aren't lines supposed to be straight?

doodles on the side of a wall, graffiti or art?

little hands scrawl squiggly, wiggles on a page

free, creative marks with no rhyme or reason

this is a pony, this is a cloud

no resemblance can be seen, but it’s there

“aren’t lines supposed to be straight?” comments the adult mind, stuck in a box of rules

We’ve lost the ability to just think, to watch clouds and scribble. Doodling away time – what a waste, not productive to jot and color, and heaven forbid, outside the lines.

Aren’t lines supposed to be straight? Predictable? What about crossing the proverbial line, bending it or careful, wobbling on it? Walk the line, draw the line, but don’t cross the line.

Peek, if you dare to take the chance, at the Alice in Wonderland possibilities on the squiggly side of the line.

nothing straight here, except the lines in the corrugated tin

These thoughts speak strongly to my keen sense of sensibility. By nature I am organized and productive. I find taking idle time to be a little on the disconcerting side, especially when I see dishes that need to be done, an email that needs to be answered, or even a blog that needs to be written.

I'm a doer in a dreamer’s body.

However, when I sit down with a coloring book (yes, I have coloring books) and begin to fill in the spaces with a palette of pencils I find that it’s more to my liking to not color in all of the spaces, leaving some white, untouched areas. It’s like having a place to stop; letting the blank areas be an inspired rest.

One of my life ambitions is to be mindful. Mindful of people and relationships. Mindful of nature and the seasons. Mindful of how I live my life. And, for me, that means allowing myself to think and scrawl lines that aren’t straight, and leaving some of the page open.

Mindful, creative and full of possibilities –

Missy

If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

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strewn pebbles Walking on the path I noticed the pebbles. I stopped and picked one up, holding it in my hand to feel it’s texture. Tiny and smooth, it felt warm from the sun. Continuing on my walk, the way was scattered with pebbles of different shapes and sizes; some flat and polished, others round and craggy with sharp edges that could cut the skin. I considered the meaning, if any. Some had been sanded to perfection by time and wear. Others recently broken and chipped were harsh, ugly to feel and look at. No matter, all were pebbles; that was fact. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

Isabella Bird Miscellany

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