I love to read. I read almost anything. There are a few genres such as romance that I do not enjoy. In recent years, I have made a point of including non-fiction in my reading list on a regular basis. Variety keeps things interesting.

Some of my favorite things to read are the published diaries of writers I read growing up. The glimpse into their lives is fascinating. Beyond that I have learned the struggles they faced and the disciplines they established as they strove to tell stories. This gives ideas as I strive to establish routines and disciplines in my life.

More recently, I have been reading random topics that catch my eye. Some because of questions in my curiosity journal. I continue to enjoy learning. I read Cascadia's Fault to learn more about earthquake science. How is it studied? What advances have been made? Are any scientists working on prediction? With each question answered more appear.

This past year, I have started to research various countries. With a different country each week, the research is cursory at best. It does give glimpses into areas not previously considered. Each search leads to more questions. There are some countries I plan to return to at the end of the year to find out more. If at that time other things have caught my attention, I have at least learned something. I am using this research as art inspiration.

Both art and story benefit from my research as I consider different locations and ideas. The stack of reading material is never-ending and I like it that way.

How does reading affect your life?

While I started this journey as an art and writing exercise, I am finding the research fascinating. There are so many countries I know little about. By the end of the year, I will have increased my knowledge of 52 countries. Bulgaria falls on the side of previously unaware. I heard references to Bulgaria periodically in the news and mostly ignored them.

Bulgaria is bordered by Greece, Turkey, Romania, Macedonia, Serbia and the Black Sea. It is an area that produced a lot of conflict. Maybe that's why I paid so little attention, like the Middle East it seems there is always a war or rumor of war in this area. Reading up on the history, I note Bulgaria was part of number of conflicts over territory but more recently seems to enjoy some stability. Once a part of the Ottoman Empire and then part of Turkey, Bulgaria declared independence in 1908. In 1935, following a military coup, Boris III banned political parties. They joined with Germany in WWII. Following the war, the monarchy was overthrown and the communist party ruled for decades.

I was intrigued by the details of the new constitution of 1991 which set up both a president and a prime minister. One of the interesting things is the requirement of 50% turnout for the election to be valid. I wonder if we would ever have a valid election with that requirement.

As interesting as I found the political structures and history of Bulgaria, they were not leading me to any art ideas. I turned to scenery and notable sites around Bulgaria. The relief carved Madara Rider from early medieval times was interesting but lacked color. Maggie needs color. I considered beaches and mountains before stumbling upon the Belogradchik fortress in the Belogradchik rocks. Reminiscent of Turkey's fairy chimneys which Maggie is still dreaming of for her garden, I set to painting. Each time I pull out the acrylics, i find myself a little more comfortable. I am learning how to blend the colors and bring out the highlights and shadows. I have much more to learn!

Belogradchik fortress

Maggie writes

Maggie is a daydreamer. If she had her druthers, she would visit each country except maybe Norway since the ice hotel was totally uninteresting for her. Iceland turned her off with its name until she saw the beautiful waterfalls. I do wonder -- Can she be serious?

Others are journeying around the world with our guide Darcy at Art and Sole. Each has a unique perspective on the country of the week.

I catch myself wishing and worrying. Discontent threatens to blot out the blessings. I am surrounded by abundance yet find myself wanting different. As friends and acquaintances return from exotic vacations, I wonder will we have that chance? Then I remember friends fighting for their life as they battle cancer. I don't have a new vacation memory but I have improving health. I have choices. We plan a walk instead of a vacation. The value lies in connecting and building relationship.

I get frustrated with work. I struggle to choose what to prepare for supper. I grumble at the mess. But I have choices. Some have so much less. Just this week two acquaintances were laid off. One joins her husband in unemployment. My concerns pale as I consider the possibilities. Yet worry continues to press.

Worry saps my energy. It drains my creativity. It challenges my faith. I choose to fight. I count my blessings. I watch the birds. The wind blows. Rain threatens. they take shelter in my evergreen tree. Where do I take shelter? The birds are cared for by the creator. How much more can I trust that my needs will be met? And so, I fight back against the worry. Armed with my list of blessings and verses, I choose to trust. I may need to choose repeatedly today, but still I choose. Hopefully, when I review the day, trust wins. If not, I fight back again tomorrow.

Matthew 6: 26 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?

Some days the words dance across the page with little care. Other days, they must be pulled from hiding. I search them out of the depths. They hide in the recesses of my brain behind the unending to do list.

This week was a mix of the two. Saturday, we rose early and headed to the ditch. Our group had responsibility to clean 7km of ditch. With 50m left, the downpour started. Wet, cold and exhausted we returned home. No writing would occur. Sunday, after church, we headed to the library. Victoria had a poem selected as part of a Teen Poetry Celebration. The library held a gala in honour of the young poets whose work was displayed during April's Poetry month celebration.

Sunday evening, I relaxed with a writing exercise. I had plans to join my Mom at her writer's group Monday afternoon. each month they have a four word challenge. I received the words Sunday afternoon following the poetry gala. Could I write something, anything using peanut, unabated, allergy and mitre? I played with the words unsure how to include mitre until I turned to the dictionary. I wrote a paragraph. Then I edited a short piece I had been working on.

Monday, I awoke with ideas to add to the four word challenge. It might become a complete story instead of just an excerpt. I hurriedly did some writing to gather my thoughts, then set to work on my in progress pieces. The writer's group was an interesting experience. We ended with a writing exercise that left me with a very unpolished piece. I need a few exercises I can pull out of a jar those days the words hide.

My goals for the week were a mixed bag. I didn't write every day. I did make progress with my postcard characters and my blog posts. I have a handful of new ideas to work with and I completed another poem. Victoria has challenged me to write more poetry. She wrote part of a history assignment in poetry this week.

eighty days of playing around with words doesn't seem so daunting this week. I am glad I am taking part in the Round of words in 80 days, it is stretching me to try new things. I think I'll join the writer's group I visited and continue to play with words.

What are your favorite writing exercises?

How does your garden grow? With memories and toil and raspberries all in a row.

I didn't always enjoy gardening. Endless weeding when I could be exploring with friends had that effect. But mixed with those memories are ones spent with Grandma at the farm. The large garden behind the house yielded a variety of salads to go with supper. Auntie Terry and I would head out to find cucumber, lettuce, onion and radish. We would pause at the carrots for a snack, wiping the dirt off with our hands so we could eat them on the way in.

The mix of memories led me to dig out a small garden plot when we moved into our house. The ground was hard and filled with weeds. I hardly knew where to start. I wanted fresh salads like at the farm. I wanted fresh tomatoes for on my sandwiches.

We got some raspberry canes from Bruce's grandma. Then I set to work building our salad. The first years, cucumbers failed to produce until I gave up on them. While the cucumbers failed, the tomatoes produced well. Did the work improve the flavor?

As I dig leaves and compost into the soil this year, I notice how easy it turns. The soil crumbles where once it clumped. Soon I'll drop seeds beneath the soil and wait. I'll wait for the feathery greens of the carrots to emerge. I'll wait for the red-stemmed leaves of the beets. As I wait I wonder, what memories will my girls have from the garden. Will they only remember the weeding or will they remember the fresh vegetables on the table?

How does your garden grow?

How do you define yourself? I struggle with the labels artist and writer and yet, I create art and I write. I was recently asked by one of the girls teachers if I was an artist. I was passing time by sketching. My response, "NO." I sketched only a little more before putting it away.

The labels become blocks because they bring visions of great works. Rembrant and Renoir were artists. I am a dabbler. Hemmingway, L. M. Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott were writers. I am a scribbler. I record ideas. I strive to tell stories but I block myself when I use a label. The labels are a means to comparison. Even the label scrapbook artist brings images of outstanding art I have seen in galleries I frequent to mind. I could not hope to attempt to copy some of the art pieces I have seen there.

I do not want to copy. I want to create my own using my ideas and telling my stories. Using the tools at hand, I strive to explore ideas and create art or story that inspire and challenge others.

I am a storyteller using a variety of mediums including art, poetry and prose to communicate. Storyteller is a label I am willing to wear for now. Maybe in time, I will be willing to use other terms to describe myself.

What words hold comparison power to block your art? Why?

I have seen many breath-taking images from New Zealand. I have an acquaintance who lives in the earthquake zone. She has shared photos and updates over the last year and a half since the first quake shook the country.

I had this in mind as I started to research. I wanted to find a building I could draw from before the earthquake. The loss of the Christchurch Cathedral was a blow to the community. It was a magnificent building tied to the history of the city. The detail in the brickwork was astounding. I almost chose a different subject. But Kitty is writing the card and her love of architecture led me to try. The size of the card precluded adding all of the detail.

Christchurch Cathedral spire

As hard as it is to lose a building the memories remain. The disruption to daily life. The injury and the loss of life are far worse than damage to a building could be. Kitty tried to be sensitive to that in her note. Perhaps her research has smoothed off rough edges that Maggie still has.

New Zealand is a place I would love to visit. I first paid attention to New Zealand in university when we looked at the economy of different countries as part of a tax and government policy class. Over the intervening years I have learned much more about it. It is a country that I know I will visit again if only in books.

For a artistic tour of New Zealand, join the tour at Art and Sole

Tender green shoots break the surface of the ground hardly noticed among the debris of the past winter. As I pull back the blanket of leaves, I find the promise of things to come. Here's oregano and chives. Over there rhubarb and strawberries rise. Daylillies dot the yard, here there and everywhere.

The clouds threaten to spill their contents. I move along uncovering tarragon. I notice new growth on the raspberries and note the patch needs more work than I can give this day. The Saskatoon berry tree is bursting with new growth. None of this could be seen from the shelter of the house.

As I step out and look, I see details missed. Birds are building nest, not just the robin near the door. I hear a grackle and chickadees. I watch the sparrows. Slowly the garden awakes, nurtured by sun and rain in season.

Spring is a time of impatience. I am anxious for the warmth of the summer sun. I eagerly anticipate the colors of summer. In my haste, I miss the small delights.

Then I pause. I enjoy the hint of color as the hyacinth swells ready to bloom. I notice the green shoots on the rose with the nearby garlic ring. As I pause, I reflect on the beauty all around. I reflect and am grateful. I am grateful for the small blessings. I am thankful not only for the promise they hold but their own beauty. Today they add a touch of green to the yard as it awakes to spring rains.

A new leaf, a small flower bud, a young green sprout, a bird song, all simple blessings that remind me to slow down and notice the details. They remind me to pay attention to today. I am thankful for today.

"I am not a writer." I fight against the label choosing a variety of activities in its place. As I wash dishes, characters speak. I drown them with music. I read. I clean. I ignore the pen.

Ideas tumble in my brain, begging to be given life. I pause to write and interrupt myself. There is laundry to wash and rooms to clean. If I keep my to do list full, I have reason to ignore the pen.

The battle rages. Ideas, characters, poems fight to be heard. Life's pressures, lists and commitments counter. I am caught in the middle trying to find the point of balance. It does not exist. It is a figment that I chase, never catching.

Goals, lists, calendars attempt to bring order to chaos. My brain rebels. I pick up the pencil and start to doodle. Somewhere the story lies. Art and story intersect. A crossroad appears. Choices loom. Today, I choose to write. Tomorrow I must choose again. Each day a new battle. Each day its own choice, looking for the elusive balance.

Did my choices this week come close to my goals? I wrote something each day. The unedited brain dump was often interrupted and edited by time. I added to my postcard story. In place of working on my two other fiction pieces, I polished a short non-fiction piece that was submitted for consideration. Out of my daily ramblings came a poem. That makes two poems in two weeks. I see a pattern forming. My blog has had regular attention and I posted at another where I am a contributor. Research is on-going. It is a distraction that pulls me away. I love to read. I love to learn. I may need to put a limit on it so I can actually create.

While I made progress on my creative goals, I found myself locked in a mental battle. There are so many things I could be doing. Many would be easier. But then I find myself with pen in hand, doodling, drawing, playing with words and telling stories. I doodle until time has passed, the paper is full and reality calls. Another round of words waits for another day when I again choose to pick up the pen and play with words.

Have you found the mythical place called Balance?