Month: January 2022

I’ve been gathering examples of resilience — people rising from languishing to new confidence and energy. One would think this would fortify me, and it has. But then my iPod conked out at the gym. One trivial setback, and I hardly had the energy to continue. On the other hand, neither did I have the energy to leave. So, I smiled at my feeble self, and kept going. One reward (?) was a song on the communal sound system that went something like this: “I see your lipstick / Whoop! / I want to kiss it / Whoop!”

The clock crept along. Finally reaching “good enough” on the workout meter, I departed. The gym, not my life. Trudging out to my car, I beheld a miracle from heaven, parked beside me.

I texted the image to certain ones in my circle of care. Merriment ensued.

Which brings to mind a quote from St. Paul, a resilient fellow if ever there was one: “May Jesus himself and God our Father, who reached out in love and surprised you with gifts of unending help and confidence, put a fresh heart in you, invigorate your work, enliven your speech.”

Amen!

Clear morning, 28 degrees. Sun pouring through my kitchen window. Running water indicates pipes okay. What will I do with the next few hours of my “wild and precious life”?

As I drink coffee in the quiet, I’ll remember and give thanks for our granddaughter’s visit yesterday. Amelia, such good company, so adorable, so wise for one new to the world. She misses nothing. Looking up at the bead board ceiling of our kitchen, she wondered why the “top of this room” looked “scraped.” So I got to teach (and wonder about) the word ceiling, and talk about narrow strips of wood laid close together then painted white, as I glowed in new appreciation for this good house.

I’ll remember and give thanks for opening night of Beaumont Community Players’ “Pride and Prejudice,” its sprightly casting and delightful antics. My husband had to be coached a little on exactly what was going on, and why. But the voluptuous Miss Bingley’s low-cut gown needed no explaining!

I’ll look forward to the mail. 50-year high school class reunion is afoot. Save-the-date cards went out this week. Returns will come to my house. You have moved, you have remarried, you’re in hiding … we still want you to have a card. All the more that my son designed it.

I will practice yoga, and maybe brave the cold to the gym. And drip the water again tonight.

Praise That Which Is, from whom all blessings flow.

Bless all dear creatures here below.

It’s forty-eight degrees this January morning in Southeast Texas. Wind chimes thrumming, sky of leaden gray. Supposed to freeze the next three nights. I’m grateful for a warm house, and words to write. The words that want to be said are about color. Specifically, red. Red is warm and full of cheer. Hurray for red in January!

Two friends gave me amaryllis bulbs for Christmas. Up sprang the promise: Happy vermillion, and wine-dark sea. Since this picture the velvety wine blooms have turned dark indeed, in places almost black. Two faces of red. Enchanting!

More red: When I put away Christmas January 6, I left the small red ornaments in the biscuit barrel. I call it my sparkle jar. To warm the rest of winter, to welcome spring, to smile at summer, to rejoice in autumn …. And I thank the sister who during a pre-Christmas bridal shower whirl of decorating added the sparkle, which I would have never thought to do.

Blessings, and stay warm.

January 7, 2022

Warning to the sensitive: Mother Nature in a gory mood

Early this morning, on the grass at the curb, I saw a red-shouldered hawk crouched over its freshly killed prey. By the evidence of the feather-pile, the prey was a white-winged dove. For the hawk, breakfast. For me, no tragedy.

Re this rather strange-looking crouching: As a hawk tears into its victim, it tries to hide the process with dome-like spread of tail and wings. This shielding of the meal is the hawk’s version of a private dining room.

As soon as the hawk spied me, it gave me a fierce ‘you’re not getting this’ look, and carried the carcass to a yard across the street. As it re-domed and resumed its meal, it gave me a grim-jawed nasty glare. Later I told this tale to my husband, who asserted that hawks don’t have expressions. Just beaks, and eyes, which are permanently set. However, I know what I know.

Hawk to Phoebe: “Read my lips. Stand back. Oh wait, I don’t have lips…”