The reasons are many,
both logical and emotional.
Reasons we hesitate to speak
the names of those we miss.
Concern about how
Others may respond, or
how we ourselves may react.
Yes, emotions can be unpredictable,
But it is imperative to remember.
It reminds us of the immense
capacity of our hearts
to hold love along with grief.
So, go ahead, speak their
names. Let the sound of
Memories wash over you.
The last of the Fall leaves
let go, falling to the ground
Bare branches stretch,
reaching toward the Sun
Wonders hidden in the
heart of the tree, protected
from the elements at
their most vulnerable,
now sit in plain sight
A carefully woven nest that
once held delicate eggs,
patient parents and fragile
chicks-now, its walls hold
only the echoes of life
The cracking of shells
by tiny beaks, little chirps
sweetly announcing
We have arrived!
Sleeping, eating, growing, learning to fly
Whether the leaves,
The mama bird, or
each of us-Letting go is difficult
But, oh, what wonders
wait to be revealed
May my hands always
stretch toward the Light
as my heart remains open
to that which needs protecting-
Even when only for a season
Happy Christmas Eve! ❤️💚
Little hands carry
the decorative box
that once held carefully
wrapped treasures
Now, only tissue paper,
red and green,
remains inside
Little hands carry the pretty
box, freely offering to
each in their turn
“Here, I got this present for you.”
The same box,
once holding, now held-
The priceless treasure of
learning to give
If I were to write a thankful list,
It would be a list of names.
Names of those who,
through the years,
planted seeds in my heart.
My only fear is forgetting.
Though forgetting your name
would certainly not negate
any seed you planted. You are
so much more than a name.
You are shared smiles and tears.
Strong hands, reaching, so arms
can fiercely wrap around hurts
in a comforting embrace.
You are kind words,
encouraging high-fives,
and celebrating victories.
You are faces, memories
of hope, present on
the darkest of days.
You are one soul seeing
the beauty and purpose in another.
And I am thankful to have
sometimes been that other.
I am thankful for all the yous
written on the list carried in my heart.
I don’t want to leave.
But leaving is
part of living.
A visit to my
childhood home,
means leaving my
current home.
Not a permanent
leaving, only a
temporary absence.
But that visit,
sweet as it may be,
adds to my collection
of memories.
An album already full
to overflowing.
That’s the beauty
and the heartache.
A lingering hug
that says Stay awhile–
No way of knowing when
we will have another.
Graceful arms propel her forward
Legs gently float behind
Feet periodically kick-
Not forceful, only enough
to maintain momentum
Where is she heading?
Storm clouds line the horizon
She’s passed through them before
Impossible to avoid-
And time, impossible to control
The bright sun warms her face
Grace holds her heart
Mercy lifts her soul
Momentum is maintained
Perhaps the question is not
where she is headed
but instead, how she
sustains a spirit of peace
Yesterday, we visited Johnstone’s Kiddie Park in Bartlesville, OK. We took our oldest son there when he was little, and now it was his daughter’s turn.
Some things had changed, mostly cosmetically. However, the idea of a fun and inexpensive family outing (tickets are 75 cents) remains.
Watching our granddaughter brought back sweet memories of her dad at that age. And now we have more to add to that precious file of good days.
Not a cloud in the sky.
Yet, a heavy haze
held the morning.
Unhelpful. Especially when
my brain also feels foggy.
If only I were still sleeping.
However, sleep is not
a likely solution.
There is rarely a
single solution anyway.
Some days are just like this.
My heart is grateful for
family and friends.
My head is unsure how
to process the melancholy.
Seems counterintuitive
to wish for a cloud.
But if a fluffy cloud means
A lifted haze
A bluer sky
A spark of imagination
Then I will keep searching.
Looking out every time
I pass a window.
Welcome! Have you visited the park before?
Oh, yes. I grew up around here.
Well, welcome back!
Kind words, friendly smiles.
Surrounded by nature.
Glass walls for viewing.
Birds flitting from tree to tree.
Squirrels scurrying across rocks.
Giant pines swaying, drawing eyes
toward slabs of slate lining the mountain.
I remember the views from above.
The world below seemed smaller
and bigger at the same time.
Perhaps I need to experience
that view again. An observer,
with added wisdom?
But for today, I’ll simply
enjoy the memory of
growing up around here.
Pinnacle Mountain State Park 💚
I decided to revisit a poem I wrote several years ago. Made a few changes, but the story remains the same. It just felt like the right one to share this year.
Grandpa worked hard
his entire life.
He married young.
He and Grandma
raised nine kids
in the country.
Strong and stubborn,
but loved to laugh.
Mellowed over time.
Without a doubt,
dealt with struggles
I never knew.
I can see him
wearing overalls
after a long day.
Promising to dance
at my wedding, if
I’d fetch what he needed.
Liked to argue.
Loved his family.
He was always ready to
welcome them home.
Looking forward to a
Family gathering that very day.
But in the morning,
while everyone slept,
He woke early.
Put the coffee on.
Then sat down in
his favorite chair.
At the young age of sixty-seven,
Grandpa died.
It was the Fourth of July.
Piano Girl 