Respite Wednesday

Hello Sweet Friends,

I sit quietly before this computer with a kitty-cat grin on my face (you know the one your kitty gets when he settles next to you after he's just had a nibble of food and you absentmindedly stroke him as you read through the afternoon with nothing in particular pressing on your time. That, my friends, shall describe this day for me (at least I hope it will). After a week's worth of gatherings, meetings, marketing, traveling (to Costco for a pantry replenishing trip), and such, I have set aside this day for respite.

I found myself rising later than usual -- sweet delight -- feeling well rested. I stepped upon the scale and found to my delight I have returned to my normal readings. Recently, I embarked on a trial with an herbal from India designed to reduce blood pressure with NO side effects (or so they claimed). I ordered the reasonably-priced packet, downed the AWFUL smelling tablets with plenty of water, and then waited. The results came in swiftly, as my regular evening blood pressure readings dropped noticeably over the course of the trial treatment. Hitting 122/78 felt like a dream after readings of 141/90 (which prompted the whole medication route with the doctor some years ago).

I continued with the foul-odored pills and plenty of water for flushing of toxins and rejuvenating of my system, finding my BP readings comfortably worth the twice-a-day regime.

Periodically I inquired whether anyone found my ankles puffy or my eyes swollen. Nope, everyone thought I looked beautiful. (Silly ones, I fished not for a compliment, but truly felt swollen . . . and so sluggish.) I dragged through the day, allowing vacuuming to wait a day and dinner to become more of stuff-and-nonsense and less of feasting-and-rejoicing. Still no complaints from my family, so I surmised that I had just depleted my energies with so much entertaining over the early summer days and must pay the price now.

Stepping on the scale began to bother me . . . another pound? And so I cut my dinner portions and eliminated my simple snacks in the evening. I felt hungry, tired, but happy to have lowered my BP readings.

Then the scale registered another pound gained after a day of near fasting and lots of water! In addition my bodily functions seemed to have screeched to a halt. Still I pressed on believing I was just "adjusting" . . . until I saw the pictures from our spinning date with my friend Adele -- I screeched out when I saw the pictures of this dumpling woman at the wheel, all moon-faced and pudgy of ankles. "That can't be ME!!" I gasped. Still the scale cried out, "One more pound for the day!" My common sense kicked in and I stopped the ayervedic approach. Abruptly. I collapsed in prayer and asked the Lord WHY? To which I distinctly felt a twinge of guilt . . . if I trusted God to manage my bigger life issues, and even enlisted my friends as prayer partners. then why grab onto the stinky-pills and swallow for comfort I could touch? I didn't beat myself up emotionally, but I did cry on Gary's shoulder, though the loss of water-weight from that activity registered little improvement. My BP shot back up to 144/88 and I felt so low.

The next day I drank tea, paced my schedule, and prayed for relief. Despite running errands and replenishing the pantry, just in case the predicted epidemic hits, I managed to make it through the day, flopping into bed to find my BP slightly lowered. Hmmmmm . . .

Over the course of the next several days I dropped a pound a day and my body returned to all of its normal functioning. Today I beamed at the scale to see my normal weight register . . . and then I promptly wondered if I should try to ride this wave for a bit longer in hopes of stripping off another five or so pounds. Hmmmmmmm . . . ; D

Have I reached the happily ever after page yet? Hardly -- BUT . . . my BP read 122/77 last night. Now that's something to celebrate!!!

I hesitated to blog about this because it is so indicting to me and may possibly hurt another who struggles with their own road including medications, ayervedics, and all manner of other treatments. Please do not see this as a brag or a suggestion or even a warning . . . it is merely a confession of a woman who called her friends into prayer and then ran off down her own path. When she met with scary things she didn't come and share that with her friends, she hid in shame or worse . . . fear that they would judge her a fool. Sadly, I thought I had conquered this foible of self long ago, but clearly I still care what people think of me in an unhealthy way (and fear the worst). In reading some of your blogs of late I see pages and pages of personal outpourings filled with prayer needs, fears, medical trials, family frayings, and so much more. The honesty stings my eyes at times. Tears fall for people I have never met, nor may EVER meet. This bloggy thing still amazes me! I want to be a part of this ever-changing, honest, deep, light, silly, serious community of honest folks walking their own path without apology or shame.

And so I have set aside this Respite Wednesday for sipping tea, reading a new/old book on traveling the islands surrounding Britain (something I am most interested in doing some day), and stroking my kitty. Dinner will be a chicken stewed in my new Lodge dutch oven with potatoes, carrots, fragrant herbs, and a topper of sourdough dumplings ( a new creation based on the biscuit recipe from Mrs. Boast). I have had such fun playing with sourdough. I have few recipes but plenty of kitchen chemistry tucked under my belt and am thus inventing new twists on old themes and running with some of those pioneer women who once upon a time shaped a new California cuisine out of necessity and need.

I recently received a very old starter portion from my spinning/weaving friend Adele, and it is most delicious. It dates back many, many years passed from one to another of the locals in these parts. I recently read that a sourdough starter takes its flavor from the surrounding wild yeast. Thus a starter began in San Francisco, with a most pungent sourness, will lose that flavor when transported to say Vermont, where the wild yeasts have a much milder flavor. Fascinating! Unfortunately I neglected my whole wheat starter with the entrance of the new "girl" on the block who arrived in the midst of a medical flummox for me. Sadly I dumped it, but will try again another day. I love my culinary lab!

As for today . . . Respite Wednesday . . . I shall relax, rejuvenate, and revel in the joys found in the start of a string of days with not a single appointment inked in until next mid-week. Such luxury.

Now where's that book? I hear the kettle singing. It promises to be a very good day around here. I wish the same for you.

Gentle Harvest

How quickly a year has passed . . .

Last June 23rd I sat next to Elizabeth as she guided me into the world of cyber journaling. When she hit “Publish” my heart went into PANIC!

“Wait! Not yet!” I blurted.

“Too late,” she grinned, knowing all too well that her mother would dither forever about opening wide the doorway to her home and gardens and family and heart-thoughts.

She knew.

Without her publishing push and Karen Deborah’s nagging steady encouragement, I never would have unlocked the gate and let you in for a peek.


For years upon years I have kept journals, written letters (some never intended to be read by a recipient), scribbled stories, recorded memories, and dreamed big dreams that never even make it to print as I freely spin away dancing and singing in the gardens or in the kitchen or reclining in a tub of bubbles. “A dream is a wish your heart makes,” sings Cinderella; my heart works overtime in the dreams department . . . it always has.

As a little girl I would lay in bed before sleep overtook me and imagine the way things could be. As I imagined I made some plans. Many fell away but some took root and became part of my life. This little blog sprouted from one of those seeds dropped to grow a connecting place for family, which produced a most unexpected harvest of new friends who came bearing their dreaming hearts. I wander freely through blogs filled with ideas, hopes, dreams, events, hurts, and so much more. I read and smile knowingly or gasp in astonishment or laugh uproariously or drop to my knees in prayer. Without knowing it, that “Publish” moment planted rows of dreams that have yielded a gentle harvest of such goodness.


Over the course of the past year I nearly pulled my blog down several times as I wrestled with the time commitment, the expectations, the comment dilemma (keep it and not worry who comes – close it and wonder if anyone comes), and all the other logistics of publishing from the heart. I have also begged off from playing tag or contesting or meme-ing or chasing after comments – it just doesn’t feel right for me, though I find nothing wrong with any of it (kinda like garage sailing or not . . . I don’t, but others do and love the thrill – different strokes . . . ).

I wandered in the wilderness at some stages in the growth of Wisteria and Roses – mostly due to technical ignorance – but determined to learn one new thing every time I sat down to blog (today I learned to use the “strike out” mode). I still chafe a bit that I had to forgo naming my blog Wisteria Cottage, as I had planned; some other person nabbed the name before I entered the scene, but closed down their blog without releasing the name. : (
Adjusting, learning, falling down, trying again, laughing, crying, hoping, praying . . . I look back and see baskets brimming with so much I have gained over this past year’s “experiment” in blogging.

Yes, I set out to “experiment” for a year. I figured if I had anything worthwhile to say it would surely take no more than a year, BUT – I found that blogging means so much more than merely saying something or even showing something. (Did I mention I had ZERO photography skills before I began blogging – NADA! I relied on Gary and Elizabeth for every pic and edit in those early days!)

Blogging, for me, serves as more than a sounding board or a “show-and-tell” session, though it often involves that and I LOVE the way bloggers share so freely of what they know or do or feel. When I hop from blog to blog I “visit.” When people pop in to see me, I want them to feel welcome and invited in for a little respite and just a peek into another way of walking the path. My journey differs from your journey and maybe, just maybe, that stretches our hearts a wee bit more than we expected to a very good end.


When I read of life in Australia or Norway or France or Canada or The South or The North or even right across town, I cast my focus away from what I know and live, and find another’s pathway. Maybe it contains a garden of the hottest colors and most robust annuals, which bears no resemblance to my dreams for my own garden, but I find joy in the visit nonetheless. Foods, décor, lifestyle, fashion, childrearing, faith, politics, and all the rest spill forth from blogs and I have found the breaths of fresh air bracing and exhilarating. I love blogging!

So, I guess you have guessed that my “one year” experiment has expired and will have no effect on my blogging habits. I will continue to blog at whim about whatever crosses my heart and spills over to share. My children delight in sharing (some more than others) and the bounty of my garden and table provide lots of inspiration for posts. The natural flow of memories continues to grace this blog with stories and celebrations from today, yesterday, and way back when without showing signs of waning. In short, my blog will ramble and tumble and dance and sing as it always has. My arms spread out to catch the gentle harvest from your thoughts and dreams and all the rest without an expiration date.


And so, when you peek through the garden gate at Wisteria and Roses I will be here to welcome you with a steeping teapot and a plumped cushion in a waiting chair. Shall I pour out as we take a pause from our busy lives and simply visit?

Midsummer Musing

Today marks the longest day of the year – a holiday in our home. As a child I never knew such a magical day existed. Sure, I had heard about the equinox in Science class, but no one in my family gave it much mention; and we surely never “celebrated” this day attributed to Pagan rites. The longest day was just that . . . loooong and I still had to go to bed at the prescribed time, regardless of how much sun poured through the organza criss-cross curtains of my room. At age 17 that all changed and a new holiday entered my life.

As I packed my bags to set off for a summer’s stay in Norway, I wondered about all the “newness” but also feared I would miss so much at home. Dilemma and worry tried to fill the empty crevices in my carry-on luggage (and my heart). I knew not where I would be living, as the Host family cancelled at the last minute and I received a hastily scrawled “form” stating new family information (much of which proved to be incorrect, I later learned). Nonetheless I continued packing and preparing for an adventure I had been planning for months. In the days leading up to my departure, my mom and grandmother panicked at the thought of letting me go. They warned me of all manner of “slavery” and planted fears by the bushel in my innocent heart.

I remained steadfast in my plans to jet away to parts unknown. I felt no fear as I whisked away into the night. We left at 11 pm from San Francisco and it was dark. Little did I know I wouldn’t see dark night again until I returned home in late August.

Several long flights criss-crossing the US and then one looooooonger charter over the ocean dropped me into Norway about 9 am some morning later. (I lost track of time along the way.) I disembarked, exhausted but excited. I “checked in” with the local leader and he scanned his clipboard for my name. “Hmmmmm . . .” he muttered, “Says here you cancelled your trip.” “Clearly not,” I replied, luggage in hand – I felt like Anne of Green Gables before Matthew Cuthbert showed up, as I informed him that another family had been chosen for me. “Okay, don’t worry,” he said off-handedly (just a hint of skepticism fringing his voice), “My mom has a spare room for you if nobody shows up for you.” I choked back a tear and scanned the faces of those coming and greeting the other students. “They’ll be here,” I muttered confidently.

Time passed and I sat down atop my banana yellow (brand new) American Tourister Soft-Sider luggage. I crushed the top, but didn’t notice, my heart beating faster as the crowd of kids dwindled. The check-in guy looked over and smiled. I smiled back and took a deep breath. Hope his mom is nice . . .

Suddenly a woman with strawberry blond hair, cropped short, and the sweetest accent came calling “Deeebie? I’m looking for Deeebie.” I popped up and fairly ran to claim my family. Apologies flowed about the traffic and how late they had arrived. I just grinned and waved goodbye to the organizer as my yellow valise disappeared into the trunk of a robin’s egg blue Saab and whisked me away down the road to . . . whatever happened to lay at the end of the road.

My exhaustion evaporated as I scanned the landscape in awe. I couldn’t believe I had actually left home and traveled far across the globe to find houses and roads and trees and all the rest so familiar. It looked like Lake Tahoe!

We pulled up to a modest little brown house surrounded by a vegetable garden in a neighborhood so similar and yet entirely different from home. I plopped my luggage in “my room” and set out on a hike through the forest with Mimmi, the 15-year-old daughter who spoke not a word to me . . . for a long time.

We gathered berries for supper as we wandered through the fairytale-like woods filled with mossy stones, freshets flowing fast with icy-cold water, and berries by the score along needled pathways in dappled shade. We walked and walked and walked, then returned home for a simple yet delicious meal that I barely stayed awake through. After dinner, at 7:30 pm, I fell asleep and slept until 9:30 am the next morning. Since it was light when I fell asleep and equally bright when I awoke, I assumed I had taken a two-hour nap. Not so. My refreshed body danced in the light and eagerly wondered what the day held.

The house lay quiet as Pappa and Mamma (as they would soon be known to me) had gone off to work – he at the water and power company as an engineer, she as a clerk in a local bookshop. Hungry, yet ignorant as to how to slice the bread with that dangerous-looking contraption, I waited for Mimmi to emerge from her room. I waited and waited . . . She emerged sleepy-eyed and tight-lipped some time later. We ate bread and cheese, bread and apple preserves, bread and smashed berries – yep, just smash those raspberries onto the fresh bread with the back of a fork. Sublime. Incredible. (Just finished my last bite of the same as I sit here on my deck sipping tea and rambling away on this keyboard.)

What would today hold? I wondered. Another walk through the forest, I would soon learn. Mimmi said precious little and I had the distinct feeling she intended to exhaust me into returning to the US. Mamma had mentioned on the drive home that Mimmi had suffered disappointment that her trip to the mountains with friends had to be cancelled due to her asthma flaring up. They called for a summer exchange student at the last minute as a way to cheer her up. Inwardly I groaned when I heard this. This morning as I walked and walked I wondered if she would pass the entire summer without engaging me in conversation. But then slowly she began to talk and ask questions and note that I might not be such a drag on her summer plans. (Skip ahead – we became lifelong friends . . . sisters, really. I’m so glad she decided to give me a chance.)

Ummmmmm . . . you may be wondering . . . where does the part about the Summer Solstice come in? Right now, you see this second walk happened on the Solstice.

When Mamma and Pappa arrived home from work later that day we ate a quick meal and then piled in the car to go into Oslo for the celebrations. “Celebrations?” I wondered, “What are they celebrating?” The streets teemed with well-wishers. Though becoming late evening, the sunlight shined as brightly as the afternoon. Crowds of people spilled from the parks and clearings and gardens everywhere. Huge piles of wood dotted the groupings of folks. I learned that bonfires would be set as the evening progressed. I drank it all in without a clue about any of it. We attended a musical celebrating the Summer Solstice traditions in Norway. I thought, “Good, now I’ll learn the roots of this joyful celebration.” The curtain went up: Lively music, famous actors, 100% Norwegian dialog. (Did I mention that I spoke one word: “Tak” = Thank You?) I fell asleep partway through.

I awoke to a gentle rousing as Mamma clucked that maybe we should return home as it may be too much for “Deebie.” I shook my head “No,” perked up and begged to keep going. We walked around in the “night” (now well past 10 o’clock pm, maybe even 11) but it remained bright and clear. It wasn’t “Sunny” but more like “the brightness of nearly-twilight.” Bonfires raged though darkness had not fallen. People sang, ate, sang some more, and called greetings to all who passed by. I truly felt I had awoken in a Rip-Van-Winkle-esque moment. And I have never forgotten it. I loved it!

We returned home late in the night (still light) and I fell into slumber. The next day I awoke feeling at home. I belonged. Mimmi greeted me at breakfast with a cheerful “Halloo! Good morning!” and my heart sang. “I’m Norwegian,” I thought, “Not just because my Great-Grandfather Hans (who died just months after my birth) came from Norway to America at age 16 with a wooden box of necessaries and a heartful of BIG DREAMS, but because I am living in this moment in this place and it feels so right.

The year after I went to Norway Mimmi came to visit me. She arrived at the Midsummer but I had no celebrations to share with her. We made our own. To this day I eagerly await the Summer Solstice, planning a delicious Norwegian menu to be eaten out under the trees as the folktunes particular to Norway fill the long evening. Our sun does set, but later than at any other time of the year. I sit out and drink in the twilight (always my favorite time of day) as I remember that discovery of the Midsummer in Norway so long ago.

I have rambled on for oh so long! (Kudos to those of you that stuck with me.) My blog spills over with me and my life . . . this memory came like a flood and carried me away on the wings of delight.

But now, I must be off this box and onto the business of preparing for the loooongest day of the year. We’ve much to celebrate and be thankful for. I know the celebration has Pagan roots, but for me the celebration has a different set of roots. The Midsummer will always remind me of that wonderful gateway to the joys of life without fears. To taking chances. To meeting “newness” with a smile and lots of hope and courage. To reaching for a dream . . . even if you didn’t know that’s what you were doing . . . and finding it.

And now I really must be off to drag the table out under the big oak tree, pick some blueberries and raspberries from my woods, and dig out that Norwegian folk CD. (I’ve already got my clogs on, I wear them every day.)

“Hade bra!” (Have it well)

Pathway to Joy

This is the day which the LORD hath made;
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalm 118:24

Oh to be able to take flight and truly soar above the beauty all around in this fine little dell of land. I thank the Lord each day for the tiny dusty specks of Eden that slipped through His fingers as He sprinkled reminders of once upon-a-time and hints of what-will-be alongside this pathway of life. If this be the stuff of a fallen world (which I know to be true . . . I read the headlines), I dance in eager anticipation of the new Heaven and Earth promised to me, to you, to all who believe.

Of late, I have dabbed far too many tears and sorted away long-ago hurts newly resurfaced as I prepared for sharing my Pathway to Joy. But, I cannot fail to mention that the memories and blessings and most-wonderful happenings of my life along that bumpy path have tumbled down like a springtime waterfall of ferocious beauty. I have laughed, gurgled, swirled, and pitched head-over-heels in the tumult of remembering. It has been a fine journey thus far . . .

Through each dark tunnel I found a surprising joy. My earliest milestone of joy rose bright and shining to cast light all around in the depths of childhood sorrows – I found a God who loved me. I grasped the ticket to Heaven while a mere 10-years-old having recently been placed in a Christian school that provided daycare ( . . . and so much more). Given a Bible and turned loose with the rules of obedience I found a pathway devoid of the evils that had plagued the adults in attendance around me. I worked myself to a frenzy (suffering an ulcer at age 15) in an attempt to please God and earn the approval of those around me. Clearly there must be more to life than this series of “exams” at every turn.

What a joy to meet a special young man who invited me to church wherein I would learn of grace and forgiveness and the abiding love of a Savior. I need not wait for death to cash in my ticket with God for a place in His Kingdom. I began to learn new dance steps and new ways to pray; unfortunately I fell into the trap of former days and set out to be SUPER in my accomplishments as a follower of Christ. New friends, new ideas, same worries, same fears.

Graduation, marriage (to that special young man), job, home, JOYS of a whole new flavor. LOTS OF PLANS! I spun dreams, ideas, hopes, and mapped them all out in due diligence without ever giving thought to anything other than success on my terms in my definition. Thus far I had reaped so much wonderful bounty from this life with a Lord. I asked, He granted . . . just as the prosperous teachers of the faith shared. Until . . .

. . . the birth of my boys. A model pregnant mom with an astounding diet of health foods and books and advice and ideas, I expected nothing untoward or surprising. My biggest dilemma involved the logistics of returning to school after the birth (working on my PhD at the time in English Lit). All my lists and goals, and pro-con lists fell to the floor in a frenzied mess when the boys arrived on the scene nearly two months early in a barely-breathing state. Having suffered a twin-to-twin transfusion in utero, wherein twin A pumped blood through the shared umbilical to twin B causing serious harm to both, their fragile bodies fought to maintain the simplest of life-giving tasks while the anxiety mounted among the medical staff.

“Hopeless . . .” they pronounced sadly. God intervened. “Fatally flawed . . .” they confessed. God proved them wrong again (much to their delight . . . and ours). “Find an institution and forget . . .” they advised. God kept us strong . . . strong enough to bundle them home after treatments and surgery and so much more. Praying . . . caring . . . hoping . . . savoring what little time remained. God sprinkled the miracles liberally. Joy blossomed in abundance . . . overflowing life and peace and joy flooded our little world with flickers of hope in happily growing bodies of babies destined to swallow up my world in wonderful wonder.

More babies . . . new house . . . new trials . . . financial woes . . . health issues . . . another move . . . financial boon . . . LOTS OF WORK . . . collapse of little remaining extended family support system . . . extended family sorrows/illness/death/mental illness . . . BUT STILL MORE JOY despite the woes in our world as our children grow and thrive and arise to call me blessed every day with their smiles and hugs and eagerness to dance the dance of joy with me in a life lovingly sculpted with Heavenly plans.

Death of Andrew.

Watershed of sorrow and pain and emptiness of depth unmatched in our life. Our freefall in sorrow landed us in God’s gracious palm once again. Cocooned in His care we began a new phase. We emerged from this chrysalis of transition to find that GOD DOES NOT CHANGE. Immovable love shone all around despite the charred fragments of “love” crumbled from the relationship with my parents that I fought so hard to salvage and failed. My son died and my parents battled for center stage to be cared for by me now that I had “free” time on my hands. No thought for my pain, only their gain. Hurt. Shock. Numbness. All goes quiet as I retreat to rest.

Cradled in the arms of the Almighty. Carried to safety. Protected from further harm. Abandoned once again by the flesh that bore me yet firmly rooted in the loving grip of my True Father, the one who created me. Freedom. Joy. Peace surpassing all understanding. Newfound strength. The journey continues . . .

Wings spread. Lives grow stronger. Trees by water send forth shoots despite drought in the lands. Faith planted in seeds grows to groves filling brimming baskets with a harvest most sweet. Joy. The darkness held at bay by a single flicker of hope from a Heavenly candle. Hands join. Hearts seek. Strength from the vine builds branches laden with sweet fruit. Celebrations follow harvest time. The circle of life spins on. The cycle of the seasons weaves unexpected joys into familiar routine. It is good.

A simple path. A loving guide. A constant tether. Strength in Joy. The journey continues . . .

I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.
Phil 4:12-13 (NIV)

. . . for the joy of the LORD is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

Thoughtful Thursday

[My grandfather] had a lovely tenor voice and was often asked to sing. Everyone’s favorite was an old song about heaven called, “Sitting in White” which depicts the eternal scene of worship at the throne of God. He usually finished the song with a catch in his voice and eyes bright with tears. The last time I heard him sing it was just a year before he died. At the end of the song he said, “Won’t it be wonderful when we know we’ve finally made it?”

from Perennial: meditations for the seasons of life

by Twila Paris (page 50)

* * *

I found a little devotional written by Twila Paris tucked into the corner of the shelf at the local library used book sale. It looked unopened, never used. It partnered with a cd of perennial favorites that I own and enjoy using to shape the contemplative moments in my day. I carried this little book home for a mere 50 cents and added it to my basket containing Bible, books, journal, pens, and stationery. This basket nestles close to my favorite chair, just a short reach from my lap. I may find myself here once a day or several times, but always I find a peaceful pause, a place to peruse or ponder; a punctuation in my busy day that finds me at the feet of my Lord just when I need a bit of refreshment.

Daily life has encompassed many schedules throughout my years as child, student, employee, wife, and mom. Each new phase required a bit of shift in priority and layout in order to keep my heart refreshed while meeting the needs of all in my care. I learned a looooong time ago that a day begun kneeling before my Lord contained seeds of greatness and fulfillment; a day that rushed past my starting pause, yielded more exhaustion than I had hoped to carry. And so, I begin my days with a quick peruse of the news and blogland, from which I tote away a bevy of thoughts, ideas, needs, and requests. I then make my way to the kitchen to create a bit of breakfast and a pot of tea. Next I settle into my favorite chair with a tray at hand and a view of the majestic trees and brilliant sky, often painted with hues of storms or sunny rays. The beauty lifts my heart in a prayer. I simply sit and listen as sweet music fills the air, or in warmer days slide open the patio door and listen to the laughing fountains and singing birds at play in my gardens -- God’s gift to me in remembrance of Eden and better times.

Some days I dig deep into a weighty passage of scripture, others find me pouring my aching heart out in Psalms, still other moments find me speechless in wonder-filled awe that I am alive -- right here, right now, just as I am. A variety of authors joins me in this quiet moment as ideas float and sift through my sieve of life. My perspective changes with the times and maturity, but merely serves to enhance my quest for truth . . . immovable truth. I often find humor in this special space of time, such as running across this verse today: “Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble knees” (Isaiah 35:3). Truly a timely reading, considering yesterday’s spate in the garden on my knees wrestling with the tenacious tendrils of weedy things in threat to my tidy beds.

Though my day flows in a generally similar pattern from start to finish, I find so many pathways to explore. Some prove a waste of time, others reveal secrets my heart has longed to receive. Regardless of what the day may hold, I cherish my peaceful moments with the Lord in prayer, Word, and silence. The everlasting love promised of old rescues my heart from fears and foibles that I would surely find with only the world as ally. So many hurts and struggles and fears fill the pages of newspapers, blogs, and entertainment modes. Can hope really survive until we know we’ve finally made it?

[She pauses to dip a deep draught of refreshment from her Lord’s proffered spring, knowing the peace which defies explanation but works the miracle every day.]

* * *

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,
Shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Philippians 4:7

A Glimpse . . .

into my world.

Walk up the pathway to my cottage and you will be greeted

By a multitude of friendly little ones popping out to say hello.

Step inside and let the fire's glow warm you . . .

While the smell of freshly baked muffins
Entices you to sit for a spell.

Undoubtedly, we'll have tea . . .

. . . and a nibble from one of Rachel's latest culinary endeavors.

I will blush as you glance around and see
Books sprouting like mushrooms
In this cozy reading spot.

The blushing will become embarrassment
As you espy the cluttered counters.

(I never liked that "bar thing" from the beginning --
I just knew it spelled trouble!)

On into the kitchen you will discover the truth of:
"If you install stainless steel appliances they will come
. . . fingerprints, that is.

Matthew routinely inspects
To assure that the dishwasher functions
Despite the ultra-quiet feature that mums the sound.

(Thanks, son.)

Ah, I see Rachel has been playing with her food again.
(And sharp knives, too!)

I'm afraid you've missed Elizabeth as she attends classes daily 9-5.
Her door sports a Rachel Original proclaiming Elizabeth's Room.

The sweet optimism of my sunny Lydia
Shines from her bedside table,

. . . As well as atop her bed.
(The tiger cuddles with another Rachel creation.)

Just what has Rachel been up to these days?

Well, what does a 10-year-old do
After reading through the AMA Medical Encyclopedia?
She goes into practice, of course!

Herein lies Tigger
Undergoing radiation treatment for pancreatic cancer.
(I have that info straight from Dr. Rachel.) My personal favorite:
The Maternity Ward. : D

Alas, I see our time has slipped away and you must be on your way.
I walk you to the door and equip you with a hug for the road and an invite to return soon. Then I turn and begin the business of tidying up . . .

But I stop when I catch a glimpse of my rescued sprig-of-a-fuchsia (snapped off in an annoying blunder). After a spell in a bath it rooted, then bedded down in the windowsill pot, wherein it has rewarded me with buds upon buds over the course of the winter. Just the other day I noticed it sported three new buds . . .

. . . which have all too soon became blooming beauty.

Realizing how quickly time passes . . . I sit down for another cup of tea and pick up a book, only to be interrupted by a sweet young one with a question. I smile and wink at the bud in the window. Thanks for reminding me.

Glance around and enJOY your day, sweet friends. ; )

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

The Luxurious Life

Time.Pure, free-flowing moments strung together in peaceful fragments, quilted together producing a day enveloped in bliss. Such has been my dance of late. Snowy days, windy nights, power-parched afternoons . . . all add up to holiday if I choose to celebrate the joy springing forth all around me.

And I do . . .

A walk in the gardens after a wintry flurry
Fascinates the senses with fleeting beauty.

The artists run and play,

leaving a trail of art that imitates life.

The good life.

Artistry follows inside as remnants and outgrown socks
Become creatures most dear

spawned in gentle moments of joyful creation.

I live richly with spates of power-free living (yes, we have a generator, but how I love the silence of a powerless break), candlelit dinners, and the playing of games around the trusty woodstove all wedged in between long lingering pauses with book in hand. These elements become my good . . . become my life.

My days have unrolled with a greater number of crannies for the sitting and thinking therein. A simple choice to live for a bit without recording device or literary convention, has blessed me with fresh perspective, quiet refreshment, and the unfurling of tender fronds of joy in the simple that peeks from the lowly places in my day.

I turned my back on blogging for a bit to evaluate, assess, and wonder. Can I find the time to do this without shaving from somewhere more valuable? Has this hobby become unwieldy for a woman dedicated to God-husband-family-hearth? Do needs pass unmet as I wander the day with camera in hand and prose flowing from heart to pen? In these past quiet days I have accounted and found that my family has received enough and then some, my home sparkles more than required. So where did I find lack? ‘Twas so simple . . . ‘twas in my thirsting for sweet time to be just me without audience or record.

The precious growth of my person and soul depends on quietness with my Lord. Not merely the devotional moments that I start each day upon, nor even the late afternoon tea-time given over to gentle thoughts and reading of something filled with delight. Rather, I must walk quietly through the ocean of my own thoughts in the presence of my Lord. I bring everything to His throne. I run with nothing but what His hands hath provided. At least I strive to do so. When I live in unceasing prayer and abiding love the joy of living catches me up on wings and I laugh, live, love as I have always dreamed of doing. But . . .

when I leave off the quiet, naming it selfish solitude, and harness myself as a vessel to carry mere requests to my Father I become weary: faltering, falling, failing. Of late I mistook the privilege of sharing in others’ hopes and dreams and pain and sorrow and disappointment as a work order. The “news” frothed over with fearful details and frightful outcomes. I spent hours reading, recording, and praying (nothing to be ashamed of), BUT then I began to worry and fret and gnash my teeth a bit. Recently I read this and found my reflection. I cringed.

How can you hope to make the imperfect things perfect, unless you keep before your eyes the vision of God, who is perfection? The prayer that is against only evil destroys itself. If you look at nothing but sorrow and sin, your heart may be at first full of love and pity, but presently anger – righteous perhaps, but still anger – will enter and begin to crowd out love; and then despair will come and deaden pity, and at last will even smother righteous anger. And then there will be silence for the heart that is filled with despair cannot pray.

It is not enough to know that the world is full of evil, we must know that God is good.

Christ is a part of all the poverty and misery because He was born into it and didn’t try to get away from it. If you put Him in the background, with the sin and sorrow all in front, how He shines and makes courage and hope! Yes! And if you put Him in the front with the darkness all around Him, how He shines again! Either way, He is the light in the picture.

~~ Florence Converse~~
The House of Prayer

How clearly I saw that my slogging to the Lord in prayer had nipped all buds of joy and overlooked any beauteous sprig that fell along the sodden pathway. My tears and sweat produced muck . . . and dancing became impossible.

And so I rested and dipped deep into the pools of refreshment I find lying around in abundance here at Wisteria Cottage.

No longer bearing burdens I was never meant to carry, I danced and pranced through snowy walks and toasty talks. It felt so good to rest in this safe and wonderful place we call home. My thoughts return again and again to family, friends, strangers in this world, but thoughts buoyed by hope and not despair which in turn engender faith hope and love . . . the greatest being love.

In a mere week’s respite I found my footing again. My dancing shoes stopped pinching. Showers of peace rained laughter and joy. The true luxuries of life returned. I daresay I will blog/read/comment less frequently, but with a richness that will fill this place with a fragrance pleasing to Him.

I choose to live in luxury . . . His luxury . . . every day. Won’t you join me?

Iced tea anyone?

; D

Laying Down My Isaac

Peace . . . quiet . . . soft gentle music . . . twinkling tree with a brilliant star . . .
Restored. Rejuvenated. Rested.

I laid down my Isaac. Like Abraham's obedient offering of his son as a sacrifice to God, I placed something precious upon the altar and stepped back in tears. Whereas God instructed Abraham to take down His son and substitute a ram, God did not give my precious object a reprieve, but burned it up and supplied grace in its place. I received the blessed touch of His healing ways.

* * * * *

An unnecessary burden weighed heavy on my heart for years, but as long as I kept moving along with the decorations and the menus and the holiday gaiety I thought it would melt away like excess body fat (yeah, we all know how well that theory works with extra pounds and sorrows of the heart and so on).

As I embarked on the annual tree trimming foray, I tackled the lights and the garland, as I always do. When finished, I got ready for my favorite part – placing The Star. But wait! Has anyone seen the Tree Top Star? No, nope, uh-uh . . . nowhere to be found. I looked again and came up empty. I set out on a mission to find that star. That elusive Christmas Star sent me on a hunt through closets, rafters, attics, and more. It HAS to be here!!! I looked. I fumed. I rearranged. I reorganized. I ranted. Still no star.

In the meantime my family decorated the tree and generally ignored me. I popped in to add an ornament here and there, but left again to look somewhere new or look harder in the same places. They cared not whether the star or the angel rested atop the tree. It really didn’t matter to them what material object we supplied on top. The sentiments evoked by the tree spoke volumes of good cheer, celebrations of His birth, and our drawing near to the light regardless of which bauble held the top spot. I knew all that, BUT . . . it all must fit together according to plan. Don’t they see that?

As I toured the house next door a final time I finally broke down in anguish and cried out to the Lord. “Okay, Lord. I’ll forget about the star and use the angel! I’m just too tired to look again and I’m missing the fun back home.” Thus, I laid The Star at His feet and more. You see, I knew (and so did He) that it wasn’t the missing Star that prompted my undoing, but my missing parents. Roughly two years ago my mother suffered another breakdown and delusions and all the rest. She fled the home next door that we had provided for her comfort and she fled all bonds with our family. She chose another path and left us. My father swooped in to take up residence in the vacant house, but since I have barely spent more than a day or two on average with my father each year since he left during my childhood . . . well, I don’t need to give details for you to see the futility of that arrangement. And so, he too chose to retreat into his own world again.

Now, though he hadn’t previously been a part of my life beyond the barest of lip service, when my father left he extinguished a dream I had been carrying around since girlhood. I had always longed for the happy reunion that I know so well from sappy, delightful Christmas stories. You know the ones where the long lost, crusty old grandpa comes back and melts into a puddle of love and the whole family happily splashes around in joy as the credits come up. I had been carrying that hope around MY WHOLE LIFE. In a matter of months I had lost my mother and my father, or rather the hope of them becoming motherly and fatherly. Devastated but determined, I put one foot in front of the other and carried on.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I continued to work out plans and puzzle through the mess. I stoked up the flame of hope; I KNEW I could fix it. Just like searching for the star . . . I knew it was there, but where?? I refused to admit that my determination couldn’t extend my reach to successfully gather back those who had left. When my frustration mounted beyond control I shouted out to God in that chilly garage, “I just don’t understand! Where is that star! And while I’m at it, why am I rattling around in this big old house that I bought for my mother – who left me – and then tried to enjoy a reunion with my father under the same roof – who also chose to leave me . . . AGAIN!!” I wept without an answer. I just stood there crying over all the “stuff” I didn’t have. I didn’t praise God for all of my blessings; I merely bombarded Him with my disappointments.

No light broke through to bathe me in peace. No angelic choir sang to punctuate an epiphanic moment. I simply snuffled away the remains of my sorrow, wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and decided to carry on, as I always do. In that final tearful denouement I reached out to pick up an empty box lying in the middle of the floor. I’d been walking over and around it as I searched and I decided to heave it back onto the recycle pile, where it had obviously fallen from. When I took hold of the box to toss it away I heard a faint, “Tinkle, tinkle.” I stopped instantly. “No!” I blurted in the silent and chilly garage. I pulled back the cardboard flaps and espied the glass golden star and several other glass ornaments rolling freely in the box. Anything broken? No. It had been sitting in the middle of the garage floor all that time in a cock-eyed box that didn’t “look” like a box capable of holding Christmas decorations. Gary had seen it and passed it by; I picked it up and found it so light that surely it held nothing and walked on by without looking inside.

Laughter broke from my stifled chest. The garbage held the treasure – how poetic . . . how Scriptural . . . how humbling. I let go as I laughed . . . let go of the notion that I must have parents by my side to complete the picture of Christmas, to be pleasing in God’s eyes and in the eyes of the world. I thought how Mary and Joseph traveled away from family as they followed God’s path. How they saw the goodness of God and His loving ways without ever submitting a list of “Musts” for their happiness. I released myself from yet another burden and walked home with a joyful gait, clutching The Star – like a Pearl of Great Price.

Casual Monday

‘Tis Monday! Feeling decidedly unwilling to let go of a “weekend” mentality, I have decided to make this a Casual Monday. A slipper-wearing, feet-up kind of day wherein I let go of the prosaic rambles and poetic sojourns in favor of a zany silly detour. A few days ago Farmlady closed her comment with “Thank you for letting us know how truly human you are.” I laughed when I read that one, realizing that my pinkly poetic blog may give some the wrong impression. So, to dispel any myths or misconceptions I figured I should pull the lace back a bit further and share some silliness with you.

Hmmmmm . . . Already having admitted I love Mondays, dare I venture further and add that I enjoy tidying the cottage? Yes, indeed, I do. Washing dishes, doing laundry, and vacuuming bring a smile to my face. Of course I do add a bit of “atmosphere” in the form of music. I absolutely love cranking up the stereo and grabbing the vacuum. Granted, my family does not share my love of domestic duties, so when they hear Disney’s Main Street Electrical Parade theme (one of my favorite motivational tunes) ringing through the halls they scram. Doing math beats out folding laundry any day.

With a wide selection of music to choose from, I gravitate toward the light and lively. Any Disney/kids music will do but I also enjoy kicking up my heels with an American in Paris, or twirling amongst the alive-with-music hills of Austria, and I shall never forgo an invitation to Dance with Anna and the King of Siam, dustcloth in hand. Some days require a céilidh atmosphere and my collection of irish/celtic music serves me well. Who can shuffle through a mundane task when the fiddles and drums meet the hornpipes and penny whistles for a rollicking good time?

Can you handle a bit more silliness? I generally get involved with the cleaning routine before I shower, so am often casually cleaning in my nightie. For this very reason I take great care to select sleepwear that may be mistaken for a summer’s shift or a comfy winter's lounger. Once my neighbor stopped by a bit on the early side and I invited her in for tea. We chatted and sipped as she shared some sorrow upon her heart. She bid me farewell quite some time later, thanking me for the tea party. When I closed the door my children burst out laughing as I had carried the whole thing off in my nightie. That pink sprigged “dress” has saved me on more than one occasion, for not only do I enjoy cleaning in pjs, but have been known to stroll the gardens in the same attire and receive deliveries from UPS. Fortunately we live in a secluded spot behind a gate (to keep out deer, not guests) without too many drop-ins.

As a final silly snippet I will divulge my zaniest food vice. Known for healthy, from-scratch cooking with an abhorrence for fast- or processed-foods, I do have a penchant for “melty cheese” – that cheesefood that makes the gooiest grilled cheese sandwiches and the smoothest omelet filling. I buy organic “melty cheese” though my husband laughs out loud at that oxymoron. Still, I prefer the healthiest choice possible so Horizon’s organic cheese slices reside in my treasure-trove cheese drawer right alongside the cotswold cheddar and smoked gouda and sheep’s milk feta and buffalo milk mozzarella and lavender chevre and Point Reyes Bleu and a host of other delectable creations to delight the palate.

Well, I think that’s enough zany for one day. After all that talk about yummy cheese I feel the need to take a break and go have a snack before I turn up the volume and enjoy my Monday morning cleaning festival. Shall we snack before we dance?

I Take Joy

The new journal cracks open crisply, the pen dances forth to display the first waltz of words in the symphony of my thoughts. I sit pensively with pen in hand because my internet connection has fled once again. I know not where those invisible waves tarry to when they vanish, but I do know the unseen knitting of my box to those I know around the world has become a norm to me and I miss it when the door locks me out. Without frowning I merely pick up pen and record a thought for later posting. My brain can still compute all on its own. : )

Alas, I digress . . . with delight. You see, today I stand poised between Indian Summer and true Chilly Fall. Though my Japanese lanterns still swing from the trees, glowing with the memories of balmy nights spent stargazing, the surrounding foliage takes on the hue of a deep rich autumn tapestry.

As the mercury drops the montage of fall springs to life. Twin trees shading the winding walk become like goblets of burgundian wine calling to mind a roaring fire and a cozy read before it.

Like a stunning sapphire brooch, a jay pauses in the tree top, resting from his game of tree-top swooping.

Did he choose this tree above all others knowing the contrast would set off his plumage like royal robes? Has instinct dealt him such vanity, or do I merely notice his beauty through my own vain views? I stand still and observe, but my bright pink top gives me away, thus he flees uppermost in a neighboring pine and melts into the branches heavy with comrades. I stand still; they stay away. Moments pass before they jet off from towering pine to towering pine, arcs and dives choreograph their dance under skies grayed with the promise of rain. I stand transfixed. Having found these tranquil moments in a day laced with dentist appointments and such, I savor the sweetness of a peaceful short-sleeved walk, hoping that tomorrow’s predicted rain shower ushers in a welcome to sweaters.

In the midst of a season’s change I pause and drink in the wonder of the teeming of life all around me. No planning, no worries, no preparation . . . simply the open eyes and heart and will to receive the beauty of a glorious yet ordinary day in the woods I call home.

Long ago, Fra Giovani shared a Christmastime sentiment that I choose to celebrate every day:

I salute you!

There is nothing I can give you which you have not;

but there is much, that, while I cannot give, you can take.
No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today.

Take Heaven.
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant.

Take Peace.
The gloom of the world is but a shadow;behind it, yet, within our reach, is joy.

Take Joy.
And so . . . I greet you, with the prayer that for you,

now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

~ Fra Giovanni, early Italian Renaissance painter of religious subjects (A.D. 1513),

Fra Giovani's heartfelt pleading for joy and peace in a day echo my daily reading of Scripture in Luke 10:41-42

And Jesus answered and said unto her,

Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things:
But one thing is needful:

and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

The good part in my day plays amongst the trees and twitters in my ear.

I choose . . .

I take joy.

Fighting Fear

Monday . . . my favorite day of the week. We freshen up our "To Do" lists, I lard up the pantry and fridge, each walks with a briskness that follows a day of complete rest. Yet, somehow today I drag . . .

The News, which by definition should contain something "NEW," sadly screams out the same "stuff" (hardly able to be taken as fact). The voices from economic, political, and greater world realms all clang with dire warnings and severe cautions. As an optimist by nature -- you know the type: "Did you see that sparkling refreshment rising plentifully up the sides of that beautiful pressed glass tumbler?" she exclaims excitedly -- the news strains my perky hunt for something to savor throughout the day. And yet, savoring the simple moments of my day has become of paramount importance to me.

As Lydia and I recently discussed Anne Frank's Diary, Zlata's Diary, The Hiding Place, and even her latest read, Gone with the Wind, I wondered what thoughts breezed in and out of the minds of each person the days, weeks, and months before the schisms that rocked their comfortable worlds. Did Mrs. Frank carelessly toss out a softening strawberry (as I had just done) only to regret it later as her family subsisted on meager rations? Did Corrie Ten Boom bustle past an inviting park bench facing a luscious rose parade without the slightest glance, and then conjure every memory possible of gardens and benches and rest as she labored in a Nazi camp? Could Zlata's mother have barked at her distracted daughter, ordering her inside out of the fresh air and onto chores, soon mourning such rashness as her daughter huddles indoors in fear of bullet spray?

By nature I worry. I know it serves no purpose and merely drains my resources, but still the natural way runs wild if I let down my guard. The day after 9-11 my children frolicked in the vast gardens of our rural home with a new puppy. A small plane cruised by overhead. When I heard the putter of the small engine in the skies above I panicked and ran outside to shield my babies from peril. My wild flying arms and pumping feet caused me to stumble and the children erupted in laughter, thinking me merely eager to join their puppy games. Thank you Lord for blinding my children to my fear.

Yesterday I read:

False

Evidence

Appearing

Real

I recalled my life-long struggle with incessant worry and the "What If" game: What if this happens? . . . [wring, wring go the hands] Or maybe that? [wring, wring, wring ...] In the past I pretended my worry qualified for planning or preparation; I attempted to fool myself into thinking this peace-robbing activity served a useful purpose. The result: an ulcer by age 15 and the clear warning that I would have to stand vigil against this treacherous devil throughout my life.

In my mid-30s I fell into a life-changing/saving relationship with a precious godly mentor. She cried, "Stop!" as I mewled on about possible outcomes in a VERY painful situation in my life. She halted my spiral of worry and supplied a life-preserving bit of advice laced with Scripture:

"We are instructed to focus on WHATEVER IS TRUE.* Since these things you worry about haven't come to pass, nor may ever, they aren't true. Thus they are lies you tell yourself to believe."

I stopped, stunned and truly shocked. "I'm lying to myself? But what if they DO come true?"

"Simple," she replied, "then they are true and you deal with them."

"Hmmmmmmm ... " I wondered and the bonds of fear began breaking in that very moment.

Years later I still remind myself that "What Ifs" may never come true. I also comfort myself with the truth that when my son Matthew choked on a burrito I jumped up, performed the heimlich maneuver, and saved his life WITHOUT EVER HAVING BEEN TAUGHT THE HEIMLICH. Guess my instinct served me just fine even though I had never spent a moment's time worrying about him choking.

And so, I tune out the "What Ifs" and concentrate on the "Truths" that blossom all around me. I savor the joy of hearing my girls practice their music, I delight in dead-heading the still-prolific roses, I smile as I knead the bread we will eat with supper, and I praise the Lord that He remains constant and loving despite the headlines and horrors in the world. I also pause to say a prayer for those I know who are struggling with the pain of losing a loved one (surely they are not consumed in fear regarding an election outcome or a stock transaction). Immediately I think of another celebrating the birth of a new child and pray a celebratory word for the healthy arrival which follows the devastating loss of a previous baby. Through it all God stands with out-stretched arms and entreats us to embrace one another in love, not in fear nor by force. Words of comfort spill forth as I read my Bible at the start of my day.

These things I have spoken unto you,

That in me ye might have peace.

In the world you shall have tribulation:

But be of good cheer;

For I have overcome the world.

John 16:33

A promise trumps a "What If" any day! I fill my cup with this peaceful promise and then reach to you with brimming cup and hopeful eyes.

"O, taste and see that the Lord is good:

Blessed is the man that trusteth in him."

(Psalm 34:8)

---------

Philippians 4:8

I've Been Tagged With a Meme -- Oh Dear!

My blogger friend Jo over at The Road Less Traveled has included me in a very thoughtful exercise or "Meme" in blogger lingo. This meme involves more than the typical "What were you doing ten years ago?" (To which I would most assuredly respond "being pregnant" or "changing diapers" and move on quickly before the exhaustion overtook me from that brief jaunt down memory lane). As a new blogger I felt the need to define "Meme" -- Freedictionary.com to the rescue again:

Meme – (n.) A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another.
[Shortening mimeme, from Greek mimēma, something imitated, from mimeisthai, to imitate.]

**Ummmm ... when you read that definition, did any of you have the deja vu-ey feeling that you were on the film set of My Big Fat Greek Wedding riding around in the carpool with Toula Portokalos' dad, Gus??**

Aha! This rolling dialog will spread round the world sharing ideas, thoughts, and dreams for the betterment of mankind (or so I hope). Well, since Jo believed I had something worthwhile to share I shall dive in and give it a try. [*Splash!*]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I Am, I Think, I Know, I Have …


I am: celebrating life

I think: so deeply I often lose my way in the present moment

I know: I am loved

I have: a need to explore life’s beauty down through niches and caves of wondering thoughts

I wish: I had chosen to live life this fully earlier

I hate: thinking about hateful things (this was by far the hardest blank to fill in)

I miss: my son, Andrew

I fear: the overpowering pull of a perfectionist nature that stymies my expression

I feel: like Merlin … getting younger with age : )

I hear: my daughter playing the harp (a piece of Heaven slipped through the clouds)

I smell: “the sea” (my latest “favorite” body gelee) and long to visit Mendocino

I crave: (honestly … good, dark, luscious, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate came to mind first … hmmmmm ….) HUGS while eating good, dark, luscious, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate. [Note: This should be administered daily, as needed]

I search: my heart for prickles and root them out so as to make room for more love to grow

I wonder: as I wander …

I regret: living so long with regrets (now I jettison them)

I love: the life God sketched out for me (painful childhood and all)

I ache: at the tear of a neglected child.

I am not: the same timid person I used to be

I believe: the greatest of these is LOVE

I dance: ALL THE TIME (I can’t help it -- it just happens!)

I sing: opera in the shower (I am forever longing to be The Lady of the Night from Mozart’s Magic Flute)

I cry: at the silliest things (fireworks finales, the singing of the National Anthem, the entrance to Disneyland, a hug, the sound of a child singing …), but rarely do I cry when hurt (that pain goes deep down and hides from view in a sad place behind a staid expression)

I don’t always: appreciate the gifts found in each day

I fight: the urge to hide behind a mask

I write: because I MUST!

I win: when I don’t fear losing

I never: pass up a hug

I always: get a goodnight kiss from my husband : )

I confuse: those around me at times, but they love me anyway (and I am SO grateful)

I listen: more now than I every have before

I can usually be found: with my nose in a book and a teacup by my side

I am scared: of fewer things today than yesterday

I need: the joy of the Lord EVERYDAY!

I am happy about: those things that I choose to be happy about

I imagine: of a world where every child is loved and cherished


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Well, now would be the time for me to pass along the tag (and believe me I have pondered this for quite a while). I decided that I would "tag" new bloggers who do not have a backlog of posts for me to explore in search of gems denoting personality, dreams, and the odd quirk. So, I now tag Connie, Lisa, and my precious daughter Elizabeth. (To which I add, this is purely voluntary -- no pressure included.)


[ZOWIE! I can't believe I actually made these nifty hyperlinks with NAMES -- so cool! I learn something new every day. Thanks Jo, you forced me waaaaaay out of my comfort zone!!]