Corn

Welcome, welcome, I hope that you are taking time for your art this week. If things haven't been going the way you want or worse your house of cards was kicked over, you must rise up. Overcome. And what if you stumbled, or what if you fell, you must forgive yourself if you have come up short in any area. You must because your work is valuable.

Dear artists and writers, you must plant regardless. If you push a seed into the earth, something is bound to come up. No special super skills needed. This simple process of sowing and reaping governs art. What comes up is surprising, unexpected, and the yields are greater than you can imagine and sweeter than your dreams. There are reasons to turn up the earth. There are reasons to plant the seeds.

And these reasons are not always easy to see. Seeds go into the ground tiny, hard, and insignificant. Then comes the water and rain and up springs so much life. I have this full memory of being in a corn field and picking corn as a young teen. I was somewhere near DeRidder, Louisiana.

The corn stalks were twelve feet high and were covered with ears. The rows stretched out so far I couldn't see the ends. I dropped each fat ear into a woven bushel basket. Wind made the stalks rustle like voices. The world had turned to corn.

Each ear was over a foot long and was as big around as my arm. I hauled that basket down that row. I pulled back the silky tassels of one ear. And slipped my finger tips across the golden kernels. I understood the power of a kernel.

My seeds are stories. You may paint, or sculpt, or weave, whatever. These seeds of art, transfer and multiply the truth. We plant them, and they grow into surprising verdant patches that at can take over entire fields and reshape the land.

Do that this week. Give it your all.

This week's doodle is Self-'ll.



This week's quote should strike a chord.

A light wind swept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the sunshine. Anne Bronte