  Safe. In his arms.  In their bed.  In the heart of a community that loved them both.

(See the completed story "If We Had No Winter" at
  http://absentmindedwanderings.blogspot.com/2018/01/if-we-had-no-winter-post-for-winterfest.html )


January 7, 2018

Such a cold, dark, rainy, depressing day.
At least Discovery is back.
And Shape of Water only won Best Director and Best Original Score at the Golden Globes -

When do Oscar noms come out?

And tomorrow is Monday.
Oy...


January 9, 2018
Something feels "off"
Like maybe I have a sinus infection
My head is fuzzy and achy
I have muscle aches
I'm cold a lot
I have a headache that never completely goes away.

Bits of stories trickling out...
Finding their way onto these pages,  I'm hoping I find them all when I start actually writing...


Jamuary11, 2018

Star Trek:  My first obsession with a television show.

The first show that made me
dream, gave me hope -
A big part of my life, and our culture.












So many things have inspired me over the years, but only  Beauty and the Beast has allowed me to write decent fan fiction.
Maybe because it's  all about relationship and love,  and the world it exists in is so well know to all us fans, whereas Star Trek is very fluid in location, though is also primarily concerned with relationships and values.

Was very much wanting to be home curled up with a good book the day I made this.  I actually had time to do this while on the Circ Desk, it was that slow.  When I do things like this on the desk, customers are interested. They really liked it when we had the "adult coloring for stress reduction" program going, and I'd work on a coloring project on the desk, and hand out flyers about the program to any customer who asked about my coloring.

This was a day I wanted to remember how the light looked as I drove to my voice lesson.  A storm was moving in, and changing the direction and quality of the light.  It was surreal.
















January 18, 2018

Work has been joyful lately in spite of short- handed shifts and lots of challenges.
Being able to help people, even if just by finding a misplaced hold, has been very fulfilling lately.
I like being able to make someone's day better.

January 22, 2018

Such a strange time.
Government shutdowns -
Having to shop off- base
because the commissary will be short-stocked, if not closed altogether.
Feeling like I'm coming down with a cold - Matt, too, but hoping it doesn't end up being flu- he hasn't had a flu shot.

Fuzzy edges
On the world
On  my thoughts
My limbs leaden
Too heavy to move
Freezing and then roasting-
 Is it an illness, hormones, or allergies?
Who knows?
My head that
Alternates
Between feeling
Like a barely tethered
Helium balloon
And a concrete block

January 24, 2018

Still trying not to be
Snot: The Slimer of Worlds
Not entirely succeeding.

There are things I need to keep in mind.  Some of the favorites I have saved off of calendars, etc.
"Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." - Abraham Lincoln

"Snap out of it!"  - Mary Engelbreit

"Worrying does not empty tomorrow of its troubles, it empties today of its strength." - a long time favorite from Mary Engelbreit, not sure where the quote came from.

"Don't confuse your path with your destination.

Just because it's stormy now, doesn't mean that your aren't headed for sunshine.  - from a calendar I had last year.

"If you pray for rain, be prepared to deal with some mud."

And an old favorite, "Bloom where you are planted."


February 1, 2018

I don't know why this one is upside down, nor am I sure how to fix it just now.  (And I've had a margarita already tonight, so no, I'm not going to try that right now.)
My notes say:

(pointing to the Dove sentiment "Go where your heart takes you")  Sounds like a paraphrase of Vincent - "Follow your heart."

Birthdays celebrate the gift of time.
We celebrate the gift of you.
-from a card I got years ago.  It's such a lovely sentiment.

Ah, February- Hearts and flowers and Valentine's Day; and my birthday later on!

Still cool, but no snow.  Sun is warm, though.

"...and even though it's snowing,
Violets are growing.  I know why and so do you..."

"I have phrases and whole pages memorized, but nothing can be told of love." - Rumi

"We are, as a species, addicted to story.
Even when the body goes to sleep,
the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories." - Jonathan Gottshall

I have told some stories.  Now to see if others enjoy them.  One of them came from notes in this journal.



February 3, 2018
Still winter.
As the edge on the wind
and the pale quality of the
sunlight
remind us.
Yet a bird's territorial song
And a Chickadee's scold,
Along with swelling buds
On the trees
Say
Spring is not far away.
Would that our hearts
Could know such a
Renewal
For these days are cold
And hard emotionally.
So many things
 Want my attention
Yet my butterfly mind
Refuses to settle
On any  one thing.


 February 7, 2018

One again with the short bits -
Wednesdays are busy at our library.
The water is out at the library again - probably for just one hour - we HOPE

I look at the piled up annoyances in my life,, and I say no WONDER my blood pressure is up.
Have to plan a wardrobe for two weeks in NYC.  Don't have budget to buy much - don't need much other than comfortable slip- ons I can walk in.
Tis the time of year for the library's least favorite question: "Do you have tax forms?"


February 14, 2018

Valentine's Day and Ash Wednesday, all in ONE!
Get your chocolate early, get your ashes later...

New sorter has arrived at the library. We are in the process of installation.
  Very nice young man is our tech.
About 45 minutes left to work today.
Then it's home and a LONG walk.  I was lazy this morning;  I need to make up for it.

THEN, we have Ash Wednesday evening service instead of choir rehearsal.



That's the last of the journal  entries.  Life has kind of been either too busy or too "meh" for me to write much the last eight days or so.
I am on my annual "birthday vacation week" this week, so the weather closings have not affected me, except to make me stir crazy!  It's been a pretty crappy vacation, stuck in the house except for Tuesday when I went to the Commissary, and incidentally, spent WAY LESS MONEY for my groceries and paper goods than I did last month when I had to shop off base because of Cheeto Head and his shutdown.
The commissary is a major benefit.

One reason this blog has been so neglected is that I have been actually writing something besides journal posts and poetry for a change.  I have written some fan fiction stories, and most of them can be found on my new blog,
https://absentmindedwanderings.blogspot.com/

All of my fan fiction is about the 1987- 90 TV series Beauty and the Beast, and I write "classic" BATB fiction, which means the third season didn't happen, Catherine is still alive and well.

On Being Different

Once again, a friend's tweet has set  my mind spinning.  This time, not with verse, but with memories, and with reasons I'd forgotten.  About childhood, and knowing one is different, SO very different, in ways that are unexplainable.

I was a VERY imaginative child.  I had imaginary friends, yes, and I could DESCRIBE them to you, consistently, completely, what they looked like, what they wore, what they said, their names.  (Though my versions of their names were not exactly what they told me, I know that now.).  My parents and my siblings more than once were scolded for rudely closing a car door or the house door on one of my "friends".  They rolled their eyes, exasperated, but for awhile anyway, willing to play along with an imaginative child.
 My peers, it seems, had no such patience with me.  They refused my imaginative games, my castle ramparts, my spaceships, my haunted woods complete with fairies both friendly and not.  They couldn't SEE, and I, to my great frustration could not SHOW them, couldn't MAKE them see.  Then, the voice of one friend said, "They cannot see who WILL not see.  You cannot force it."  This voice, I think, may have belonged to an aunt who died long before I was born.  Mom always said I was so very like her, like Lorene, who wrote poems, had dramatic moods, SAW things.  When I was little, I claimed to have a "pet ghost" who came to watch over me in the dark I was so frightened of.  My family would leave the light on, until I fell asleep, but if I woke in the night, frightened by what I alone saw in the dark, "Georgie" would be there. Georgie would watch over me, keep me safe.  The voice I later attributed to my late aunt telling me so.  Georgie would remind me of the verse on my wall that "He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."  He'll not leave you alone.  He sent me, and others, to keep watch.  I knew I could never tell my so very practically minded family these truths, for they would send me off to be analyzed, afraid for my sanity, my stability in their oh, so practical black and white world.  So, I kept the magic to myself, hoarded, guarded, shared with NO ONE.
  Except Grandpa.  Only when he visited, could I speak of these things.  Grandpa was a real seanachie , a storyteller, with a true gift.  HE would hear my tales, and not disbelieve me.  And he would tell no one.  He visited only a couple of times, but it was enough.  He helped me keep the magic, even if I could find no good way to share it yet. 
He didn't know the old names, but he did believe in the sidhe, the fairies, the hobgoblins, the spirits that do populate the thin places in this world. Our family does have Irish, Welsh, and Scottish roots.  There had been too many generations of hardshell Baptists and practical Presbyterians in my family for anyone to remember ALL they should, but Grandpa remembered enough, and I suspect he learned from his mother, who could tell quite a tale herself, I've been told, for all her practicality.
I did have Nelda, too, who lived next door, and was Irish and playful and old, a surrogate for the grandmother who died before I was born.  She knew old songs, and old stories and shared these with her small rapt audience of one.  Me.  I do not recall if I told her about my protectors, but perhaps I did.  Nelda would have understood, and she wouldn't have told anyone.
For years, I gave in, I took the PRACTICAL courses, no Gaelic, no Irish literature, no poetry classes, no MUSIC, other than the piano lessons they provided "because you have such long, thin fingers, surely good for playing."  NOT.  I lacked the will to practice, though I DID learn to read music and enough theory to be useful.  I wanted to SING, not play.  Playing required too much concentration, too much MIND.  Singing let me float, weightless, between the worlds. It fed my spirit.  It still does.  I go some other place when I truly let myself SING.  Matters not if the music isn't of the 'Old Country', it still speaks true to my spirit.  It soars, and takes me along for the ride.
 My ever practical father, who quashed my "far fetched" dreams of music, who told me I MUST toe the line and take steps toward a PRACTICAL degree at college (or find a man who would 'go places') if he was paying for my time there.  Oh, not in so many words, but it could be read between the lines plainly enough.  I was too scatter-brained, not focused enough, didn't have the DRIVE to succeed at music as a career.  ) (Or writing, for that matter.) I don't see being a commercial success to be the overarching goal of life.  Being of service to people, healing their spirit in some way, THAT is success, I now know.  Riches beyond any of my security seeking family's dreams.   Mom never truly understood.  She doesn't have the gift of sight.  I think that may have been a rift between her and her older sister, that inability to SEE.  Grandpa could SEE, Grandpa shared the vision, in his own way.
As I grew older, and I found old stories and legends and books and pictures of Ireland and Scotland, the familiarity, the sense of HOME was overwhelming.  The stories opened locked doors in my soul, let me dream again, let me hope that somehow, someway, I could get around the practical and let the magic out.
So, for my Pop's sake, and to keep Mom from worrying, I pursued a teaching credential.  A tidy compromise that let me keep the magic of Children's Literature in my coursework, and more music theory, and also all kinds of history and science, as well as give me a "practical" degree in the end.  I both loved and hated my chosen vocation.  I loved the children, the chances to help set THEIR imaginations free, to validate THEIR dreams as much as I could, I loathed the slog through paperwork and requirements that left so precious little time for the NECESSARY dreaming.  Yes, dreaming is NECESSARY.  Especially for children.  I like to think I helped a few kindred spirits find a way to keep their particular magic alive.  The library has been a Godsend.  This job lets me breathe, surrounds me with the thoughts, dreams, wishes, poetry and legends of ages, lets me share them, lets me help others when things press upon them too much.  Gives me a chance to help change a worried frown to a smile.  I LOVE that place, and I love its ghosts, friendly, playful spirits, that have yet to show themselves to me, but I know they're there.  They don't scare me, or vex me, so they don't quite know what to make of me, I'm sure.
Now, I know many of my oh, so practical and steeped in the very conservative Christian faith of our childhood will say I risk too much, saying I see spirits, saying I speak with them.  They forget.  "TEST a spirit, to know if it is good."  The spirits that have surrounded me have been, in large part good.  Sent from God, I believe, because He knew I would hear them.  They PROTECTED me from the evil ones, drove them AWAY.  Scared them off with fierce, invincible love from God Himself.  I know that invincible love more on my own now, know that it is ALWAYS there, don't necessarily need the friendly spirits to tell me.  He sent them when I was too young to understand otherwise.  They always pointed me back to Him, to His Love, His very essence.  Love.
Still I have doubts, I doubt my ability to ever communicate what I KNOW in a way ANYONE will understand, but I try.  For the sake of the gift I've been given, for Love of the One who gives it, I sing, I write, I try and fail to explain.  But I keep trying.
At times, even my oh, so practical Pop, who would NEVER believe in such things, has come to me.  Has laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder, told me to keep going, has visited in joyful times, too, to help me decorate the Christmas tree again, as we used to do when I was younger. The year that Matt was deployed for Desert Shield when it was time to set up the Christmas tree, and I alone, in a tiny apartment in a German farmhouse, was decorating the tree, Pop was there.  Making suggestions, telling me it would be all right, making me believe it.  And it WAS all right, because by some miracle of happenstance, Matt got to come HOME to Rhein-Main for a few days, including Christmas, and my hope in my existence was restored.  I could see Pop smiling over Peter's shoulder when we got home to the farm. Peter, our landlord, was a German version of Pop, right down to his love for bologna and cheese, and cigarettes and beer.  Limped on the same leg, had startling blue eyes like Pop, and even groused about the same things, even if in a different language.  Always made me feel I was truly being looked after, especially when Matt was gone.
I thought once my sister, too, could SEE, but over the years, she has hardened toward that imaginative world, clings to the conservative faith, that says such as I risk consorting with demons and losing our souls.  She doesn't understand, though I think for awhile, once, she did, for she took me to the old bookstores where I first met some of the books that have kindled my imagination back to life, to hope.
One reason I love the Episcopal Church so much is that the mystical, the impossible to understand is IMPORTANT.  It is part of how we worship, how we relate to God.  Our God is greater than all the mysteries in this or any other world, not afraid of them, welcoming to them; vigilant for His children against those who would do us harm.  A truly Good and Wise Shepherd.  Here I can be the person God created me to be, here I CANNOT deny my gift, here I USE it.  Here I sing, and share what I write, and know that it will not be cast up for ridicule. Here I also struggle with my own intolerance, my own lack of love, the many ways I fall short, and here I am comforted with the knowledge that I am forgiven, and I can forgive others.
I found some of this acceptance first among the members of Fandom.  Fans are by nature imaginative, people who can see the truths of fictional characters, people for whom the old stories resonate, and live.  Among fans I first learned that I was not crazy, just different.  I found Matthew among such fans.  Through him, I found the Episcopal Church, and an understanding of my faith, and a way to relate to God that has truly been my salvation.
Being different is NOT a sin. God made us all different, so show the many different aspects of life, to teach us the importance of acceptance, of LOVE.  Those who discount Love, who crowd it out with intolerance and too many rules, miss the point, and miss God.  After all, in IJohn, the Christian Scripture says "...he that loveth not, knoweth not God, for God is Love."  It seems to me far too many who spread hate in the name of Christ forget that verse exists. I pity them what awaits if they continue in the way of intolerance and hate. I pray for them.
I pray for all who cannot see, all who WILL not see.  There IS magic in the world, there IS.  God made it, God uses it, it is NOT necessarily evil.
And those of us who are different are not always crazy.  Most of us are pretty good at conforming.  We have to be.  But do, please, cut us some slack when we seem to "space out" for a moment, or when we don't WANT to enter a certain building or room.  Believe us, trust our instincts, please. Just because YOU can't (or won't) see it, doesn't mean it isn't REAL.  (Insert winking smiley face here!)

Avoidance Behavior

There are some things we put off just because we really don't want to do them.  They are hard, or inconvenient, or boring, or all three.  Housework, other common chores, writing.  Well, writing isn't usually boring, but it is hard, and can be unpleasant when one doesn't feel there is anything to say.  Or perhaps there is a lot to say, and the saying of it is very difficult.
I often try to avoid housework, because after almost 29 years of keeping house, I am rather weary of it at times.  At other times, the housework is a way to avoid something else. Sometimes the housework is a necessary literal as well as figurative clearing of the decks so that other work can commence.  Dealing with the distracting details, like the dust bunnies in the hall, or the feeling that you would probably pretend not to be home if anyone came to the door simply because the state of your floors was embarrassing 
So, this evening, rather than try to come up with a decent blog post, I cleaned house.  I feel better now, because the environment I find myself in is more comfortable, and doesn't distract me with feelings of unmet obligations in the "real" world. 
Several times in my life I have retreated into books or movies as a way to avoid thinking about things I'd rather not deal with, or to distract myself from the fact that I was in a stale and stagnant place.  The alternate realities found in books and movies give a respite from what is currently bothering me.  I am sure that this is a normal condition among human creatures.  Needing an escape, if only for awhile.  There are movies I have watched over and over,  just because something in the story spoke to me, or amused me.  There are books and stories I have read and re-read for the same reason. 
Writing is not an escape for me.  I find I cannot write fiction.  It doesn't matter that I have always had a vivid imagination, and have lovely daydreams, I find I cannot put them on the page.  Poetry works, but poetry is about feelings, about dealing with joys and sorrows and sometimes humdrums of life, not usually about fantasy and escape.  Oh, I suppose it could be, but mine usually isn't. 
Now, I guess I should amend my claim that I cannot write fiction at all.  I have written some little stories about ghosts.  Those have been rather well received by the friends who have read them, but I have not let them out for critical comment.  They are my children, and I don't feel like watching them die.  They are not the sort of stories that would be popular with children these days.  They are old-fashioned, based very loosely on stories I was told as a child by neighbors and family members. 

A few of my poems have been published, but I was not paid for them, they were printed in a small local newspaper when I was in high school.  One was written for the high school year book supplement my senior year.  I have all of my notebooks where I worked on my poems still.  I still have about three journals going that are specifically for poem building.  Very rarely does anything come of it.  The best ones have sprung themselves on me almost fully formed. 
I remember the very first one I ever wrote for my personal "keeper" notebook.

Of Thoughts and rhymes and mystic verses
Loves and hates and evil curses
Life abounds in wondrous power
Opening up like a complex flower.

I wrote that in 1975 or so.  Fairly typical teenage stuff, at least for me.
The last one that really presented itself to me almost complete came to me during an organ concert at church.  We were sitting down in the chancel, which is not usual, and I could see the stained glass window in the first dormer on the Epistle side of the church, and that is the one that our regular homeless person used to look up at and talk to before and after church.  Looking up at the angel, I wondered what Adam said to it, and what he heard in response.  "Adam's Angel" came to me then, almost complete.  I had to wait until I got out of the church to write it down, and I remember being afraid I would forget something important.  I don't think I did:


Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead

To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.

Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.

"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?

Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.

 This one is in my notes on my Facebook page, and I shared it after I wrote it with a few people at church. 
All of this is to say that sometimes I have to make myself write, and sometimes the writing makes me write.  Sometimes the words just want out, and I can't stop them. 
Most of the time, though, it is a slog.  A lot of staring at the paper or the screen and wondering what ever made me think I had anything worthwhile to say to the world.    It still feels a little egotistical, writing all this and sharing it with the world on my blog, but I need to do it.  I need the discipline.  And, if something I manage to put out there actually strikes a chord with someone who happens upon this blog, and it helps them or makes them laugh, or cheers them, or gives encouragement, then it's worth it.  Even if it just lets them say, "So, I'm not the only one..."