Isabella Bird Miscellany

I woke to the sun streaming in through the over-sized window in the living room. Cupping my coffee, I closed my eyes and soaked it in. It was such a welcome relief to the previous day's fog that kept everything cold and frozen; huddled in against the grey. Stepping outside I could feel the slight warmth of the sun; my shadow elongated due to it's southerly slant in winter.  Even the birds were more chipper, singing vibrant melodies and flitting about. A few squirrels ran up and down bare trees. Isabella was playful with her nose to the ground and butt up, only to flop down and slide and roll in the remaining snow. I don't mind a little hibernating in the winter. It's a great time to catch up on some reading or to enjoy a hot drink of sorts with a friend. However, I do love the sun shining bright, making me squint. It enlivens the spirit when everything is monochromatic and dormant. The Danish have a cool word - hygge - pronounced hue-guh. Hygge acknowledg...

Walking past the hedge, on the edge of the broken pavement, the path constricts as branches brush past my cheek. The way is narrow and thin; a reflective pace unavoidable. There's life in the hedge - birds and bugs, spiders and the sort. Life seems well designed for creatures of nature. They exist in the hedge and dine on what comes their way; a small interactive society. In some way or another, we all live in a hedge - our town, our community, neighborhood and home. How much we participate in the movement of our hedge depends on us. Take the spider for example. She spins a lively tatted web and then waits, luring in her food. On the other hand, birds flit and flicker, seizing what have you's here and there, and then  return to their nest. Other living things fill additional elements of the hedge. All have a useful fragment of the being. I walk by this hedge most days. And, most days the phrase, "walking past the hedge on the edge" goes through my mi...

People come and go in our lives. Some, we spend time with for a short season, while others remain. My friend Cait, although I’ve only known her for a short time, has a way of leaving impressions that last an eternity. Back in January of 2017, we met up for lunch. She was preparing to take a trip. I don’t even remember where she was going. It didn’t matter. After we parted, I jotted down my thoughts with the full intention of finishing the poem. However, the more I’ve lingered with it, the more I love it in its incomplete state.  An ordinary lunch with an extraordinary person We ate tacos and pupusas and talked of adventures small and grand A weariness in her eyes as she prepared to leave  She’s brave and adventurous and vulnerable like a child all at the same time But then, aren’t we all? My friend, I’m so excited about the chapters you are writing in another place with other people. I hear your passionate words, “Stop the glorification of busy!” So tru...

She came into the shop to purchase barbecue sauce, usually 3 to 4 bottles at a time. Her eyes were clear blue, and she had a ready smile that was mixed with quietness and melancholy. I remember one particular day she came in with eyes red around the edges. I asked if everything was ok. She looked at me with her clear blue eyes and said, "Yes, but there are days you just need to cry." I agreed then, and I agree now. Today is one of those melancholy days; not a need-to-cry day, but one that's on the side of sad and contemplative. So, it seems appropriate to share this post that's been sitting as a draft for weeks. People are lonely, desperately crying to be noticed. I've been lonely. I've had conversations with people who are lonely. The unfortunate thing is, it's not the outcast, recluse living in the hoarder house down the street. It's the chipper girl at the coffee shop who only wants another couple for her and her boyfriend to hang wi...

fox glides, low to the ground                       sly, inquisitive, resourceful creatures solitary, bronzed and ruddy with flashing eyes        bushy tail dipped in white  forest home or urban domain                                      fox, a nocturnal pilgrim Summer has afforded me an opportunity to move about aimlessly; not quite a coddiwomple, but sort of. This week, I found myself writing and sipping iced chai at Foxtail Bakery. Let's just say the cookies were perfect and divine; I was completely tempted to purchase more pastries than I should.  There's a tall counter with white-backed stools and a big garage door to let in light and fresh air. Picture windows face the street. Cars buzz by. Black and white striped umbrellas twirl like the tutu of a ballerina. Assorted tables an...

The page furled in the wind, several, actually as I struggled to control my notebook. The wind was crisp; it blew hair out of my face. A cerulean sky hung over head; the sun casting low. I watered my potted plants, perhaps for the last time until spring. Snow’s in the 10 day forecast, which seems odd since only a few days ago it was 70 degrees. Birds were chirping, squirrels doing their thing. They know the season is changing to the dormant time where food will be scarce and only the flimsy bare branches will shelter. It’s November. We’re on the cusp of winter. Temperatures will be harsh. My thoughts turn to the outside folks; those who live in tents or boxes, occasionally scoring a room at the local shelter. It’s easier…when the weather is fair, but never easy. Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” blares rather loudly from my Sonos. Two lines rattle for attention: a lot of nice things turn bad out there     you know I’ve seen a lot of what the worl...

Pink Floyd’s “ Dark Side of the Moon ” has been rumbling around in my car for the past several weeks. Ethereal, out-there, reverb melodies echo. Lyrics seem odd to the casual ear turned only to the instrumental depiction of helicopters and clock alarms sounding. The song, “ Time ” says, “ ticking away the moments that make up a dull day. ” That phrase has been stuck in my head. Maybe it’s because we view much of life’s routine as dull. dull: not sharp, blunt, causing boredom, tedious, uninteresting, not intense or lively, passionless, flat, stagnant, routine, usual What makes up a dull day? The answer to that question is as broad as the people you ask. For me, a dull day is a day without creative stimulus; for others it might mean having to do the same repetitious routine they did the day before and the day before that and so on ad finem. When I looked dull up in The Thesaurus, words like common, usual, routine and ordinary came up, along with a slew of oth...

I like words. I use a thesaurus. Words are expressive. Words trigger thoughts and tell stories in and of themselves. Recently, I’ve seen two words which are normally nouns turned into verbs ; a thing became an action. Cool concept, right? A little awkward to say: neighboring - storying Common words – neighbor and story – were given an “ing” suffix. Instantly, they took on a new life. No longer was a neighbor just a person, it was an action, a way of relating to those who surround us. It implies presence, friendliness and hospitality. Neighboring requires something, the giving of a part of us. (See full article about “ Neighboring ” at Relevant Magazine) Storying took neighboring to a different place. Movement was attached to the telling. It was used in relation to sharing about God with people living on Lake Victoria in Africa. Stories were put in context of the culture and given hands and feet. I guess what I respond to in both words is they beg for...

original waywardness? wayward :  It's not a word that just rolls off the tongue in everyday conversation. It has a disturbing, poetical rhythm to it, bringing up unsettled thoughts and meanings; in fact, one of the definitions for wayward is unsettled. Think about how sailors would talk of wayward winds that would blow them off course to parts unknown. Then there's the wayward child, willful and capricious, wanting to follow their own inclinations instead of a compiled set of ways. I initially jotted a few notes like: wayward disturbs a contented soul wayward has a mind of its own I never was a wayward child in deed, but more in the mind I tend to think of wayward in negative ways - we all do. However, as I revisit the three statements above, I see an interesting pattern unfolding; one where wayward might have a different definition. Perhaps it's good to have a disturbed soul. It gets us out of a rut. A mind of our own doesn't just fol...

tonalli's doughnut shop on the corner of ne alberta, pdx each morning they’d meet at the coffee shop on main street, the one located between the bank and the barber shop the counter was covered with turquoise laminate sprinkled with what looked like leftover toast crumbs black vinyl swivel stools waited for patrons it smelled of black coffee, fried eggs and doughnuts white, thick-rimmed mugs were etched with coffee stains the neon sign flickering “open” clicked on at 5:30 each morning one by one, they filtered in, taking their designated seats …and the banter began it was a game the old guys played every day, at the coffee shop We all like having a spot to go, to belong, where we find our friendships. Today, we call them meet-up groups or intentional community.  What used to just happen organically, now takes scheduling and might not happen for weeks on end. Case in point, I'm having lunch with one of my sisters today that I haven't seen...

only a shadow I’m out. I’m free. I drove. I’m capable. My sweet zombie apocalypse Mini Cooper is awesome! It tears up the snow and ice like the Wulfe that it is, however, the beauty and the curse of my ride is the low ground clearance. It’s brilliant for stability in a myriad of road conditions, except for deep snow, and deep snow has happened in my city. Roads are plowed in town and actually in my neighborhood. The issue has arrived in the alley which leads to my garage. It is only passable if you happen to drive a 4 x 4 that’s jacked 10 feet up. Well, maybe I am exaggerating a tiny bit, but needless to say, Wulfe has stayed in the garage for almost a week. my sweet wulfe before the snow continued and continued and continued Wulfe and I’d been out four-wheeling in the grocery store parking lot on Saturday. I can’t believe I didn’t go anywhere in a vehicle until late Wednesday morning. I’d walked and shoveled snow and cooked and did some work from home;...

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 s...

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 irid...

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 ...

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...

It was a gorgeous day to fly.   The skies were clear, the mountains in crisp attire thanks to a fresh coat of snow.   Funny how even a dust of white defines the terrain, etching every crevice with detail.   I revel in the perspective stock-piled from flying above.   Above the city.   Above the rivers and forests and fields.   Above the mountains; peeking down at life below. The seat I had blocked my view.  Instead, I concentrated on the intricacies of the wing with its flaps, ailerons and other things that go up and down, controlling functions.  Peering over the wing, a craggy mountain sat like a big fat vanilla ice cream cone with a bite taken out of the top.  You half expect the frozen concoction to start dribbling down your hand, only to be caught by a paper napkin.  But, it’s a mountain full of magnificence, rather than a childhood treat. Rivers, muddy from spring rains snaked  their way through wet fields, s...

outside, inside, coffee shop, park...talk Funny how the things that you are pondering and trying to figure out keep popping up - all around and in various ways with the same ditty. Years back, we were looking at moving to Durango. The word, the vehicle was everywhere. Could it have been a sign? Probably not,  just a happening, as it wasn't a move we made. Things like that are confusing to brains that are already functioning in a state of confusion. Right now, the recurring "thing" is community.  I'm keenly aware of how this is different than the above.  Community is a pervasive life.  It's desperately needed by everybody.  We all have a core need to be connected to someone or something; that basic need to know and be known. this intrinsic necessity runs the gamut: moms groups, biking clubs, knitters or quilters anonymous, the beer drinkers and club hoppers, the kiddos gathering on the playground Sitting at Starbucks on this extra day in February,...