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Posts Tagged ‘Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good’

“A writer – and, I believe, generally all persons – must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.” Jorge Luis Borges

DSCN7110

The photo above was my last view of a sunset, two days ago. So rare have sunsets been this January that I almost forgot how magical one could be. It has been so gloomy and gray. I know I really should not complain. We have not had the snowstorms other areas have had and this is certainly a milder winter than last year’s – at least so far.

With all these gray, gray days, I’ve indulged in a few more cups of coffee and tea than I usually have. The result is a look reminiscent of a current movie. What do you think? Do I deserve an Oscar?

Photo on 1-26-15 at 11.15 AM

Then, there was a long and sleepless night that resulted in this,

4-up on 1-25-15 at 4.34 AM (compiled)

which probably was influenced by an overheard conversation between four fellows, one of whom regaled the others with a tale about a vacation he took a decade past. He was, I overheard,  on a cruise ship that became stranded off the coast of Alaska. It was a rather riveting tale, full of drama and fear, rocking and rolling, waves and weather, and a vow to never set sail again.

I tried not to listen. Really, I did, but, gosh and by golly, it was such an adventure that I just pretended to have my nose in a book. The chap seemed sincere. His table mates seemed to believe him. It didn’t matter, for it was so gloomy and grim and cold outside that I might as well have been stranded at sea as well and so, I engaged in art of eavesdropping.

The chap was rolling like waves in a storm as he told of panic aboard and of those who tried to stay calm. There were helicopters and deck chairs dancing, seasickness and worry. He claimed a depiction on some adventure channel and then . . .

. . . snip, snap, snout, his tale was told out.

The men put on their hats and coats. Still talking, they followed him out the door and my mind followed my nose back into my book, “Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good” by Jan Karon. It was there that I came across Jorge Luis Borges’ quote, which was, I thought, quite timely, and just the kind of raw material I needed to shape this winter night’s post.

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DSCN7038The sun danced through the house today, slipping quietly through the windows of the kitchen door, splashing warm memories of dew drops on the faucet, while sipping on a bottle of Chardonay.

Those angel rays brushed the kitchen cabinets, rendering them a honey brown. Down the narrow hall they slid. They drifted from the skylights, casting shadows on the walls. It was a sunnyside up sort a day, so welcome and warm that I did not mind that the sunbeams accented the cobwebs that have chosen corners from which to hang. The sun has made such infrequent appearances this winter that it is pure joy to see her rays on this January day – especially with the ominous prediction of an Alberta clipper about to descend upon the Great Lakes region.

Our sunny day will be a bittersweet memory come Sunday morning. I think I’ll worry about the snow when it comes and just enjoy the goodwill of sunlight today, sipping something warm, perhaps, and enjoying a dollop or two of lemon curd on an English muffin, while I read Jan Karon’s new book, “Somewhere Safe with Somebody Good”, which I have on seven day loan from the library.

DSCN7081Maybe, just maybe, I’ll take a walk about the Cutoff,  with this wonderful little book in hand, a gift from a very dear friend. Perhaps I can tell the Cape Cods and Georgians of the nesting world and determine who has been living in the trees, pondering their return from the south as soon as warmer winds start blowing.

It’s all in the little things, my friend; like angel rays and birds nests, lemon curd and bittersweet.

I Come in the Little Things

. . . I come in the little things, Saith the Lord:
Yea! on the glancing wings
Of eager birds, the softly pattering feet
Of furred and gentle beasts, I come to meet
Your hear and wayward heart. In brown bright eyes
That peep from out the brake, I stand confest.
On every nest
Where feathery Patience is content to brood
And leaves her pleasure for the high emprize
Of motherhood . . .

. . . I come in the little things, Saith the Lord . . .

Evelyn Underhill

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