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What are the letters you write to yourself? Do you have endless pages going on in your head, of words you should erase? Are you writing your own script? Are you filling the pages of your life with the beauty of who you are?
Write yourself a love letter and seal it with a kiss.
photo: Mailbox worn with use, posting news of the days of our lives.
The light comes through the tin cut panel door of the pie safe. The small cut outs that have been made in a pattern, the tiny holes that let out the aroma of that which is inside. Have you ever wanted to close the door on a feeling, or a thought, or on someone? Have you ever wanted to run away, not look back and hope that this will change that which is chasing you? Has it ever been that no matter how hard you slam the door it still sips in, beckoning you to turn around and embrace the pain?
Light is at the end of the tunnel, even when you are standing in the middle, the darkest center.
photo: A pie safe door panel made by my cousin.
The chair was planted with a few words thrown in after a long day, even if the day had been short, the words would have poured out. As if my mouth was a garden hose and the tap was controlled with a quick twist, out came words that grew a chair. They have taken a seat, and stare at me; "Hello do you remember what you said?"
Words planted, deep in the soil of a person...they can caress a small desire to grow, they can stifle the aims of ones longing... what type of seeds do you plant? Do they change with the seasons?
The chair grows, amongst the ivy, rusty and worn, sturdy and inviting. What are the words that have created you...
photo: in my parent's garden, an old chair sits and recalls conversations of yesterday.
Living in France is not like living in the USA.
It just ain't the same.
Wine is replaced for beer.
They wear jeans and make them look like a little black dress, they have savoir-faire when it comes to such things... you would think after 19 years of living in France I would come home chic and hip and well maybe with a new flair....certainly grown-up...
Heck no, my feet wear mud, and it looks like mud.
Rich with texture,
the beauty of life is,
making it real
and knowing it looks good on you,
wherever you are...
be yourself.
Photo: Old jeans I found folded neatly and dirty in my Dad's barn. My feet, while I walked around outside early this morning listening to the birds and feeling the earth under my feet, mud and all.
The flirting dog was giving his best song and stand routine.
It split her into, how her boy blue fell for it each time.
Her Mother was right, "Never date a boy who wears his shirt unbutton!"
Without too much emotion, she glanced sideways and gave her best shot to seduce him, by lifting her dress higher.
He knew he didn't fool her...with his downcast eyes he caressed the dog.. his mind wandered right up her dress.
Some things never change.
photo: pf an 18th century painting in Arles museum...
The song of the seashell and the breaking wave, the song the moonbeam makes upon the silent sky, the song of flip flops as they walk on sand, the singing the blades of grass create under my bare feet, the song I sing while putting a baby to sleep...soft and hush and murmurs running deep. The stinging bee-stung song and the echo of sweet honey pretty-please. The song of the rolling pin and the tea kettle early in the morn, the singing of v-a-c-a-t-i-on in the back of the pick-up truck, the cracking song of the baseball bat, the song that tips my hat, the song of shower tears as they splash on the floor, the singing snore, the song of campfires and playing hearts, the song of you and me, the song of spitting fire and ice cubes in a glass. The song of long hot summers and the melody of long ago.
Photo: An Angel singing a song with a seashell in Venice Italy.
Five-forty-five in the morning, sunlight pouring in my window, wildly the birds are singing like there is no tomorrow, in tune with the rustling of the trees and the nearby crop duster dances in the sky... my Mother's voice belts out to Sacha and Fabrice, (a French friend who is here with us this summer,) "If you want to go with me to the hall, I am leaving in ten minutes!" The floor boards are broken, this I am certain, by their springing from the bed! I hear them scurrying, as my Mother calls out from the kitchen, "We'll eat there! Come on you boys!" As if they have been spending hours goofing off....I hear them running down the hall, and the predictable screen door slam!
Smiling from the pleasure of being home, noticing nothing has changed....Who can sleep in the country?
Photo: Turn-of-the-century clocks, that I packed in my suitcase from France, for my Mother: who doesn't need an alarm clock!
There tucked away in my hand-made life are the prayers of healing, the notes to remind myself of things I cannot forget. I have this see through life, it is like a heart on a sleeve, it does not hide, nor does it jump up and down flashing a big bright label. Simple days make up the pattern that show me the paradise within. Dried roses without their thorns, moments passed, leaving a fragrance that I can recall and smile upon, and heed not the prick of the thorn upon tender skin. Within each of us their is a treasure, worthy of holding up and placing on the altar of life. Is your altar transportable?
Being back in my childhood home my thoughts turn around family, the life I had when I lived here. The familiar objects tell me stories I do not hear in France, nor do they share the same meaning. I look at things I have seen a million times before, and memories flood my head taking me to places where in France the river does not run.
Where does the damn burst in you, where does the flood gate open? Have you ever been carried away by a rush of memories, causing you to forget where you are? Reminding you who you have become?
Words, the small sound that comes from our mouth that can trigger an array of emotion, the written word with its power to tell us a story, some words we want to hear, long to live, and other words we run from and plug our ears.
Where do we hear the miracle? Where do we listen to love? How does kindness spell its name in you? Does your name speak love to others? Are you a word of hope?
I am,
you are,
one in the same.
Open and closed,
strong and weak..
Our hearts beat in
the same language,
why do we hear it
differently?
photo: A handwritten sign on the door of a shop in San Francisco, I had hoped to go in, but found it closed.
The word tablespoon is worn off my Mother's measuring spoons, this is another indicator of how much my Mother cooks... her worn and tattered cookbook is filled with tried and true recipes, stuffed with sweet mementos, marriage announcements, prayer cards, thank you notes, valentines, and newspaper clipping of this or that about the family.
The cookbook dairy, the recipes of our lives...there mixed in between the pages whips up memories of what we have done and what we ate.
Opening the cookbook I can smell the aroma of childhood birthday cakes and fried chicken picnics by the creek, I can see the hand that turned sorrow into joy, and taste the events that have marked our days.
We have the ingredients to make a feast with our lives, and the choice to substitute spice for that which is bitter. I grew up, on second helpings of home cooking, believing every bite was good.
photo: My Mother's 1950s cookbook...every year she puts the Valentine poem that she has written for my Father in this book.
