unhappy

Stone Oven Muffin

I sincerely thank whoever discovered the muffin.

There is something really irresistible about a muffin – all kinds of muffins.

Others may love their croissant, but I love my muffin.

Right away, I think of muffins wrapped in red and white checked gingham in a honey-colored wicker basket. I think of New England or charming European villages with fresh baked breads. I think of the open hearth, with a log fire, at the center of a home.

It’s so primal – food – eating – our daily bread.

New Earth - I Choose My Reality

Sometimes knowing you have a choice isn’t obvious. Sort of, “What, I can choose?”

I do not read the newspapers, nor watch the news.

I choose my reality.

I sometimes imagine myself in a place of turmoil like Jerusalem. I stand there, eyes closed, with ripples of “illumination” going out from me, as if a pebble were tossed in a pond. Every second, going out hundreds of miles.

Then, at the same time, I picture myself in the center of China, doing the same.

I Saw an Angel

I saw an angel. Actually, I saw one, then a second, and then a third. The first was a young adult about 14 years old. The angel wore a white gown or robe. It looked like linen.

Upon the robe was exquisite and unusual golden trim and gold embroidery. It seemed as though the gold was alive, as if it were the energy identity and the “life” of the angel – its core essence.

The gold “writing” sparkled, too. The angel moved but was completely silent. It had no wings.

The Creaking Floor

I love floors that creak. There’s a power, a personality to it, as if the floor acknowledges me there, greets me, in a way. The house feels homey and lived in, in some sense imprinted.

Old houses have creaky floors and stairs, for sure. It’s not clear if it’s the personality of the people who lived there coming through or the personality of the home itself. But, to me, it always seems inviting and cozy.

It makes me mindful of the moment, more fully present with more of my senses focused here and now.

I also love doors that creak and drawers that squeak.

Roses

Every year we like to visit the rose gardens at Boothe Park in Stratford, Connecticut. Even from several feet away, one can smell the beautiful and pungent scent of the various types of roses. Once inside the garden, one can see all the different sizes, shapes, and types of roses - more than seem possible.

It is like a Wonderland of Flowers. Some are red, some are pink, some are yellow, some white, some purple, some orange, and some are even multicolored. Inevitably, some are buds, while others are partly bloomed, and still others are in full bloom.

Being a Volunteer

I am so happy
When I watch a video or read
a story
Of animals being rescued
My heart is stretched
As my eyes fill with tears
But I am in awe of how
Others step in to help
As they figure out a way
To lend a hand with these wonderful animals
That are here a part of creation
I thank the volunteers
Who take their time
Those who give funding
The generosity of others
Who don’t turn away but
Move towards being part of the solution
If only all will find it in our hearts

A Beauty All Its Own

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.

Honoring the Good Past

There’s something about a very old photograph that really draws me in. Perhaps it’s the black and white monochrome world that looks oddly “at a distance” – as if that’s the best that could be done at that time – almost like a dream.

I like to see how people are dressed and I try to sense how it felt to be in that place at that time. Did the air feel different?

Squirrel in the Pumpkin

It was the end of fall, and we put out a pumpkin on the front steps for the squirrels to enjoy.

A large chubby squirrel came up and started eating it. He was not shy, or perhaps he was too awestruck by such a wonderful feast appearing for him out of the blue.

In any case, we slowly opened the front door so only the storm door, a full pane of glass, stood between us and him. We were one foot away as he continued to chew his way thru the pumpkin – to the point at which he was able to sit inside it and eat all around himself.

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