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Awards That Hang On Our Hearts. . . .
It would never have occurred to my mother or my mother in law that there could be fun in the raising of children. It simply was not in the frame of thought in their lives. Children were work for my mother with eight and too much work for my mother in law with one. That…
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We Are What We Know. . . life everlasting. . .
When we reach the point in time that we feel there is no energy to meet another challenge, we relent and let go, we hope lightly, and prepare to depart. We have lived our lives in preparation of our next address. Those who love us know we won’t be disappointed. We, ourselves, probably not so…
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The Crucible For Memories. . .
We, the each, are nothing but memories. We are the Lord of Memories for ourselves and for those of our commitments. And what we as the crucible for those memories have made of our world. The painful we hope we have overcome and forgiven and the good will have repeated itself forever more. For the…
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We Are The Vaults of Memories. . . .
Who Will Feed The Children? . . . Unsteady on his legs, I watched my grandson bend down and pick up his book. In one motion, he touched the book to his lips. In another time, when I was young, I saw his great grandfather move with just such a motion to pick up a…
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When The Gold Shows. . . .
I wonder how many of us met last night, during the night in the class of Broken Pieces 101. I woke up thinking it was my friend Maria’s (fullmoonfiberart) post I read awhile ago on how we seem to become friends with others who are broken. Perhaps the broken pieces of us want to…
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Proof That We Came and Were. . . .
‘what is eaten at the table for conversation will determine the digestion of the world’s table.’ the teacher. . . After The Gathering. . . . I take the lemon wax and spray and wipe to a fine polish, the table where food and love have been served. I take the memories from the…
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The Evolution Revolution. . .the boot is lifting. . .
And the children shall lead them he said. And we will listen to the children. There will be stories about where they came from and who they saw. And I asked the four year old, did you have a good time with Annie? Her name isn’t Annie he said , it is Olivia. And…
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First, It Was a Dialogue. . .(they did not know. . . )
How do you do it? I barrel down into my center and listen with my inner ear and hear what my heart says. It is within that I have my world. This is what and where I am at home. And this is not something that can be taught. It is how the twig is…
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The Last Illusion. . . .Privacy. . .
It seems our heads should be our bastion of privacy. At least we thought so except we think now it is also the last illusion we hold. For among us walk those whose heads are like magnets. Picking up thoughts lying profusely about, without an anchor. But there they sit ready for the…
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For Sitting On The Porch. . . .
Few of us have means to hire out the prep work necessary to maintain our homes. And getting the porch stained and ready to enjoy the summer is ours to do. To sit at night, to wrap up the day, is such a simple thing and yet it is food for our souls we are…