Even when things are going good, I still miss you.

Take Note

dawn

It’s early. I am surrounded by little twinkling Christmas lights.

My coffee is cooling down already, and a little too strong. I think I make it too strong to balance out my own weaknesses. But I digress….

While reading, through early morning bleary eyes, this jumped off the page at me…

Know that your internal barometer is accurate.

That is reassuring to me. My internal barometer is best read in the dawn, before my head is awake.

My soul sits patiently, waiting for me to notice it’s inner truths. The truths I have known for all eternity and have forgotten in the linear.

Know that your internal barometer is accurate.

It keeps speaking too me, like an old professor, trying to prepare me for the big exam.

Take notes! Take note…write this down…

Know that your internal barometer is accurate.

Follow your heart. It knows where it is going.

The Master Sergeant’s Breakfast

Image

My cat, Tangle, orders me around like a Master Sergeant.

I am here, for the express purpose, to do her bidding.

 

As I stumble into the kitchen (toward that freshly brewed, “pot of gold” calling my name), I am rudely interrupted.  I am ordered, rather impatiently in feline, to fill the Master Sergeant’s food dish and to do it NOW.

Being of the lowest rank in my home I stumble to the pantry, eyes barely open, to obey my master’s testy commands. I dully plunge the teacup into the tyrant’s bucket of cat food. The dictator is trying to grab the cup from my hand as she follows me to her still “half-full” saucer waiting for her. I somehow make it to her dainty little bowl and proceed to obey the first orders of the day.

She is done with me, for now….

silence

I sit at the table.

I moved it in front of the window in my room. I am alone.

Again. Still, still.

My tree stands firmly rooted on the other side of the glass. Usually it breathes life into me, but today it just stares blankly at me.

The house is quiet, even dark, for a summer afternoon. I am a shadow of the house, or maybe, it is a shadow of me. Either way, we are both large, empty and dark. Abandoned.

Even the vent is now silent from pushing air through this old house’s lungs. I can almost hear the beat of my heart, if indeed I have one at all. 

I used to be the heart of this house, when it was a home. Five children kept this house alive and entertained. Now, it is just me. I fear I am not very entertaining.

My soul tries to pump life into me but my mind will have none of that. My heart is lost at this point, not knowing what to do next.

The angels are silent. Spirit is silent.

Lastly, I fear, even my pen is now silent.

irish fairy

"May your thoughts be as glad as the shamrocks.

May your heart be as light as a song.

May each day bring you bright, happy hours.

That stay with you all the year long."

I see Red

red

I see the bright red bottle of Tide on the washer and I feel guilty for being extravagant, because I bought the “good stuff”.

I see the red towel shoved into the pocket door to keep away drafts, and I feel embarrassed.

I see the red cow mug that I have totally outgrown, but because it was given to me I can’t seem to get rid of it. I feel cluttered.

I see the red hoodie I wear, beat up and way too big, but I wear it anyway, because it feels like I am wrapped up in a blanket. I feel sloppy.

Then I realize how utterly ridiculous I am…….

none of this matters, I am happy

angel

 

Today, I am flying; flying above my worries and cares.

I am light. I am light!

This current I am riding is a wave of peace.

Here I am floating, full of song.

The rays of the sun are my stairway to heaven,

although I am pretty sure I have already arrived.

I am free-falling into the arms of love.

Here I tread air, care free, carefree!

To have wings as the angels, must be bliss.

tree hugger


I have a dear friend that lives right outside my window. He is beautiful, protective and a comforting companion to me. He is the Romeo to this Juliet. He receives me with loving open arms, while he stands tall and strong. His wardrobe is amazing in the Fall. He decks himself out in an amazing shade of crimson. It is quite dazzling to the eye. Midwinter he is a bit of an exhibitionist and wears nothing at all.

Who is my Romeo? None other than my beloved tree. I can’t even tell you of his nationality. Pine, Elm, Cottonwood? I have not a clue, nor do I care. It is Greek to me.

Aristotle once said, “one soul inhabiting two bodies”. When I sit beneath his sturdy branches, this seems to mean us. The birds above celebrate our joy and share this harmony through the quiet community. The sun’s warmth smiles gently on my skin through the artistry of his familiar branches.

While the world is dark, he is content to share me with my husband, as we warm ourselves with the chiminea’s fire. Early morning, before the sun even peeks over the horizon, and the birds begin the lilting symphony, we gather yet again with the chiminea. So begins our day together in this land of Nod. While the air is quiet he speaks to me through the slight rustle of the many leaves he adorns. We both agree this is the perfect start to our new day.

My tree is my guardian and confidant, offering me solace, peace and contentment. He is the Jack to this Jill. My Romeo, my tree.

animal.jpg

The Pilgrim and Goldilocks

pilgrim

Once, there was a pilgrim who fellowshipped with all the other pilgrims, every Sunday. (Pilgrims call this the “Lord’s Day”.)

Just like Goldilocks and her porridge, this felt too cold to Pilgrim.

On the next “Lord’s Day”, Pilgrim found himself another fellowship.  This  happened once on Wednesday and twice on Sunday.  There was a lot of shouting and running in the aisles in a frenzy of feigned excitement.

Fellowships can be very busy places with lots of eating and making of money and all sort of extra-curricular activities. Pilgrim was tired, so very tired.  It is a lot of work to do everything your are told and it left poor Pilgrim with no time to think for himself. Once again, just like Goldilocks and her porridge, Pilgrim found this too hot.

Somehow, Pilgrim found a spare moment and thought about this lack of thinking.  He decided to decide for himself.  Pilgrim left the quiet fellowship, he left the noisy fellowship, he even tried a different fellowship, that began in another pilgrim’s home.  That went well for awhile but eventually it began to morph into just another cold fellowship. Just, more of the same.

Pilgrim was alone. He wandered, searching, throughout the woods. He sat quietly beside the lake and listened.  The sun began to set as leaned peacefully against the trunk of an old, ancient tree and watched the stars envelop the night sky.  There, all alone, or maybe not, he had his answer.

He did not need man’s buildings, or  certain days of the week, or other pilgrims deciding for him.  Here he was, smack dab, in the middle of true fellowship.  He felt one with the world all about him. He felt one with the One. He understood that every day was the Lord’s Day. At that very moment, he decided to follow his wise heart and not his noisy head, always full of thoughts.

This was holy ground.

It wasn’t too hot or too cold.

It was just right.

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