Sunday, May 25, 2014

Too Much!

This is just too cute for words~

There's something to be said about a slightly plump person—you have just enough of too much. 
Happy 65th birthday, Jamaica Kincaid! Born in Antigua, the novelist went to America as an au pair and changed her name when she began to write for a teen magazine.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

My Books~

"It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane." w.g. sebald 

It is certainly my books that bring me into a realm that soothes, calms, unleashes the haste and movement of each day.  It is my books that ground me to begin again~ thank you!

Monday, May 12, 2014


It is almost to much to bear... I have the strongest desire to begin a fairy garden.. sprinkled with fairy dust, doors of all colors, and little wings busily wandering through their days of magic~

Do you believe in fairies?...If you believe, clap your hands! 
Boys who wouldn't grow up occupied the imagination of British writer J.M. Barrie (born May 9, 1860), making appearances in his work both before and after his iconic play, Peter Pan.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Drying Up~

It is so that the human condition runs along a continuum.  Our experiences are not that different from each other.  They may happen at different ages, different years, along with loss, or joy, and love.  We are more alike than we are different.  Here is a note by an honest women along the road~ Her poem "Dry" describes me perfectly~ And as with Teryn spring is renewing my sense of wonder and joy.  I have much that I am grateful for, as well, I have things that I am stuggling with.  God is my constant companion~ Be well, C

Dry: A Poem About Weariness & Loss of Passion

by Teryn O'Brien
I am shriveling.
Drip, drip, drip.
There used to be a river of living water coursing through my veins.
Where did it go?
I am not even thirsty.
I walk on and on and on into a land of shifting sand.
Where is the Beauty, the color, the aliveness?
It evaporated into the heat of uncertainty.
Will this end?
Step, step, step.
Will I find the streams once again and soak my tired feet,
rooted and growing into a tree of life?
Will the birds sing and the wind blow?
Oh wind, stir in me.
Drive me towards the water of life.
Quench my parched lips
or else I will die.
I wrote this to communicate the intense dryness and weariness I have felt since the beginning of the year. All the passion, drive, and joy I had lived with for the past two years or so evaporated. It was like I’d been running along freely, and then I hit a brick wall and crumpled to the ground in exhaustion and surprise and pain.
I haven’t wanted to write. It’s been hard to want to blog. I’ve written 3 pages in my fantasy novel since the beginning of the year. I have no joy in existence. I’ve been struggling with depression.
And I’ve wondered again and again, why is this happening to me? Me, who has encouraged others to live life to the fullest and embrace their callings and do the things they love. I myself couldn’t even find the joy or passion this winter/spring.
Some of this is grief related. Some of it is related to things that happened in my life over the last few months. It’s been discouraging on many levels. I’m just starting to come out of this season. I hope.
Summer is coming, and the warmth is filling up my heart. I am stirring once again


"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky."


Influential Bengali poet and thinker Rabindranath Tagore (born May 6, 1861) was the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.