Creative Arts and Healing
Can you believe it? We've gone from the russet leaves of fall (my last entry) to the lush green eden of spring in Tallahassee. I lived through winter, Im sure of it -- lived through my daughter's 24th birthday, Chanukah, Christmas, New Year's, my January birthday, my 25th wedding anniversary on Valentine's Day, but apparently I didn't stop to write about any of it.
Oh yes, also lived through Alana's trip to India over the holidays to study eco-housing in preparation for her masters thesis in architecture. In no time at all she will graduate, just as I graduated at age 24 with my masters in education...

Suffering through a springtime cold, for the first time in ages, i lollygag around reading old New York Times book reviews, thinking about which book of mine i should focus on next, or how to find an agent, or whether gardening is enough of an accomplishment. Back in the women's prison with a new class, i never tire of first meeting my students knowing how close, how intimate, we shall be by the end of the course, seeing their eyes light up when they "get" that we're all "equal under the law of the pen" that this is not a writing contest, and that each of us has something of value to share. It seems so obvious to me; we've all lived, suffered, rejoiced, made mistakes, atoned for them, enjoyed a good meal, wished for love, had our dreams, put one foot in front of the other as we made our own unique path. And now it's time, high time we could say, to write about it, to recall and deliver to the world our own human literature.

Ok, I'm a crusader for lifestories, for haiku poetry, I'm a crusader for "everyone has something to say and deserves to be heard." I've made it my life's calling, my life's
passion, my life's joy to write and invite others to do so. I don't care if I'm a household word, just let there be many words, let their be huge democracies of words, huge encyclopedias of the human experience set in ink... on real pages, PLEASE, a book one can hold, as close as a lover, letting the pages riffle in the wind, spilling a rosy drop of tomato on it, what the heck, or a tear. Let the books be loved, read again, passed on to others, rediscovered, reprinted, and adored by readers everywhere, writers everywhere.

So sayeth Ka.

And inbetween my crusading, how i love my flowers, my vegetables, my bouquets all over the house, my e-mail exchanges, my cat Georgie, whose purr rumbles as he plumps down on my lap, a hefty loaf of pumpkin fur, how i love the sunshine and rain, the yellow butterflies of spring, the buzzing bees, the tiny new green leaves, the wind in the chimes.
I love reaching out to my anonymous and welcome readers, saying "I'm back, I'm still
alive, I'm still writing" and glad of it.

May spring gladden our hearts, make us want to romp in the clover, plant seeds that will blossom and fruit, as we sow now what we most wish to harvest... may it be peace

A coupla spring haiku

Too many flowers
for just one woman to count
let the bees do it

Cat cannot decide
this garden bed or that one
for its daily snooze

Birds write brand new songs
for the springtime hit parade
treetop broadcasting


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