cocooned in a glass container

I was cocooned in a glass container on top of a hill, shrouded in clouds and mist. Eva Cassidy sang a bluesy "Wade in the Water." Looking out, the infinity deck was like a ship's bow and we were sailing through the storm.

Every other year is our all-family together, together Thanksgiving gathering.

2018 happened to be that gathering year, and I was spoiled; getting to stay in one of our favorite spots - the cabin above the clouds - that belongs to some friends.

Thanksgiving Day was a cacophony of activity. Cousins big and little did their thing. The littles running through the house, even though they were supposed to be upstairs. Tons of giggling could be heard, and of course, the requisite getting mad; just because that's what happens. Love and interaction does that. Family, even at young ages is messy, but I wouldn't trade or discard it.

Stories, old and new were re-lived. Some old stories were given new applications.

All isn't rose-colored and perfect like Hallmark movies. No, there's tension, apprehension and unfamiliarity. But, what I noticed was a good amount of grace and many genuine moments; conversations on serious notes, jokes and more laughter.

We held hands and were grateful for the enormous amount of food we had, while being mindful of the lack others experience.

Mostly, I was aware love. Not the type that's all tidy and honestly, not real. No, the word I'd use is authentic, because it came from the places that each of us are in - it came from life.

So, as I sat in my glass container, I was conscious of the value of family, as messed up and insanely crazy as it may be. Whether it's biological or figured-out, our gathering and being together is a true connecting treasure.

Happy post Thanksgiving, my friends -

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

Comments

road tripping: french glen and steens mountain

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

lent, not lint

says it all - the grotto It sticks to your clothes and shows up splendidly on black, it gets caught on the screen in the dryer and socks elaborately decorate your toes with the stuff. Yep, lint: the fuzzy, ravelings of fabric that cling to everything; like Velcro, only different. Lint actually has a purpose. By scraping it from linen it can be made into a soft, fleecy fabric. Cotton staple – lint fibers – are spun into yarn. While all of this is riveting, especially while staring at the lint in your belly-button, there’s more to Lent than its sound doppelganger. lint: fluffy, minute shreds of yarn lent: a season of preparation These two tiny words sound similar in our vernacular, but have massively different implications in our lives. We clean-up lint and toss it in the trash. Lent, however is a prepping time for us to realize we’re not great at cleaning up our own stuff. Lent was originally a season between winter and summer, now called spring. The s

pebbles

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

Isabella Bird Miscellany

Search This Blog