If
you
were
here
Choose
This is the real story of some birds: A jar, a very large jar sits upon the French bakers rack in my kitchen. I fold origami cranes. A lot of origami cranes, it seems they have taken it upon themselves to transform. I noticed there are little tiny hearts on the bottom of the wings. I also noticed they have turned themselves inside-out. A very short story.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
There is a season
for everything to be examined, in the willingness to focus the time, to look closely at the details, while searching for an appreciation and understanding of what is there. Once in a while one finds it, the beauty, I mean.
Glimpses of something that you see every day suddenly become much more than what they be. Petals fallen, pollen dusting the shelf from another flower, a tangerine you scraped for its flavor enhancement of the biscotti you make for someone you love, these are noticed and recorded in the winter season before the snow melts and the crocus appear. This celebration of what it means to be here is the experience of my life, my path. I have one crack at it, life, I mean. In the end I want to be content with the choices I make. When I am old memories are what will sustain me and dreams will entertain my waking moments of contemplation in the circles my brain makes. There is a time. . .
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