top of page

Two Writers I Love--Both Named Anne

I read Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird years ago and I still go back to it for comfort and fun. It's a memoir, a faith journey, and a very practical and hilarious manual for beginning writers.

I can't recommend it enough. I just took it down from the shelf to take this picture and I got pulled in again by Anne's friendly voice. But, I have to get to work.

On Monday Anne Lamott wrote on The NY Times OpEd page about prayer. Here's the link

Read what she says and get back to me--I'd love to hear what you think.

I wrote about prayer a few weeks ago, March 31st to be exact, inspired by my friend Barbara Lubliner's beautiful prayer flags. She said, As I made the flags, I imbued them with positive feelings, meditating on loving kindness and wishing good will out into the world. They are meant to spread peace, happiness, and good fortune to all.

I think making art is a form of prayer; so can singing be, and dancing.

Read this poem by Anne Sexton.

“Welcome Morning”

There is joy

In all:

In the hair I brush each morning,

In the cannon towel, newly washed,

That I rub my body with each morning,

In the chapel of eggs I cook

Each morning,

In the spoon and the chair

that cry”hello there, Anne”

Each morning,

In the godhead of the table

That I set my silver, plate, cup upon each morning.

All this is God, right here in my pea-green house

Each morning

And I mean,

Though often forget,

To give thanks,

To faint down by the kitchen table

In a prayer of rejoicing

As the holy birds at the kitchen window

Peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

Let me paint a thank-you on my palm

For this God, this laughter of the morning,

Lest it go unspoken.

The joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,

dies young.

This really surprised me, knowing about Sexton's troubled life. I read in a biography that she longed for "health, clarity and human connection" and I often remind myself of that as a worthy aspiration. She died by her own hand, in the car in the garage with the door closed, wrapped in her mother's mink coat.

And to think she had this poem inside her! So while I think of it let me write a thank you on my palm.

Meanwhile, I'm still thinking about BLUE. Look what I saw in the subway.

I'm putting my last drawing, the blue house, away for a while so I can look at it with fresh eyes.

Now I've begun the interior of the same house.

Doesn't look very cozy, does it? Maybe this will be the ballroom. Like every house has a ballroom.

That reminds me of when Jessie was little and we were driving down Ninth Avenue and she was reading the signs along the way. Parc Vendome. She said, "They spelled park wrong." and I said, "No, that's how it's spelled in French; I guess they wanted to make it fancy." and she said, "Well, that's probably where you park when you're going to a ball."

Maybe I'll do a third view with smaller rooms where people can actually live. It's funny how a picture evolves and I don't know exactly where it's going. Makes it fun.

July 14, 2022

1 view0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page