Surprising that so many of the poems were really good. At least, I thought so, though I’m certainly not an excellent judge of any piece of writing, particularly my own. Only a few of the poems I read made me inwardly cringe at the awkwardness of the word choice or the entire concept.

The cringing happens often when I’m reading old journals, the dumping ground for my thoughts. I’ve been reading stuff from the 1990′s when I was captivated by the idea of taking writing seriously, even while I was tempted to give up writing poetry altogether because I thought I wasn’t good at it.

What I knew even then, though I kept avoiding the reality, was that I’m good at writing when I’m practicing it. Reading back through journals and old work, it’s as obvious as it can be–writing often, writing regularly, not only makes me a better writer, it leaves me open to inspiration, the kind of inspiration that happened last March when I committed to writing, even if it was just journal entries, every day.

When I do that, magic happens, but it’s the magic of intent and attention, not any supernatural thing. When the mind is focused, when my will triumphs over my inertia, I do things.

In my younger days, before the complications of life made it more tricky to put writing at the top of my priorities list, I was a prolific writer, regularly inspired, regularly adept at stringing together words that make me proud of the writer I used to be.

And it makes me ask the question: what do I need to do to be that writer again?

I don’t remember why they made the skateboard, rather than purchasing it. Perhaps it was a project for the two of them to bond over. Perhaps it was something my brother wanted to do out of creativity.

Thinking of that, a bright day in the sunshine of the past, made me miss my brother of yesterday, made me wistful of how things could’ve been.

Not much point in a bed full of weeds that would be easier to mow than pull.

So a smaller bed, and the snowdrops just bloomed where they got transferred.

I wish I could feel more resilient like that.

Sitting at my laptop, I entertained an impulse to look up writing blogs on Google. I didn’t go deep. I scanned a few, most not updated in many months, even years in some cases.

I’ve thought about starting my own writing blog. I’ve thought of names. I even started the process at Blogspot.

And then I thought, you already have a blog. Use that.

So…here I am. Back to The Art of Practice. In the past, this blog has served as a forum for me to share whatever was on my mind. I don’t use it often, not because I don’t have things to say. Mostly, it’s been a time consideration, as that other pursuit I mentioned takes up almost every moment of free time I have, which has been drastically reduced in the last two years due to taking care of my mother, first long-distance, then here in my home.

I’m not going to state any goals or regulations for myself to attain and follow. That would be more pressure. I’m just going to write. I’m going to practice here. I’m going to maybe challenge my writing friends to stretch their writing muscles, while stretching my own.

No fanfare. No drama. Just writing.

Beginning here and now.

I love you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

That frustration is on a sensitive trigger these days because of so many people making holiday greetings–how we express those–into a political issue. I wished a clerk behind the counter “Happy Holidays,” not to eschew Christianity, but because I don’t know by looking at someone or by their speech patterns which winter holiday she chooses to celebrate. “Happy Holidays” respects and includes all of it.

But she needed to assert her Christianity. She said, “And Merry Christmas to you!” Being of mature mind, I moved on with my life, rather than making more of an issue of it than necessary.

But not everyone is like me, and I’m saddened that at this time of year when our focus is supposed to be on generosity of spirit, people are grumbling and growling at each other for saying “I hope you find some happiness” the wrong way.

Whether Pagans are celebrating Yule, or Christians are celebrating Christmas, or Jews are celebrating Hanukah, what we’re all turning toward at this season is Light. That is the true meaning of this festive season, the recognition that in all the darkness of being human animals, we have the choice to turn towards the light, to choose light in the midst of the dark, to realize we aren’t stuck with the default instinctual behavior of mammals. We can rise above those baser instincts and be kind and loving and good to one another, even those who choose to translate the wonders of living differently.

There’s enough happiness to go around because we create that for ourselves by our choices. We don’t need to assert dominance over others by insisting they believe how we believe. That’s the darkness. Light is made of lovelier things.

May you and yours be merry, whatever you celebrate. May light guide your way, always.

I’m sure that in my public education, I studied suffrage at some point, though I don’t recall much of what I learned. I knew that women couldn’t always vote, own property, or disobey their husbands. I don’t think I understood previously how much actual suffering took place in the process of securing female rights. I didn’t know the names and stories of the actual women who were willing to put everything on the line so that someday women just like me could and would live free.

That changed on Wednesday.

It’s easy to forget that people sacrificed for the freedom and rights I enjoy today. Being there, reading about their struggle, I was overcome with gratitude, the need to remember what other people went through, not only for themselves, but for other nameless, faceless women of the future.

Women like me.

I remember the shock. The devastation. The helplessness. The fury. The camaraderie. The bonfire my family held to honor those that were taken by the tragedy. The singing into the night to try to soothe ourselves.

Some pain fades with time. Pain like this lingers. During those terrible moments following the news of the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and flight 93, I remember making a vow to live life to the fullest in honor of those who couldn’t.

It’s good to remember, no matter how painful. It’s good to remind myself on a day that carries so much pain and grief and sorrow and for some, even remnants of fury, life is precious.

May we never forget, and may remembering inspire us to savor life in honor of those whose loss we mourn.

My mother and I went for a walk a couple weeks ago, before the monsoon season began. I took my camera along, headed for the entrance of our subdivision where a group of tulips were in perfect spring bloom.

On the way, we saw a robin dancing about in a tree, and as I tried to capture it with my camera, it got spooked and flew away.

The resulting photo is one of my favorites, lately. All that new spring green and the bird in between stillness and flight makes me smiile.

How pleasantly surprised I was to discover the sun peeking out from the oppressive cloud cover this afternoon as Mom and Daniel and I were leaving Boston Market. The sunshine brightened and continued the rest of the day, and I even got to spend some time outside, reading, soaking up the fresh air. So rare lately. I’m grateful.

And I took some photos of our spring flowers. Here are our tulips, in three colors.

So bright and smile-inspiring.