West Africa is a United Nations recognized group of sixteen countries . Most are also a part of the Economic Community of West African States. Mauritania is not. The sixteen states are Benin, Burkino Faso, Cape Verde, Cote d'Ivoire, Gambia, Ghana, Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Liberia, Mali, Mauritania, Niger, Nigeria, Senegal, Sierra Leone and Togo. The region is bordered by the Atlantic Ocean and the Sahara Desert.

Instead of choosing one country, I researched the region. I found some common themes through the sixteen countries. West Africa is an area of political unrest and poverty. I found myself wondering how much those two themes are linked and which causes which. The area is often in the news for military coups and human rights issues. Child labour, human trafficking and slavery are common. Within the region there is a disparity between the rich and poor not only between countries but within. Life expectancy, literacy and health tend to be low. Infant mortality is high. Each of these coutries has their own challenges to face. Some are overcoming them. Cape Verde's people enjoy some of the best health in Africa with a life expectancy of 70 to 77 years. They also have a higher literacy rate than many of their neighbours.

My reading on this region was cursory at best. Some of the statistics are heartbreaking and yet in spite of this they continue. I find myslef trying to imagine living on $1.25 per day. I can't. Africa has a rich and colorful history. They have influenced culture around the world. It could be said they are still influencing cultures.

This week's postcard depicts a rural village in Cote d'Ivoire. Grass thatched huts, colorful textiles and drums are images I associate with Africa. The huts are a hold on history and the way things have been done for decades, even centuries. In the cities there are modern buildings of various shapes and sizes but in the rural villages tradition remains.

African village

Kitty writes

Kitty is a deeper thinker than Maggie and oft gets frustrated by Maggie's seeming callousness. In the busyness of spring planting, she lets go of some of the depth or maybe she chooses not to toss her thoughts out for critique at this time. Instead Kitty's note is some light banter between friends about gardens and decoration. I wonder what the gardens of these two would look like if they actually collected the various artifacts that catch their eye.

Have you been following the stories at Art and Sole? There are still a number touring the world with us. Come see what we found.

I am thankful for life and health. I am thankful for faith and the knowledge that there is more to life than me and my perspective. I am thankful that the one who created the universe is in control of everything. He provides for the birds and the plants. He provides for me and my family. He is not distant or absent even when I don't understand what is happening.

Bird watching

For the last number of years, robins have been building their nest just outside our back door. They watch us. We watch them. They scold me when I am outside working under the nest. We watch the birds emerge and grow until they stretch their wings and leave the nest.

The warmth of spring draws me outside. I plant and water. I visit with neighbours and watch things grow. Slowly things turn from brown to green. Then the flowers emerge. I slow down and notice the changes, or at least I try to.

This spring has been different. One neighbour is battling cancer instead of battling weeds. I don't understand it. I do understand her faith. She is going home. She won't have to battle any more. But first there is one last test. We watch and wait. I miss her smile and her wisdom. As we watch and wait we start to realise her influence. How many lives were touched by hers?

As I ponder life and death and influence, I pause to watch the birds. I do not understand. I do not need to always understand. I know the one who cares for the birds cares for me. I hope my faith is bearing fruit just as my friend's faith has. In the meantime, I continue to watch and learn.

My mind has been in a constant state of motion this week. Good news, bad news added to the motion. I have spent the week questioning and contemplating. Some has started to work itself out through the written word. Some is still spinning.

My daily writing is one way I work things out. It is unedited and at times unread. I just write anything and everything. Yet for some things I still catch myself holding back unwilling to approach some topics. There was a time when I hid all emotion. It is an effort to this day to express strong emotion. I'd rather ignore it and pretend it isn't there. I'd rather go numb, except I wouldn't. I don't want to miss the excitement and surprise of life because I refuse to deal with parts of it. The sadness and pain serves to brighten the joy. It is all necessary. In the middle I rebel. I don't want to experience loss or heartache. I stop.

I fled to the garden. I needed to prepare it for planting. No time to pick up a pen. No time to write. Or so I told myself. Saturday, Sunday and on it would go except in the middle of digging an idea came. A short idea. It caught me in my tracks Saturday morning as I pulled quack grass from the garden. After writing the idea in sketch form, I once again ignored the paper on Sunday or tried to. At the edge of a small hamlet we found while exploring, we met an elderly gentleman who had stories to tell. With his 92 birthday fast approaching, he knew much of the history of the area. He took us inside the old school house and left me wishing I had a tape recorder with me. The history of our province as seen from a small town was told in bits and pieces for an hour. His story of faith, of work and of change since 1920. He went to school in the old school house we were photographing. As we continued our wandering, I started scribbling bits and pieces I remembered from the conversation.

This week is a battle. Will I allow the news of imminent loss drag me down and sent me back to the place of numbness I have fought to escape? Will I recognize the blessings in the middle of the ordinary? Yesterday I picked up pen and notebook to continue an in progress story. The writing is bad. The ideas refuse to come. I've lost track of where the story is going. I put it aside. Instead, I typed a conclusion to a different story. it is ready for reading and editing. While I figure out what happens next, I'll practice my storytelling with my scrap book pages and art.

It is planting time. While the sun shines, I will be found digging in the garden instead of writing in my notebooks. My round of words in 80 days will continue at a relaxed pace for the next week or so. I hope to work on character development as I dig. What would my characters be doing on a sunny spring day? At least one would be digging in her garden. One would be fantasising about building a waterfall and fortress.

How do you stay motivated to create when the weather warms and entices you outside?

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?