Isabella Bird Miscellany

frozen drips waiting for release Sitting in silence. It’s still dark outside. White lights on the Christmas tree reflect off the dangling colored ornaments. Stock simmers on the stove. Drips can be heard outside; it’s the first day in a week above freezing. Yesterday, I posted a graphic I’d saved. It simply read, “Silence calms my soul.” Silence is a gift. Silence is golden. Silence is often missed; not even an operative word. We live with so much noise, chatter continually happening, externally, yes, but internally. Sitting in silence , I listen for sound; the stockpot lid starting to rattle, more melting and splashing, the coffee pot’s gurgling, my dog stretching and changing position. In silence I hear these things that might otherwise be missed. Thousands of years ago, shepherds sat in the silence of the night. I imagine there was a warm, crackling fire and stories of the day being shared among friends.  Their silence was broken with a great announce

little hands reaching for the wonder It was a weekend of Christmas events – the season is in full swing, carols of cheer ring through shops and festivities. The massive tree downtown had the switch flipped, illuminating it with thousands of tiny colored lights while onlookers sipped hot chocolate topped with a mound of swirled whipped cream. People chatted and warmed themselves around small half kegs turned into fire pits and raised to table height. It looked like a scene out of a Dickens story only set in modern day America. Saturday was parade day, a parade like only happens in a small city; marching bands and floats with scouts and girls’ dance teams; prancing horses with jingle bells and the requisite pooper-scooper tagging behind. Bystanders waved and wished all a “Merry Christmas” with an equally enthusiastic response. A heartwarming and genuine spirit of Christmas. And...more hot chocolate and Santa making his grand appearance at the tail end of the parade that woun

winter seeds, all is not dormant Soft season of quiet anticipation, blankets with mist and snow Preparing for the dormant time   Sweet solitude balms the weary, all is in calm repose Patient and silent in winter’s rest   Come gentle season of peace and stillness, envelope in candlelight and flickering fire Welcome Counselor, welcome Advent   Solus Christus Sunday was the beginning of Advent, a time marked with anticipation of something, someone to come. It’s a time of expectant waiting; things coming into being. I am quiet. I am anticipating. I am waiting for things to come into being. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

thanksgiving: grateful acknowledgement of divine favor     Pine needles lay like pokey Pick-Up-Sticks on the sidewalk. I notice them as I walk; that and cracks, pebbles and dirt that washed from a flower bed in a recent rain. Stuff scattered on the sidewalk. It’s not clean. It’s rather messy. Thanksgiving is tomorrow; a day marked on the calendar to acknowledge the good things in our lives. This is good, right? For a lot of us the answer is “yes,” but this year, more than ever, I’m keenly aware of how desperately painful the Holidays can be. People’s lives and relationships look like the messy sidewalk, so they don’t want to walk there. I get that; it looks like there’s nothing good to acknowledge. There is a calmness to a life lived in gratitude, a quiet joy – Ralph H Blum Walking, I look more closely at the pine needles, seeing the slender taper, the soft brown color and the patterns they leave on the sidewalk. The cracks spider-out like delicate snowflakes

life in a crack We left the city yesterday, wet leaves covered sidewalks; brown and at the end of their season. It had been nice to walk neighborhoods, dart into cafes for coffee or a drink. It was grey in a melancholy sort of way, with a fresh breeze. Being reminded of traffic, activity, and people. The places we gravitate filled with the not-mainstream people. I’m intrigued with their stories and thoughts, often different from mine. Bridges and highways, buildings old and new, some dilapidated, others restored. The rush and crush continues, all covered with leaves set in grey. Written in Seaside, about Portland while in our hip, urban loft-esque industrial hotel. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

look at the birds, free and unfettered Earlier this week, after walking around the lake and stopping on the dock to watch the water, I was mindful of the rippled surface. It was still water, there was still a sandy bottom scattered with stones. It was the surface, not the substance that was different. Peace, be still – Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

meet isabella bird Things toss us around, messing with our peaceful being; big stuff and small irritations. You know that unsettled or just plain angry attitude that can drape us like a wet blanket. Yeah, that one, and I was wearing it – not sure why, but I was. Most mornings I take my Bella girl for a walk before work. Today was no exception. Time is short on work days, so the pace was quick. Belle is a funny girl, all brave one moment and frozen in fear the next. There’s a grade school near us, and like most, someone comes over the loud speaker at the beginning of the day to say good morning and give a few announcements. My sweet puppy has taken to being afraid of the voice in the wind. There’s no apparent reason, really, it’s a voice. Nonetheless, she is frightened. Lesson from a brown dog: we are held securely and talked to in a soothing voice when the loud speaker is blaring When this happens, she freezes and won’t go another step, or she tries to dart

I chose a seat by the window. There weren’t too many available... The glass went all the way to the floor. A wood bar was mounted at counter height with wobbly swivel stools. The view was urban; sidewalk, cars and shops. An older couple walked by leisurely, holding hands, while a couple of twenty somethings smiling and talking had a fast pace. I like watching from my fish bowl. A small bird pecked at what I can only assume were crumbs from someone’s leftover muffin. It’s quite content with scraps. The day itself was rainy and really blowing. Mid-fall leaves trying to cling to nearly bare branches, knowing that soon they too will join the others spread on the sidewalk. It’s pretty. I’m sort of oblivious to the goings on around me in the coffee house, instead giving my attention to what’s outside. While there’s activity inside, much is happening outside the window. Choosing where I sit – Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or insp

aspen leaves look like golden coins tinkling from weathered white branches wind child, unseen, nevertheless felt; no origin or home.  wind child comes and goes, disturbing all she blows through and past,  over and under, tossed and turned.  wind child blusters and plays a mirthful game of hide and seek I stepped out the front door to a blast of wind. It wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold, just wind gusting on an autumn afternoon. Why do we use the word fall more than autumn? Dry leaves clattered down the sidewalk, as a cloud of dirt and debris from a nearby construction site forced me to close my eyes, and I hoped Bella was doing the same. Taking a left on the next block, pine needles lay like pick-up sticks on the sidewalk and late season purple asters grew. My senses were on high alert. The wind does that; it disturbs everything. I felt it blowing hair out of my face; saw it kicking up and knocking down leaves of almost iridescent yellow and ruby c

strewn pebbles Walking on the path I noticed the pebbles. I stopped and picked one up, holding it in my hand to feel it’s texture. Tiny and smooth, it felt warm from the sun. Continuing on my walk, the way was scattered with pebbles of different shapes and sizes; some flat and polished, others round and craggy with sharp edges that could cut the skin. I considered the meaning, if any. Some had been sanded to perfection by time and wear. Others recently broken and chipped were harsh, ugly to feel and look at. No matter, all were pebbles; that was fact. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

we took a stinkin' lot of dirt roads, but i wouldn't have it any other way The drive wasn’t long by west coast standards, a mere few of hours; which meant there was plenty of leisure (interpreted coffee time) before leaving on another road trip escapade.  I can’t begin to tell you how much fun it is to pack a bag, gas up the car and set out to see what can be seen. An interesting thing I’ve discovered on these exploits, is that having lived in Oregon for the majority of my life, I’ve missed “seeing” a lot of things. You know, I think we all get into the habit of going to the same places, which is a good thing, but we forget about the “other” places that are right in our own backyards. Case in point, yesterday afternoon, when my darling man and I went to Tumalo Falls. I’ve been to Skyliner Snow Park, but never gone the few more dirt road miles to see the falls. Holy cow! Is that lame, or what? a sweet little place, no frills, but plenty of yesteryear

What’s hidden in a blur of color? You know, those pictures that look like one thing until you put on special glasses Magically, we see shapes and forms that were hidden in plain sight Startling how the kaleidoscope transforms before us Isn’t life like that? Walking around in a blur of colored glass shards, when a pair of cardboard glasses with a cellophane lens would change everything Instead, we stumble and trip over things or flat out ignore them, pretending not to see Saying it’s hidden, lost in the blur A scant excuse that we tell ourselves to ease the unease we feel at our intended blindness What’s hidden in a blur of color? Child’s laughter and falling leaves; hurt and need and hunger Tears of joy and tragedy An amalgamation titled life -   Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

burst through a blow-hole at sunset, 2016 I’ve been to Yachats a number of times, staying at The Adobe.  It was always our go-to spot to celebrate our anniversary, and set our annual goals while watching waves crash thru vast picture windows. We would wander to Smelt Sands, the pebbly beach near the hotel. End of our Yachats story. we sat just behind the drift log and watched the sun fall into the sea Desperately needing to spend some time at the beach, I looked on line, decided our budget wouldn’t do well with our previous abode, and so chose an intimate Inn settled in the middle of town. It had good reviews and the walkability was off the chart, always a plus in my book. Did I mention the view of the sea? You know how there’s always the binder, like we used in school, with helpful information? Well, our room had that. The most interesting tidbit was typed neatly in courier, an “ideal spot for a stop in the course of a motoring trip along the breathtak

Shaniko, a place where life still exists How do you get from point A to point B? Bus, plane, train, scooter, even our feet are a mode of transportation. What about when it comes to vacation time? Is it a matter of hurry up, rush, so you can get there all exhausted and really not ready to hit every major attraction? Me? I’m a road tripping kind of girl. When the kids were little, our family vacations always involved piling them, their stuffed animals, travel-sized games and tons of snacks into the car. We would carefully map out our stops to include restaurants with playgrounds, aka, McDonalds and our must-have on motels was a pool. be a law abiding citizen, or face the paddy wagon. i wonder if that would have worked with fighting kids? I have mixed memories of these road trips.  Mostly, I smile as I think about them, and then suddenly I'm jolted back into the reality of the “are we there yet?” question mingled with the “don’t breath on me” and I need to g

My days never quite play out like I’ve planned.  Sometimes that’s good; on other occasions it messes with my predetermined thoughts for the day, spilling into the week. Monday was kind of like that. A dentist appointment was on my calendar; however, as I headed to bed, I was already planning a very leisurely Monday morning. While brushing my teeth – how ironic – I remembered said dentist appointment. That prompted me to head for my phone and set two alerts … so I wouldn’t forget … again. I woke up about a half hour later than normal; blame it on the restless night’s sleep or the rainy morning, it didn’t matter. It was needed, and there was still plenty of time for a cup of coffee and a little reading. The bed, however, was left unmade (something that almost never happens), but a load of laundry was tossed in to wash. Not bad, as I dashed out the door. My to-do list wasn’t long: dentist appointment, get groceries, write a blog post, clean the house and a late aftern

brooding My heart is quiet and dark; brooding like the clouds hanging in this morning’s sky. Just when I think I’ll start to write happy thoughts, which seem trite given happenings in my world and in the very lives of my friends and family, I’m reminded of what my voice has to say. Injustice and sadness exist. That is a fact.  But, you know what? It takes really dark skies to see the stars. Darkness will never overwhelm light. Light, however, always lights up the dark. That is also a fact; one that I cling to desperately. There was a drought of beauty ; all was devoid, stark and barren Horizons held nothing to be desired, stripped and robbed of blossoms ripped and banned from the earth Photos, prints piled and discarded The only flowers remaining housed in vague memories How had the town reached this conclusion? Fragrance was absent No sound of buzzing bees or gossamer dragons darting in the sky Senses dulled and snuffed out to the miracles of existence Hearts tur

I’m a list maker; jotter-downer-of-words, thoughts and  tons of to-dos. They’re written by hand, put in my phone and typed into documents on my computer. I use lists to keep myself organized, to remember fleeting ideas to be revisited for whatever reason.  Sometimes there is no reason, I merely liked the phrase. You might say that lists are my muse.  This is especially true when I use writing a list to excite my writing.  Usually those lists are merely words that fall under some sort of heading like “things that are orange” or “things that start with the letter Y.” A few days ago, I was reading back through an old journal and I came on a list entitled, “things that are opening.”  The way it flowed was almost poetic.  It had an interesting cadence. I wanted to edit the list completely, but somehow the raw, not completely refined version seems better … just left open …                 my eyes, my heart, new stores and restaurants flower buds and doors w