One of the first friends I made here was Kelly B. Pittman . A treasure to behold, rebuilding an entire life, after unbelievable trauma, through creativity and her love of nature — Kelly is an extremely talented multidisciplinary artist, lover of Jesus, and master naturalist. I have never experienced a creative synergy like I have with her. It’s a quiet kind with a magnetic force that I find difficult to explain. It’s one-hundred percent spiritual.
She has taught me to pray more, create more, love harder, take risks and be vulnerable. Everything Kelly does is an “offering” of gratitude to our Maker — for her life and the lives of her loved ones.
I follow suit.
Recently, I went blindly about creating something for Kelly in the way she creates, due to some restless dreaming and a deeply personal connection I was feeling.
I was elated and exhausted after two days of meditating on it.
Today, I realized I had published just over 400 pieces of work. So I paced. How will I culminate all this work? I paced some more. Then I heard the music, the words, the poetry — rolled up my sleeves and went for it again.
This is my perfectly imperfect mess — where joy and grief intersect in the midst of madness, love, broken relationships, illness, missing loved ones, wars of the spirit, wars of nations — and the continual bloom of hope.
I am “becoming” because of you Kelly. Thank you.
I carry your heart with me.
ox
Music (worth the 7 min. listen, because it’s incredible): “Rudy” by Supertramp — Center flow poetry: by me — Poetry bits: A Child’s Garden of Verses 1885, by Robert Louis Stevenson — Other bits: Song lyrics to “Rudy,” and “Lord Is It Mine” by Supertramp. Other stuff ripped from magazines. And there’s some real dry flowers too.
I have a whole new appreciation for painstaking messes…
P.S. My near 90 year old mum tells me, on our phone calls, that she still hears the sirens and the bombs from WW2 in England — especially with the never-ending wars going on. It brings back the terror. Mum spent six years, from the age of three to nine in and out of a bomb shelter/cage. The longest story I wrote (prior to writing The Jacket), was this one. For her and my nana.
I live, love and feel deeply about life — because of them. ox
