“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” James 1:17 (NKJV)
It is Christmas Eve morning, predawn, as I sip coffee in the glow of our Christmas tree. I wonder, will I get it all done in time to make more happy memories for my loved ones. Menus are ready for ingredients I’ve stowed away for weeks and I’m getting the usual anticipation jitters that I’ve forgotten something. There’s baking, arranging and cleaning to be done, but for now the house is quiet with sleep except for the snoring of my little lap dog. A star-lit sky is about to welcome dawn, and as I gaze upon our tree ornaments, I recognize the beauty of reflection.
A decorated tree is pretty by daylight, but the magic happens when the little white lights are glowing, and there in the dark, each ornament twinkles with life. They reflect memories of love and fun. In the stillness, my tree reflects the joys I received from each person who’s given these keepsakes. A mama bear reads to her baby bear by the tree lamp’s glow as she has since 1999. Thirteen little Hallmark ornaments are as happy as the day I received each one a year at a time, and I remember the precious little girl, and her mom who brought them to my door each year. My little clothespin ponies have shiny faces reflecting the love with which they were sent from West Virginia. Many snowmen from friends and family are dazzling as they dance in the lights and I reflect on the occasions and names of each one given. Flying cardinals and sitting cardinals reflect my mother’s love as well as that of those who’ve added to the collection, and the love they learned from her. Glass orbs with meaningful words twinkle and never grow old.
If I were a Christmas tree, would I reflect the true light, the Giver of all good and perfect gifts? Would God’s love, as He sent His Word to become the flesh and blood baby Jesus, glow in my life? Would I shine with the love Christ demonstrated for us as He gave the ultimate gift? If I were a Christmas tree, would I make others happy?
I’m sure the history of the Christmas tree is interesting, but honestly we don’t care. What it is to me, as it was to my parents, for as long as I can remember, is a place to store gifts we give each other. Most importantly, it is where the adornments of our Christmases are displayed; a first, someone’s last, treasured gifts, fond vacation memories, favorite things…all reflecting happy times and warming our hearts.
One of the first things I thought of in the wake of December’s rare tornado, was so many would have had their own ornaments out, vulnerable to destruction, and my heart ached for them. Life IS vulnerable; treasure it. My prayer for those folks is they are able to hold the happy memories in their hearts and keep making new ones.
Merry Christmas! In the midst of all life’s common and uncommon difficulties, may you make many warm memories – ones that reflect the joys in your life and entice others to seek the joy of the true Light.
” If these United States can be called a body, then Kentucky can be called its heart.” – Author: Jesse Stuart
“Then God saw everything that He had made,and indeed it wasvery good.” Genesis 1:31a
I admire how an author can bring to life the feel and the sights and sounds of a place, as a painter does on canvas. I was introduced to the writing of Jesse Stuart in the eighth grade by Ms. Ann Woods. She also taught me to never again say “Oh it’s just homemade”, but to say instead, “thank you, it was handmade just for me”. For these things, I love her still. Every year as the hickory nuts fall I remember the school grounds with the enormous trees and a wise teacher. And I do get the feeling all this nature was handmade just for me. Kentuckians are proud of their people, and their crafts and their land I think, like I am sure most are of any state they call home. But I am partial to what is familiar and comfortable to me. Like autumn in Kentucky.
On several days this month, I stood like a kid watching the circus leave town, and almost waved goodbye to the warmth of the scarlet colors and the November air. I believe I actually did blow a kiss toward the sky. Perhaps knowing Autumn is a fast moving train is one of it’s attractions. I anticipate her arrival with such gladness I hardly think about her departure leaving us cold in the wake.
Another of my favorite authors is Rick Bragg, though I believe he never mentions our state. Rick Bragg can almost make Alabama and Louisiana sound desirable, the way a new recipe in Southern Living can make plain old food more enticing. However, nothing he has said makes me want to move down there, not that we’ve been invited. I do like living on the edge – the edge between South and North – neither one, but the best of both. Do not misunderstand, I truly love Rick Bragg’s stories like I love my roses. It’s just the adjectives of Alabama are more like the thorns on the roses; but the rest of his stories, the people, are the vivid colors and fragrances of our rose beds. I do believe Mrs. Bragg raised a mighty fine writer who makes even hot muggy red clay of the South alive, rearing camaraderie and family like no other.
Nothing, however, about red clay, red tide football, nor red bulgy-eyed crawdads tempt me to abandon the sweet bluegrass of Kentucky. As I do not understand football, and being a basketball girl myself, I’m still holding out for a true blue and white rebound. I do love a good basketball game as much as I hate politics. So do not try to debate me out of my comfort zone. Anyway, ‘my old Minnesota home’ or ‘my old Alabama home” just doesn’t sound right, does it?
As far as northward is concerned, I have been up through Illinois and I saw their rich black soil, so rich the flowers bloom neon colors. Their crop yields require grain bins on each end of the field and large wagons in the middle to dump the overfill. But I wouldn’t trade our warm brown Kentucky earth for losing my ears to the wind I felt coming off the lake in Chicago one March.
I do envy any state’s close proximity to fresh seafood. You may actually have me on that one. I think though, I’ll just wait for a good shipment of shrimp, back here in the shade of our maple trees. Few things in my humble opinion, rival a drive along the Bluegrass Parkway, or skimming over the water of Kentucky Lake.
I consider myself southern, if I had to pick one over the other. But to me, the best locale descriptor is “I’m a Kentuckian” where we usually get to see a January morning poured out like marshmallow cream as far as the eye can see, and watch March flowers pop up thirty days later as we loft a kite in our short sleeves. Then, when a hoodie of heat and humidity slides over me, I hear someone from the deep south tell me how much worse it gets down there, and I catch my breath in the breeze that’s never more than a few days away. Spring and summer showers induce a radiance of fall color popping against a frosty October morning canvas. Never in Kentucky do the days drone into weeks because nothing is as changeable as Kentucky weather. Hardly ever a dull moment, and as they say, variety is the spice of life.
This time of year, (and what I really started out to say) I am starstruck by the deciduous display of gemstone colors. I’m sure pine trees are nice, when Alabama can get a wind singing through them, and pine needles do make great mulch (which still probably isn’t enough to get a lot out of red clay) but just give me the red, purple, gold and orange of maples and dogwoods, sourwood and sumac, poplars, sweetgums and hickories. While we do not claim to own the only beautiful trees in America, with nearly half our acreage in hardwood, it is a jaw-dropping, totally in-love experience to live a Kentucky autumn!
“For a great and effective door has opened to me, and there are many adversaries.” I Corinthians 16:9
NKJV
Who knocks on doors any more? With little yapping house dogs, the popular door bell, and (rudely, yes) car horns, there doesn’t seem to be much door knocking lately.
I was recently given a brass door knocker inscribed with my dad’s last name. As I began to count those of my paternal grandparents’ descendants who could possibly use it, the thought occurred to me how rarely we knock, literally and figuratively, on doors. Likewise, how often do we miss a knock on the door. The last time I knocked on a door I got sore knuckles and no answer.
Opportunity may come knocking; guests, maybe; hard times sure can come a knockin’ and the proverbial wolf at the door may have slipped through. Will I answer? When fear of the unknown halts my hand from opening, I’ll never know what stands on the other side. Open it anyway. It doesn’t mean I have to let it all in. Greet it bravely; hope for the best, embrace the potential to be the good someone needs. Perhaps we will be called outside our threshold of comfort; or we may seize an opportunity to draw someone from their cold circumstances into our warmth. Be kind and if kindness demands a parting of the way, be kind still. When the wolf is at the door, be thankful for the smallest things and he will flee from you. When the hand of goodness is extended to you, grab it. Offer grace to the not so good, for you may see it again someday, transformed by your grace.
“Let brotherly love continue. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.” Hebrews 13: 1-2
I have, no doubt, left the door shut for fear it might be ‘hard times’, inconvenience, or an adversary. I imagine Jesus was on the other side inviting me to go with Him on some mission of good. I probably felt pushed for time, or resources (aka money), or more than likely felt inadequate to meet the challenge. A less honorable, and probably more truthful excuse would be laziness, pure and simple. It takes effort to answer the door. But if we do invite opportunity in, she may require shuffling some furniture to accommodate her or she might have dirty feet. I’m sure the images each of us see on the other side of our figurative door, are all different. Asking a neighbor to bible study; overseas mission work; prison ministry; cleaning house for someone disabled; watching a stressed momma’s kids while she takes a break, and the list is endless. I hope and pray we can all open when opportunity knocks, extend hospitality and in turn find the joy of working elbow to elbow with Christ; feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, clothing the poor, tending the sick and visiting jails. (Matthew 25: 35-37)
As I hold the smooth shiny door knocker in my hand, I feel driven to find a home for it. Hopefully my musing the matter of doors will propel me toward opening my closed and careful world to be more like Jesus.
Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Okay, that’s it! As much as I love nature, I’m afraid I may be losing my patience. Now they are IN the SHOWER! There was a time when I could ignore the little green nuisance. I stayed out of their way; their stink stayed out of mine. However, stink bugs have now taken first place on my list of ‘most unwanted’. Almost as numerous this year as the infamous tassel flies (hover flies), they are making me crazy! The odor is awful, and never have we seen so many at once! Over, under and throughout everything, these green, gray and brown pests are poised on doorknobs and thresholds, waiting to rush inside. One morning as I was about to raise the umbrella on the patio table, there were dozens of the crusted creatures clinging outside and inside the umbrella. As a scene from a scary movie, their effect broke the promise of a pleasant morning. Thus began my urge to rant.
In all the years past, I could avoid the raw stench if I just left them alone; not so now. Simply watering my outdoor plants stirs a stink. As I walk into my she-shed I start dodging the little devils, where they fly from their trenches in the windows. Just raising and lowering the windows is perilous – phew! The final straw? The vexatious visitors are eating the last of our tomatoes. If you love tomatoes like we do, you know how precious those last gems in autumn are! As I was looking for an unblemished tomato, a member of their colony flew right into my glasses; didn’t even phase it!
You may be a step ahead of me, and already know their real name and purpose if there is one. I really do not care what name they go by; I call them pestilence, pernicious, and nearing pandemic proportions. Okay, I couldn’t help myself from googling a bit about the little armored aggravation. Discussing this with my son, he pointed out there seem to be more varieties this year. Turns out, it’s true; the brown marmorated stink bug (BMSB) has only been seen in North America since 1998 and has been making its way westward since. Accidentally introduced from Asia, their population has exploded in the eastern United States. More serious than the pungent odor and unsightly gathering in the windows, is the crop damage caused by stink bugs. We queried possible explanations for the greener edge around our crops, but as it turns out this is indicative of stink bug damage. For now they are satisfied to eat into the outer edges of a field only, but as the population grows, who knows! Something about their piercing the seed pod prevents proper maturing and drying of the plant, referred to as the ‘stay green syndrome’. I’m indeed sick of them, and evidently our wasps and birds, too, have found them too noxious to develop a taste for the unusual urchins.
Stink bugs do have a natural enemy; a tiny samurai wasp, also introduced from Asia, known to parasitize the BMSB eggs. Yay nature! Yay wasp! Nature does make a way. I was thinking what an unusual name for a wasp less than a tenth of an inch in size. But evidently, bigger isn’t always better, and this is our only warrior against the enemy for now. So I am squishing, thumping and vacuuming every stink bug I can and holding my breath as I do. Wouldn’t we love to see a. natural enemy for the coronavirus! For that I am not holding my breath!
As for a stink bug purpose, I found none. Other than serving as a reminder of the pestilence sent upon Egypt one time in the form of frogs; indoors, outdoors, in bed and bath, frogs invaded the sanity of everyone and were intended to show God’s power and get the pharaoh’s attention. (Chapter eight of the book of Exodus) Well, this modern day malady has my attention! I am cheering for the Samurai, in hopes she will get rid of these stinkers and make life a little sweeter.
brown marmorated stink bug where they are hiding in the folds of my patio umbrella (note the white sections of the antennae)
It is finally here! Autumn – my autumn, so full of sensory stimulation that I can for the first time in a long while, just be. Just. Be. Sitting still and soaking it all in; talking aloud to the sky, trees, or the Creator of it all, or not talking at all. Psalm 46:10 allows me to, as the inspired word from God not only says be still, but to acknowledge Him in the stillness. Stop to meditate on God’s creative hand, His wisdom and goodness. This season pushes my buttons; to start projects, stare at nature, but most of all to write. So, unable to hold myself back here is a poem I wrote last year, as I try in vain to capture some of this amazing season’s music, and dance along with it.
The Fall Dance
From the liquid blue sky as clear as glass, to the star flower tucked beneath the autumn grass;
From the sweet song of morning birds, and their return before sundown, to the splash and laugh of the bluebirds’ bath, a very happy sound;
From the dusty fuzzy pods in fields of tan soybeans, to the new red berries of the Washington Hawthorn tree.
From the crimson Sumac along the fence row, to the purple wildflowers the butterflies own;
From the welcome relief of a cooling breeze as it brushes and flirts with the rustling leaves,
To the pumpkins piled high and chrysanthemums gold; this blessing called Autumn is a sight – a sound – a touch to behold!
Autumn takes her time waltzing into view, enjoying the stage, for her dances are few.
If satisfaction came as naturally to us as persistence does to nature, we’d never have a moment of discontent. Awaking to a nearly perfect Labor Day morning, I chose to observe the holiday with a little R&R and maybe something fun thrown in as well. My good husband was taking care of his breakfast and started mine too, so my goal already seemed obtainable. After our morning devotional outdoors, I was annoyed with myself for feeling a mild dissatisfaction growing. Maybe it was knowing a lot of folks had plans to make memorable use of the amazing weather and the last summer holiday. Feeling a tad “unplanned” I guess, and aware of Covid precautions, I could have become my own obstacle to a satisfying day. The only thing I had thought of to do on this warm clear day was kayaking, which requires first, making arrangements for getting to my kayak, and secondly, I would have to actually leave home. I didn’t feel that happening. I realized what I really wanted was to eat in my favorite restaurant (ten steps out the back door) and explore my own natural habitat for entertainment. As I write this in fact, the Goldfinches are putting on quite a show of song and dance.
The only hint at work I did, to assure we get a good nights sleep, was to ‘strip the bed’, as my mother used to say, to wash and hang the sheets out to dry. But for me, this is such a pleasurable thing, I’d feel a little guilty calling it work.
The main portion of the day has been spent in a four-acre plot left from a property split where we bought a small strip of land adjacent to our farm, which my husband has mowed and hired someone to clean out a densely grown property line. This left the unmown portion belonging to my sister and her husband where I thought I had spied a number of milkweed plants. Knowing the bushhog would soon invade, I began my hunt for the monarch and its host plant. To my delight, we discovered a butterfly haven! I learned to identify the milkweed plant and discovered several other beautiful plants as well. A tall wildflower with dark purple blooms, a lavender colored ageratum, also quite tall; and an airy pinkish bloom filling in the gaps between the purples, all grew around the milkweed, now in its seed pod stage. Some still had dried blooms drooping, but most were sporting their seed pods which in themselves are an eyeful of interesting detail!
Milkweed with seed pods
Probing into the life cycle of the Monarch butterfly and the dependence on its host plant I found an awesome story of persistence and patience. Eating and molting, webbing and waiting, metamorphosis in four stages, are all done in perfect timing. The result is an intricately decorated fluttering beauty who begins the process all over again until the early autumn generation makes its trek southward to Mexico where they are protected from cold until the journey back to its beloved milkweed where she lays her eggs of hope for another generation. Our son who is always up for outdoor exploration, helped me transplant a few of the milkweed plants to a location nearby that won’t be disturbed by spray nor mower next year. I want to give the returning ones next spring the satisfaction of finding their habitat much as they left it.
I was not disappointed with the butterfly population. True to the adage of the elusive butterfly, it was only after we sat still among them that we were visited with an explosion of color and activity. Bright orange, black and white Monarchs, Eastern Black Swallowtails and Silver Spotted Skippers were everywhere. Others as well which I didn’t take time to identify were flitting about enjoying the sunshine and nectar. The more we saw, the more beautiful they seemed to me.
We added to our day with takeout food brought to my patio (aka favorite restaurant); a short drive with our fur baby; and (shocking!) a trip to the garden by my husband who cut the okra for me and brought a nosegay of four different colored zinnias, dark purple, lavender, orange and red-orange. Only in nature do I like these vibrant colors together. Only in nature could I have found the satisfaction I was seeking this morning, as real contentment wrapped the evening in the sunset’s glow. We have been blessed with a world of sights and sounds to please the senses – right here in our backyards, our own natural habitat.
I hope your Labor Day was a delightful close of summer, safe and sound, and oh so satisfying!
Recalling the sadness with which my dad would report the passing of another old classmate, I began to identify somewhat, with those feelings. I had just read the obituary of yet another friend of my mother’s which saddened me, but more than that, it began to unfold a revelation about aging I have never felt before. (It isn’t about my being another year older or being nearer the end. Instead, it’s feeling the passing of life as I’ve known it. It’s the people who’ve left us behind, evolving morality, chivalry and such.) The lady who had died was an age right between my parents and me, so she considered Mama a friend, and me as well. We weren’t close, but I had respect for her and remembered fondly how she was a presence in our lives when I was a young child.
A couple days ago I came upon a colorful butterfly whose life had ended, and it suddenly returned to mind today. Each time I walked by it as it lay on the hot concrete, a few more particles of its lovely wings were etching away, as is the way of Mother Nature; by another day it was gone.
I wondered, are our lives just delicate wings, slowly crumbling off around the edges, dissolving like a mound of January snow? Well, actually yes, according to God’s word, our earthly lives are like the petals of a flower, dust in the wind. “All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of the grass. The grass withers, and its flower falls away. But the word of the Lord endures forever.” (I Peter 1:24) But God put something inside us that the dust and the butterflies do not have; a soul. I know the soul lives forever because God said He created us in His image, which is eternal. “Then God said, ‘Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness;’ (Genesis 1:26) I understand this; however, it’s the season we’re spending here with one another that I am pondering.
When dad mourned passing classmates, it was literally losing pieces of himself. I recall losing high school classmates not long after graduation and unlike the elderly, it was shocking, unusual and set apart from our own lives. However, as we grow older together, we are watching each other’s lives span out, grow, and come back together again. We find more things in common, along with our other acquaintances, woven throughout our own tapestry of life. So watching all these people from different periods of our lives begin to leave, is similar to watching the threads slowly unravel and slide out of the cloth, little by little, one friend, one relative, at a time. This we know is natural, neither shocking nor unusual, but as I’m just realizing, it is actually changing the landscape of my life, my world; a world created by the relationships we’ve made, the real stuff of our lives. It reminds me of enjoying a bowl of ice cream. You have your favorite flavor in your favorite bowl, the spoon that fits just right in your hand, and you knew the delicious treat wasn’t to keep, so as you enjoy it, bite by bite, you see it disappearing. Either you eat it or it melts; either way, it goes.
I realize these thoughts have the potential of being depressing, but it is not my intention to bring you down. Rather, you should know your life, whether a casual acquaintance, a relative, my best bud, or somewhere between, is being enjoyed like a bowl of Columbian coffee ice cream; worn in my life like the finest woven tapestry; and decorates my life like the blue speckles on the butterfly sipping at my zinnias. We are not put here to live unto ourselves. As we help and encourage each other, we are actually folding in the ingredients, weaving threads of gold and silver, into and throughout each other’s lives. Make it good, dear ones! When the tapestry is completely undone, will I be just another wing on the sidewalk? I like to think I may be a good memory to some, like that particular butterfly was to me, but more importantly, whatever makes me fly will live forever with my God.
Thankfully, I haven’t had to say goodbye to many of my own peers, but as I’m practically in the lap of being the older generation, I have just begun to understand. I found myself frantically searching my mind for someone who might be able to answer questions related to the life of the recently deceased. Finally I called a cousin who could fill in some of the blanks but the truth remains, there are fewer people left than I care to realize who can still answer questions about past memories. The memories are precious because of the souls connected to them. So hug them up tight; wrap them in fine quilts and serve them using the good dishes. Life just may be short, so enjoy the ice cream.
“Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day.” (II Corinthians 4:16)
Feeling quite pleased with the outcome of a project, I shared my efforts on Facebook. In anticipation of the much needed improvement, I had taken ‘before’ pictures to emphasize just how much our porches needed to be cleaned and sealed. As I was taking the ‘after’ pictures, the question came to mind as to why I felt the need to share this on social media. It wasn’t a benchmark thing, nothing rare or unusual; just a small accomplishment that gave me satisfaction. It’s really funny when you stop to think about it. I made it just fine for over sixty years without this strange activity of publicizing sunsets, sunflowers and sun-dried sheets. Millions of us do it, and frankly, I enjoy the giving and receiving of little snippets of our lives. So don’t misunderstand me; I’m not ‘dissing’ it as the kids used to say. But I did imagine some interesting scenarios in wondering what if there’d been social media and sharing of everyday life a generation and farther, ago. Can you imagine?
When my mother’s elderly aunt threatened her cow with a wheat straw, it made family news and the account of it was handed down through three generations so far, bringing much laughter. Had that been a Facebook video, it may have gotten a few chuckles, and then become buried beneath a deluge of other posts. However, as it had only word of mouth, being heard over and over by people who loved one another, the tale has lived on.
Can you imagine seeing a post of a little burr-headed boy, seven or eight years old, driving a two-ton truck as he stretched to see between the dashboard and the steering wheel? Well there is no photo to post because my husband was alone, trying to hold it between the ditches of a hilly gravel road and keep up with his dad driving something ahead of him. Now, a share like that one might have gained the attention of the law! And judging by the reaction his aunt had when she saw the activity, I’m sure she would’ve liked a route for ranting! But other than the remembrance for the boy, and his aunt, it went unnoticed. Talk about kids growing up too soon! It was the norm back then.
How about those hundreds of quarts or so of green beans your grandma canned? Can you imagine her stopping to take a picture to post? I recall my mother indicating if we stopped to so much as go to the bathroom, we might hinder a jar from sealing.
As my sister pointed out recently, her dozen ears of corn made good eating and conversation, but she remembered the 1,000 (or so it seemed) ears of corn on a sheet under a tree waiting to be ‘worked up’ by our mother and her sister. What they shared was time, togetherness and sticky aprons as they commented on whose knife was sharper. It was hard enough to get willing participants, so I doubt they thought non-players would be interested. Anyway, they were just doing what every other family was doing. The best sharing then was in a large glass bowl about four months later with country ham and biscuits.
Imagine ole’ Bess about to give birth in the barn. The farmer cries out, “hold on, don’t calve just yet, I forgot my phone! The world’s just gotta see this!”
I think the world was so small then for folks, they just couldn’t imagine anything they saw or did as being unusual. They felt like maybe everyone else had or did the same, pretty much. Hydrangeas growing by the house had been transplanted all over the county so everyone had one; they all had seen a thousand too many baby chicks; and nobody wanted their picture made on hog killing day! They got together on Sunday afternoon, shared their stories, and made memories enough for years. But as the world has expanded, allowing us to be a part of a much larger community, we know there are people special to us who will never see us in our “natural habitat” nor will we see them in person encountering special moments. I’m thinking of the vacation posts by others, places I’ll never see, so experiencing it through your eyes is the next best thing! Sharing is good that way. Too, we have more time on our hands with modern conveniences and life IS more varied and exciting, maybe… and yet I can’t begin to imagine what a star studded night over Kentucky looked like without the outdoor lights interfering. I can’t imagine how a family of ten or so sounded when they all sat down to the supper table at once, because that’s the only way they did it. As I watch a goldfinch picking at a matching Black-eyed Susan, I wonder what posts my mother would have made as she loved her flowers and birds! I can’t imagine what her face looked like when she first held us kids in her arms. They just didn’t take pictures like that then, much less share them with strangers. But I’d love to see a real-life post – just a few anyway – from those times.
“The more things change, the more they stay the same” we have heard. I wonder if my great aunt Treva would’ve posted her amazing Four O’clocks on social media. She shared the seed with me about 35 years ago and I want to share the beauty and fragrance each year as they envelope our porch! No, somehow I doubt she would; she had cows to milk, strawberries to work, grandchildren to feed and hug and a hundred other chores of farm life. So, no, she wouldn’t take the time. I’m so thankful she took the time to share her flower seed with me so a part of her lives on in my life.
4 O’Clocks from Treva Darnell
The little brown rabbit munching clover outside my window tempts me to grab a pic and share it, because a picture is worth a thousand words, they say. But again, why do I even think of that? It seems social media has invaded even our paths of thought. I have no point to make. I just think it’s interesting; both the rabbit and the notion of sharing such a common thing. Now, some have said posting of our personal lives is just bragging. I say phooey to those nay-sayers!
We’ve been taught (or at least should have been) to share since we were babies. Even as the tune “It’s a small small world” hums through my head, I feel the world has actually grown larger and larger until it has required a new way to share. There aren’t enough minutes in a day nor days in a week to share all our happenings with everyone we know. So here we are, sharing on social media outlets. Silly as it may seem at times, it’s fun, if everyone remembers the golden rule. Obviously we share what is important to us, so please don’t be offended when I share my love for our Creator God, the power of Jesus Christ and Holy Spirit. My intentions are to encourage and I hope they are received as such. I loved a post recently by Terra Weber sharing how her girlfriends pitched in and helped her in a pinch. I call that share-worthy; my rabbit, not so much (smile). If not for the encouragement from Cindy Lassiter’s garden posts, I might have given up and quit doing a thing that makes me feel so alive! At seeing Judith Darnell’s post of her rhododendrons, I thought, You go girl!
All the plants, birds and time with children I enjoy sharing, demonstrate the wonders of life for me. I have adopted the hashtag #encouragedbylife as my signature. (Do not look for me on Twitter; one outlet is all I can keep up with.) I hope others are encouraged to get out and experience more of nature after seeing posts from us nature lovers. If a little share here and there points someone to look for God in His creation, I am happy. If a shared post encourages a youngster to keep working hard and know he or she is loved, also great. What I hope we don’t forget is to keep sharing our actual, not virtual, lives. Giving of our time and resources to one another is the kind of sharing we never forget. A tree from Dana Bazzell, a hydrangea from Patsy Russell, Irises from my aunt Sue, and many other examples are real life shares. Retelling stories from the past keeps their sharing alive and reminds us there is really nothing new under the heavens. It’s just new to us, so share it if you like. #encouragedbylife
Each year I promise myself and anyone concerned, not to make myself one with the outdoor world as Spring turns into Summer. Spring has a gravitational pull like few others, and only becomes stronger as summer dawns. I truly intend each year to divide my time wisely between outdoor activity and indoor obligations. Just as surely as the sun rises earlier and earlier, I become more and more negligent of my pledge. Actually, ‘derelict’ may be a more adequate description of my summer self. To make things worse this year, our backyard population of House Wrens is captivating.
Now, I’m fully aware of one’s reality being one’s perception, so if for some inexplicable reason you aren’t fascinated by all this nature activity or if you do not hear the call of the wild, perhaps you can relate to some other distraction keeping you from being all you think you should be. You will likely think I am loony (and you’d be partly correct) but it’s kind of that trash and treasure idea – it’s all in our perception. My reality, I’m not getting any work done and it’s nature’s fault!
Thinking the rainy days would be my redemption time to clean, or write, or even squeeze in some extra reading, was folly. I refuse, however, to accept all the blame. April showers brought us amazing May flowers. Obviously the birds and bees thought so too, for I have been like a kid at Christmas watching our feathered friends. I go from fascination to frustration as I watch and defend them. My most recent angst has been a Sparrow Hawk who seems to think our Purple Martins came from Brazil just for his or her benefit. Judging by the tenacity, I’d say it’s a she, with a family of her own to feed. That’s beside the point. Aren’t there enough rodents out and about to feed a host of hawks?! Seriously, I’m about a shotgun shell away from committing a crime! On Sunday morning we witnessed said hawk taking an adult Martin down, in our backyard, from her own apartment house. I cried. The dirty bird better be glad it was Sunday! But I digress; I was about to tell you about the wrens, wasn’t I.
Six feet from my sunroom window hangs what remains of a wind chime. It is fashioned like a retro coffeepot, with a birdhouse door and a tiny little awning over the perch. The wrens found it desirable so I cut off the chimes and let them have it. This year it became the chosen one; of the dummy nests created by Mr. Wren, Mrs. Wren chose this one for real. I’ve been sitting in the window, rain or shine, watching them finish, fend off and feed. They are adorable. Other than one seeming a bit smaller than the other, the male and female are identical. They, and another couple near my rose garden, have sung their little hearts out all spring and still sing about anything from “here’s another bug my dear” to “oh what a beautiful morning”! As I write, one of the coffeepot residents has landed on a shepherd’s hook, looks into my window and sings WITH bug in beak, as if to say, “be sure you mention how hard I work”! As one waits for the other to feed their babies, his little wings are in a constant flutter, allowing him to hover a moment for his turn to hand off the groceries. Then he is off on another cross-country mission (across the soybean field to the fence row) for another haul.
From early spring until now, we have enjoyed, besides the swallows and wrens, a daily visit from geese and an occasional Great Blue Heron to our pond, so I get to see them from the sunroom too. We have had gold, purple and house finches; Robins, Mockingbirds, Bob Whites, Red-winged Blackbirds, Bluejays, Cardinals, Hummingbirds and the prettiest little Chipping Sparrows. My favorite is the Eastern Bluebird who has rights to a box I check and protect the best I can. These are the backyard guests that keep me spellbound.
I hate the English house sparrow so much that I will make no further mention of its name. Starlings have been less of a pest this year, but still do some damage. And now the hawk. But isn’t that life? We each see and strive to meet our own needs. Why oh why can’t we all be the gentle melodious Bluebird who just takes care of his own, instead of the screaming predator who kills and maims members of its own class. I know, I know, it’s nature. Not even Mother Nature can please everyone every time. Still, given the pleasures versus the pain, I think she is quite a lovely lady, our Mother Nature!
As I close, a Goldfinch whistling “hey you, hey you”, has joined our wrens in the Crepe Myrtle that shades and protects the coffeepot house. They are completely at peace with each other and my heart swoons. It is nearly noon, and my floors are tracked with tennis shoe prints and dry grass clippings; the furniture is dusty and I have no meal planned. The lawn needs mowing today so there is a multitude of clover and dandelion blooms making happy bees out there. Blame it on the rain. Oh no! An EHS just attempted to enter the wren’s abode! Just as I ran to knock on the window to scare it off, a beautiful blaze of blue swooped down and did the job for me. After a few minutes of peering out her port hole, Mrs. Wren escapes to continue doing what she does, safe and sound. Bluebird, you are my hero!!
Thursdays used to be my productive days. I’m afraid I’ve done it again! Happy watching!
The Thought Pixie brought along the Regret Rascal, arriving just in time to block the Sandman and so I began one of those nights. You know the kind, when every debate you had put away, comes back out to play. Good thoughts, bad thoughts, hopes, regrets; doesn’t matter because once they get on a roll, sleep just doesn’t have a chance. My solution is a cup of Sleepytime tea and a pen in my hand. You know, if you give those random thoughts free range, there’s no telling how long they will romp and stomp. I’ve found intentional thinking by reading or writing will either chase away, or corral them to a manageable level. Even though I am still awake, the effort seems to bring the brain to the point of resting sooner than lying there fighting demons in the dark. The writing usually brings me around to some point where most of those thoughts are connected. Such was this night, two days prior to Mother’s Day.
As if by an unseen force, my hand reached for Mama’s old Hallmark tea mug with a matching lid for steeping. It lives on a shelf, at eye level, where I can see it, but never use it for fear I’ll finish breaking what I started years ago when I dropped the lid. It broke in half, and is glued together with a dark scar, but I treasure it for a couple reasons. First just because it was Mama’s and it was given to her by one of her friends. I can just see her dipping the tea bag up and down in the hot water, then placing the cover to steep the tea and finally, placing the bag to dry on the upturned lid while she sipped her Earl Gray. Rarely ever did I visit her kitchen or den without seeing a dried tea bag where she left it. Secondly, the message written on the cup would probably have been her motto had you asked her. “Life’s truest happiness is found in the friendships we make along the way.” So, in anticipation of this Mother’s Day, I drank my herbal tea from the little blue friendship mug as I wrote to Mama.
Even good things can be broken. Good broken things can be repaired if we care enough to do so. God uses broken things; why shouldn’t we? Although they probably will never be the same, they may be even better – like this tea cup lid. It’s better because it has a new purpose: to remind me that broken is not always forever. It reminds me that people too, are breakable, repairable, and often better than new.
Hearts, relationships, a promise or teacup
once broken, will leave a scar.
Will one see light shine through the cracks
Or will one see a mar?
Finding hope or substance to patch, stitch or mend
Will prove the thing to have been worthy
When love comes peeking in.
Thank you Mama for being my friend, and for teaching us how to find friendship in life. Happy Mother’s Day to all the amazing women we call sisters, daughters, mothers and friends! Trisha
Trisha's Coffee Break 