A kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, One is nearer God’s heart in a garden, than anywhere else on earth!
I wept. Commiserative grief, survivor’s guilt, and all-consuming powerlessness pushed at my soul after listening to the news about all the plants full of COVID infected but non-symptomatic mothers and fathers. This drowning sadness triggered in me historical vignettes of the marginalized WWII prisoners dejectedly lining up to enter what they thought was a work camp, but for the old, feeble, or the very young, was a death march into the incinerators.
I’m grateful to you my readers! Just when I get down on myself and think I’m not writing blogs from which you receive benefit, you send a request for a certain recipe, a thank you about a specific meditation, or questions about timely gardening tips.
“How did you make that ivy tower?” That’s the question I hear each time someone new walks out my back door. Building this tower is your next project for your spring, summer, and fall!
Is there such a thing as too much chocolate? Not in my book!
My emotions are like the cumbersome metronome swinging predictably from one weighted side to the other on the top of our ancient upright childhood piano. Back and forth, back and forth it swings. I’ve allowed my holiday mood to be dictated by whatever the most recently received crackling ethernet message is. I should instead give the myriad, joyful, effervescent family stories the permission to bubble up and sparkle my holiday consciousness.