Isabella Bird Miscellany

i’m not much of a morning person.    Not one to lounge around all day, I usually wake up by 7:00 or 7:30, but I want it to be quiet, coffee-filled and without conversation.   For a person of words, this seems wacky, nonetheless it’s my preference.   Birds and butterflies get it, starting the day with gentleness… morning creeps beautifully over the horizon, a graceful beginning to the ballet lusty red-breasted robins bob about pecking for a morsel a chorus of mourning doves coo the gentle background notes pale sherbet hues nonchalantly embrace dusky skies casting appropriate light on the dawning dancers beads of dew on outstretched fields reflect the emerging colors whispering cues to prima ballerina gossamer winged she pirouettes, kissing wildflowers with each turn lithe, agile on pointe movements across a stage of meadow grass day’s sweet-tempered choreography shatters as sun breaks the skyline gilding the tiptoe performance Happy gentle mo

great white throne, zion national park rock formations rise into sea-colored skies                 crags and checkerboard patterns created and being created desert-scape overlaid with carvings scribbled into the rock                 by The Hand and elements The Hand created Places evoke feelings, and certain places string together extraordinary feelings.  One such spot for me is Zion National Park. I’ve been there four times.  The first was quite a few years back.  Our family stayed in the lodge, watched the overly friendly deer, hiked and played in the fallen leaves while listening to a Kenny G Christmas CD.  It was beautiful and mesmerizing.  Each subsequent trip has become a sort of spiritual pilgrimage; a gift from the earth. The peaks that intersect with the heavens are like massive altars in my world.  A rest tumbles over me in Zion unlike other locations.  It is a thin place where I see God, his etchings in rocks and flowing water.  I hear

winter branches In anticipation of spring equinox in just over a week, I’m really glad that I have a hope of its arrival, faded as it maybe when cold rain and snowflakes continue to drop on my town. days and weeks passed slowly it was cold, actually a step beyond, frigid everything encased in white and ice nothing dripped winter held a strangle hold on all it touched but the sun was brilliant in equally brilliant skies sparkles danced a taunting reel on snow fields in the dead of winter spring was a faded hope 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