Isabella Bird Miscellany

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...

‘cause the desert had turned to sea there were plants and birds and rocks and things there was sand and hills and rings - America, "Horse With No Name" - I’m reentering our long, indirect road trip in May. Not by accident we had “America” as our ‘tripping music when we reached the ocean in SoCal. Following an intentional wander through silent deserts, now it was time for plants and birds and crowded life. Just as the solitude of the desert is good for the soul, so is watching waves that go on forever while earthing your feet in minute grains of sand that can’t be counted. The Northern journey to “ Ventura Highway ,” while actually driving on Ventura Highway was just as known and unknown as the desert trek. The beauty of travelling during the shoulder season is spontaneity; reservations aren't necessary.  I'm gripped by the Missions, which are scattered throughout California, so they were on the agenda. If by chance we stumbled upon a fe...

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

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

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...

bleached out rocks, pine needles and crunch gravel At last, (sounds like the end instead of the beginning of a story, or a crooned love song) my man and I were able to walk the labyrinth on Brosterhaus Road.  The first time we visited, it was winter; being partially covered with left-over snow, sections of the path were obscured.  What struck me at the time was the labyrinth was set in a prayer garden.  Peeking from the snow were benches, shrubs, a water feature of sorts and a rugged cross made of gnarled juniper. Returning today, everything was revealed in brilliant sunshine punctuated by the ever-present cold Central Oregon spring wind.  I swear it must blow directly across the ice fields on the mountains before biting exposed cheeks. Walking, I found it hard to concentrate and clear my mind.  I deliberately slowed my already slow pace in an attempt at mindfulness, listening to my steps on the finely crushed gravel and the wind swirling t...