Isabella Bird Miscellany

snowflake covered icicles How full of creative genius is the air in which these are generated!  I should hardly admire more if real stars fell and lodged on my coat – Henry David Thoreau I sat down to write a piece of poetry about Christmas and snow falling.  Words like softly and gently wanted to be written, but they seemed cliché.  You see, a couple of weeks ago someone told me I was all “happy-clappy” about Christmas.  This person knows nothing of my life; the good stuff or the sad.  We simply look at the pasted smile and go about our days, because that is what we are supposed to do. Having allowed myself to get duly worked up, I understood that my outlook had nothing to do with outward circumstances; it’s rooted in my intrinsic values and beliefs.  It’s my distinct gift to open every day. You see, the very first Christmas was not a glitter covered event with gentle snowflakes and hot toddys.  It was in a barn full of animals and ransacked with scandal.  There

"the best tree ever" he exclaimed! It’s the same story every year.  I look, I search, I contemplate.  Trees have to be pirouetted around so I can see all the angles.  That’s the Christmas-tree-lot-version.  This year, my fam is going out to cut a tree; very Griswald like.  In years past, this was our tradition, complete with a bonfire, thermoses filled with hot chocolate and mulled wine; hot dogs to roast on fresh cut sticks. Mostly, we’d tromp around in the woods, giving each potential tree a once over, until that “Hallelujah Chorus” moment arrived.   The only problem it was on the other side of an icy cold creek, with banks and drifts of equally cold and deep snow.  Well, hubby being the really swell guy that he is managed to cross the water without drenching himself.  He cut the tree, floated it downstream to a more appropriate place to bring it up the bank, to present me with my prized Noble Fir.  That was the story from an eon ago.  The 2015 tale is r

advent:  a coming into being I’m a city girl.  I miss the city, the din of traffic and construction; the crushing music of urbanity.  I’m becoming accustomed to a slower pace, filled with a handful of street lights and natural sounds.  I’m finding that when one thing is missed, others come into being. stumbling in the dark no street lights... no flash lights... no head lights black skies littered with stars bright and brilliant distant night lights shooting and dancing iridescent sparklers invisible in the light so I stumble Advent is all about watching for an arrival; things to come into place.  The word is connected to the Holiday Season, as we eagerly await Christmas and the birth of a tiny baby.  One way or another Advent, the arrival of Emmanuel needs to influence more than a certain time of year.  We need Him to crash into culture in general and our private lives, specifically – always.  Like stars that are forever hung in the night sky, even whe