Isabella Bird Miscellany

moss covered bricks, littered with the remnants of fall and the beginning of Christmas I broke down and put some Christmas music on yesterday.  I’ve tried a few other times … it just seems wrong when I haven’t roasted a turkey yet.  I blame my brother.  He was visiting and was all like “Its Christmas all day, every day, Missy.  You don’t know…”  Being a good big sis and all, Christmas music was cranked up on the ipod.  Confession:  something happened and I’ve been streaming an off-beat Christmas station today.  The Holidays are clattering and clamoring and I’m pretty relaxed – odd. Like an old VHS tape (remember the sticker on them, “please be kind, rewind?”) I’ve been rewinding and re-watching this last year.  A thumbnail:  upheaval, chaos and disorder, uncertainty, fear and confusion were the adjectives.  We were moving; packing up our life to regenerate it in a town once known as home in distant corners of our...

cool wall, but would i want to live there? I meet up with a group of ladies each week.  We are of different ages, eco-status and walks of life.  Our community comes from our love factor based in relationship. We’ve been discussing a book titled, “Love Does” by Bob Goff.  Did you know love is a noun and a verb? Yep, that’s the nerdy, I-love-words-side of me coming out.  Anyway, the point is love does stuff.  It doesn’t simply sit in a box thinking it’s all sweet and uncluttered, tied up with a pretty bow. Love is messy.  Love is inconvenient.  Love gets in the way of our preconceived ideas.  Love is broken.  Love is vulnerable.  Love hurts.  Basically, love can be a real pain in the butt, because it requires something. Grinding on the conversation with the gal pals, we were passionately hashing ways that we could put action (verbs) to our talk.  Talk has to take form or it’s just talk.  The holidays ...

thank you I could never understand his poetry It seemed to run in circles but the ends never connected Now, I must admit my own words are scrawled on a page with a ballpoint I could never understand the perspective of his poetry He had seen things and lived through them The battle real, while mine was gripped inside I could never physically empathize with his poetry My feet didn’t walk the red fields, but his did My hands didn’t bind the wounds, but his did No, I could never understand his poetry, but I could listen Gratitude , thankfulness, appreciation, deep respect and admiration to and for family members, friends, acquaintances and those I do not know, for their service . 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