Thursday, April 16, 2026 Dear Diary…

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Dear Diary,

It’s been a week of canceled events. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever become a recluse, since I feel bad about canceled events but also feel good about not having to go out. I’m not sure I could go all the way to Emily Dickinson levels of social avoidance. She did correspond with people, even if she didn’t get out much. Can you imagine getting a letter from Emily Dickinson with one of her charming little poems and maybe a dried flower in it?

I have all of my Grandpa Harry’s and Grandma Lois’s letters to each other from their early days. I have letters that my Dad wrote to my Mom when they were engaged. Her letters to him mysteriously disappeared. My husband and I have all the letters that we’ve written to each other over the years. Isn’t all this correspondence a treasure of some kind? I often thought how wonderful it would be to move into a house where family letters had been left in the attic for the next occupant (me) to find and read. Of course, I always assumed that those letters would be novel worthy, but chances are they’d be more like the letters that my great-grandmother Nettie wrote to my grandmother Lois after Lois got married, detailing everybody’s illnesses back at home. Yes, I have those letters, too.

I wrote oodles of letters to my mom. She gave them all back to me a few years before she died, so I have both sides of our correspondence now.

What to do with all these letters? I just can’t throw them away.

I suppose that will be for the next generation to do.

Reporting from the Sticky Chair, as usual.

I couldn’t possibly throw all these blog posts away. That will be for the next generation of bloggers.

Wednesday, April 15, 2026 Imitating the Masters: Matisse

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Henri Emile Benoit Matisse was born in northern France in 1869, the son of a wealthy grain merchant. He didn’t start painting until he was 20 years old when his mother bought him some art supplies to keep him occupied while recovering from appendicitis. His decision to pursue art as a career disappointed his father deeply.

In 1896 he was introduced to Impressionism and the work of Vincent Van Gogh, which influenced him to change his color palette completely – from earth tones to bright colors. He began collecting expensive paintings that he couldn’t afford and went into debt.

The intense colors of his works between 1900 to 1905 made him one of the “Fauvists,” (wild beasts) of the art world, a style that was only popular for about 10 years. These paintings expressed emotion with wild, sometimes dissonant colors, often ignoring the natural colors of the subject.

When many fled France during WWII, he decided to stay, saying, “If everyone who has any value leaves France, what remains of France?” His daughter, active in the resistance, was caught and tortured by the Gestapo and sent to Ravensbruck, but she escaped from the train on the way there and survived.

Matisse died of a heart attack at age 84 in 1954, having spent the last decade of his life concentrating on paper cut-outs as an art medium.

“Pot of Geraniums” was painted in 1912, oil on linen. It is on display at the National Gallery of Art.

When I saw this one, I thought with only few colors and a simple design, it might not be too hard to copy. I was wrong, as usual!

It’s an adventure, that’s for sure. I almost gave up on this one, but decided to persevere.

Next up:

Renoir! Am I crazy? Watercolor will be pretty difficult with that dress of hers…

I’ll delete this wild beasts of a blog post in the morning.

Tuesday, April 14, 2026 Commonplace Quotes: the

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I can hear birds through our open window in the living room. The significance of that statement is not the birds, but the open window. Yes! The weather is fine enough today to throw wide open the window and revel in the fresh air. Wherever you are, I hope you having an open window day, too.

It’s time to do some catch-up in the Commonplace Book, to run back through the pages and choose some quotes that got overlooked the first time around. Let them languish in obscurity no longer.

It is a greater mercy to descend from
praying parents than from nobles.
John Flavel

Don’t take for granted those praying parents of yours. And if you didn’t have them, thank God for His grace: He brought you thus far anyway.

People sometimes ask me, “How did you get rid of your feelings?” I tell them: “I didn’t get rid of them. I offer them to God, and I have to offer them again, and again, and again.
Elisabeth Elliot

Easier said than done, but better that than storing them up and becoming bitter.

If you ask, “Why is this happening?” no light may come, but if you ask “How am I to glorify God now?” there will always be an answer.
J.I. Packer

Two very different questions; only one brings light.

Christian contentment is the direct fruit of having no higher ambition than to belong to the Lord and to be entirely at His disposal.
Alistair Begg

I’d like to remember this when discontent rises up in my soul.

I played the notes as they were written,
but it was God who made the music.
Don’t cry for me –
I am going to where the music was born.
J.S. Bach

I love that!

Don’t cry for this post – it goes to where blog posts are born…in the morning.

Monday, April 13, 2026 The Stories We Tell Ourselves

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I love to tell stories. As soon as something happens to me or if I witness something, I am inwardly figuring out how to narrate it as a story. Doesn’t everyone do this?

But of late, I’ve realized that most of the stories I tell myself about the unknown are terrible. The Holy Spirit has been nudging me to recognize this. It’s been a lifelong habit, so thoroughly ingrained that it feels a part of my skin.

Travel plans coming up? It’ll probably be the last trip we take. Some disaster on the road will take our lives.

Medical appointment? There’s always a chance that it’s cancer. Or some other awful disease.

Concern about a loved one? Worst case scenarios (WCS) multiply almost without effort.

Could it go wrong? It will go wrong.

Someone didn’t reply to my text? I might have offended them. Or perhaps something horrible happened to them.

I’ve gotten better about catching WCS’s before I’m planning funerals in my head. Yet it wasn’t until I began to see these as bad stories that I started identifying them right away for what they are. As soon as one of these obnoxious thoughts worms its way into my brain, I call it out: “That’s a bad story and I will not tell it. I repent of it.”

It requires repentance because my bad stories also tell something about the way I view God and the stories He tells. Unlike me, God is a perfect story teller. If the “worst” happens, it’s part of some good story that He’s telling, even if I can’t see it. (One need look no further than Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection for proof.) Until and unless it happens, I’m just making stuff up and letting it scare me, and making the Lord out to be a constant purveyor of doom in the process. I’ve been at this a long time and I can assure you that I’ve been a very poor “prophet.” None of the things I’ve predicted have come to pass. And the hard providences that the Lord has sent my way weren’t things I predicted anyway.

So, I’m putting the new message on repeat: “That’s a bad story and I will not tell it. I repent of it.”

Worst Case Blog Scenario: I’ll have to delete this in the morning.

Friday, April 10, 2026 Boundaries

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Here’s another short writing assignment from a different class that I started. The assignment was to write a scene that takes place at an edge or boundary—the edge of town, the edge of a forest, the boundary between two neighborhoods or two countries. Here’s my take on it:

Lena wished she could see all the way to the lake from her house. It was four blocks down, two blocks over, and then over the hill and down the curvy road. She wondered what it would be like to live there, to see the sparkling blue from her window, to hear the waves lapping on the shore, to run outside and jump in the wet coolness on a hot day. She knew which house she’d want to live in – she’d seen it many times when biking around the lake. It was like a mansion perched on the edge of that circle of water. Her mother had told her that you had to be really rich to have a house on the lake. Lena didn’t know any rich people, but she figured they were stuck up and snobby. She sometimes got off her bike and stood near that house and then she’d close her eyes and imagine that the house was hers. She’d breathe in the lake air and think “That’s MY lake air, now.” She’d look at the graceful sailboats and say, “That little red one is mine and I can go sailing any time I want.”

Ellen had seen the girl before, the one with the red bike. What an odd duck she appeared to be, standing on the outside of their fence with her eyes closed. As Ellen watched from her window, she heard the cleaning lady vacuuming downstairs and wished she weren’t alone. Her parents were both physicians and between their two busy schedules, the time they spent with her wasn’t often. She wasn’t allowed to go wandering on her own, so she spent a lot of time reading. Today, though, she kept her eyes on the girl and wondered what it would be like to be able to get on a bike and go riding anytime she wanted to. Ellen thought if she wasn’t so shy, she’d say something, maybe call out a friendly greeting. Suddenly, the girl opened her eyes, looked up, and saw Ellen staring at her. Their eyes met. Ellen was just beginning to give a tentative smile when the girl frowned, mounted her bike and rode off. And Ellen, who had for a moment felt the nearness of someone, was alone again.

I haven’t written any more about these two girls, but I think they ought to meet, don’t you?

The Lord bless you and keep you, friends.

I’ll probably delete this on the edge of the town in the morning.

Thursday, April 9, 2026 Dear Diary

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Dear Diary,

Here’s a question I pondered today while going in and out of some shops with a couple friends. How guilty should I feel if I go into a shop and don’t buy anything? Here are the options I am considering:

1. No guilt. You are under no obligation to buy anything.

2. A modicum of guilt. The shop owner is there to sell things. His/her business depends on people who will buy their wares. They probably die a little each time someone waltzes in the store exclaiming over how interesting or delightful things are, and then waltzes out again without having made a purchase.

3. Extreme guilt. If you have no intention of buying, you shouldn’t even enter the shop. Why get their hopes up?

Sometimes I think I should just be prepared to buy something and bless the shop owner. I’ve always been rather “frugal” (which is a much nicer word than “cheap”). When I was young, my parents gave me a modest allowance and my dad one time had to tell me that it was okay for me to spend it. So that’s the mentality I’m working with. Or with which I’m working, if I’m going to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition.

Oh dear. Guilty of overthinking things again.

I’ll probably feel varying amounts of guilt over deleting this in the morning.

Wednesday, April 8, 2026 The Workshop: Bounding Bunnies Abound

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Alas, I have not made enough progress on the Henri Matisse painting to feature it this week. I will try to console you in your deep (DEEP) disappointment over that by sharing some bunnies with you.

And for good measure, I’ll throw in an impromptu poem:

A bevy of bunnies,
A riddle of rabbits,
A houseful of hares,
Those wascally wabbits!

You’re welcome.

It’s been my habit
To delete my blabit
Before the dawn
Of the rascally rabbit.

Tuesday, April 7, 2026 Commonplace Quotes: The Spring Coat Edition

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There’s a transition that occurs sometime after we’ve had a few warm days, in which I cross over to spring in my heart and in my imagination. The practical outworking of this is that I dress foolishly for the outdoors. It’s spring! What do you mean it’s only 30 degrees out? I shall wear my spring coat anyway. I saw someone today wearing shorts outside, which is a more hard core application of this than I can do.

Put your spring coat on, people.

It is spring again.
The earth is like a child
that knows poems by heart.
Rainer Maria Rilke

Ah, lovely, lovely thought. The earth knows the poems of the seasons by heart because the Poet Himself has done the teaching.

When the winds of change blow,
some people build walls
and others build windmills.
Chinese Proverb

I’m more of a wall builder when it comes to change. But think how much better to turn a profit on it by building a windmill. Is it possible? Only by God’s grace…

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And I gave it up.
And took my old body and went out
into the morning
and sang.
Mary Oliver

Perhaps just that, going out into the morning and singing, is enough to start building that windmill. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…”

‘The sun was warm
but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
Robert Frost

You do know how it is on an April day. Unless you live somewhere in the South. Then you might not.

The world shimmers with spiritual meaning that lies just beneath the surface, winking at us through stone or tree or bird or star…. Artists are not creating things so much as finding them, uncovering truths God has already planted in His creation.
George MacDonald

Next time you step outside, pay attention to what is winking at you. Do you see the shimmer?

For lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and done;
the flowers appear on the earth;
the time of the singing of birds is come.
Song of Solomon 2:11

I saw yesterday that our chive plant is starting to come up. Lo, the winter is past.

Local Squirrel Investigates Early Chive Growth

Lo, the blog post is past. In the morning.

Monday, April 6, 2026 Birds and Icicles

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What do birds think about icicles?

Does it ruffle their feathers
In icy cold weathers
When icicles glitter
On the eaves of their feeder?
Do these Swords of Damocles
Make them feel ill at ease?
Or are they oblivious
To moments so perilous?

I listened all day,
To hear what they’d say,
But alas, they aren’t talking
In spite of my stalking.

So what do birds think about icicles?
I don’t know! Do you?

The Sword of Damocles will hang over this post in the morning.

Thursday, April 2, 2026 Dear Diary

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Dear Diary,

I played one of my mother’s CD’s a few days ago. The first track blasted out the “Dies Irae” from Verdi’s requiem, a piece I had sung in my college days as part of a 300-member chorus. It was thrilling to hear it again and brought me right back to those days. In rehearsal we were singing it in too bland a manner and our director reminded us, “This means “DAY OF WRATH! Sing it like you know what it means!” Oh, the memories.

As I’ve gotten older, memories pile upon memories upon memories. By now they form a solid book in my head, but I can feel some of them quietly slipping away, as if pages are loose and occasionally dropping out. I do hope this means that room is being made for new ones. Is there only so much room in the brain? This is one of those questions that only God can answer.

As to what I’ve been up to lately (besides musing about memories), I’ve finally had to pay attention to the regular nagging I’ve been getting lately about my iCloud storage. Dire messages greet me every time I open my photos file and I absolutely REFUSE to buy anymore iCloud storage. What a racket! So I’ve been transferring photos from iCloud to another, kindlier space.

Some books I’m currently reading:

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne. Opinion: Jules wanted to write an oceanography textbook and decided to spice it up a bit with a plot.

Uncommon Friends by James Newton. Subtitle: Life with Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, Harvey Firestone, Alexis Carrel and Charles Lindbergh. Now there’s a guy that can name drop with style! Very interesting stuff.

Miss Plum and Miss Penny by Dorothy Evelyn Smith. Fiction. I did so want this to be a book about the friendship between two older ladies, but you can’t tell everything (or anything, apparently) about a book by its title. Miss Plum is young and irritating – why does she get first billing? The book was written in 1959 when I was not even out of diapers, so I don’t expect anything shocking.

Commentary on the book of Hosea by John Calvin. I started this one in November of 2024, so I’m in it for the long haul. I think, dear Diary, and I’m sure you would agree, that it’s a good idea to challenge our minds with reading something that your brain can only handle at the rate of 1-2 pages per day.

Lastly, and definitely not leastly, I took part in a Zoom Poetry Tea Party yesterday. Those of us who have poems in the book I’ve Got A Bad Case of Poetry each introduced ourselves and got a chance to read one of our poems to the other poets and the families who supported the kickstarter campaign at the highest level. What an honor! I suppose I’ll get a big head now.

The Woman with the Big Head

If the Sticky Chair allows me to climb out of it, I’ll delete this in the morning.

Wednesday, April 1, 2026 The Workshop: Van Gogh’s Chair

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This is week 4 in my series of “Imitating the Masters.” I’m actually surprised that I’ve kept up with it thus far. As promised, I worked on copying a Van Gogh painting this time.

Vincent Van Gogh was a Dutch post-impressionist painter, who lived from 1853 to 1890. If you do the math, that means he died at age 37 – more on that later. He was the very definition of tortured artist. He showed early signs of mental instability which he never really overcame. He worked as an art dealer as a young man. At one point, he threw himself into religion, probably hoping to defeat the demons in his life, and even spent time as a missionary in Belgium.

Eventually Vincent drifted into a life of solitude, having poor health as well. He was in and out of psychiatric hospitals with depression and psychotic episodes, and famously mutilated his ear with a razor in one of his bad spells. These days we would call him a “hot mess.” Most of what we know about him, we know from his correspondence with his brother Theo. The day came when he could endure life no more: he shot himself in the chest. This, amazingly, did not kill him. He was able to walk back to town, but two days later he died from an infection to the wound. His last words were “The sadness will last forever,” haunting words.

Over his lifetime, Van Gogh did over 2,100 pieces of art, coming to a style that featured bold colors and dramatic brush work. Over 800 of those paintings he did in his last two years! He painted “Van Gogh’s Chair” (also called “The Chair and the Pipe”) in 1888, using oil on canvas. I found out that the box in the painting was an onion box! He chose to paint this one in the complimentary colors of blue and orange and said that he “sought an effect of light with bright color.” It hangs in the National Gallery in London.

I have continued to struggle with getting proportions correct, something I’ll be working on in future paintings. I didn’t aim to get exact color matches; mine is a great deal brighter than Van Gogh’s. If you look carefully at mine, you’ll see a major change I made, putting my mark on the painting. Wink, wink.

Next week: Henri Matisse!

And now I’m singing to myself Don McLean’s song, “Starry, Starry Night,” about Vincent Van Gogh.

I’ll probably cram this into an onion box in the morning.