I used to keep my Bible beside my bed.

Bud would be the first one up and he would bring me my coffee, while I stayed snuggled in the warmth of many blankets.  I would begin my day, in bed, with my coffee and my Bible.

Now I’m the first one downstairs.  It’s dark on January morning at 5 AM.

I make my coffee and begin my day with readings and moodlings and meditations and prayers.  I think I could spend hours thus.  In the dark quiet of my kitchen.

In the summer, I can look out the back window and watch the sunrise, but, in the winter, the sun shifts just enough that I can’t see it from my chair.   Where it rises, though, in the winter, a church steeple stands stark against it, pointing to heaven.

This morning, when I left my chair and saw the sunrise, it was shades of gray and beautiful, so beautiful that I took a picture.

sunrise grey 1-15-14

Less than fifteen minutes later, Karl came in the kitchen.  I was back at the table in my usual spot, but he could see the sunrise where he stood.  “Whoa!  Have you seen the sunrise this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, so gray and pretty,” I said.

“No, pink,” he answered.

He was right.  I then took this picture.

sunrise 1-15-14

In another fifteen minutes, the pink was gone, replaced by the dazzling brightness of the sun.

brightness of day

For years, I missed this sight for the sake of warm toes.

Today, I’m thankful.

I’m thankful that nothing is stagnant.  We are ever-changing, ever-growing, ever-moving towards the brightness of another new day.

For all the change around us and in us, one thing never changes.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end.
They are new every morning.
Great is thy faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:22-23


Published in: on January 15, 2014 at 9:18 AM  Comments (4)  
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Chase Me to the Ocean

This morning it was, like, a billion below zero outside.  Really cold.

Okay, it was only 2 below, but, man, it felt cold.

I was half expecting my Florida relatives to call and gloat tell me how they went for a walk on the beach this morning and later they’re going to mow their lawn.

Ah, the beach… it reminds me of my favorite song from 2013: “Chase Me to the Ocean” (words by Rebecca Reynolds, music by Ron Block, vocal harmony by Kate Rusby).

I figured out the looping feature on my ipod just for this song.  Some days I play it over and over and over.

Here are a few of the lyrics.

Are you tired, chosen one,
Are you often weary?



Yes, yes, yes.  The two verses are so sweet and easy for me to relate to.  Then, the chorus:

Chase, chase, me to the ocean,
Where the white gulls fly.

where the white gulls fly...

where the white gulls fly…

I’ll build you, build you a castle,
You’ll find pictures in the sky.

I'll build you a castle...

I’ll build you a castle…

The waves will crash around us,
While we laugh, and love, and sigh,

Laugh and love and sigh...

Laugh and love and sigh…

For all we know is growing new,
In the turning of the tide.January 1 2013 041

Ron Block’s CD, Walking Song, which has this song and many others, can be purchased at the Rabbit Room.  It’s my favorite new music from 2013.

Published in: on January 3, 2014 at 3:15 PM  Comments (4)  
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A Year of Listening – 2013 in review

I dubbed 2013 “A Year of Listening”.  The idea was to pay attention to what was being said around me and to me.

The most important listening I wanted to do was to listen to God. No, I’m not saying that God speaks to me in an audible voice, but He does speak through scriptures, and I often think the little nudgings on my heart are from Him.

One scripture that I pondered in 2013 was Genesis 3:9 – 10, the conversation is between God and Adam.

But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?”

And the man answered, “I heard the sound of You in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself.”

Over the course of the year, I began jotting down times that I heard God.  I used the format that Adam used.  “I heard the sound of You (fill in the circumstances), and I was (fill in how I felt), because (fill in why), and I (fill in my response).  Here are a few.

Early on, I wrote this:

I heard the sound of You whispering in my heart, and I was surprised, because it was unexpected, and I listened.

Make no mistake.  God is alive and well;  He does speak to us.

One day, I had some terrible ugly words spoken to me, and a friend spoke words that were a salve on the wound.  I wrote this:

I heard the sound of You in a friend’s words, and I was comforted, because I was hurting, and I was blessed.

Contrary to the face we put out to the world, sometimes there is friction and contention in our family.  In the context of that, I wrote this:

I couldn’t hear You when there was arguing, and my head hurt, because of the discord, and I was grieved.



One of this mother’s greatest joys is hearing her children having fun together. I don’t remember exactly what was happening when I wrote this one because, thankfully, there are many such occasions.

I heard the sound of You in laughter, and I laughed too, because You are Joy, and I was cheered.

One of the things I re-added into my life in 2013 was playing my flute in church.  As long as the choir director doesn’t get tired of me sitting beside her and playing the hymns, I’ll keep doing it.  I feel like it’s my way to worship.  I think I wrote this, however, after riding in the car alone one day, blasting the music and singing along with it.

I heard the sound of You in music, and I sang out loud, because You love a joyful noise, and I love You.

Last night, Bud said, “2013 has been an odd year.”  I looked at him because I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at, and then he elbowed me with a smile, “Get it?”  Bud doesn’t always play with words, so I wasn’t prepared.  I guess I need to listen for that.

It hit me as I was writing this, that one of God’s most important messages to me is one He delivers nearly every day through my youngest daughter.  She wraps her arms around me and showers me with kisses.  When she’s done, she turns her cheek to me so that I can kiss her too.  She leaves notes on my pillow and sends me email messages.  They all say roughly the same thing.  Here’s one exactly as she sent it.

Sent from my NOOK

I can just imagine God saying those same words to me.

All in all, 2013 has been a growing year for me. Listening is an art, and listening to God takes special ears.

Published in: on December 31, 2013 at 8:35 AM  Comments (2)  
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My Most Beautiful Moment at Hutchmoot

As with most beautiful moments, it was entirely unplanned.  And unanticipated.  Those of you who took part in it probably had no idea how profoundly it would affect me.

Mark Geil captured a photo that I go back to over and over and over.  It reminds me of that moment.  A little thing, but so huge.

It wasn’t the hug that I received at the beginning, although that was definitely a close second.  Since Hutchmoot 2012, I had been corresponding with another Rabbit Roomer. When we saw each in person on the first day of Hutchmoot 2013, she squeezed me in an hour long hug.  Okay, I may be exaggerating a little.  It might have been only 60 seconds, not minutes, but for a non-huggy person, it took my breath away — literally and figuratively.  I felt so loved.

No, the most beautiful moment took place on Saturday.  I had finished my small group session and gone on a quest for my husband.  I found him on the lawn, his small group still talking with Jeffrey Overstreet.


photo by Mark Geil

On my way to finding Bud this thing happened to me.  Such a small thing.  Probably insignificant to everyone else. But, for me, huge.

I walked out the back door to find Bud and had to walk through the tent — the one filled with tables and chairs to accommodate overflow dining.

The ladies were meeting in the tent.  This small group session was being led by Jennifer Trafton Peterson, Lanier Ivester, and Sarah Clarkson.  If Hutchmoot had royalty, these three ladies would be wearing tiaras.  They embody so much of what I would like to be as a Christian woman: gentle, kind, and gracious.  They each have the ability to see beauty and then put it into words for the rest of us.

The circle of ladies was intimidating to me.  Looking at them reminded me of all my misgivings about Hutchmoot.  Hutchmoot is such a gathering of talented, amazing people.  I feel grateful that I can sit in the background and soak some of it in.  But I always have this nagging little voice whispering in my ear, you don’t really belong here. You don’t really belong.

As I looked at the group of ladies — and you have to understand that all this took place in the space of a few seconds — I saw the beauty, I saw the talent, and I heard the little voice.

Find Bud, I told myself, hoping to walk past the group without anyone noticing.

Then the beautiful thing happened.  Lanier looked at me and said, “Come join us!” Jennifer smiled at me, and Sarah scooted her chair over to make room for me.  For me.  In their circle.

photo by Mark Geil

photo by Mark Geil

Probably each of them would say this isn’t a very flattering picture.  I would bet that they rarely, if ever, go back and look at it, but I do.  Often.  Because I’m reminded of all the little ways they told me that I belong.

Sometimes it’s the little things we do, and we don’t even know that we’re doing them, that can make the biggest difference.

So, today, scoot your chair over for someone.  Smile.  Invite someone on the outside to join you.

It may be the most beautiful thing that happens to them.

Published in: on December 28, 2013 at 8:45 AM  Comments (2)  
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Three New Christmas Songs

Quite honestly I don’t know what Christmas songs the powers-that-be have decided we all must listen to this season.  I’ve only had my radio on for news.

I listen to my own Christmas playlist.  This way I get to choose songs I overplay — which, of course, I don’t.  Overplay songs, that is.

The powers-that-be in this house have three new favorites.

So, if you’re at all tired of hearing The Carpenters sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” or Whitney Houston sing “Do You Hear What I Hear?” — then check out these Christmas songs.

1. Mary’s Song (Ave Maria) by Jason Gray.

Jason released a Christmas album last year called “Christmas Stories.”  It looks at Christmas from the perspective of the different people within the story.

My favorite song on the album is Mary’s.  It begins with a lilting little melody about a girl gathering flowers and tucking them in her hair, but the chorus is Ave Maria, roughly translated by Jason Gray as “Wow, Mary!”    I love his lyrics:

You carried hope and a promise
You carried shame and disgrace
Which was the heavier burden
That drew lines in a little girl’s face?

2. The Canticle of the Turning 

I think it says something about a modern hymn when you think it’s one that has been around forever.  I told Mary that — that the song had been around for a long time.  It turns out that I was wrong.  The tune (Star of the County Down) is old.  The words were inspired by Mary’s Magnificat — “My soul cries out with a joyful shout that the God of my heart is great…”  and written by Rory Cooney in 1990. Buddy Greene put it on his new Christmas album, December’s Song – and I like his version even more than the Youtube video posted above.  (Spoiler alert — Donabeth, don’t buy this CD)

Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near,
and the world is about to turn!

3. Come, Children of This Long, Discarded Night co-written by Ron Block and Rebecca Reynolds.

It was released as a single just one week ago and already is the most played song on my Christmas playlist.  And I’m not overplaying it.  The music draws you in, but the lyrics are like Mary Poppins’ carpetbag -  I just keep unpacking and unpacking.  They are rich and deep, treasure upon treasure.

Oh, hear the shining thrill of grace resound!
The ancient throng in wonder now declares
That Love is born!
That Love is born!
All glory be to God on high,
All peace, good will toward men in Him is found.

You can listen to it, and follow links to purchase it (only a dollar!) on Ron’s post: “Come, Children of this Long, Discarded Night” or Rebecca’s post: “Come, Children of this Long, Discarded Night.”


Overplay away.

Published in: on December 13, 2013 at 8:22 AM  Comments (2)  
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Long before social media and Instagram, before blogs and Photoshop, there was a magazine called The Teaching Home.  For me, as a new homeschooling mother, it was filled with ideas and information.

The cover of the magazine was almost always a large family posing for a picture.  At the time, I marveled at the size of the families.  Now I marvel that they were able to get them all sitting and smiling at a camera at the same time.

One day another homeschool mother told me she hated The Teaching Home.  “Really?” I asked. “Why is that?”

“It’s the large family, all matchy-matchy and smiling, on the cover every month,” she said.

I had done matchy-matchy pictures of my own three boys at the time.  The intent wasn’t to make anyone jealous, just to dress them nicely for a photo — and why not buy three of the same shirt?  Not always having a very artistic eye, I knew nothing would clash if I did that.

matchy But, it turns out, matchy-matchy pictures make some people insecure.  Or jealous.  Or snarky.

Yes, in 1991, it was The Teaching Home.

For decades it has been the Christmas letter. Even those have evolved to not just have one family snapshot included in the envelope, but to have multiple pictures inserted into the letter itself — the magic of modern technology.

In 2013 it is social media.

I wouldn’t be the first person to point out that if you’re jealous of your friend’s life as it looks on Instagram or Facebook, the problem is not social media — it’s you…

Instagram and Facebook have given us a way to share things instantly, but it should provide more ways for us to be excited for each other, not become more catty and talk sh** about our friends.

from Please Continue Instagramming Your Amazing Life

A beautiful or joyful picture doesn’t necessarily mean a perfect life.  Finding beauty and joy is an intentional process.

Sometimes people going through the deepest struggles purposefully look for the beauty and joy around them.

It isn’t meant to make anyone jealous or insecure.

It is simply meant to share.

Published in: on December 12, 2013 at 8:45 AM  Comments (2)  
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Mary said to me the other day, “If Jesus had been a girl, He could have been named Hope.”

I thought of that this morning, reading in Lamentations.

Lamentations 3:21 is one of my favorite verses in the Bible.

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope. (ESV)

The verse has two parts:  the remembering and the hope.

When my mind is gone, and I can no longer remember my husband’s name or my children’s faces;  when I can no longer remember what I did five years ago or even five minutes ago;  when everything is unfamiliar because my memory has been wiped virtually clean, if there was one thing that I could remember, one thing to which my mind could return, what would it be? That one thing would have to be something that would give me hope.

The Hebrew word for hope, yachal, is also translated as tarrying. Noah yachal – tarried- another seven days before sending out the dove.  He waited expectantly.  He hoped. (Gen. 8:12)  Samuel told Saul to yachal – tarry – seven days in Gilgal for him. He was to wait expectantly.  He was to hope. (1 Sam 10:8)

Advent is a season of tarrying.

church airbrushChristmas doesn’t feel much like tarrying.  It’s a mad hub-bub of confusion and activity. Shopping and parties and decorating and baking.  They all crowd into my life and my mind, trying to make me forget that one thing — that one thing that gives me hope.

But in my mind I keep returning to something,
something that gives me hope —
that the grace of Adonai is not exhausted,
that his compassion has not ended.
[On the contrary,] they are new every morning!
How great your faithfulness!
(Lamentations 3:21-23 Complete Jewish Bible)

December, the darkest month of the year, is stressful and hard.  But the dawn of a new day is coming.

If Jesus had been a girl, He could have been named Hope.

I kind of like that.

Published in: on December 10, 2013 at 8:55 AM  Comments (1)  
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Birdbrains — the story of a little glitch

birds2-free-vector-clipart-faceOblivious the Owl stood at the lectern reading.  It was the first Sunday of Advent, and his reading preceded the lighting of the first candle in the Advent wreath.  So focused was he on his reading that he was totally unaware of the drama unfolding behind him.

1320951795688519853Pink Flamingo.svg.medFlummoxed the Flamingo, whose job it was to actually light the first candle, stood behind Oblivion, holding the brass candle-lighter in her beak.  Balancing on one foot, she raised her other long pink leg to test the candlelighter by hooking one toe in the trigger.  Click.  Click.  Nothing happened.  Flummoxed was, as her name suggests, flustered and perplexed.  Click.  Click.  She tried again.

Oblivious kept on reading.

1320791320783790528Kookaburra.svg.medIn the front row, Kackle the Kookaburra began to laugh.  It started as just a smile, then a giggle, then a full-on, if quiet, laugh.  Every click of the torch, brought another snort or chortle from Kackle.

Oblivious kept on reading.

Flummoxed kept on clicking, more frantically now than before, because she knew that her moment in the spotlight was approaching.

GRTBLUEHero the Heron sat on the dais not far from Flummoxed.  He calmed craned his long neck to see what Flummoxed was doing.  Click.  Click.  He leaned toward her and whispered something in her ear.  She dropped the candle-lighter gently to the floor and Hero picked it up.  Click.  Click. His attempts were also unsuccessful, but he seemed nonplussed.

Oblivious kept on reading, but he was drawing to a close.

Kackle kept on laughing, though quietly, because, after all, they were in church.

“And so we light this first candle, and name it Hope,” Oblivious read with vigor in his voice.  This was the signal for Flummoxed to light the candle.

But Flummoxed didn’t move.  Instead, Hero stood, tall and majestic, calm and serene.  He walked toward the candle, but then walked right past it to where Melody the Meadowlark sat at the organ.  “Play,” he said quietly to her, and continued walking past her to the back of the sanctuary.

Western_MeadowlarkMelody began to play.

Oblivious took a seat.

Flummoxed just sat there.

Kackle continued to giggle.

Grandma Goose, also in the front row, but perhaps not quite aware of what was happening, what with her old age and failing eyes, began to hiss.

Grey Goose“Light the candle,” she hissed in a stage whisper.  When no one moved to do so, she hissed it again, louder. “Light the candle!  Light the candle!”

Flummoxed dropped her eyes uncomfortably.

“Light the candle!  Light the candle!”

Oblivious ignored her, or perhaps he didn’t hear.

Flummoxed squirmed.

Kackle laughed.

Melody played.

Hero returned, quiet and confident.

With a functioning torch in his beak, he passed the instrument to Flummoxed, who clicked it to life and lit the candle.

Melody began playing the hymn that was to follow the candle-lighting ceremony, and the rest of the service went on without a glitch.


Who are you in this story?

When glitches occur, are you Oblivious to them?  This is not a bad thing.  Everything doesn’t need to grind to a halt because of a little glitch.

Are you Flummoxed? Do they agitate you so much that no problem-solving occurs?

Do you Kackle, because something about it strike you funny?

Do you fill the gap with a Melody, bridging while someone else takes the necessary measures to solve the problem?  What a help this can be!

Do you offer advice before you fully understand the problem, like a Grandma with poor eyesight?

Or, are you the Hero, seeing the need and taking measures to fix it?


Unfortunately, this Sunday, I only laughed.

Published in: on December 4, 2013 at 9:54 AM  Comments (3)  
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Communion is a joyful time at our church.

For so many years, I was used to a different way of celebrating communion.  A somber, sober way.  A stay-in-your-seat kind of way.  A contemplative, inward-looking way.

Not that those are bad things.  Communion — eating the bread and drinking the cup — shows forth the Lord’s death until He comes again.  Death is a somber, sober thing.  It calls for contemplation and looking inward.

IMG_2808[1]At our church though, we walk to the front and receive the bread, a chunk torn from a small white loaf, with the words, “This is the Bread of Life.”  Next, we dip our bread into the challis and hear “This is the Cup of Blessing.” The bread, now soggy with grape juice, must be eaten immediately, unless it is so large that it takes several bites.  Children love this.

At first, I was critical of this method.  I mean, really, everyone knows Jesus didn’t use leavened bread, I would scoff to myself.  But the reality is that Jesus also didn’t serve wine in cute little cups that could be used later for VBS crafts.  No, modern communion only recalls that Last Supper; it doesn’t replicate it.  And that attention to the outward details is exactly the pit into which the Pharisees fell.  What’s important is what’s going on in the heart.  More precisely, for me, in my heart.

Once I set my inward Pharisee aside, I could laugh and enjoy communion.  It’s a little chaotic. Children grin broadly and sometimes laugh when they are handed a large piece of bread.  More than once bread has fallen into the challis.  One parishioner’s guiding eye dog, not always in harness, but still in church, sniffs the floor hopefully for a few crumbs.

Yesterday, I went forward for communion.  The pastor said, “This the Bread of Life,” and tore a piece from the loaf.  I looked up into eyes that were warm and tender.  This was someone who knows me and loves me.  The young acolyte lifted the challis for me.  His little voice was timid and sweet as he said, “The Cup of Blessing.”

Afterwards, as I sat in my seat, I thought about that last supper Jesus shared with His disciples.  I’m sure He looked them in the eye and smiled at them as He gave them the bread.  Maybe it was a little messy sharing the cup.  I know for certain, though, that the love was palpable.

It reminded me of something Frederick Buechner once wrote about a communion experience.  I’ll leave you with that.

… I was receiving communion in an Episcopal church early one morning.  The priest was an acquaintance of mine, and I could hear him moving along the rail from person to person as I knelt there waiting for my turn.  The body of Christ, he said, the bread of heaven.  The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.  When he got to me he put in another word.  The word was my name, “The body of Christ, Freddy, the bread of heaven.”

…There was nothing extraordinary about the priest knowing my name — I knew he knew it — and there was nothing extraordinary about him using it in the service because he evidently did that sort of thing quite often.  But the effect on me was extraordinary.

… For the first time in my life, maybe, it struck me that when Jesus picked up the bread at his last meal and said, “This is my body which is for you,” he was doing it not just in a ritual way for humankind in general, but in an unthinkably personal way for every particular man or woman or child who ever existed or someday would exist.  Most unthinkable of all, maybe he was doing it for me.  At that holiest of feasts we are known not just by our official name but by the names people use who have known us the longest and most intimately.

from Spiritual Quests:  The Art and Craft of Religious Writing,
edited by William Zinsser

Food for thought the next time you partake in communion.

Published in: on December 2, 2013 at 9:18 AM  Comments (2)  
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Something Old, Something New — Holiday Stress Relief

“It’s the most stressful time of the year!
’cause the children are yelling
while merchants are selling
us junk — that’s quite clear!
It’s the most stressful time of the year.”

to be sung to the tune of
“It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”
in your very best Andy Williams voice

I sing this whenever it comes on the radio.  Really.

I’ve become quite the Scrooge at Christmas time, holing up in my house and feeling very hum-buggish towards the whole thing.

Yesterday, I started thinking about ways to relieve the holiday stress.  Actually, I think it’s a formula that could work for any time of year.  Following the old wedding rhyme -  Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue – I came up with four  disciplines I can use this holiday season.

Something old Memorization is a centuries old practice, the process of which forces us to focus on certain words.  People used to memorization long poems.  My father can probably still recite a Robert Service poem or two.  I once heard Ravi Zacharias recite “Ozymandias” from memory and was so impressed.  Sam memorized “Casey at the Bat” when he was 10 years old.  I’ve been working on memorizing longer passages of scripture for the past few years.

By memorizing something long, I have to put in considerable effort.  But that effort pays off.  When Scrooge-y feelings start rattling their tin cups on the bars of my heart, I simply shut them down with whatever I am memorizing.  Maybe this holiday season, I’ll throw a good poem into the memorization mix.

Something new –  Lanier Ivester, in a session on creativity at Hutchmoot 2013, said that creativity allows us to “step back from the world in order to view or create something beautiful in the world.”  In the same session, Jennifer Trafton Peterson said that we need to have regular intentional creative time in our lives.

I have never considered myself a particularly creative person.  When I cook, I follow a recipe.  When I sew, I follow a pattern.  When I paint — oh, wait, I don’t paint, because paint-by-numbers never really appealed to me.

Something new that I am doing this holiday season is painting.  I’m intentionally setting aside some time to play with watercolors and pencils.

Every time that I do this, I am amazed at how fun and relaxing it is to swirl my brush in the paints, mixing colors, and then smearing them across the paper.  Why did I never try this before?

A baby picture of Laurel that I tried to paint.

A baby picture of Laurel that I tried to paint.

Something borrowed – I’m borrowing a habit that my father used to have — parking the car in furthest spot on the lot.  As a kid, it kind of annoyed me.  It felt like we were walking forever just to get to the car.  When I whined, my father matter-of-factly said it was good exercise.

The other day I was at Target, circling the parking lot and feeling annoyed at the lack of “good” spots.  My father’s parking habit flashed through my mind.  Sure enough, there were plenty of parking spots.  I just had to walk a little further.  It was no big deal.

Once that decision was made, it was huge stress relief.  When I went to the grocery store later that same day, I didn’t circle at all.  I looked for the farthest spot and parked my car.  It made it easier to find a place to park and again to find my car when I came out of the store.  Yes, I had to walk farther, push the loaded cart farther, and make more of an effort to find a cart corral, but I thought of my father and smiled to myself while I did it.

There are times and circumstances when parking close is appropriate.  I dropped my father at the door of the hospital yesterday.  At 83, he no longer looks for the farthest spot.  Personally, with two December babies, three January babies, and one February baby, I spent many holidays either pregnant, shopping with small children, or both.  I think it was okay to look for close parking places then, too.

Something blue – I have often felt a certain kinship with Emily Dickinson and her reclusive nature.  It would be so easy to just close out the world and deal with only a very small circle of people. I battle regularly with my solitary leanings.

The other day I was riding in the car with Bud.  Ahead and to my left, the skies were heavy with a winter gray.  That is winter life in the Northeast.  To my right, however, I caught a patch of blue. It made me smile.

My fourth discipline is to get outside and look for that patch of blue every day.  I will leave my house — for a walk, or a trip to the library or bank or store, for something — and I will breathe in deeply the fresh clean air of living in the country.  I will smile at and greet other people.  And I will look for blue in the sky.

Maybe, if I do all this, by Christmas I’ll be singing the correct lyrics with Andy Williams.

Published in: on November 27, 2013 at 8:17 AM  Comments (1)  
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