Isabella Bird Miscellany

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 ros...

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...

she lived an abstract life,          one painted, but lacking elements of realism existence was too harsh whereas the color-washed reality was delightful and delicate, full of impulse                  open to possibility        children live an abstract life                     she had chosen to join them Existing in thought or idea, but nothing concrete and tangible - abstract. Paintings, feelings, the wind, these are intangibles. I often feel like I live in and relate more to things, people, places that are abstract. There's a certain mystery, something to uncover. Abstract is experienced, felt. It's not quantitative. It can't be defined or put in a box with a pretty little bow. I often wonder why we want to define everything.  Think about it. Your job has a description, an ailment is named or given an acronym and heaven ...

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...