I worked in the steamy kitchen, alternating between sink and bubbling canning pots, feeling hot and somewhat agitated; outside it was a glorious autumn day and I was laboring inside. I needed air.
I opened the window and the breath of autumn came in, lusty and clean. I was transported to “the Farm” once again; the only place of refuge and peace in my childhood.
I’m in the forest; it’s been raining. The tiny breeze stirring the stillness; leaves, heavily laden are drip, drip, dripping around me and on me. I don’t care; the sound is at once calming and invigorating. The forest, or “woods” as we called them, is my solace. Nothing else matters; I am safely cocooned in my personal sacred grove. The world is my own.
As I ramble, the air begins to take on a life of its own; fog begins to rise around me; the mist, light and fresh, highlights the rolling hills, bringing into definition the glories of God’s creations. As the fog lifts, so too my spirit; and, finding God in the treetops, I begin to feel His presence.
The smell of damp, decaying vegetation, combined with the earthy, leafy smell of freshly fallen leaves, make a heady scent that for me is as the sweetest rose. Rough bark streaked from the rain is giving off its own woodsy fragrance. The richest lavender fields of France could not be sweeter than my woods.
I wander for hours, never needing the companionship of anyone else, perfectly happy to gad about across the duff. My mind and my heart are free; no place that I need to go; only the need TO go.
A small stream provides me a refreshing drink if needed, and fallen logs ample resting places; yet finding peace of spirit is all I really need.
Wandering as I do, the sounds and scents of nature fill my soul to bursting; there is nothing on earth that matters, no trouble too large to overcome; peace prevails once again.
I’m cooled off now, and back at my task; I thank God for memories that let me relive the comfort and peace that was so badly needed then; I thank Him too, for the Breath of Autumn that whisked me back there, if only temporarily.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Spring's Merry Assemblage
The rain falls hard on the windshield; great drops splashing and splattering various patterns on the glass, before the wipers sweep it away and the rain dance begins again.
As I gaze heavenward, the black, roiling clouds seem to menace and torment the travelers hurrying, in their private cocoons, down the highway.
A more terrestrial view shows the evidence of the rains bounty; green shoots are evident in fields and pastures along my route; mud and great puddles join the merry assemblage of Spring’s gifts.
The clouds part, and shafts of golden light begin streaking earthward in dazzling glory, highlighting the tree branches and flower buds; plump and ripe, full and eager to begin life.
Spring is here; new life begins again. The pleasures of summer sun await while the fury and the majesty of Spring’s renewal creates in us a Spring Fever, that is as filled with anticipation as the next cloud is filled with rain.
As I gaze heavenward, the black, roiling clouds seem to menace and torment the travelers hurrying, in their private cocoons, down the highway.
A more terrestrial view shows the evidence of the rains bounty; green shoots are evident in fields and pastures along my route; mud and great puddles join the merry assemblage of Spring’s gifts.
The clouds part, and shafts of golden light begin streaking earthward in dazzling glory, highlighting the tree branches and flower buds; plump and ripe, full and eager to begin life.
Spring is here; new life begins again. The pleasures of summer sun await while the fury and the majesty of Spring’s renewal creates in us a Spring Fever, that is as filled with anticipation as the next cloud is filled with rain.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Spring is Afoot
I saw the first Robin the other day, and even though I see them throughout the winter here, my mind, of its own accord, wandered into spring.
It’s still cold here in my corner of Oregon; the daytime temperature reaching 50 degrees on a good day, but spring is afoot.
Blossoms, grown fat and ripe in these milder days of winter’s last hurrah, are eager to burst.
The bees are beginning to make furtive excursions into the wide world, between advancing rain showers.
Broody hens are snuggling their first clutches of the season; little peeps can be heard through the feathers of an ever vigilant mama or two. Lambs with their tiny bleats are seen gamboling through the pasture, their leaps and bounds, a testimony to joy.
The days, too, are changing, growing longer; the light strengthening, as the sun slowly creeps back to its summery path.
I wonder at the new blades of grass, the new leaf growth on the rose bushes. How do they know?
How does the earth know to wake up and bring the promise of new life to fruition?
Some would call it evolution. I would call it Divine.
Within us, each and every one of us, are the workings of intricate patterns and designs; gifts of the Master Planner.
Each seed, each blade of grass and swelling bud are exclamations of divinity, beckoning us to examine ourselves and our world just a little closer; patiently waiting for us to recognize our own eternal progression.
There are no accidents as some might suggest; we are where we are for His purposes. We cherish spring; as a new awakening of our divine destiny, a herald of miracles yet unborn.
Yes, spring is afoot; soon, it will be time to plant and tend the garden, sheer the sheep and putter in the chicken coop; until then, I’ll enjoy my hot cocoa and my book a few days longer; pondering eternity as I do.
It’s still cold here in my corner of Oregon; the daytime temperature reaching 50 degrees on a good day, but spring is afoot.
Blossoms, grown fat and ripe in these milder days of winter’s last hurrah, are eager to burst.
The bees are beginning to make furtive excursions into the wide world, between advancing rain showers.
Broody hens are snuggling their first clutches of the season; little peeps can be heard through the feathers of an ever vigilant mama or two. Lambs with their tiny bleats are seen gamboling through the pasture, their leaps and bounds, a testimony to joy.
The days, too, are changing, growing longer; the light strengthening, as the sun slowly creeps back to its summery path.
I wonder at the new blades of grass, the new leaf growth on the rose bushes. How do they know?
How does the earth know to wake up and bring the promise of new life to fruition?
Some would call it evolution. I would call it Divine.
Within us, each and every one of us, are the workings of intricate patterns and designs; gifts of the Master Planner.
Each seed, each blade of grass and swelling bud are exclamations of divinity, beckoning us to examine ourselves and our world just a little closer; patiently waiting for us to recognize our own eternal progression.
There are no accidents as some might suggest; we are where we are for His purposes. We cherish spring; as a new awakening of our divine destiny, a herald of miracles yet unborn.
Yes, spring is afoot; soon, it will be time to plant and tend the garden, sheer the sheep and putter in the chicken coop; until then, I’ll enjoy my hot cocoa and my book a few days longer; pondering eternity as I do.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Mid Winter
It’s mid-winter; a time when the thin, watery light from the sun casts wane shadows across the landscape.
The days are getting longer, one silvery sunbeam at a time. The cold drives all but the hardiest indoors; we cocoon ourselves with a crackling fire, sipping cocoa; dreaming of gardens to come, picnics to share, or celestial magic overhead.
As the earth sleeps, clothed in her winter finery, we too take respite from the physical; the toil and labor of spring and summer at once a distant memory and a pleasant anticipation.
Winter in snow country is unmatched in beauty; icy jewels glittering and glistening; the fields and meadows, trees and rocks cloaked and resplendent; even telephone poles and power lines take on an air of softness and mystery.
Wander through familiar haunts and the scenery becomes new, ripe for discovery; restoring a childlike wonder we thought we had outgrown.
In non snow country where I live, we sometimes get bogged down with the sameness of winter; nothing growing, nothing snowy; nothing changing.
Yet the sky and clouds change often and wintery clouds, are dark and heavy with moisture; a symphony of grays, occasionally bordering on black; scudding along, they seem to be hurrying, like Alice's White Rabbit, to warmer climes; often bringing fog to kiss the earth with its own kind of alchemy. Skeletal tree silhouettes and birds dashing here and there join the celestial brume to bring that winter enchantment to our lives; geese flying overhead remind us that spring is on its way.
Spring, God’s gift of hope and renewal is right around the corner, but take time to enjoy the beauty and magic of winter; it’s all too fleeting.
The days are getting longer, one silvery sunbeam at a time. The cold drives all but the hardiest indoors; we cocoon ourselves with a crackling fire, sipping cocoa; dreaming of gardens to come, picnics to share, or celestial magic overhead.
As the earth sleeps, clothed in her winter finery, we too take respite from the physical; the toil and labor of spring and summer at once a distant memory and a pleasant anticipation.
Winter in snow country is unmatched in beauty; icy jewels glittering and glistening; the fields and meadows, trees and rocks cloaked and resplendent; even telephone poles and power lines take on an air of softness and mystery.
Wander through familiar haunts and the scenery becomes new, ripe for discovery; restoring a childlike wonder we thought we had outgrown.
In non snow country where I live, we sometimes get bogged down with the sameness of winter; nothing growing, nothing snowy; nothing changing.
Yet the sky and clouds change often and wintery clouds, are dark and heavy with moisture; a symphony of grays, occasionally bordering on black; scudding along, they seem to be hurrying, like Alice's White Rabbit, to warmer climes; often bringing fog to kiss the earth with its own kind of alchemy. Skeletal tree silhouettes and birds dashing here and there join the celestial brume to bring that winter enchantment to our lives; geese flying overhead remind us that spring is on its way.
Spring, God’s gift of hope and renewal is right around the corner, but take time to enjoy the beauty and magic of winter; it’s all too fleeting.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
A String of Ordinary Days
I’ve been pondering life lately, likely caused by a looming, landmark birthday.
I have come to understand that my life is a strand of gold, fine and precious and filled with dozens and dozens of ordinary days; I do the shopping, I do the cooking, I wash the clothes-although I do not iron; I’m a mom; I’m a grandma; I’m a wife and daughter. I’m a Sunday school teacher, a gardener, a would-be farmer. Nothing one would consider special yet these things, while ordinary in their ordinariness, are anything but ordinary.
Like the oyster with an ordinary piece of sand, we take the ordinary days and create beauty and joy.
A day at the beach with sand in our hair and between our toes becomes a glowing pearl in our string of days; a kite flown at the park, an ice cream cone on the patio; the whispers of a child playing hide and seek in closets and cupboards; all of these ordinary events create more pearls and lengthen our string; polishing them as we go.
Heartache and sadness take away some of the glow, but can only break the string if we let it; some laughter and giggles, love and tenderness, and the glow becomes vibrant once again.
After my brother died, I hungered for ordinary days; I longed for the averageness of life to resume. It has. As the first anniversary of his death is marked this week, I realized that the string never really broke at all, but has been fortified with faith, and we go on; not letting the complacency take root again is a daily routine, not taking anything for granted again is a continual process, but we try.
I have tried to treasure every grain of sand in my growing string of pearls, and endeavored to make extraordinary my string of ordinary days.
I'm taking it one Ordinary Day at a time.
I have come to understand that my life is a strand of gold, fine and precious and filled with dozens and dozens of ordinary days; I do the shopping, I do the cooking, I wash the clothes-although I do not iron; I’m a mom; I’m a grandma; I’m a wife and daughter. I’m a Sunday school teacher, a gardener, a would-be farmer. Nothing one would consider special yet these things, while ordinary in their ordinariness, are anything but ordinary.
Like the oyster with an ordinary piece of sand, we take the ordinary days and create beauty and joy.
A day at the beach with sand in our hair and between our toes becomes a glowing pearl in our string of days; a kite flown at the park, an ice cream cone on the patio; the whispers of a child playing hide and seek in closets and cupboards; all of these ordinary events create more pearls and lengthen our string; polishing them as we go.
Heartache and sadness take away some of the glow, but can only break the string if we let it; some laughter and giggles, love and tenderness, and the glow becomes vibrant once again.
After my brother died, I hungered for ordinary days; I longed for the averageness of life to resume. It has. As the first anniversary of his death is marked this week, I realized that the string never really broke at all, but has been fortified with faith, and we go on; not letting the complacency take root again is a daily routine, not taking anything for granted again is a continual process, but we try.
I have tried to treasure every grain of sand in my growing string of pearls, and endeavored to make extraordinary my string of ordinary days.
I'm taking it one Ordinary Day at a time.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Old Friends
I had intended to post about winter, but that will have to wait; we lost a dear friend on New Year’s Day and I have to tell you about him.
His name was Meshach, and he was 13 ½ years old.
Meshach came to us as a mewling, at around sixish weeks old; our youngest son, Ethan, was just one year.
His mother was a pure bred Siamese; his father some old neighborhood Tom who happened to court his mother one winter’s night.
My husband’s sister was the owner of the Siamese, and we were offered to “go see" the kittens; what fun! I love babies of all types; “let’s go” I said!
I think there were 8 kittens; I’m not sure. We sat down and let them crawl all over us. They lost interest rather quickly; all except one. He lay down next to my husband and cuddled up close; he’d made his choice.
We had no other choice, we took the tiny thing home; he survived the 6 hour car ride from Utah to Colorado nicely, getting lost amid the bodies and baggage to emerge happily with his new family.
Meshach and Ethan became fast friends; Ethan would stuff the cat in a cooler or in a suitcase; I would ask “where is Meshach?” “We’re playing” my toddler would exclaim. “You have to let him out!” “We’re playing!” After a couple of go rounds, the container would be opened and dear Meshach, sleeping on the bottom, would look up at us as if to say “Are we done already?”
Ethan would pull the cat across the room by his tail; “STOP!” I would holler, and he would; the cat would just sit there, waiting for the next round of “Pull the cat by the tail”; nothing, literally NOTHING, would faze him.
Meshach would tend all of the other animals--we are a multi-animal family here; washing the babies, holding them down for their baths; mothering everyone. Strange for a male cat I was told; not so, he learned from another male cat, but that’s another story.
He was quite the mouser in his glory days as well, catching eight-EIGHT mice in one day (OK, so we lived in a drafty but glorious old farmhouse; there were mice). One never feared; Meshach was on the job.
Meshach got old; he lost his inside manners, and had to become an outside cat. He did well for a while, sneaking in for a snuggle every now and again; the people he owned looking the other way.
In the last year, we could tell he was failing, but he couldn’t be trusted inside, so he was alone in his final moments; something I will always regret.
We lost a beloved dog about three years ago, his name was Bear; Bear and Meshach were best friends. My daughter asked if I thought Bear and Meshach were together again.
I told her I absolutely believed they were!
Farewell beloved friend.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Beginning of Hope
Today is New Year's Eve. The very name implies excitement and merriment, yet as I've expressed before, it is, to me, the darkest day of the year.
The light from the current year is nearly extinguished; the spark of new light on the horizon.
The New Year dawns full of hope; fresh and clean. We have the chance to wipe the slate of procrastination and slothfulness clean; make amends and put our best foot forward…again.
We’ll make resolutions and goals, and we’ll try hard to make them stick. The light from the dawning year will shine brightly, like freshly polished silver.
What a gift! What blessing!
Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we can be forgiven and have our earthly slate wiped clean; the New Year is a yearly reminder of this gift; a yearly chance to make ourselves better than we are today; a step closer to accepting the gift of the Atonement, and letting it work in our lives.
As we work on these resolutions and goals, let us be reminded of the Ultimate Sacrifice on our behalf, and strive to draw closer to our Heavenly Father and to our Savior Jesus Christ; let that be one of our resolutions; one of our goals.
Let every day dawn bright; let every morning be the New Year; polish your silver daily and never forget that the Lord wants us to succeed; wants us to draw near unto Him. Let the light in you be a reflection of His light.
May your New Year be bright.
With Love.
The light from the current year is nearly extinguished; the spark of new light on the horizon.
The New Year dawns full of hope; fresh and clean. We have the chance to wipe the slate of procrastination and slothfulness clean; make amends and put our best foot forward…again.
We’ll make resolutions and goals, and we’ll try hard to make them stick. The light from the dawning year will shine brightly, like freshly polished silver.
What a gift! What blessing!
Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we can be forgiven and have our earthly slate wiped clean; the New Year is a yearly reminder of this gift; a yearly chance to make ourselves better than we are today; a step closer to accepting the gift of the Atonement, and letting it work in our lives.
As we work on these resolutions and goals, let us be reminded of the Ultimate Sacrifice on our behalf, and strive to draw closer to our Heavenly Father and to our Savior Jesus Christ; let that be one of our resolutions; one of our goals.
Let every day dawn bright; let every morning be the New Year; polish your silver daily and never forget that the Lord wants us to succeed; wants us to draw near unto Him. Let the light in you be a reflection of His light.
May your New Year be bright.
With Love.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Angel's Among Us
It's Christmas and that means shopping. It means a whole lot more, and I know that, but it also means shopping, and I hate to shop; unless of course we're going to the thrift stores!
I went out the other day, alone; this is something that rarely happens and was quite a treat.
I went with my daughter and her husband to take Mr. Bug to see Santa; then I was off and running.
My first stop was the big Barnes and Noble nearby, and as much as I love bookstores, I was actually dreading this trip, because, well, it's Christmas time. I hate crowds. But, I love my children, and we have a special thing we do with gifts; they get four: 1.) Something you want, 2.) Something you need, 3.) Something to wear, and 4.) Something to read. So you see, I had to go to the book store; so in I went.
As I was walking to the store, I inhaled something that tickled my nose and made me start to cough a little, and made my nose run to the point of me making rude snuffling noises in the store; the crowded store.
I'm browsing in a section I needed a book from, when a little old lady in a wheel chair rolled up behind me. I paid little mind as I needed to choose between two selections and I was concentrating on finding out which was best. In a minute or two, my aisle mate commented that I must have a cold; no I told her, I think it's a..."an allergy" says she. Why yes I say, I think it must be. She comments on the fact that kids in school bring home lots of things, I counter with the fact that we're homeschooling so that doesn't happen much; I mention we have seven children and before you know it, she's invoking prayers on my head for what I'm doing for my children. "Do you watch Glenn Beck" she whispers (it is after all "the People's Republic of Eugene"); I do I say, and off we go again, and more prayers upon my head, this time, not only for what I'm doing for my children, but also for my country; she'd worked in the schools, and they were not teaching the Constitution or matters of our Republic. I say they are in theater, more blessings.
(Now when I say prayers, know that she said "God bless you for..." numerous times; I happen to take this very seriously, and thanked her for asking God to bless me.)
We talked for a few minutes, back and forth, and I felt like I'd known her for ages.
For me, that day, she was an angel. I needed to feel the Spirit of Christmas, and because of her I did.
I went about the rest of my day with a lightness that made me almost giggly (which, you may want to know, that if you start giggling in public, when you are alone, people will stare; just sayin').
A stranger, called upon the God of heaven to bless me. Because of my political stance which you may read about on my other blog: My Book Of Common Days, I have people who know me personally who wouldn't ask a blessing on me, yet a stranger finds my efforts praiseworthy. I just can't get over it.
Scrooge's long dead partner Jacob Marley told Scrooge :"Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business."
Would we not be better off if we took Jacob Marley's words to heart; followed our Savior more obediently; emulated him more closely?
This chance encounter with an angel who lifted my spirits and encouraged me in numerous ways should be the norm. WE should BE those angels!
Since "Charity is the pure love of Christ", are we loving those around us? Are we yet who Christ would have us be? "Even as ye have done it unto the least of these thy brethren, ye have done it unto me."
Go and bless someone; as a recipient, I know it feels darn good.
Merry Christmas!
I went out the other day, alone; this is something that rarely happens and was quite a treat.
I went with my daughter and her husband to take Mr. Bug to see Santa; then I was off and running.
My first stop was the big Barnes and Noble nearby, and as much as I love bookstores, I was actually dreading this trip, because, well, it's Christmas time. I hate crowds. But, I love my children, and we have a special thing we do with gifts; they get four: 1.) Something you want, 2.) Something you need, 3.) Something to wear, and 4.) Something to read. So you see, I had to go to the book store; so in I went.
As I was walking to the store, I inhaled something that tickled my nose and made me start to cough a little, and made my nose run to the point of me making rude snuffling noises in the store; the crowded store.
I'm browsing in a section I needed a book from, when a little old lady in a wheel chair rolled up behind me. I paid little mind as I needed to choose between two selections and I was concentrating on finding out which was best. In a minute or two, my aisle mate commented that I must have a cold; no I told her, I think it's a..."an allergy" says she. Why yes I say, I think it must be. She comments on the fact that kids in school bring home lots of things, I counter with the fact that we're homeschooling so that doesn't happen much; I mention we have seven children and before you know it, she's invoking prayers on my head for what I'm doing for my children. "Do you watch Glenn Beck" she whispers (it is after all "the People's Republic of Eugene"); I do I say, and off we go again, and more prayers upon my head, this time, not only for what I'm doing for my children, but also for my country; she'd worked in the schools, and they were not teaching the Constitution or matters of our Republic. I say they are in theater, more blessings.
(Now when I say prayers, know that she said "God bless you for..." numerous times; I happen to take this very seriously, and thanked her for asking God to bless me.)
We talked for a few minutes, back and forth, and I felt like I'd known her for ages.
For me, that day, she was an angel. I needed to feel the Spirit of Christmas, and because of her I did.
I went about the rest of my day with a lightness that made me almost giggly (which, you may want to know, that if you start giggling in public, when you are alone, people will stare; just sayin').
A stranger, called upon the God of heaven to bless me. Because of my political stance which you may read about on my other blog: My Book Of Common Days, I have people who know me personally who wouldn't ask a blessing on me, yet a stranger finds my efforts praiseworthy. I just can't get over it.
Scrooge's long dead partner Jacob Marley told Scrooge :"Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business."
Would we not be better off if we took Jacob Marley's words to heart; followed our Savior more obediently; emulated him more closely?
This chance encounter with an angel who lifted my spirits and encouraged me in numerous ways should be the norm. WE should BE those angels!
Since "Charity is the pure love of Christ", are we loving those around us? Are we yet who Christ would have us be? "Even as ye have done it unto the least of these thy brethren, ye have done it unto me."
Go and bless someone; as a recipient, I know it feels darn good.
Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 3, 2010
Snow
We had our first snowfall the other day, and here in my section of the Beaver State that may just be all we get; a skiff; a smattering; a modicum; a spattering; a sprinkling. I think you get the idea.
And you know what? I'm perfectly happy with that!
It's not that I hate snow, on the contrary; it's just that snow is cold and wet and slippery and slushy and messy and...well, you get the idea.
I've lived in the high desert of Colorado where the snow can fall as late as mid June; where the mountain roads have to be cut out in early summer so they can be used; where the ground doesn't thaw from September to June, maybe even July.
I've lived beside the Wasatch Mountains where at 5000ft you can get 10 inches of snow in an afternoon.
I've lived beside Lake Erie where the lake effect can dump over a foot of snow during the night, closing roads and schools and making for some incredible snowman snow.
No, I actually love snow; from indoors.
There is nothing on earth cozier than a snow day, in front of a crackling fire with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate steaming away the drafts.
As I look out the window and see the freshly fallen snow, no footprints, no mud showing through, no scars on the landscape; I am at peace. There is a calm that descends on the world that cannot be described; earth is resplendent in her winter finery.
Then the children bundle up and away they go; trudging through the drifts, making trails and hiding spots; laughing and playing; the air sparkling and crackling with their excitement.
Red noses and frozen fingers and toes mark the day; in and out; warm and cold.
Then, finally, they are spent; the excitement having burned itself into a slow simmer.
I look out again, and the fresh virgin snow is gone; all I see are scars, deep and vivid in the late afternoon light; footprints, piles, trails, grassy bald spots; all part of the scene; all part of the lingering chaos.
However, my mother's heart steps in and tears sting my eyes; this scene is a scene of joy, happiness, and unbridled excitement.
Happy children making joyful noise created this chaos and I look with new eyes; a masterpiece before my eyes and my little Vermeer's snuggled all around me now; blankets, books and hot cocoa at the ready.
Yes, I love snow; from indoors.
And you know what? I'm perfectly happy with that!
It's not that I hate snow, on the contrary; it's just that snow is cold and wet and slippery and slushy and messy and...well, you get the idea.
I've lived in the high desert of Colorado where the snow can fall as late as mid June; where the mountain roads have to be cut out in early summer so they can be used; where the ground doesn't thaw from September to June, maybe even July.
I've lived beside the Wasatch Mountains where at 5000ft you can get 10 inches of snow in an afternoon.
I've lived beside Lake Erie where the lake effect can dump over a foot of snow during the night, closing roads and schools and making for some incredible snowman snow.
No, I actually love snow; from indoors.
There is nothing on earth cozier than a snow day, in front of a crackling fire with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate steaming away the drafts.
As I look out the window and see the freshly fallen snow, no footprints, no mud showing through, no scars on the landscape; I am at peace. There is a calm that descends on the world that cannot be described; earth is resplendent in her winter finery.
Then the children bundle up and away they go; trudging through the drifts, making trails and hiding spots; laughing and playing; the air sparkling and crackling with their excitement.
Red noses and frozen fingers and toes mark the day; in and out; warm and cold.
Then, finally, they are spent; the excitement having burned itself into a slow simmer.
I look out again, and the fresh virgin snow is gone; all I see are scars, deep and vivid in the late afternoon light; footprints, piles, trails, grassy bald spots; all part of the scene; all part of the lingering chaos.
However, my mother's heart steps in and tears sting my eyes; this scene is a scene of joy, happiness, and unbridled excitement.
Happy children making joyful noise created this chaos and I look with new eyes; a masterpiece before my eyes and my little Vermeer's snuggled all around me now; blankets, books and hot cocoa at the ready.
Yes, I love snow; from indoors.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Last Day of Summer
Today is the last day of summer; the last hope for warm, lazy summer afternoons for the next few months.
For now, the nights will get longer; we'll cocoon ourselves with sweaters and wool socks; we'll feed ourselves comfort foods that invoke days gone by, and dearly departed loved ones.
Cooler weather will fill our senses as the days meander onward, into the heart of winter.
As I traverse the days of my autumn existence I take pleasure in the cooler days and the dense morning fog; the hope of Indian summer ever present in my heart and mind.
We’ll put the garden to bed, the tools snug in their places; we’ll fill the woodshed, the spicy scents of pine and cedar pungent and sweet; the harvest is in, or nearly so; the larder filling up with gleaming jars.
The changing of the leaves, like the changing of the guard, creates a striking show; my mind wanders back to other autumns long forgotten, but ever present; a green forest rich with autumn beauty in what seemed a treat just for me. Wood smoke hanging low in the air as I scramble over the spongy ground, the sights and smells of autumn a riotous carnival of color and beauty; the trees dancing in the breeze would sing to me of the dying and rebirth cycle about to begin again; at once, ancient and new.
Scarlet and gold, bronze, crimson and green, vying for my attention and my heart; for this, autumn is my favorite season. Winter has Christmas and the New Year; summer has its pools and parties; spring has new growth and secret gardens. But autumn, autumn shouts its glory for all to witness; the last hurrah before the long winter’s nap.
Combine this with the smell of dry leaves and wet pavement, or wood smoke and spicy cider, or all of the above; I enjoy the season as it awakens every cell within me to the beauty of God’s majesty, and treats my senses to the abundance of His love.
Who can count the joys of autumn?
For now, the nights will get longer; we'll cocoon ourselves with sweaters and wool socks; we'll feed ourselves comfort foods that invoke days gone by, and dearly departed loved ones.
Cooler weather will fill our senses as the days meander onward, into the heart of winter.
As I traverse the days of my autumn existence I take pleasure in the cooler days and the dense morning fog; the hope of Indian summer ever present in my heart and mind.
We’ll put the garden to bed, the tools snug in their places; we’ll fill the woodshed, the spicy scents of pine and cedar pungent and sweet; the harvest is in, or nearly so; the larder filling up with gleaming jars.
The changing of the leaves, like the changing of the guard, creates a striking show; my mind wanders back to other autumns long forgotten, but ever present; a green forest rich with autumn beauty in what seemed a treat just for me. Wood smoke hanging low in the air as I scramble over the spongy ground, the sights and smells of autumn a riotous carnival of color and beauty; the trees dancing in the breeze would sing to me of the dying and rebirth cycle about to begin again; at once, ancient and new.
Scarlet and gold, bronze, crimson and green, vying for my attention and my heart; for this, autumn is my favorite season. Winter has Christmas and the New Year; summer has its pools and parties; spring has new growth and secret gardens. But autumn, autumn shouts its glory for all to witness; the last hurrah before the long winter’s nap.
Combine this with the smell of dry leaves and wet pavement, or wood smoke and spicy cider, or all of the above; I enjoy the season as it awakens every cell within me to the beauty of God’s majesty, and treats my senses to the abundance of His love.
Who can count the joys of autumn?
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