As I woke up this morning
I stumbled into my kitchen to do my dishes
I was half groggy and half asleep
As I was doing my dishes and looked out the kitchen window
I saw this beautiful blue bird, it was like a violet blue, and it was rust colored
It wasn’t a blue bird
I wasn’t sure what kind of bird it was
It was sitting on top of my patios table closed umbrella just perched
Looking all around just like taking in the scene, the scenery around him
As I woke up this morning
A four letter word
Opps it’s a five letter word
Boy am I stressed out
I don’t know how
One thing at a time
I’m cooking, paying bills and watching tv all at the same time
Hurry I'm late
I forget my appointment
My appointed is cancelled
I’m already there
always messes me up
I forget where I am going
I forget how to get there
Why do I always get company when my house is a mess
I thought I said the right thing
I say the wrong thing
We have a huge Chinese rug in the living room, 10 feet by 15 feet, 1 inch thick.
It is truly gorgeous. The colors and design are out of this world.
Sky-blue borders, decorated with flowers, all against a crème background. And it feels wonderful under your bare feet.
Who made this carpet I so enjoy? I feel I know him, or her, or them. I appreciate the sheer scale of its beauty and its masterful craftmanship.
Was the design handed down generation to generation, perhaps on rice paper? Or was it kept “in-mind” and shown only when needed?
Grandpa always wore a three piece suit with a white Oxford shirt. In the heat of summer, he removed the vest. In the winter, when he went on his daily walks, he added a topcoat and a fedora to his outfit.
Two blocks from his house was a small grocery store where my brother Mike worked as a manager.
Every day, grandpa, in his late eighties, walked to the store to visit Mike and to pick up an item or two.
When Bruce and I were first married, we discovered Jones’ Family Farm, and started a tradition.
Each October we’d go to the farm and pick out a huge pumpkin. Then we’d bring it home, and work all weekend to make pies (usually 9) and loaves (usually 6).
Sometimes, we’d make pumpkin cookies or pumpkin pancakes (not a big hit). We’d cook the seeds. Then we’d distribute the pies to my parents and my brother Mike, Bruce’s parents, aunties, neighbors, etc.
I’d always bring some in for the teacher’s lounge at Second Hill Lane School.
I am drawn to where the past lingers on, like Sturbridge Village Museum in Massachusetts, where people dress up in yesteryear clothes and character. It is truly amazing how these people fit their parts so well, as if being transported back 300 years.
Seeing the farmer in a long coat shepherding a flock of sheep thru the village green.
Seeing the potter casually spinning a clay pot.
Seeing the tinker making a lantern of tin or a candleholder of pewter.
Seeing how they cook in a hearth with an open fragrant log fire.
I like the quiet times.
When there is a lull in the day.
And the hectic pace stops.
I like the clock that I can hear tick-tock. It beats at one herz – what an interesting number – one cycle per second, the rate of a heart beating.
I like to take a walk, with no thoughts, no agenda, nothing to solve.
I like to stare out into space and see what appears.
I am open and willing to receive.
I see the morning dew on the grass, sparkling and twinkling, and find it hard to look away.
I like the quiet time smelling hot apple pie baking.
I am calm.
My inner world is mine.
I choose peace there.
I sit quietly and feel the earth beneath me, supporting me. It’s always there.
I am calm.
Even being a little calm calls more, stronger calm.
I breathe in fresh air, a fresh viewpoint, fresh understanding.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I place my attention on me alone. My thoughts drop away.
Guardian angel, strengthen me.
I am calm.
Have you ever needed to be still?
Not to be disturbed but be left all alone?
Some people are afraid to be alone.
They fear the quiet, that space.
Other’s revel in it.
In that quiet contemplative space much may occur.
Or nothing feels like it is happening.
It may be just dead silence.
What is good is to realize often when we would like to be still,
We just avoid it
Or when we are forced to be still, for example, like an illness,
We appreciate what we had.
You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts. And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart, you live in your lips. And sound is a diversion and a pastime.
And in much of your talking, thinking is half-murdered, for thought is a bird of space, that in a cage or words may indeed unfold its wings, but cannot fly.