Nothing like sitting on a rock outcrop, eating clementines, taking in the vast and the minute.

(Appalachian Mountains; iphone 5)

I was five, and my favorite part of every Sunday was seeing Mrs. Schultz, my Sunday School teacher. She was old, round, and had the softest cheeks. The fine hairs on her jaw were coated in powder, and I loved sitting to her right so I could look up from my small wooden chair, and see her silhouetted in the light from the stained glass window. 

Mrs. Schultz always wore a matching necklace and earring set made of (what I now know as) fiery Austrian Crystal. She smelled of something lightly sweet, and I loved to snuggle into her large, soft and cushiony arms. She was love. She was grace. She was wise. And somehow she seemed to completely understand God. 

Her husband was dead. I didn’t really know what that meant, but when she came to church, her brother, old Mr. Ihne (pronounced ‘ee-nee’) made sure there was room for her wheelchair next to his family’s pew on the left side of the small church.

Ah, the wheelchair. Mrs. Schultz had no legs. They had been cut off. (Again - as I got older I learned about something called ‘diabetes’.) Strangely, I didn’t care that she was in a wheelchair and had no legs: it was just a part of who she was. Mrs. Schultz was grace. She was wise. She was love. And somehow she seemed to completely understand God.

The only lesson I remember is when Mrs. Schultz told us there were miracles and beauty all around us. We only needed to look at the world differently. That didn’t make sense, until she took an apple out of her pocket, a paring knife out of her purse, and cut the apple in half crosswise.

And inside, there was a star. A beautiful, miraculous star. 

She held it out for all of us to see. We were silent with awe.

And she whispered “Keep looking, boys and girls, and you will start to see the miracles in every living thing.”

Mrs. Schultz seemed to completely understand God. She was wise. She was grace. And she was love.

I was five, and my favorite part of every Sunday was seeing Mrs. Schultz, my Sunday School teacher. She was old, round, and had the softest cheeks. The fine hairs on her jaw were coated in powder, and I loved sitting to her right so I could look up from my small wooden chair, and see her silhouetted in the light from the stained glass window.

Mrs. Schultz always wore a matching necklace and earring set made of (what I now know as) fiery Austrian Crystal. She smelled of something lightly sweet, and I loved to snuggle into her large, soft and cushiony arms. She was love. She was grace. She was wise. And somehow she seemed to completely understand God.

Her husband was dead. I didn’t really know what that meant, but when she came to church, her brother, old Mr. Ihne (pronounced ‘ee-nee’) made sure there was room for her wheelchair next to his family’s pew on the left side of the small church.

Ah, the wheelchair. Mrs. Schultz had no legs. They had been cut off. (Again - as I got older I learned about something called ‘diabetes’.) Strangely, I didn’t care that she was in a wheelchair and had no legs: it was just a part of who she was. Mrs. Schultz was grace. She was wise. She was love. And somehow she seemed to completely understand God.

The only lesson I remember is when Mrs. Schultz told us there were miracles and beauty all around us. We only needed to look at the world differently. That didn’t make sense, until she took an apple out of her pocket, a paring knife out of her purse, and cut the apple in half crosswise.

And inside, there was a star. A beautiful, miraculous star.

She held it out for all of us to see. We were silent with awe.

And she whispered “Keep looking, boys and girls, and you will start to see the miracles in every living thing.”

Mrs. Schultz seemed to completely understand God. She was wise. She was grace. And she was love.

…In my mind I see the door,
I see the sunlight before me across the floor   
beckon to me, as the Lady’s skirt
moves small beyond it.

(Excerpt; “The Door” by Robert Creely; photo mine; iphone 5)


In my mind I see the door,
I see the sunlight before me across the floor
beckon to me, as the Lady’s skirt
moves small beyond it.

(Excerpt; “The Door” by Robert Creely; photo mine; iphone 5)

“Folks want to glow, to leave their worries and dead skin behind.” 
― Terry McMillan, Getting to Happy

(in the woods; iphone 5)

“Folks want to glow, to leave their worries and dead skin behind.”
― Terry McMillan, Getting to Happy

(in the woods; iphone 5)

October

(by Robert Frost)

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

Sweet kiss 
Red berries lips 
Are eaten at mingled

-sallam yassin

(On my walk in the park; iphone 5)

Sweet kiss
Red berries lips
Are eaten at mingled

-sallam yassin

(On my walk in the park; iphone 5)

“Procrastination is my sin. 
It brings me naught but sorrow. 
I know that I should stop it. 
In fact, I will—tomorrow” 
― Gloria Pitzer

“Procrastination is my sin.
It brings me naught but sorrow.
I know that I should stop it.
In fact, I will—tomorrow”

― Gloria Pitzer

“Autumn is a classical music; when it begins, the gravity disappears!” 
― Mehmet Murat ildan

(Weiss Lake, Cherokee County, Alabama; iphone 5)

“Autumn is a classical music; when it begins, the gravity disappears!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

(Weiss Lake, Cherokee County, Alabama; iphone 5)

“There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.” 
― William Bliss

(Exploring; iphone 5)

“There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.”
― William Bliss

(Exploring; iphone 5)

"The touch, the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives …"

(exploring in Alabama today; iphone 5)

"The touch, the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives …"

(exploring in Alabama today; iphone 5)

Astraphobia, also known as astrapophobia, brontophobia, keraunophobia, or tonitrophobia, is an abnormal fear of thunder and lightning.

River the Rescue Dog has developed a fear of loud noises in this her 13th year. But apparently if she is in my lap, she feels better. (It makes me feel pretty cozy, too.)

Astraphobia, also known as astrapophobia, brontophobia, keraunophobia, or tonitrophobia, is an abnormal fear of thunder and lightning.

River the Rescue Dog has developed a fear of loud noises in this her 13th year. But apparently if she is in my lap, she feels better. (It makes me feel pretty cozy, too.)