There have been many gray days in the plains where you can hardly distinguish the sky from the ground. Then the snow comes, falling ever so gently, until the chilling north wind steps in, changing the tempo of the snowflake's slow waltz.
Today the sun has returned, but only makes fools of us for thinking it is as warm as it looks. The temperatures instead are the coldest they have been all season. I wandered outside despite the bitter cold, enjoying the beauty of the landscape from my own garden. The flowers that remain are so perfectly preserved with almost translucent petals.
These first days of another year have seemed so rich and full, following a new direction for my life. This declared path of exploring a cherished dream of being devoted to my own art full time, keeps my mind flooded with ideas and possibilities that are constantly fluttering about like moths to a flame.
And at night... I reward myself from a day of hardwork with meandering moments spent in my Winter's Journal. I adore looking at the cover of this little book with all its pages neatly tucked inside, and flecks of gold stardust sprinkled on top, here and there.
Although I may find myself painting nearly all day long, I can never get enough of the creative process... the hours and minutes while away so quickly.
Soon, I find that I have a new page to share and a bit of poetry as well.
"finding delight in a winter's tale
as white stars fall...
covering the canvas of my errors,
a beginning, another start given,
as I stand idle between this peace,
and anxious to find my box of paints"