Isabella Bird Miscellany

hands grasped, clutching, struggling it was just out-of-reach frustration, try again not to be defeated or disappointed it was right there attempts thwarted, why the obstruction it remained unattainable                   and slipped into oblivion When I find myself in times of trouble...let it be ...an appropriate Beatles song to hear in relation to these penned words. People are struggling, coping: to succeed, to climb, to flourish, to acquire or to merely survive another day, month, year. We all need hope. Tangible hope. Something that won't slip away. What's tangible, anyway? Real, touchable, actual, nothing ethereal, but something to lay our hands on. I need that. You need that. We all need that. Lord, help us. Give us hope. Give us peace. Give us love and patience, concern and compassion. Be within our grasp, don't slip into oblivion, or let us slip into oblivion. Missy    If you have been...

There was a day I was walking in the park with Isabelle. It's a daily activity that's pretty easy for me, now. But, several years back that wasn't the case. Discs in my lower back were pinching nerves, causing the most piercing pain I had ever experienced.  Walking was the worst; and I loved walking. i saw you walking in the park alone birds chattered with squirrels together i saw you bent, moving slowly coping willows shifting in the wind sky lit and sparkling balanced i saw you and i was sad until i saw your smile inspiring After infinite physical therapy treatments and injections and chiropractor visits my doc said a fusion was needed. I freaked, but at this point had nothing to lose and my very movement to gain. Seven years later, I can hike and bike, kayak and snowshoe. I'm grateful for the mobility I gained. So, seeing this woman in the park brought a flood of emotion and empathy. She was as bent as branches...

Leaving Las Vegas, a line made famous in movies, song lyrics and billboard slogans. For me, it’s more than a catch-phrase. It pierces my heart, now more than ever. You see, previously, people were there drawing me back, but as pages are torn from the book entitled “Life,” I’m more aware of how fleeting and transient things are. Change is a given. My heart feels - each word expressed - come back, don’t be a stranger. I know they’re wondering if they’re losing all contact with the family of ones deeply loved. I wonder, too. And while I also know that’s how things happen, I don’t have to like it. So, I stare out the window of the plane, the sun bringing light and heat to the day in shades of pink and pale orange which burst against the blue sky. My thoughts are pensive, questioning, seeing only the rugged ranges with striations of soil and color veining them. As the plane climbs we soar above the clouds stacked on each other like mounds of whipped sweet cream. Contemplat...

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...

Sitting on the patio at Milo's Cellar and Inn, I found myself mesmerized by the sound of the water. The theory was to read and write, but I was absorbed with the sound; conscious of the water spilling over the gutter which had become a fountain. We stayed at Milo's last year. It's an oasis in the desert, tucked above and behind the wine cellar exterior. Once the door closes that leads to the courtyard and rooms, one has entered another place, another time. A place where time is still and quiet, save for the profusion of water tipping over the gutter. water tipped over the down turned gutter covered with years of verdi gris on what was slick copper the splashing was loud; landing in a pool inhabited by shiny koi and a turtle named Tom cattails lived on the edge; conversant with existence in water and soil moss adhered to rocks drinking in each splashed water molecule listening, the sound was rhythmic and steady; a heartbeat in water the water...

The lights just clicked on. The ones we hung outside last Friday when the day was bright and fair. Today it’s cloudy and cold. It’s dark earlier. So, the lights just clicked on. It’s pretty. If I squint, the white fairy lights look like tiny gleaming stars. Bordering on gazing at an inky sky, dotted and specked with minute bursts of light. Two Moravian stars with multi-faceted points hang. They sway with the breeze. Moving to the wind’s breathed music. They reflect in the open window; mirror images, star duets. Santa arrives in a helicopter descent at the Old Mill. He sets up shop, elves and reindeer to join later. High fives, and shy giggles, the kids approach. Innocent, bright eyes wide open and hopeful. It’s a magical and expectant season. It’s Advent. Advent – the arrival of the awaited One – is more than my lights clicking on, the Moravian stars dancing and my grandkids’ wonder at the arrival of Santa. I love each of these experiences and the ...

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...

There’s icky stuff happening. Everywhere you turn there’s strife, displacement, floods and fires. My heart goes out to those affected by hurricane Harvey, as well as all of the wildland firefighters here in Oregon, as we watch our forests be consumed by the flames. Taking it a step broader, our culture, our world can’t agree on anything. Everybody’s right and nobody is wrong; or is it vice versa? We live in a gritty world of real needs and hurts. The stranger crawls in, abusing, demeaning and using. How will we emerge? I trust you see the optimism in the last lines, for there is always hope, no matter how desperate situations appear. It takes a resolute effort on our part to see the woven crosses and to stand strong, not silent. “Hush, be silent,” crouched in quiet              words of warning heard all too often “Plug your ears, don’t listen,” put it out of your mind        ...

even city birds know they can find food and a place to rest “ Look at the birds ” – it’s a phrase I often hear in my being. These words are a reminder for me to take my eyes off myself, to notice the attitude and conduct of my feathered friends. Have you noticed how birds never seem to have bad days? I do, but they don’t. I was thinking back on a walk with some of our grands last spring. The leaves hadn’t engulfed the trees quite yet. When things are bare, things are visible. One of our granddaughters noticed a bird nest in the bare branches. She said, very matter of factly, “When I’m a baby bird I can live there.” These are the simple words of an imaginative little girl. She went on to find different sized nests for her big brother and baby sister; each with the same explanation: “When brother is a baby bird he can live there. When sister is a baby bird she can live there.” when I’m a baby bird, will I choose to fly? it’s the nature of baby bird, y...

follow the cross It’s Lent. It’s been Lent since March 1 st . I have my own private observations going on, and I just realized that next week is Holy Week. Like Advent, Lent holds a special place in my heart and spiritual rhythms. It’s the 40 days of preparation before Easter; a time to reflect, to cultivate gratitude, to focus on others and our relationship with the One who made it all possible, God. I have a daily prayer rhythm, dedicated quiet time in the morning, but Lent goes deeper. Last year I chose to add a practice to my routine instead of giving something up. For 6 weeks I tried to be very mindful of what was going on around me, in me, in people I know and don’t know, in my city and so on. My journal was filled with “mindful” phrases, sentences and paragraphs. Snippets from my journal: I’m mindful of … time, taking time, making time, capturing time, savoring time, enjoying time … being thrown around by my feelings. feelings are real, but they’re...

thanks, john derian, for your big picture book Usually if I’m writing about an artichoke it would be in relation to food, you know, dipping each triangular-ish leaf in warm butter or uber garlicky mayo. However, I think there are other enticements to an artichoke. peeling away the layers reveals the heart My life as an artichoke generates all sorts of images. They have prickly points on the end of each petal, with tough outer layers and layers underneath that are delicate. As you continue to strip off the outer leaves, you’ll eventually reach the choke … and the heart. oh thistle with a heart a flower bud that hasn’t bloomed peeling away layer after layer a picture of living, delight, anticipation in the book of things, something magical hidden under pricked leaves choke guards the heart ‘til security petals are stripped away Life is full of hard stuff, mine being no exception to the rule. A few years back times, events and s...

doodles on the side of a wall, graffiti or art? little hands scrawl squiggly, wiggles on a page free, creative marks with no rhyme or reason this is a pony, this is a cloud no resemblance can be seen, but it’s there “aren’t lines supposed to be straight?” comments the adult mind, stuck in a box of rules We’ve lost the ability to just think, to watch clouds and scribble. Doodling away time – what a waste, not productive to jot and color, and heaven forbid, outside the lines. Aren’t lines supposed to be straight? Predictable? What about crossing the proverbial line, bending it or careful, wobbling on it? Walk the line, draw the line, but don’t cross the line. Peek, if you dare to take the chance, at the Alice in Wonderland possibilities on the squiggly side of the line. nothing straight here, except the lines in the corrugated tin These thoughts speak strongly to my keen sense of sensibility. By nature I am organized and productive. I find taki...

red twigs emerge with beauty through the drifts of snow Ode to the winter wonderland that I find myself in, where all is white with shades of gray, except for the kids dressed in snow pants and bright hats and scarves. To venture out into the frigid temps, a daring feat of layer upon layer; moving like molasses. Still, the beauty is stark, serene and surreal. Gone are the days of sunshine and bare feet Tree branches are bare and dark across the snow laden landscape, motionless in the biting air Brittle twigs from last year’s flowers edge through the ice, a poignant reminder of what was Gone are lazy afternoons laying in the grass as puffy clouds drift overhead The frozen lake now dons the footprints of would-be skaters leaving a path of figure-eights And children laugh as they slide down the hill on sleds and red flying saucers Gone are the summertime adventures in shorts with bodies slathered in sunscreen Put away by a winter wonderland of crystalline w...

frozen drips waiting for release Sitting in silence. It’s still dark outside. White lights on the Christmas tree reflect off the dangling colored ornaments. Stock simmers on the stove. Drips can be heard outside; it’s the first day in a week above freezing. Yesterday, I posted a graphic I’d saved. It simply read, “Silence calms my soul.” Silence is a gift. Silence is golden. Silence is often missed; not even an operative word. We live with so much noise, chatter continually happening, externally, yes, but internally. Sitting in silence , I listen for sound; the stockpot lid starting to rattle, more melting and splashing, the coffee pot’s gurgling, my dog stretching and changing position. In silence I hear these things that might otherwise be missed. Thousands of years ago, shepherds sat in the silence of the night. I imagine there was a warm, crackling fire and stories of the day being shared among friends.  Their silence was broken with a great anno...

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

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 ...

jealous:  onomatopoeia-like, it slithers off the tongue; rotting the soul, destroying all it touches, leaving debris in its path. When I was taking a particular creative writing class, Pat, our instructor would give us short, often one word prompts, to write about for a minute or so. It was just enough time to jot down a sentence or two, a paragraph if you were quick. This practice kept my mind thinking of ways to consider words or phrases. The commute to this class would be a little on the long side (I don’t live in PDX anymore), so I’ve taken to using a couple of sites for ideas. A few days ago the two words were so opposite of each other that it caught my attention: rainbow: hope, confidence, expectation jealous and hope It’s funny, and not in a comical way, how these words are so contradictory. One full of causality and destruction, the other resonates with possibility. All gets weighed in the balance we call life. Our scales tip back and forth unti...