Category: Attentiveness

Power of Pause...

3/1/2019

“Work is not always required of a man.
There is such a thing as sacred idleness,
the cultivation of which is now fearfully neglected.”

These are the words of Scottish author and minister George MacDonald, (1824-1905), written in a world that I have trouble envisioning as rushed or lacking in opportunities for idleness. The Model T was still a few years away, and electricity wouldn’t find its way to my corner of rural Pennsylvania for decades. There was some question as to whether or not farm families even wanted or needed electricity.

No one in MacDonald's world was ever interrupted with reminders of incoming e-mail or text messages, and twitter was still a bird word. Telephone use was a rare and not-rural luxury. It‘s hard for me to grasp that in those years, anyone struggled with the allow-ability of sacred idleness. Everything was closed on Sunday. No one had electricity for watching baseball on television or even for lights when the evening crept across the porch.

And yet. Sacred idleness was “fearfully neglected.”

MacDonald spent his childhood as farm boy, and no one sweats through the limitless availability of work more than a farm family. All of my farmer neighbors in still manage their lives “off the grid." And it seems that most moments of most days, work is required of the men. And the women too.

Perhaps MacDonald was remembering hot afternoons forking hay into the mow or frigid mornings breaking ice in the watering trough with chapped hands when those words poured from his pen.

But most of us aren’t farmers any more, and the labor intensity of earlier decades has faded like the color from an old photograph. People, theoretically, have more leisure, so one might imagine we would be more in tune with the cultivation of sacred idleness. But again no. I think MacDonald would be astonished to observe the frantic pace at which so many of us insist on living life in the 21st century.

When you left work today, how many stops did you have to make on the way home?
How many calls did you make during your commute?
How many times have you reached for your phone in the past 15 minutes?
What did you do while you were cooking dinner?
What about after school/after work activities – how many kids are you taking in how many directions?
How long did your family sit at the dinner table on any given night this week?

Look up the word multitasking, which MacDonald had never heard of, and you’ll be awash in information about why it is good/bad/easy/impossible/beneficial/harmful.

I believe George MacDonald is still right – work is not always required. But it seems like "busy-ness" is required. Look at how we have filled the extra time that used to be devoted to hard physical work: Technology. Empty entertainment. Frantic rushing from one event to the next.

Maybe the reasons have changed, but it appears that we continue to avoid the deep water of sacred idleness in our lives. Forging upstream to a quiet pool through the rushing water of current crazybusy culture isn’t easy. It will never be just right, or convenient to choose a different way.

Always, the oughts and shoulds will clamor for your eyes, your ears, your hands, your attention like a bevy of school children wanting to be chosen first and right now, “pick me, pick me, pick me.”

Maybe it’s time to say – eeny, meeny, miney, NO to one more activity,
and yes to sacred idleness.

Imagine what that might look like for you, today, just for ten minutes.

Look at your favorite tree from a new angle. It's always good to look up.

Or, take in the sweep of the bigger view of your "same old same old" world.

Stare out your office window, listen to the sounds your house makes as night falls, wander along the creek, rock a weary child or just yourself, linger after dinner, wait for the sunrise or sunset, light a candle, read a book. Watch the clouds scudding across your window view. Take a little ramble, "there and back again," with no further plan than that. You might be surprised along the way.

I had never seen an owl dozing in a tree hole before my Sunday ramble.

Wait for the sunrise.

Tomorrow, give yourself an extra ten minutes in the morning for....pause. Tonight, after everyone is (finally!) settled, find your way to ten minutes of...nothing?

What might it look like to cultivate some sacred idleness?
Stare. Listen. Wander. Linger. Wait.

Be still and know.

Sacred idleness allows time for reflection. Or for observing reflection. Or both.

Find your moments for sacred idleness.
Soon.
Just ten minutes to start. (I think you'll want to find another ten after that.)

Power of pause...

HumminB

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(More) Lessons from the road less traveled.

1/8/2019

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If you’re from central PA, (or even if you know someone from central PA) you’re aware that the weather has been less than lovely in recent days.weeks.months. We’ve had rain upon rain, interspersed with days of “partly cloudy,” mostly cloud, clouds giving way to showers...you get the picture. I think it’s the hardest “season” of the year for me – winter without snow.
It was during just such a week of weather, when I was fulfilling a role as travel guide for holiday visitors along a winding road heading up the mountain, that one of my “not from here” passengers commented, “It’s just so beautiful here.” I chuckled.

“Now I know you’ll have to come back,” I replied. “If you think it’s pretty now...”
My mind was busy with a picturesque sales pitch for alternatives to the current bleak view through dirty windows...

If you think this is pretty, you should visit the Valley in springtime, when the mountains are soft and green with promise, when pink buds swell along the redbud stems, and lambs frisk in verdant meadows.

If you think this is pretty, spend some summer days winding along the back roads where farmers with horse drawn equipment are raking hay in long fragrant swaths, and barefoot children clamor along the creek. Every other farm has a “Produce” sign hanging on a fence post, and the tomatoes are fat and sun ripened. And you can eat sweet corn every single day.

If you think this pretty, autumn will take your breath away with its splendid maples splashing orange and yellow everywhere, fields dotted with corn shocks, and apple trees ladened with globes of gold.

All these scenes went spinning through my mind as we rounded the bend to a view of bare trees silhouetted against a bleak sky.

Words were lined up in my brain, ready to march forth and tell them what beautiful really meant. And just as quickly, I pinched my lips together and sent the words into retreat, because my young friends held the wiser perspective. They were right.

It is beautiful here.
Right now.
And every day of every year, beauty is to be found-

if. I. am. looking. for. it.

(It's not like God goes to Florida for the winter...)

True, the season of deep winter, snowless, seems to call for more sleuthing skills than just about any other time, but this is a good season to develop a new skill or strengthen a weak one. So, thanks E and K for prodding me without realizing it, for giving me reason to ponder the Thoreau quote that appeared on my daily calendar the day after the above comment:

The question is not what you look at, but what you see."

It’s time for-
(More) Lessons from the road less traveled.

1. Practice mindfulness.

New Year's Day dandelion!

Pay attention to what’s right in front of you, literally and also metaphorically. Mindfulness is defined in some circles as "bringing one's attention to experiences occurring in the present moment." It’s noticing what you see. I’m surprised how hard it is for me to stay focused on this present moment when I’m taking my daily walk. My mind is often anywhere but here. I’m trying to change that. The camera seems to help me.

2. Remember the long view.

Perspective. Here and now is important. But it’s not all there is. Sometimes a long walk is exactly the view shift that I need to get out of the mental box I’ve been circling in all day. It’s good to see the road stretch out ahead of me, or behind me, and think about the journey.

3. Accept the wonder...

that has come in the midst of losses, disappointments, changes in plans. As much as I miss the fresh smell of spring, the warm rays of sun on my back as I garden on a summer afternoon, the autumn sound of leaf crunch underfoot, I know that unless those seasons fade, I would never see the splendor of sycamores in winter. These trees have no outstanding features to draw the eye until the frigid winter days. Then, the creamy mottled bark radiates beauty.

4. Be aware of who is watching.

Not in the way we usually think of it (or at least the way I usually think of it.) Not because I don’t want to embarrass myself or because I’m worried about what “they” will think.

But because – someone is usually watching, someone younger or more vulnerable or less settled, and they will choose what I choose; they will watch my actions and reactions and respond similarly because of my example.

My decision gives them permission. So, don’t forget the watchers.

And yet...

5. Don’t be afraid to take some risks.

On a hike along the Conewago Trail last week, I saw quite a few squirrels. But this one was the bravest, dangling along the far edge of his balancing abilities, enjoying what must have been a very tasty feast of (???) buds.

Don’t let your fears keep you from the feast.

Ask yourself, what would I do if I wasn’t afraid?

And then, do it.

Yep, that's the little squirrel, the brave little squirrel, enjoying a feast!

6. Grow here.

Wherever here is, put down some roots and make the best of it.

Five years from now, you will be five years older, but will you be five years better? That doesn’t depend on your circumstances, that depends on your decisions.

These trees, growing out of solid rock, reminded me that I’m responsible for my own growth, even if conditions are less than optimal.

7. Rejoice in what is even if you are also grieving what is not.

On Friday I set out for my usual walk, camera in hand and wondered why I’d bothered to bring it. The entire sky was socked in with clouds. I saw no glint of sun, no blue sky; all the greens had faded to gray, trees stood stark and leafless, outlined against the sky. But then sunset flared up with colors so vibrant I thought the sky might be on fire.

More lessons from the road less traveled. And as is generally the case, I'm writing first and foremost for me. I need the reminders, every single one of them. Thanks for listening to me talk to myself.

Remember, the question is not what you look at but what you see. (Thanks, Thoreau.)

Tell me, what do you see? Keep watching for God to show up...

HumminB

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Winter Ramble with a nod to J.R.R.Tolkien

12/1/2018

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(All bolded lines and phrases are from JRR Tolkien's book The Hobbit.)

Ice is nice...and not muddy!

I need to ramble along the creek. It’s the best part of this otherwise walk-deterring cold snap: all the muddy places are nicely frozen, and my feet can make it-
there and back again-
without getting filthy (or at least staying mostly dry.)

I walk out my (back) door, in search of I know not what...

The Road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.

It’s December now, and a creek ramble in the Shire is a different thing altogether than it was midsummer. The birds are mostly still, mostly absent. I hear a lone chickadee, and one furtive song sparrow darts silently from thorn bush to brush pile.

Trees stand stark against a sky that seems to have forgotten the color blue. Most of the weed grasses are tawny and bowed toward the earth. Even the thistles have had their spines and spirits broken by the harsh wind and freezing temperatures of the past week.

Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow, if I can.

The lights aren't on, but that doesn't mean nobody's home!

I find the well-worn paths of small creatures. Squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, groundhogs, muskrats, these are the dwellers in tree root tunnels and small dens and holes that I’ve seen other days.

But not today.

No shining eyes appear from deep shadows, no tail slips out of sight as though it belongs to a four legged wraith.

I can almost hear the creek singing.

By some measures, this ramble isn’t much of a success, but I’m not so concerned with succeeding as with seeing, with listening, with paying attention, because I’m learning:

“There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something…
And it’s true again today.
Abruptly I realize that the silence around me is, in fact, not silent.

The creek is chuckling along, rippling just like it did on warm spring afternoons when birds sang and twittered along the brambled banks.

Water music burbles beside me, and I’m smiling. When the creek banks taper inward, and the stream is forced through narrow straits, and I hear a crescendo of melody. A rock looms large, and the water swirls around it, ever singing.

The place where the children played that last warm autumn day, building a dam near the fallen tree- right there, the babbling water laughs and tumbles and throws tiny droplets to form a delicate ice sculpture nearby.

This is how the meadow stream decorates itself for winter.

Overhanging branches reach down, and the stream splashes them with crystal beauty.

And look, here at my feet, the colorful blooms of winter.

"You certainly usually find something, if you look,
but it is not always quite the something you were after.”

Today I found creek songs writ full of lessons about...
persevering,
choosing the melody of joy,
listening through the quiet,
watching for fragile beauty in hidden places.

Not all who wander are lost...

HumminB

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Reading messages in the...sky?!

10/27/2018

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One evening recently, I hurried out the door for my walk just as the evening sun dipped below the horizon.
I was worried that I was too late,
disappointed that sunset had already happened,
certain I had missed the day’s sky splendor.

But I also knew I needed the exercise, because as I recently learned, anxiety is energy that needs to go somewhere, and I definitely needed to go somewhere!

My jumbled thoughts and scrambling feet rushed down the road, past the cemetery. I walked directly toward the spot where the sun had disappeared. The skyscape before me wasn’t spectacular, but it was nice, and I could feel my perspective shifting, broadening beyond my tiny (in-my-head) world.

I breathed in deep draughts of the chill evening air, pausing just a moment to inhale the peace that surrounded me.

And then I glanced over my shoulder;
behind me,
to the northeast,
the sky was a show of fancy pink and gentle blue.

Oh.

I watched the post-sunset color show lighting up the sky, and I pondered the message written there.

I surveyed the cows, the horses, grazing, heads down, every one of them unaware of what was spreading above them like a flood of glory.

I wondered how often I have been just like them.
Head down.
Tunnel vision.
Nose to the ground.
Focused only on what was in front of me, and completely oblivious to what was very near if only I had shifted my perspective to take it in.

The color crept west and stained every cloud fragment magenta or steely blue.

And then everything went pinkest pink...

It took me awhile to get home that evening, walking frontwards, backwards, circling, trying to read the handwriting on the canvas spread above me. In Psalm 19:1, David wrote: “The heavens are telling the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork.” (Psalm 19:1) Tonight, the heavens were telling and I was listening, and here's what I heard:

Don’t give up too soon. Even when you think it's too late, God has a way of showing up.

Watch for God's glory in unexpected places.

Look east at sunset.
Or north!

What have you heard the heavens proclaim?

HumminB

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Weekend! Out the door- Behold, the small!

5/19/2018

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I need to tell you something. When I write these “Out-the-Door” posts, I’m writing first to myself, because I need the reminders, the not so subtle nudges just as much as you do. Maybe more.

In Frederick Buechner’s Secrets in the Dark: A Life in Sermons his Innkeeper puts it like this:

"Do you know what it is like to run an inn- to run a business, a family, to run anything in this world for that matter, even your own life?

It is like being lost in a forest of a million trees, and each tree is a thing to be done.

Is there fresh linen on all the beds? Did the children put on their coats before they went out? Has the letter been written, the book read? Is there money enough left in the bank...

A million trees. A million things. Until finally we have eyes for nothing else, and whatever we see turns into a thing. The sparrow lying in the dust at your feet- just a thing to be kicked out of the way, not the mystery of death. The calling of children outside your window - just a distraction, an irrelevance, not life, not the wildest miracle of them all."

And that is how, of course, the Innkeeper missed something - or Someone - very small and very important. “I was lost in the forest somewhere, the unenchanted forest of a million trees.” (Buechner, p.11) He was understandable busy, but inexcusably blind to the greatest moment in history, happening right under his distracted nose.

I don’t want to be too hard on him, because it happens to all of us. But it is also why “out the door” has become so important to my easily lost-in-the-forest soul. Those million tree things-to-do can overtake my perspective and crowd out what is truly important to me faster than I can put on my walking shoes. Even “take a walk” becomes just a thing to be done some days, and yet, somehow choosing to do it causes my perspective to shift ever so slightly.

I put down The List...

And that is the beginning.
Of discovery.

Of another adventure in going nowhere.

Of connection with the One who saw all that was made – small bits too –
and behold – see! –
it was very good. (Genesis 1:31)

So, out the door I go, out the door you go.
Slow down.
Look around.
Behold it all, behold the small.
Especially the small.

Tell me, what small and wonderful thing did you behold when you went out-the-door?

Me? Oh, just some dandelions...after rain.

Dandelions after rain...

I'm probably never going to say "just a dandelion" again! Happy Weekend! HumminB

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It's the weekend - Out you go!! (And when you get out, be there!!)

5/5/2018

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Today, "out the door" looked like work: planting work, weed work, pull-out-6793-maple-seedlings work. I was humming hard, hashing over a conversation I'd read on Facebook concerning a topic I'd promised myself I'd never brooch in that format. Yet here I was, mulling over a fitting retort, clenching my jaw; I might even have been muttering to myself. I was "out the door," but I was far from the peace of pause. Mindfulness was in the bottom of the bucket, covered with dirt.

But eventually I heard myself, grinding over that same old tune, and I realized I wasn't listening to anything, wasn't smelling the sweetness of grape hyacinth floating over the garden, wasn't hearing the fuss and twitter (REAL twitter!) of graceful tree swallows overhead, wasn't feeling the damp soil in my hands.

I was having trouble taking my own advice - "wherever you are, be all there." I tried talking to myself (really,) but before I'd emptied my bucket, I was back formulating a response that I realized I would never send. I wasn't sure I could get to "quiet." from here. Finally, I took off my gloves and headed for the house to find my camera. That viewfinder is a tool that helps me adjust my perspective. Here's what I found.

Grape hyacinths - deeply blue, deeply fragrant.

Radish sprouts, tiny but present. Those seeds were planted three days ago!

Dogwood- this morning, the freshly opened blooms were a soft buttery yellow! Now, look at them!

Virginia Bluebells- the pink buds open to become delicate blue blooms. Every year I think - how extravagant!

Red veined Sorrel - It's a perennial? I didn't know that when I planted it last year. Time to look for some recipes!

Getting out the door doesn't have to involve an event, and being mindful can happen right in the middle of your mundane chores. But you're going to have to figure out how to "be there," all there, even if it's just for a few minutes. What helps you to hit the pause button, even when you're doing chores, pulling weeds, mowing grass? How do you move from business and distraction to mindfulness and pause? How do you stay present?

Adventures in going nowhere again! (What did YOU discover?)

HumminB

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This is what weekends are for - get yourself out the door!

4/14/2018

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Go ahead, find some shoes and go out the door. You don't have to be gone long, just go. Ten minutes out, ten minutes back if that's all you can "afford" to invest today. But when you're out there, be all there! Be mindful of what you see and hear in your world.. Start listening with your eyes. You never know what you might discover. And if you won't take my word for it, here's a quote to get you motivated!

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher." William Wordsworth

Spring is coming to the Shire...we live between the already, and the not yet.

Every day, the treetops change.

What a surprise!! Great horned owl having a late, late breakfast!! (Shouldn't you be sleeping now?)

Breakfast debris. Beauty in the dying...

Standing among the great ones...good place for adjusting my perspecticals.

Small is lovely too - colts foot looks like little drops of sunshine.

Always remember to look up...and don't forget to say, "Thanks."

What are you waiting for? The weekend is whispering your name..."Come. Pause. Listen." Yes. You. Out.the.door.

HumminB

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Learning to listen with my eyes...an almost-Spring ramble.

4/13/2018

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A wise man recently told me – you need to learn to hear with your eyes (oh, Moshe Kempinski, the conversations I’ve been having with you in my head) so I decide to do that today. I wonder what will I see, what I will hear? I am choosing to be intentional about looking...

but I don’t really know what I am looking for...(and life is a lot like that, most days.)

I am walking in the most ordinary of places today, unlike my recent adventures in the intense and varied land of Israel. Oh, such a place, such a place. I’ll never forget the wonder of exploring Hippos...was that just three weeks ago?

To stand atop that mountain, with a bit of breeze lifting my hair, taking in a splendid view, wandering with friends or alone on a cardo (Main Street) that was centuries...no, millennia old?

Seeing where the columns fell in a row, here, here, here, when an earthquake shook the city... It is like a dream...thinking about it right now, I feel wistful, full of longing to walk there again. (Hippos was in my top two “wow” moments in Israel, along with Gethsemane.)

But I am not in Hippos anymore, I am back here in my rather drab spring-isn’t-quite-here-yet world, where I’ve walked hundreds of times. What can there possibly be to see, I wonder?

I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’m just looking, eyes wide open, ears too.

How many shades of brown can there be? Yes, bits of green are emerging, but overall, the landscape is underwhelming.

I notice the barbed wire fence needs repair near the creek...which means I have no trouble at all scrambling through to the interesting side. (Last time, the fence looked much better, and I looked much worse after I snagged my pants and ripped a red angry scratch in my leg.)

It’s the season of mud, just now, wedged here between winter that will not give up and spring that can’t find it’s mettle. The water along the creek is finally receding after recent rain and heavy snow raised the banks to overflowing.

I’m listening with my eyes, and I can hear the busy-ness scramble of life along the creek banks when I'm not here. Lots of small creatures, coming and going, stretching to reach the creek for a drink, creating little tracks through the grass, highways and byways leading to hidden burrows and holes beneath giant gnarled tree roots. Groundhog, squirrel, chipmunk, a skunk, right here, a few weeks ago, creeping across the frozen span.

Around the far side of an enormous stump, a startled muskrat hustles herself straight into the water and disappears. As I pause, birds flit from brush pile to the thorny hedge that is the perfect cover for song sparrows and nest building cardinals. Overhead, two red-wing blackbirds seem to be gossiping about me, pink hooded intruder; robin fuss tells everyone I’m here.

A flash of white grabs my attention...pure white feather resting in the mud.

I’m pleased with myself for noticing...but when I bend down, a bit of movement surprises me:

a honey bee, stopping for some water.

The creek is too fast for her tiny form, so she’s grateful for mud...me, not so much.

I take a few more steps, and the story of the white feather unfolds before my eyes. I'm hearing the scream of the hawk, the muffled piping of the lovely pigeon who became dinner. Now as the wind scatters feathers, I know the tree swallows will gather whiteness to soften their nests in a few weeks.

I climb up the bank and wander along the edge of the cemetery. I wonder about this enormous rock which I have never noticed before.

It’s probably eight feet by six feet, and I’m sure it’s always been here, but I wasn’t listening for its story until today. Why is it uncovered, all weathered and worn, right here in the middle of a grassy area just south of the grave stones.

And who etched this cross along the side?

I clamber through another broken down fence, and stooping, I spot the tiny blue brightness of corn speedwell.

Yes, it’s a weed, but it’s hard to argue with this kind of blueness.

A tree stump
with a half dozen gnarled roots reaching into the stream
is the perfect spot to pause
and let my soul finally
catch up to the rest of me.

I sit for a long time.

I realize I have missed this ordinary place in the weeks I’ve been “seeing the world,”
missed the opportunity to ramble at my own (slow) pace,
missed these familiar sounds -
creek rush
and horses clip-clopping along the road
and wind whispering, "Welcome home..."

I whisper back, "It’s good to be home."

It's time to get back to the house now; neighbors rumble by in their carriage, waving. I pause once more, looking up through the branches of my favorite meadow tree. I don’t see it from this angle very often.

This is a tree whose stories I would love to hear. I’m certain this ancient oak predates all the European settlers who traveled to this area in the mid-1700’s. The first church in the valley stood right here in the meadow, and this tree probably stood in or near the church yard, hearing the preaching and the visiting and the laughter of children and the singing. Today it only heard the wind. And humming.

And what did I hear today, with my eyes?
I read the music,
and I heard the song of home.

This sweet and lonesome melody,
with interludes of long silence, stanzas of joy and lament -
it is my song.
And so, I sing.

HumminB (is home!)

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Monday Moments. Taking a moment to look around...

2/26/2018

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Here's what I was thinking about today, a quote from my daily "Simplicity" calendar, "inspiration for a simpler life:"

Leave the beaten track behind occasionally and dive into the woods.
You will be certain to find something you have never seen before...
Alexander Graham Bell

I didn't dive into the woods, but I did wander a bit. I wasn't sure what I was looking for - but here's what I found! (Thanks for the challenge, Mr. Bell!)

The sporophytes are bursting forth...can spring be far behind?!

Even without color, the woods offers scenes of beauty. Has any one ever stood right here, and seen this particular view? (And is it just me, or does that mossy clump look like a sleeping hedgehog?)

Across the way, I caught a glimpse of this reminder to live loved. I needed it.

The waxing gibbous moon is framed by pines and bare branches, And I'm the only one (in the entire world!) who had this particular view.

What were you looking for today? What did you find?

HumminB

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A Wonder-full weekday wander.

2/23/2018

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Time for a wonder-full walk. Want to come along? With temperatures soaring to the 70’s - 30 or 40 degrees warmer than normal!!- we won’t even need our sweatshirts! (As you can tell, our walk happened a few days ago, since today is a rainy "high of 47 degrees" day!! I guess this makes our wonder-full walk even more of a treasure!)

Let’s wander along Hickory Lane and Cemetery Road; the sky is a canvas of cloud splendor, and it might take us forever to walk a mile...I keep stopping to look up, to turn fully around and look again, gaping at the shifting magic overhead. The scene changes, reframes, comes into focus, fades, and changes again. I can't seem to find any words but Wow! And thanks!

facing north east at 4:19pm

facing south west at 4:22pm

In the flooded meadow, the puddles are full of clouds, it’s Longfellow’s “Infinite meadows of heaven” reflected in slop, and I think, “This is my life.” (Yours too?) Still, it’s puddle-wonderful. (Thanks, e e cummings.)

My life in five words: Heaven reflected in the mess.

My heart is so full I can barely breathe. For three days, that one new worship song has filled my mind, my heart; now it overflows, and I’m singing truth loud and scaring the birds.

Your deep, deep love
Washes over me
Your deep, deep love
Fills my every need
How I long to hear Your voice call out my name
It draws me to Your deep, deep love...
(You can learn it and sing along right here!)

I adapt it and sing it again -
"How I love to hear Your voice call out my name,
it draws me to Your deep deep love..."

The creek sings too, its own water music, lavishly splashing the full greenness of spring across a dead log.

Willows wave promises, and I wave back.

Overhead, a robin prances in the tree tops...(but won't perch for a clear photo!)
Bluebird call notes make my heart race; a cardinal sings in the underbrush.
And look! In the thorn thicket, a perky Carolina wren announces himself.

Not all the sounds are music. Near the still-frozen pond, geese are loudly out-of-sorts. Probably, they wanted to take a float; their complaints rasp the air like rusty gate racket. But I still love them. They make me smile.

And over everything, sky wonder. More extravagant than you would ever imagine seeing in this long valley in the drab of February. The skyscape is full of glory, clouds of all sorts gather and disband, little windows of azure open and close, and I wonder what’s coming next...Jesus? A cold front? Both?

4:57 pm

5:07pm

This vision of sky beauty and the smell of wet earth and the robin song of hope swell up inside of me and I’m sure if I don’t sing I’ll break wide open...

Were the whole realm of nature mine. (Wait...isn’t it all mine for the seeing and hearing and feeling touching and even tasting, because it’s all His and so am I, and it’s all gift?)

That were an offering... (a present, this present moment, my heart clear full, my vision fully clear for this glimpse of enough and glory, mud and clouds)

Far too small – (and yet it’s all I have to offer, my small presence, my small gifts, my small full soul, broken, mended, filling, spilling joy.)

Love so amazing, so divine demands my soul, my life, my all. It’s small, but it’s my all...

and I fling it heavenward like a handful of feathers and of course it comes back all over me,
joyful thanks pouring grace back over me.
I’m walking on a cloud of His enoughness, and it carries me.

Maybe tonight in my dreams, I’ll be flying.

5:19pm

5:20pm

5:36pm Praying Hands.

5:44pm

5:49pm

Hummin(flyin!)B

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Power of Pause...

(More) Lessons from the road less traveled.

1. Practice mindfulness.

2. Remember the long view.

3. Accept the wonder...

4. Be aware of who is watching.

5. Don’t be afraid to take some risks.

6. Grow here.

7. Rejoice in what is even if you are also grieving what is not.

Winter Ramble with a nod to J.R.R.Tolkien

Reading messages in the...sky?!

Weekend! Out the door- Behold, the small!

Dandelions after rain...

It's the weekend - Out you go!! (And when you get out, be there!!)

This is what weekends are for - get yourself out the door!

Learning to listen with my eyes...an almost-Spring ramble.

Monday Moments. Taking a moment to look around...

A Wonder-full weekday wander.

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1. Practice mindfulness.

​​2. Remember the long view.

​​3. Accept the wonder...

4. Be aware of who is watching.

​5. Don’t be afraid to take some risks.

​6. Grow here.

7. Rejoice in what is even if you are also grieving what is not.

Dandelions after rain...

Author

Stay Connected!

Categories

Archives

2. Remember the long view.

3. Accept the wonder...

5. Don’t be afraid to take some risks.

6. Grow here.