Isabella Bird Miscellany

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 ...

I like words. I use a thesaurus. Words are expressive. Words trigger thoughts and tell stories in and of themselves. Recently, I’ve seen two words which are normally nouns turned into verbs ; a thing became an action. Cool concept, right? A little awkward to say: neighboring - storying Common words – neighbor and story – were given an “ing” suffix. Instantly, they took on a new life. No longer was a neighbor just a person, it was an action, a way of relating to those who surround us. It implies presence, friendliness and hospitality. Neighboring requires something, the giving of a part of us. (See full article about “ Neighboring ” at Relevant Magazine) Storying took neighboring to a different place. Movement was attached to the telling. It was used in relation to sharing about God with people living on Lake Victoria in Africa. Stories were put in context of the culture and given hands and feet. I guess what I respond to in both words is they beg for...

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...

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 ...