Isabella Bird Miscellany

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 ...

snowflake covered icicles How full of creative genius is the air in which these are generated!  I should hardly admire more if real stars fell and lodged on my coat – Henry David Thoreau I sat down to write a piece of poetry about Christmas and snow falling.  Words like softly and gently wanted to be written, but they seemed cliché.  You see, a couple of weeks ago someone told me I was all “happy-clappy” about Christmas.  This person knows nothing of my life; the good stuff or the sad.  We simply look at the pasted smile and go about our days, because that is what we are supposed to do. Having allowed myself to get duly worked up, I understood that my outlook had nothing to do with outward circumstances; it’s rooted in my intrinsic values and beliefs.  It’s my distinct gift to open every day. You see, the very first Christmas was not a glitter covered event with gentle snowflakes and hot toddys.  It was in a barn full of animals ...