Painting Your Soul Red

Art by Leah

Cupid, whose aim is often askew, uniting the most unlikely sorts, and making me question his credibility altogether; I must say that I continue to be a fan of love and still retain the infectious wounds inflicted from his arrows. Yes, I said wounds, for having dated many; my heart has been pierced more than once.

Love is a messy thing, interrupting lives and overthrowing hearts before the unsuspecting pair has a chance to gird their tender loins. Of course not all loins are tender, and love need not be reserved for the young, for love has long arms and reaches far into the future, holding dear the subject of adoration well past the time of noticing skunky streaks whitening the temples and creases brought on by life’s bloody combats… and welcomed comedies.

Fair maidens become fair ladies, well versed in the art of love and irony, and lads become lords with heavy feet and aching backs from life’s long ride. The love itself knows no difference between maiden and lady, or lad and lord, for love stands tall within the soul that sought the love and carried it thus far.

If you were struck blind, how then would you measure your lover’s fairness?
For beauty and eyes both fade, but love abides in the timeless heart.
Youth’s brief kiss will soon be forgotten.
And what then?
Fret not, for you need only close your eyes to see that fairest love whose familiar heart calls you to the center of their universe, where one’s eyes measure nothing, and love, that steamy art, paints your soul red.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, LOVERS!

Abandoning The Box

I wake to the quiet—a split of time held in smoky purity …but then a thought imposes--a heavy tsk-tsk that makes my head bow and my stomach curl. It’s a call to suffering, a shift towards fear…
”you’re too old to change."
"You’ve wasted your life."

Such were my thoughts while living in the box.
It was a tight and toxic environment,
where tainted truths were dished out in little doses.

And why did I ingest all the lies?
Because I was told to,
and I wanted to please them,
and it wasn’t their fault,
or mine,
or who knows whose,
because the road to every hood and home has been paved with lies since man's first thought.

I kept imagining what it was like outside of the box—maybe peek and catch a glimpse of something new, but the fear that there might be something better out there kept me from looking. After all, what would I do? Nearly everyone I loved lived in the box so I couldn't leave.

I stayed in the box in my twenties, when youth beckoned me “explore”.

I stayed in the box in my thirties, preaching with grave conviction on the apocalyptic consequences awaiting all who abandoned their boxes.

I stayed in the box in my forties, when the days turned stale and life became as unproductive as a dry heave.

Then I turned 50, and I said to myself, “Enough! My life is more than half over and all I’ve seen is the inside of this box.”

In that instant five decades worth of boxy convictions toppled, inspiring me to peek outside of the box.

Yes, I did.

And what did I see?

I saw myself smiling
right back at me.

So I lifted my skirt
and climbed on outside,
where the sun in its brightness
shone as my guide.

I saw paintings and theaters,
dancers and drunks,
buildings and alleyways
sprayed on by punks.

Some things were so frightening,
I wanted to run
straight back to the box
and hide from the sun,

but I knew in my heart
I had something to do,
so I thought till a thought
bubbled up from true-blue.

I could write a book.
I could
and I did.
I wrote one about
my life as a kid.

It took all my breath
to say stuff out loud,
to recycle myself
back into the crowd.

But now I’m connected
to me and to you
to all of the people
in search of true-blue.

And life is much bigger
than
me
me
me
me
for it’s being lived
by someone who’s free!

Listen to life.
It is wise.
It is generous.
It is speaking.

Holy Aha!

My latest holiday painting.

I never did find a place for a tree, or tinsel, or any other accessories to glam up my tiny trailer for the season. This year has been the most unadorned holiday ever. I did, however, paint a few holiday paintings; after all, there was plenty of paint and paper, and of course, my chronic romance with vintage Christmas.

Anyway, I was at the mall, attempting to shop for presents, roaming the glittery pretend streets in search of something that I couldn’t name, when I realized the huge disconnect between my spirit and my actions, inspiring me to skedaddle out of there without buying as much as a gumdrop.

Because my life has shifted so much in the past few years, I’ve decided to go with it and see where it leads me. I am clearly not in control of the cosmos, or the energy that runs it, so I may as well trust it.

As far as this year’s Christmas goes, well, I haven’t had any profound epiphanies, or Oprah ahas yet, I’ve simply been shown that I need to have a more meaningful connection to Christmas just as with life. I need to do something that spreads love, lasts all year round, and reflects a life well lived, rather than money well spent.

Okay, so I did get an aha or two, I just didn’t know it. I had to root them out with you guys.

Wishing all of you enough joy, love, and holy ahas, to last you all year long.

Love! Love! Love!

Conjuring Halloween

The thing that I’ve always liked about Halloween is that it temporarily demystifies evil, giving us permission to laugh at, and perhaps even celebrate, the dark side of everything. The common bat with its leathery wings, hyper-flapping against the tranquility of twilight, becomes a prop for hauntings and mayhem as we mimic devils, zombies, and vampires, sucking up their dark powers and using them for sport.

We get to poke fun at our greatest enemy, death, by dressing as ghosts and skeletons, ha-ha-ha-ing the night away, puncturing our fears through with laughter—leaving them in a powerless puddle like deflated lawn ornaments.

As a kid Halloween was a fantasy holiday, not only allowing me to imitate my favorite villain, but also providing a sugary booty, fit to inspire tooth decay and belly aches. What more could a kid ask for? So, in honor of our spookiest holiday I have composed a short poem and also painted a couple of pictures to go with it. I hope they inspire you to smile like a jack-o-lantern as you conjure some of your most memorable Halloween celebrations. I would love for you to share them with me.

Trick or Treating

Witches on brooms, haunting the sky
While spiky black cats stand in fright mode
Jack-o-lanterns aglow, there is mischief about
As the beggars push out for their pay loads

Sweaty masks hide, the fear in their eyes
As they tread through the darkness with giggles
Apparitions delight, in the juvenile fright
While their mothers hold onto their fingers

Bags weighed down, with chocolate and yums
Their reward for an evening of pleading
They have braved the dark night, swallowed their fright
And will never forget trick or treating
Leah Griffith

Surrender to Your Nakedness

I’ve kept clear of writing lately opting instead to dip my brush into tiny puddles of primaries and pastels. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge to write, but rather I’ve grown tired of my own words. For me writing is a reflective vocation where my words spell out the contents of my heart. If my heart is heavy, my words are heavy, and quite frankly I’ve been in such a state of introspection lately that my writing has become an extension of this self absorbed circuitry.

This negative energy has been trying to drain me of my strength and pallor for some time now, so when my friend, Julia suggested that I splash my life with color; I jumped right in. Actually she made me take up painting as a homework assignment for her Getting Naked Class, that I attend. The class has been huge help in pointing the way to the things that really matter. So thank you Julia for giving me an artistic nudge.

This morning I’m writing because I miss it and I’m hoping to discover some tiny treasures, perhaps a clue as to how to navigate beyond the limited default settings of my mind to a place of freedom and intelligence, a place where the past is tucked in and understood and doesn’t rule the day. A place where the future needn’t mirror the past but holds infinite possibilities and endless surprises. I want to be rid of all the senseless gloom and doom and skip off into the land of perpetual tra la las.

By making the writer paint I’ve stepped off of my predictable path. My artwork is childlike and two-dimensional, bespeaking naivety and a clear lack of formal training, yet it is honest and untainted by the measuring madness of the ego or the shortsightedness of ambition. Painting, when I’m not certain how to paint, has taught me that control is an illusion, as are security, perfection, and time, and that I need only be myself—my rag-tag, bedraggled, silly, somewhat gullible, grumpy, and overly-deep self in order to be happy. I am enough.

Surrendering to this truth is like stripping naked in a fabulous boutique. The silks linens and cottons call to me from the racks, but I must remain naked until I’m certain that I’m not using the clothing as a form of disguise or surrogate security. I must surrender to my nakedness as surely as the evening must surrender to dawn, spring to summer, autumn to the callous cold of winter, and finally life itself must surrender, like a startled zebra seized by the committed jaw of a lioness, to the relentless grip of death.

I am convinced that until I can consistently determine the difference between the conditioned voices of yesterday and the compassionate and intuitive words of today…right now, I will continue to get trapped within the webby inertia of identity-dementia, and waste my days looking backwards for the road ahead.

Purposeful Vulnerability

It’s been a whirlwind of a week with the release of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and a surprise visit from my daughter and granddaughter from NC. And then on top of that, I was honored with a surprise launch party, sneakily hatched by my two beautiful daughters!

Calamity Becomes Art

Lately most of my blog entries have been a bit on esoteric side, clouded and shrouded, meant to only reveal a shadow. I do this when my life gets complicated and answers evade me. I receive great comfort from the pillowy protection that prose, metaphors and poetry offers me. I could live there forever if allowed, but I’m not allowed, and I must come out from behind the mist on occasion and do a little show and tell.

I am currently on the brink of realizing an important part of my dream with the upcoming publication of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe. The seeds of this dream were planted when I was a child living out a nightmare. Of course I wasn’t aware of my dream then, after all I was just a child. And besides, I was too busy trying to survive, dodging monsters in between games of hopscotch, and seeking out safe habitats on the fringes of society. But throughout my life I always had a certain sense that there was something important that I needed to do.

As I matured I aspired to become a writer; one with the ability to inspire people whose childhoods read like pulp fiction. I wanted to speak to those little kids living in adult’s bodies, the ones who still find it difficult to raise their heavy heads off their desks, lift their muted voices above their classmate’s, and move forward, far away from their fear and shame.

I’ve had to live through many years of lessons in order to reach the point where my calamity became my art, and my staggered footsteps a trail… a way out. When I look back at my life and I ask myself what I have to offer, I see my path transformed by life’s alchemy into a golden river, which is so pure that it pours out of me and finds form within the hearts that receive it. I have me. Leah. And I am enough.

Sometimes the closer we get to realizing a dream the harder the journey becomes. I was intimidated at the prospect of having to navigate the unknown realms of self-publication. I love to write, but I hadn’t planned on becoming a publisher. My life in general has become a bit complicated over the past year, and then with the added pressure of self-publishing I became discouraged, which led me into a phase of stagnation and fear.

I know from experience that I can only gain understanding as I move forward, and that perfection is a lie invented by fear to inspire inferiority and paralysis. So, today I’m embracing all the things that I don’t understand about publishing my first novel, including all the technical things that tie my stomach into knots.

I’m also facing all the emotional issues that seek to derail me: fear of failure, fear of success, people’s reactions and my shyness. These are but heavy chains meant to keep my dreams earthbound. Dreams have wings you know; they need to fly. So, today I am giving my dreams wings by embracing the amazing journey of self-publication and following wherever it may lead me.

My job is to do the work required in order to set my dream soaring. Where it goes from there is entirely out of my hands.


On another note, I was recently honored by a fellow blogger with The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. At the time I was buried in work and worry and unable to offer appropriate thanks for this honor. So, without further ado, I want to thank J.P. Lane of All Dressed Up for this sweet honor. I encourage you all to drop by and visit her!




This video never ceases to inspire me.

Paint Your Soul Red

Young Girl Defending Herself Against Eros. William-Adolphe Bougrereau.

Contemplating Cupid, whose aim is often askew, uniting the most unlikely sorts, and making me question his credibility altogether; I must say that I continue to be a fan of love and still retain the infectious wounds inflicted from his arrows. Yes, I said wounds, for having dated many; my heart has been pierced more than once.

Love is a messy thing, interrupting lives and overthrowing hearts before the unsuspecting pair has a chance to gird their tender loins. Of course not all loins are tender, and love need not be reserved for the young, for love has long arms and reaches far into the future, holding dear the subject of adoration well past the time of noticing skunky streaks whitening the temples and creases brought on by life’s bloody combats… and welcomed comedies.

Fair maidens become fair ladies, well versed in the art of love and irony, and lads become lords with heavy feet and aching backs from life’s long ride. The love itself knows no difference between maiden and lady, or lad and lord, for love stands tall within the soul that sought the love and carried it thus far.

If you were struck blind, how then would you measure your lover’s fairness?
For beauty and eyes both fade, but love abides in the timeless heart.
Youth’s brief kiss will soon be forgotten.
And what then?
Fret not, for you need only close your eyes to see that fairest love whose familiar heart calls you to the center of the universe, where one’s eyes measure nothing, and love, that steamy art, paints your soul red.

Insatiable Doppelganger

You shrink at the feet of desperation, that excessive tyrant who pushes you into a stinking alleyway where your desires, like a gang of delinquents, are waiting to overtake you. Their anemic eyes are shadowed by lack; their greedy hands rifle through your pockets, turning them inside out onto the filthy ground. Angry at finding nothing they demand everything…the sun, the moon, passion's pulsing lifeblood that feeds your lean soul.

You cower at their grandiose demands until you’re but a thread of a person; a deflated worm desperately inching your way below …to that familiar hole, moist with the rotting remains of what might have been and needs to be. Your isolation cocoons you; binding you in Havishamian veils tattered by time and choked expectations.



Living underground, where blindness inspires introspection and melancholy morphs into madness, you cut a deal with the traffickers of delusion and hysteria…those needy street kids who blame you for their lot. Casting crumbs, they scramble for the loot, skinny hands and knobby knees colliding, rumbling like malnourished Crypts vying for turf and dominance.

You’re astounded with their naivety, and feel foolish for being afraid, for believing their threats. You wonder how you came to such a state, becoming an insatiable doppelganger, craving the universe, yet blind to the nonpareil treasures gifted to you by life; winking like stars in the know, silently waiting for your appreciation…as you dwell in the dust, languishing in an empty hole.