In the dead of night I ponder
all my stones of awkward weight
Mentally skipping them oâr the water
of my mind’s achromatic lake.
Casting stones of dreams and wishes
skimming hopes and fears obscure
Tossing far across the tide line
stones Iâve gathered on the shore.
Sweet release I feel unburdened
As they sink down into the calm arcane
Yesterdayâs stones are now a memory
I stoop and gather an untouched day .
Šď¸vcl
If at the end of the day
If there was a magical way,Â
That clouds could suck up the fear,
All pain, bloodshed, the tears,
Angry words people say
And carry it on red wings of wind
Beyond the abyss of time
Never to return again
We would celebrate cloudy days.
Photo:Evening Sky~Šď¸Val Letkeman
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.    Â
Nathaniel Hawthorne
I was working in my garden today (actually I was playing) Â when I noticed this butterfly alight on a leaf near me. It looked so pretty, sunlight bouncing off its wings that I stooped in for a closer look and a picture to show others. Truthfully it made me feel happy. How could that be? It wasnât doing anything special. Â But itâs very existence was special to me. Butterflies speak of peace and good will. They speak of change, rebirth and happy endings. Â I had one of those mindful moments. Questions fluttered through my mind.
What has this little butterfly seen of the world in its journeys? Does it think about how important it is to the flowers as it flutters along , pollinating the natural kingdom? I picture it singing a happy tune, and even though itâs life is short I doubt Iâd hear a mumbling word of complaint. What would that song sound like? Does it know itâs creator? Could it lead me there? Â Or do butterflies just soar? Â Some questions donât get answered do they? I weave these thoughts, coccooned around my heart as the butterfly flies away.
The day has been long. Night has drawn its shuttered eyes, and I will do likewise. But before I go I leave you with this little Cinquain to ponderâ¤ď¸ VclŠď¸
  Butterfly
  Tissue white, graceful
   Chasing the wind, laughing
    Happy little thing
   Wings
I read that the sunflowerâs name comes from its tendency to reposition itself to face the sun. Itâs genus, Helianthus, is rooted in two Greek words â âheliosâ meaning sun and âanthosâ meaning flower.
The ancient Greek myth of Apollo and Clytie is one explanation of why  sunflowers turn towards the sun. In this story Clytie, a nymph, adored Apollo. At first, he loved her back, but soon he fell in love with Leucothoe. Because of her jealousy, Clytie told Leucothoeâs father of the relationship and he punished her by burying her alive.
In anger, Apollo turned her into a flower, but even in flower form she still loved him and would spend her days watching him as he moved the sun across the sky in his chariot, just like sunflowers move to face the sun. đť
In 2013 my husband and I visited the Rikkmuseum in Amsterdam. We were excited to view amazing art and I particularly liked Van Goghâs Sunflowers.
I share his enthusiasm evidently…..â¤ď¸ I wonder if he would prefer regular seasoning or all dressed?
âThe sunflower is mine, in a way.â
â Vincent van Gogh
I make things complicated for myself and chaotic, so I feel unsettled, and then the challenge is to make something structured and complete emerge from that.
â¤ď¸Jessica Stockholder
I am packing for a trip. A short jaunt. But packing unsettles me. Do I really need 3 pairs of shoes? What if it rains? Where are my sunglasses?….and the beat goes on, la dee dah. Experience has shown that I overpack. If Iâm not careful I will let my joy get stolen. And the ransom may be  more than I want to pay.
So Iâve taken a breather. My packing will be complete. It always does. I  am writing a poem to celebrate my freedom from packing blues, spilling chaotic thoughts, into a summer night wind thatâs reflecting summerâs heat. â¤ď¸
As the wind
my mind is wafting
in and out
of conscious thought
whirling in a sea
of mysteries
Stirring up what
they aught not
Breathing in
unsettling whispers
knocking down
old barriers worn
Ancient beliefs
toppled
scattered
scorned
anticipating
wintry storms
mulling
oâr what really matters
life
       Unsettled as the wind.   vclŠď¸
“The Louvre is a good book to consult, but it must only be an intermediary. The real and immense study that must be taken up is the manifold picture of nature.” – Paul Cezanne
I was perusing old photos today and amongst the pile, this one kinda stood out. There is an old saying by Osho that sums up my thoughts.. He says….
I was mindful. I didnât pick it up with my hands. I did snap a picture though and take it home with me. Â I now can pick up this flower whenever I choose and it still gives me joy. The same joy that I felt when I first saw it. See the lush tones? The pinks and greens, each petal and flower a masterpiece? The open invitation to smell its nectar? If only it was scratch and sniff…if only to share with you dear reader…for my memory can conjure its perfume even now. Â đśIâve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart …where? …down in my heart to stay. Â đś
I know that everything essential and great originated from the fact that the human being had a homeland and was rooted in tradition.â Martin Heidegger
This past week I received a call from one of my daughters asking if I would like a jar of her first batch of crabapple jelly. I was so excited to be picked as a taste tester! Â It was her first try at canning and her excitement was catchable, as she had not shown an interest in this ancient art, although I had done a lot of it in her growing up years.
Canning brings back so many memories of my childhood. I remember my mother carefully washing jars, lids, and rings. While they air dried, I can remember her washing the cucumbers and making the brine for the dill pickles. Then taking the jars and filling them with either sliced cucumbers or whole small cucumbers.
Sheâd pour the brine into the jars and lower them into the canner. After they boiled for a time, sheâd carefully lift them out, line them in neat little rows, and cover them. Weâd all anxiously wait for that loud âpopâ that let us know that the jars were sealed properly. Oh the memories!!!
Each newly harvested fruit and veggie had its own place in the canning que. One year I counted 82 quarts of strawberries. They were all gone by New Years đł
Well, needless to say, the crabapple jelly is delicious, especially on Cobbâs bread transformed into French Toast that was to die for…..â¤ď¸ Thereâs the picture to prove itđ
Next we tackle dills…but canning is so much easier today because after you fill your jars and close them, you just stick them in the dishwasher and after a complete cycle…voila …Done! Except we still wait for the âpopâ. Itâs just tradition.
“I’ll have 2 of those Nutella donuts” I smiled at the cashier, fumbling in my bag for change. Handing it to her , I reached to grasp the bag she extended. When she handed me a second bag I realized she had got my order wrong. “You are giving me the wrong ones, you silly girl” were the words on the tip of my tongue.
But I didn’t spew them out because I was thinking of Words as Roots. Angry Words that become rooted in the soft flesh of the heart and grow unchecked until they choke the life out or get ripped out.
I thought “Let that not be me today, let the words I say have soft roots with lovely fragrant flowers that can be gathered from the heart and passed along to others. So I said ” No worries, I’ll take them…for later, so don’t worry about the overcharge. In fact I will take the others I wanted too. I saw the relief in her eyes as she filled my order.
Later, after my husband returned from a class he was attending, we had coffee at the hotel and I presented him my offering of 2 slightly squished Nutella donuts. “Yummy” he said.â¤ď¸ #Timhortons
Saudade, the melancholia remains
after someone is gone.
Causing a sonorous emptiness,
melding emotions that overflow,
Ever mindful of your voice,
your smile,
Your warm embrace.
I long for what cannot be.
Yet am content in what was.
mmmmm
I spent last weekend enjoying some time on the west coast with my family. Whenever we get together there is sure to be an abundance of delicious food, and last weekend was no exception. There are a number of talented cooks in the family so a few weeks before our family gatherings we usually divvy up meals and cooking responsibilities and Iâm always eager to help, especially when it comes to desserts and treats.
With egg stratas, mimosas, and fresh fruit already on the breakfast menu, I volunteered to take charge of the sweet component and made this Blueberry Sour Cream Coffee Cake. The recipe can be mixed up quickly with just a spoon and whisk which was definitely a bonus for me since I was able to start working on it while part of the family was still sleeping. The sour cream keeps the cake moist and tender andâŚ
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