Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
I tune in online to watch the summer solstice at Stonehenge. It’s cloudy at Wiltshire, England and there isn’t much to see. The only sound is the wind. I watch for a while, remembering what it was like when Gerry and I stood on that ground in the cordoned off area looking at the stones,
When I decided to start playing with watercolour I was overwhelmed by choice. Paints, palettes, paper, brushes. I researched and studied and made decisions that were right for me—all the while washing paint on wet paper and being fascinated by the process. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to paint. Loose flowers, more true-to-life botanicals,
Amidst the cacophony there are those sitting on the ground looking, in awe, at the wonder of growing things. And others, gazing upward at a starry sky feeling infinitesimally small beneath it. Worshiping. And in the quiet comes wisdom that can’t be comprehended where attempts to be right or stronger manifests as louder. I do
It’s early, and the sun is in my eyes and I think I should move, but I don’t. If the sun is in my eyes, it means it’s not really so early after all. How can it be? I’ve already spent hours reading, praying, and sitting in silence and still I’m hungry for more of
Fits and starts: that’s summer this year. A few days ago, I sat in a small darkened community theatre and had the joy of watching my granddaughter perform in William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. This Monday morning, I look ahead to a handful of quotidian days before the next summer shift. The ordinariness of picking
I spend a couple of hours in the garden, pondering, imagining, making decisions, and tossing tiny seeds in the ground. I’m toting tomato and pepper plants outside every day and bringing them back in the house in the early evening. There are seed packets in my purse, and basil growing in my laundry room. These,
Of the many images I captured when we were at the tulip festival earlier this week, this one is my favourite. It’s not loud and part of the crowd. The flower in this photograph is quiet, strong, and distinctive. The closed waxy petals are hope. Wisdom and wonder are hidden inside. It reminds me that silence and
But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness. The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head . . . The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on. Robert Finch It is dark now, at an hour when
Solitude matters, and for some people, it's the air they breathe. Susan Cain I step out onto the deck with a first cup of morning coffee and breathe slow and deep. The cool, fresh morning air all the sweeter having been forced to shut doors and windows, and turn the air conditioner on to escape
Remember it is a still voice that speaks to us in this day, and that it is not to be heard in the noises and hurries of the mind; but it is distinctly understood in a retired frame. William Penn
She feels about being alone the way most people feel about chocolate. Anna Quindlen, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake I intend to speak to no one today except for my Yorkie, Maya. I will bathe in solitude and sunshine, spending an abundance of time on my deck with my manuscript, a notebook, and a