Annie

“On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true, so they sprinkled moon dust in your hair and golden starlight in your eyes of blue.” ~ Song, “Close to You”, lyrics by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.

When I was a child I positively adored my mother.

It wasn’t that I stopped adoring her as I grew older, although I did begin to see her in a totally different light. The angel who had been placed upon this earth to guide me through my life could do no wrong in my eyes, then at some stage she transformed herself into a real human being, one who wasn’t perfect, made mistakes and was very, very vulnerable.

Perhaps I should re-word that last sentence. My mother didn’t transform herself, it was my perception of her that changed.

As a child, I wanted to be just like her. I would barely utter a word without first checking that she approved of the words I wished to say. She was everything to me and in my childish ignorance I believed that the only way in which I could ever be a worthy human being on this earth (yes, I was the human; mum was the angel) was to be the absolute image of my mother.

I can’t actually pin-point the time in my life when I finally matured, opened my eyes, realised that my mother was really just as human as the rest of us and hence, began to see her failings.  I noticed a few earthly qualities in her at around the age of thirteen, although I think it may have been when I was sixteen and she disapproved of my choice of colour combination in one of my favourite outfits. Isn’t it incredible, the meagre moments that can open your eyes?

The pale blue skirt and pastel patterned green top that I bought, all alone, without mum’s approval, “felt” right to me. It gave me confidence. I thought I looked good in the outfit and cared little to not at all of what anyone else thought. But my mum didn’t like that outfit, and boy-oh-boy, did she ever let me know about it! She even banned me from leaving home whilst wearing it!

It wasn’t the actual outfit she disapproved of, it was simply the colour combination. I was outraged! My mother had chosen the colours of green and red for our bathroom, her bedroom was purple and gold, she liked my bright orange bedroom (don’t be shocked, it was the ’70′s!) so I failed to see the problem with my outfit. The skirt was mid-calf length and looked (and felt) fantastic when worn with my white platform shoes.

The reality of the matter took a long time to finally dawn on me. I wasn’t anything like my mother at all and I had to stop allowing her to have complete control over me! For all of the years that I had wanted to portray myself as a junior version of her image and being, in every single way, during my teenage years reality finally hit me. We didn’t look alike, think alike, act alike, we chose different colours, different furnishing, different everything.

And when I finally lifted that self-imposed burden from my own shoulders I began to get to know my mother, my real mother, not the angel that I had always believed her to be, but the human being that she actually was.

Progressively, our relationship changed. And over a period of time, my mum actually began to realise that she wasn’t loosing her daughter by her daughter developing a mind of her own, with differing opinions than those she wanted me to have, she was actually forming a friendship with me.

And that is what we became, close, non-judgemental, real friends.

We argued a lot back then, and the arguments always ending with mum saying, “Oh you’ll never see any sense. I’ll make us a cup of tea”. A cup of tea fixes everything, don’t you know? 

My three older sisters were stunned when they heard about some of mum’s and my arguments. They would never have said some of the things to mum that I did to her and they never quite understood how we could be so close, yet argue so much.

When I became a mother myself, I finally understood the depth of feeling that my mother had always felt for me, and I told her so. Time brought us even closer together. We appreciated the differences in each other. Our relationship was based on trust and honesty. And most of all, love.

The day I lost my mother was the day I felt grief and pain like no other day I had been on this earth. I was the last one to see my mother alive, she became a real angel just after I left her alone in her hospital room. After I had told her I loved her. After I had said goodbye.

Yesterday was the day my mother was born, the day the angels got together and created an angel on earth, complete with human failings.

My mother was Annie, the angel, the human being, the strong one, the insecure one, the one with the wisdom of the gods and the vulnerability of a person.

May you always dwell in your rainbow of colours, my dearest Mum. xxxxxx

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The Catcher of Her Dreams

“A mother’s love is instinctual, unconditional, and forever.”

Today I am writing about an event that, if I am to be completely honest, I wish had not happened. But it wasn’t my choice to make.

For the last six years, my daughter has contemplated thoughts of one day getting a tattoo. Way back when she was thirteen, my reaction had been, “in your dreams!”, as she would have needed my permission at that age, and that wasn’t going to happen.

As the years progressed and talk of getting a tattoo intensified, I would feel ill, as she spoke of the designs she had been considering.

“I gave birth to a perfect body, and I do not wish to see your perfect skin totally ruined, by having ink injected into it”, I would argue.

My daughter persisted. She investigated the credentials of tattoo artists near and far, finally deciding on one not too far from home, who has a very good reputation in the circles of “those who know”. Needless to say, I am not a member of any such circle.

Being artistically inclined, my girl began to draw tattoo designs, which she would show me, explaining where she would have the tattoo positioned on her body, her plan being that said eventual tattoo would be easily hidden beneath her clothing, unless she chose to expose it.

Whilst she became more confident by the day that she wanted to go ahead with this tattoo, my own motherly mind kicked in with the “what-if’s”.

What if she changes her mind about the tattoo as she grows older? She will have to have it removed, which is a costly and painful process.

What if she gains weight, for example, during pregnancy, and the tattoo becomes distorted?

What if the man she eventually wishes to spend her life with hates her tattoo? What if it’s a deal-breaker for him? Okay, there’s a simple answer to that question ~ if the tattoo is a deal-breaker, he doesn’t love my daughter for the person she really is, on the inside!

And there, with that last realisation, I discovered a mode of acceptance for myself, for my daughter’s decision on getting a tattoo ~ I do love her, no matter what. My love for her is unconditional, no matter how her body looks!

I may have given my daughter life, but that did not include a passport to dictate to her what choices she should make for her life.

Her tiny baby body may have at one time grown inside of me, but I cannot claim ownership on her body or any part of her life.

At nineteen years of age, my daughter has matured into a beautiful young woman, full of determination and spirit, with the knowledge of who she really is. She knows where she is going with her life. She plans ahead when the decision is one of significance.

Just as she did with her tattoo.

A close friend from school went with my daughter, the day the deed was done, and I thanked her for being there for my girl when I couldn’t be. I would have cried if I was there.

The design my daughter chose is beautiful, and significant. It is a dream catcher, so appropriate for my dreamer-daughter, who, for most of her life, has had a dream catcher above her bed. It holds onto the good dreams for her, and takes away the bad dreams.

The tattoo has been positioned on the side of her torso, easily hidden by clothing; easily exposed at the beach.

The pink shading adds an even more “girly” effect to the design, just as it should be, for my ultra-feminine daughter.

Even though I may have wished otherwise, when my daughter had made her decision, I supported her, she’s my baby, and I love her, no matter what.

And there’s no exceptions.

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Restoring a Photograph Album to its Former Glory

One of my parents valued possessions was an old photograph album, containing photos and memories of their journey from England to Australia, in 1951, on the “SS New Australia”.

They enjoyed reminiscing occasionally, as they looked through the album and remembered the six-week long voyage with their three little girls. For my family, it had been a major life change for them all, as they said goodbye to their friends and family in the country of the birth, to begin a brand new life on the other side of the world.

There came a time in our lives when my sisters and I were obliged to remove all of our parents belongings from their home. Remembering back to the time, I recall the anguish we felt, knowing our parents would no longer have a need for any of the possessions they had left behind here on earth. Yet the time is also tinged with happiness, for it was a few days in time when my sisters and I reminisced together, of the days we remembered which would never be again. We girls were in this together, and we felt a sense of unity in our task.

With me being the sister with the interest in family history, my sisters felt that I should keep our parents photo albums, all bar one ~ the album from the “New Australia”. My eldest sister had been old enough to remember their days spent on the journey to this country and it would only be fitting that she kept this album. Besides which, I wasn’t born when the journey had been made.

Some pages are untouched...

Four years ago, however, my eldest sister departed from this world herself. The album no longer belonged in our family. After a divorce from her first husband, she had remarried, to a man who had not the slightest inclination to become a part of his new wife’s family.

Unfortunately he kept all of my sister’s possessions. He felt that not even my nephew and niece were entitled to their mothers belongings, giving them a few odds and ends of his choice, which, as my niece told me, mostly should have been discarded.

Even though I had remembered my parents old photo album I had not been on speaking terms with my sisters second husband for some years, finding him unpleasant and rude towards myself and most members of my family. One of my older sisters, however, who had been on the ship from England, had no qualms in asking for the album to be returned to its rightful owners.

Surprisingly, he returned the album. Unfortunately, it had been damaged.

one missing...

My sister asked me to take the album, even though it had been returned to her on the condition that I did not get it. Who was he to say who the album went to? It wasn’t his in the first place! My sister and I were horrified, although not surprised, by this statement.

Many of the old, irreplaceable photos have been randomly ripped from the pages of the album; some still remain.

Pages totally destroyed...

Going through all of the other photos from the same era, which I had been given many years ago, I think that I have managed to find enough replacement photos, to cover the destroyed pages. I have even found a couple of photos of the ship itself on the internet, which I will have printed, to add to the album.

A part of the history of the old album has been lost, but it will soon be as good as new again. It is far too precious, in terms of our family memorabilia, to remain disfigured.

This album will be returned to its former glory!

...soon to be repaired.

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A Sea Change…(AKA – An Adventure with my Reckless Parents!)

On our way north, with our lives packed into a caravan...

In 1971 my parents decided to make a “sea change”, selling our house, all of our furniture, discarding or giving away personal belongings which they believed we no longer needed, packed a few “must keep” items into boxes which were sent away to be stored, bought a caravan, and off we went.

Even writing that first line here gives me a feeling of panic; I personally would never dream of doing such a thing! Yet my parents found the whole idea so easy, almost as if it were a natural thing to do.

Sell your home; sure. Pack in your high paid job; no problem. Take your youngest child out of high school when she has only just started at her new school; she’ll cope!

Well, I did cope. I had no other choice, did I? What else could I do, other than tag along with these reckless parents of mine?

But here’s the thing; they had done it all twenty years before. When they had three young daughters, aged nine, six and four years of age, they packed a few beloved items into two large trunks, hopped on board the ship, “SS New Australia” and floated away into the sunset, in search of a new life on the opposite side of the world.

I must admit, buying the caravan was pretty great. And the idea of hooking the van up to the back of Dad’s station wagon in the middle of the night and beginning the drive north was very romantic.

And I knew I would be safe with my parents. Dad would fight off any monsters that threatened to harm me, whilst Mum held me safe within her protective arms, so really, I had nothing to worry about….did I?

How did a home-body like me happen to be born into a family where the father is absolutely fearless and the mother constantly has “itchy feet” and wants to spend her life in search of adventure?

Well, if it was adventure and change they were after, they succeeded, but that didn’t come as any surprise. My parents were both very feline like; they were a pair of cats with nine lives and always landed on their feet!

Dad out the front of the shop, with that dreaded bread window at the right side of the photo!

After four months of living in caravan parks (and using public facilities for our bathroom!) they finally decided to buy a shop in the very pretty town of Murwillumbah, New South Wales, slightly inland from the coast and just south of the Queensland and New South Wales state border.

To say “they” decided is not completely accurate; Dad had his heart set on buying the shop and Mum, true to her sense of adventure simply went along for the ride. Mum thought the buildings were shabby and old; well, looking at the old photos, she was right! But oh, that old shabby building was full of character and there was never a dull moment in the shop.

Poor Mum, she didn’t want to be tied to working in a shop, seven days a week, from 6am to 9pm! And when they went to view the business with a view to purchase, she remembered we had stopped at the shop on one of our previous trips north to buy a drink, but she had refused to buy anything. When she had looked in the fresh bread window there was a fly buzzing around the loaves of bread!

“Well, we’ll just make sure we don’t keep any flies with the bread then!”, Dad had argued, and he won the battle, although Mum was not satisfied until Dad renovated the shop, removing the dreaded bread window!

Our home was directly above the shop and apart from the white-ants in the wall in the hallway, the clanking blinds on the veranda that kept you awake at night (there was no glass in the windows on the veranda) and the toilet room was as big as a ballroom, it was a pretty comfortable home to live in! The old building had charm.

Dad inside the shop with staff, and friends, May & Betty.

Dad had convinced Mum that the business would be a little gold mine and he was right. It was situated right across the road from the ralway station, right where the railway line terminated, so when every train arrived, the shop became flooded with customers, plus there was a bus stop right at our front door. We were also right on the Pacific Highway and the last main town before reaching Tweed Heads and Coolangatta on the state border, so our shop was a huge draw-card to holiday makers. (Remember the fly in the bread window? We were on holidays at the time and stopped at the shop ourselves!)

We sold take-away food, groceries, bread (ha, ha!), dairy products, chemist items, we were a sub-newsagency and green grocers…you name it – we sold it!

Back view of the shop, showing the old shed and the bakery.

Apart from first thing in the morning and later at night we had two to three ladies working for us and I made friends with them all. I loved to help the ladies when I could; restacking the shelves or buttering bread for the sandwiches during the lunchtime rush, if I wasn’t at school, that is!

Out the back of the shop were some old sheds, which I couldn’t wait to explore. One building turned out to be a disused bakery (there’s that bread reference again!) that looked as if someone had just walked out one day, leaving everything in its place, never to return. The other

Looking towards the river, across the flood waters, from upstairs.

building, a shed actually, contained a neatly made bed (complete with folded up pyjamas under the pillow) and various other household items, including a bottle of metholated spirits. Urgh! After asking around, we found out that an old tramp had once lived there, and unfortunately the metho had been his “cheap alcohol”.

Around the back of the shop and across the road we had the Tweed River, so when it rained heavily for days, and flood warnings were issued, it was a matter of “all hands on deck” as we rushed around the shop, lifting everything in sight, before the river broke its banks. The flood waters ran straight through the shop, while we were safely tucked away upstairs, with Mum taking photos of the flood waters!

My parents had wanted a new adventure in their lives and for the three years we lived and worked in Murwillumbah it was a fun time, with so many memories, even more than I have recorded here.

It was a time when I thought my parents had totally lost their marbles and were in need of a “sanity check”, but being the felines that they were,  they landed, unharmed, right on their feet.

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Heather

I spent most of the day yesterday thinking about friends.

And friendships.

And how important it is to have people, namely friends, in our lives.

One friend in particular has been on my mind constantly for a number of weeks now, as she has nursed her husband of over thirty years through the last days and weeks of his life.

When Heather and I first met, about three years ago now, I felt immediately that she was a woman of strength and wisdom, honesty and courage.

And love. Heather has a heart full to brimming over with love, love for her family, her friends and neighbours. She epitomises the word love, so it came as no surprise at all to watch Heather’s friends rally to her side in her time of need.

When Heather faltered in her faith and strength, her friends were there to give her the courage she needed to make it through the day.

Prayers and good wishes were sent across the entire world, from people who wished to be her strength at times when Heather didn’t feel she had the will to go on.

I, too, sent Heather words of encouragement, prayers and love, along with everyone else who is proud to call her their friend, many of whom, like myself, have never met Heather.

As the days progressed and the health of Heather’s husband deteriorated, she continued to open up her heart, along with their lives, and share the journey that the family was taking; the joyous, priceless moments, of which there were many, along with the pain and the tears, as they all witnessed the husband and father who they all loved so dearly, slipping away from them.

Where did Heather find the strength to share, on a daily basis, the incidence of her life? Many days I would read her words and marvel at this woman of courage and faith.

And as Heather continued to record her feelings and bare her soul to her friends, more and more friends appeared to offer her support, to help carry her through this journey on the days when she felt she could walk no further, to be a crutch to her when she just needed a little encouragement to carry on.

Heather recorded her weak and faltering husband, as he had requested a moment himself in which to personally send thanks to those who offered their family words of encouragement and love.

I am totally in awe of this family! What a privilege it is to call Heather my friend! Never before in my life have I witnessed such an out-pouring of love, appreciation, strength, belief, courage, wisdom, faith and honesty, and all from a family who were living through one of the most tragic times in their lives!

Heather’s husband took his final journey just a few hours ago, and I would like to share the words which Heather wrote after she had rested. I wish to remember these words forever ~

“Heather woke up HAPPY and PEACEFUL and filled with JOY. I cannot explain it, but I have so much to share with you all over the coming days. The smile on my beloved’s face after he passed…the cessation of suffering and the radiation of peace is forever emblazoned on my eyes, mind and heart. I just want to SING GOD BE PRAISED!!!!!!!!! I was right there, in his face as he took his flight. I was laughing and smiling and glorifying God and his eyes were bright and you could feel the energy as he left. It was so amazing. Farewell, my one true love. I will miss you, but oh the memory of your passing is so incredibly beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Only a heart of stone could not be moved by Heather’s words.

As I write, I struggle to see through the tears in my eyes; tears of sadness over the loss which Heather’s family must endure, tears of joy as I recall the happiness they have found during the darkest of days and also tears of pride as my heart is bursting, as I marvel at the strength of my friend.

Through Heather’s eyes, I have seen the pure love throughout the world, love which makes no demands and no promises, has no expectations and is totally, completely and absolutely unconditional.

And friendship. I will never underestimate the power of friendship, of opening your heart and your arms, and welcoming people into your life.

Thank you Heather. Thank you for being my friend, for opening your heart, for your honesty, your wisdom and your belief.

Photo credit – Barbaraellen Koch (Photo taken the night Heather’s husband made his final journey.)

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“It took me a long time not to judge myself…..”

For many years when my children were younger and demands on my time were greater, I didn’t write, other than when sending letters to friends or family, or writing out my Christmas cards.

There was, however, one day when I made an exception and wrote briefly, on Thursday, 28^th January, 1999.

This was an exceptional day from beginning to end. It was a day that marked the end of an era which had its beginning in 1920, when my father was born.

The part I played in the events of this era began the day that I had been born. But for my three sisters and me, this day marked the end of the life we had always known, for it was the day we signed the final papers to wind up our parent’s estate.

All personal belongings, including furniture, had been distributed among family members. The house had been sold; the car was gone.

Our family home was no more.

It had been a surreal day from beginning to end. I remember having trouble writing, but write I knew I must, for this day was indeed a day to remember.

As “Memoirs of my Life” is where I record such memories, it is time for me to add my thoughts of this memorable day here. It was a once-in-a-lifetime day, the likes of which can never be repeated.

Thursday, 28^th January, 1999.

“Today I have signed my name many times. At 9:30 am, I went to our solicitor’s office to sign the final papers for probate on Dad’s estate.

After collecting my seventeen month old baby from his father, we went to order my new car, one big enough to accommodate our family of six, a Toyota Land Cruiser, in “Scorched Earth Red”. Once again, many papers to sign.

My son and I had lunch together in a favourite cafe in town.

After we returned home, all of my four children and I went to the local shopping centre, where we found a large carpet for the family room. I bought the carpet with some of my Dad’s money. On Sunday I bought new pink light shades for all of the hall lights, also with Dad’s money.

These are some of my last gifts from my father. Thank you Daddy.

My three older children started the new school year today, with my eldest son starting year eight. He has been graded into all ‘A’ classes for this year. We also called in at ballet and enrolled the girls in their ballet classes again for the year.

Such an eventful day; a nice day with my children.”

Even now, as I type these words, written over thirteen years ago, I have the same hollow feelings as I felt on that day. I hadn’t wanted to sign those probate papers. I wanted my father back. I didn’t want to be an orphan. But that was what I was now.

My three sisters had all wanted to sell our parents home; I didn’t. They wanted to get it over with; I wasn’t ready, but being one out of four I had no other choice, or so I believed at the time. I was out-numbered and vulnerable.

What I should have done was buy out my three sister’s shares in the house. Why didn’t I think of that back then? Grief has a way of muddling your brain no end. I could have rented out the house. When the time came, one or more of my children could have lived there when they were ready to leave home.

The old ‘me’ allowed people to rail-road me into doing what they told me was the best thing to do. Foolishly I listened. I gave away my power to those whom I thought had more knowledge and I let them have more power over me than I had myself.

That isn’t happening any more. If only I had known back then that the only reason they had any power over me was because I allowed them to.

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The Magic of Mellowing

 

Me, Mum & Anne

As the years have progressed, it has been my observation that most people mellow with age.

I know I have!

To some extent, my sister Anne mellowed also, although it did take the single most devastating news that I have ever received in my life to bring about a significant change to Anne’s demeanour.

My mother meant the world to me. I believe I have mentioned in previous posts here that she was not just my mother; she and I were the best of friends. I trusted and depended on my mum completely, in fact I depended on her too much.

Mum and Anne had a completely different relationship. At times their relationship was strained, other times fiery and full of arguments and there were other times when they didn’t even speak!

When we were given the news that our Mum was extremely ill, Anne and Mum finally put their differences aside and began a loving mother and daughter relationship, much like the relationship that Mum and I always had.

When my mother began to speak to me about the visits she not only enjoyed, but looked forward to with Anne, with genuine affection, it felt to me as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders!

Two of my best friends in the entire world were finally friends also. I can’t begin to describe the relief and happiness I felt as I watched their relationship grow.

As Mum’s final days here on earth drew to a close, Anne would spend every day at her hospital bedside, along with our father. I appreciated knowing that my mum was not alone when I couldn’t be with her. Having three young children myself, the youngest still a baby, other family commitments took up a significant amount of my days.

It’s ironic though, that on the morning my Mum left us, my baby daughter and I had our final visit with her, alone. Anne and Dad had not yet arrived at the hospital.

After my baby and I had left the room, the nurse went in to check on Mum, only to find she had gone. Was she alive when I left her? I believe she was, as I could see a large pulse beating in Mum’s neck.

Anne was understandably upset that Mum had gone while she wasn’t with her; after all of the hours and days she had sat at her bedside.

After Mum was gone, Anne changed. It wasn’t just a progression of the mellowing, she really changed.

My once fun and flippant sister began to age. She pointed out the fact that she was now the “older generation” of women in our family.

Being a talented artist and sewer, Anne would spend countless hours making craft items for every member of her family, ensuring her name and the date of completion of her project was added to each item.

Something to remember her by, she said. So she wouldn’t be forgotten, after she herself was gone.

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The Ice Princess

Anne and me.

The “Ice Princess” lived in the house next door.

I believed her to be the most beautiful woman in the world, but I never spoke to her. She had no time for me. But that didn’t bother me at all.

I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. To my child’s mind, she epitomised beauty, elegance, wisdom, wit and knowledge.

Her husband always spoke to me though. If I had a question, he was the approachable one. When Mum and Dad were invited over to play cards after dinner, he asked me to join in the game, and helped me to win.

He offered me a sip from his glass of beer and shared the bowls of chips and lollies with me. He even allowed me to strike the match to light his cigarette.

As for the “Ice Princess” though, she didn’t seem to realise that I existed, unless I got in her way and she told me to move. Or she wanted me to watch out for her little son for a few minutes, while she had some important chore to do.

Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon I would sit out the front of our house and watch the two of them play tennis on the street. They were great tennis players.

And to see them dance together was pure magic! She had some old records that they loved to dance to, and she would sing to the songs as they danced. Of course, she knew all of the words to the songs and she never sang out of tune.

When she baked a cake, she didn’t even need to follow a recipe! But I never tasted a single thing from her kitchen that didn’t immediately melt in my mouth.

As for knitting, she could whip up a jumper for her son within a couple of days! She laughed at my stunned awe at her expertise in knitting, telling me it really was quite easy, anyone could do it. “Well, Mum can’t”, I’d tell her, and she’d laugh her light-hearted laugh. Conversation over.

Many days, I would hear her and Mum argue, although I never knew what about, nor did I have any opinions on their matters of dissention. I loved my Mum and idolised the “Ice Princess”. Case closed.

My parents and I moved to another house while I was still very young, by which time the “Ice Princess” had given birth to her second and last child, a daughter.

Why did she ever become a mother? Perhaps she felt it was the “done thing” back in those days, just as she seemed to believe getting married the appropriate thing to do. She played the role of wife and mother very well for a number of years, although her heart was never in either role.

With my fifteenth birthday approaching, it was with great excitement that I received the news of the “Ice Princesses” upcoming visit. We now lived about one thousand kilometres away from where I had spent the early years of my life and I couldn’t wait for their visit. She would have the two children with her, but her husband would not be accompanying them.

Now in her thirties, to me she was still as beautiful and poised as she had always been.

Suddenly, the “Ice Princess” began regarding me as a human being! We talked for hours, but not just idle, menial chatter about the latest fashions. It became apparent that we had a number of common interests.

She realised that I had become more than just an annoying child, hanging around her feet. I realised that the “Ice Princess” had become my strongest ally.

And so began my relationship with my sister, Anne, a relationship that at times would mean more to me than any other.

The ice on the princess had melted, and in doing so had revealed a simply amazing friend.

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‘Tis a Melancholy Kind of Day…

For the life of me, I really can’t imagine what has put me into this mood that I’m in.

Reading the most recent posts of some of my favourite bloggers always makes me smile…and as much as I have enjoyed today’s words, just as I do every time they share their words of wisdom and beautiful photographs, I’m having trouble finding the words to respond….

What is it that makes one feel so lifeless, and unexcited, uninspired and melancholy?

Only one word sums it all up perfectly ~ today, I’m feeling rather beige and I don’t like it!

I do miss my garden. Lack of time recently has not permitted my usual daily wanderings amongst the shrubs, fruits trees and vegetable garden, which I hold so dear to my heart. Now, the night has fallen; too late to enjoy the blossoms, greenery, sunshine and fresh air…

But then again, tomorrow is another day…

Another day, and I must find the opportunity to ponder my own thoughts, losing track of time within the contemplations of my heart, mind and soul…

That’s it!

How long has it been? How many days have passed me by, days, or is it months… since I last had time to myself?

Time to privately converse with my soul; time where my thoughts have been my own; time when my mind has not been invaded by the vocal thoughts of another?

Tomorrow, I must find some time for me. Time…standing with the souls of my bare feet pressed into the warm, golden sands of the beach, time for breathing the fresh, salty air of the ocean ~ deep, strong breaths of cool spring air…and peaceful thoughts, interrupted only by the blissful sounds of nearby crashing waves…

Thank you so much for listening. I feel less beige already…

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Springtime Magic

“It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you’ve got it, you want – oh, you don’t quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!” ~ Mark Twain

The first day of spring brings promises of beauty yet to arrive…of births yet to take place…of dreams yet to be fulfilled.

Breaths of springtime air to fill the senses with the fragrances of the earth and all of its glorious bounty…

Rays of warm sunlight caressing the skin…

Crystal clear starlight illuminating the darkness of the night’s skies…

And my heart may burst with anticipation watching the magic of spring rejoice as it casts its springtime spells across God’s green earth.

All is well with the world…

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