I spent the afternoon watching a storm move across the horizon. I’m drawn to storms, especially when they are over the water. The churning sea and the swirling clouds are beautiful, even though they pose danger. I don’t think it’s depressing or sad. On the contrary, it’s very much alive!
It makes me pensive to watch a storm, but it doesn’t necessarily mean I turn to dark thoughts that mirror the skies. Usually, it just inspires a creative force, something that makes me think in new ways. Sometimes I turn to writing poetry or stories. Other times, I just let my mind wander. In a strange way, the storms energize me and leave me refreshed, like the scene that played out before this picture — the day went from the depth of darkness, to a broad happy rainbow.
minimalist — a random bird on a post
When I hoped I feared,
Since I hoped I dared;
As a church remain;
Spectre cannot harm,
Serpent cannot charm;
He deposes doom,
Who hath suffered him.
I know I’ve been posting an awful lot of birds lately; believe me, I’m the first one to go “huh?”.
Indulge me with one more. I just love this little guy sitting on a post in the middle of the ocean. Do birds ponder their existence? Who knows!
I’ve been pondering quite a bit lately, so that might explain why I’m drawn to these kinds of images. Anyway, it’s those two opening lines I’ve highlighted that speak to me here. They capture both the fear of daring to do something, and the hope it brings.
Check out other interpretations of the minimalist theme at the Weekly Photo Challenge.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
~ Emily Dickinson
a random rose in winter
I have this rose bush with a mind of its own. It has survived abandonment, tramplings, storms, and most recently, the window guys who just pushed it aside and did terrible things to it with their scaffolding.
It’s taken a real licking, and keeps on ticking. Long after the other roses go dormant for the winter, this one makes it a point to give me one more bloom at an unexpected moment. You can see the deadheads in the picture — I gave up pruning it a while back, but there you have it, one more beautiful flower.
I always think it’s one last little nod from God, a little kiss, if you will, that lets me know things are going to get a little dark and bleak in winter, but look at what you have to look forward to in the spring.
I’ll take my hope where I can find it — it wasn’t a coincidence that we sang this in Mass today.
To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul,
My God, in you I trust.
another rainy day
It’s another rainy day here in good ole Georgia. I love the rain. It’s a crazy thing to tell people, especially those people who crave sunlight and light and all that airiness.
Don’t misunderstand, I like the light! I like the big open windows in my living room, but there’s something about a rainy day that makes me just a little more productive, a little more reflective, and generally, a little more calm.
My brain is always going a mile a minute, moreso lately with some new responsibilities, and I relish the opportunity to slow down a little and just be.
The rain has a way of getting under my skin and into my blood…I find the rhythm in the rain, and it has a lullaby affect on me.
It is beautiful. It is life. And I relish it.
So don’t be all mopey on such a lovely day.
There’s usually a rainbow after all the rain. God promised.
Never let anything so fill you with sorrow as to make you forget the joy of the risen Christ! ~ Mother Teresa
mothers, miscarriage, and a voice
I often use this blog to post silly videos and random by-the-seat-of-my-pants entries to laugh a little at life. It’s a good outlet for me, and while I’m not necessarily interested in growing a huge readership, I know that I have a nice little group of stalwart followers (thanks, y’all!).
Every once in a while, though, I do get serious, and it’s always about something that’s close to my heart. If there’s one thing that my vocation as a teacher has exposed me to, and that I’ve taken absolutely to heart, is that each of us has a story that’s yearning to be told. Our lives are unique — filled with many joys, but also pains. They go hand in hand with this thing we call the human condition.
Bloggers are sometimes guilty of always presenting the best side of our lives. It’s lovely to share photos of family get-togethers that look like Norman Rockwell paintings, and I’ve been guilty a time or two (ha!) of taking a picture that is cropped just right so you don’t see the laundry basket or the pile of papers that gets moved from the table to the counter, and back to the table. It’s all about illusion, isn’t it?
While I love to get hilarious comments from readers over fun posts, it’s actually the serious disclosures, like this one, that get feedback. Why? Because we are all suffering in some way. Each of us, and we so often miss opportunities to connect with others and share these hurts. We can find much healing in the simple act of sharing and discovering that we are not alone in our suffering. Both empathy and sympathy are gifts.
Karen Edmisten, author of After Miscarriage: A Catholic Woman’s Companion to Healing and Hope talks with Pat Gohn this week on a special two-part edition of Among Women Podcast on a subject that is dear to my own heart. I experienced two miscarriages early in my marriage. Twenty-five years ago, the subject was not brought up in polite company. The doctors were horrible to me … one dismissed my second, very early miscarriage, as nothing more than a chemical pregnancy. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. Needless to say, the scars from such an experience go beyond grieving for a lost child.
Pat and Karen discuss this topic with tenderness and honesty, two essential qualities that go a long way in helping women heal, connect, and hope. I hope you pass this along to other women. If we haven’t experienced miscarriage first-hand, the odds are very high that someone close to us has. Share it.
“All shall be well, and all shall be well
and all manner of thing shall be well.”
― Julian of Norwich
pray for peace
One of my favorite painters, Picasso, has a series of lovely and simple line drawings that make me smile. Their beautiful simplicity speaks volumes — one stroke, one line can convey as much or more than the detailed paintings of other masters. I appreciate the others, as I appreciate some of Picasso’s more complex works as well.
But sometimes, less is more.
On this, the eve of another year gone by when we remember the events of September 11, 2001, I pray for peace. We live in a complex world with complex relationships and far too much chaos. We grieve over the inhumanity of man against man, not just over the events that horrified us nine years ago, but over horrors committed daily.
We grieve at our capacity for evil. We grieve over injustice. We grieve because we feel. And if we feel we can hope.
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end. — Lamentations 3:21-22