Early morning sunrise streams in from behind cracked curtains and I see him.
I see him walk out in the snow to the shed, his jacket too thin for the bitter cold, his worn boots unlaced where underneath his heels broke free, and his socks were worn holey.
He hadn't eaten breakfast.
He didn't make his lunch.
I knew better than to ask if he had brushed his teeth because I already knew the answer. After ten years you know the answer.
The mornings and evenings seem to be the sun's fastest track. As I write this, it is morning, and the scene outside changes with each glimpse through the window. Not one second ago, the pines were not visible in the dark. Now they brush the sky with their bristles as if blending a pink hue into the gray. The pond is a gentle mirror in one moment, a rippling bathtub for the ducks the next. Egrets in flight are snowy white against the dark shadows still in the forest as if to tell those creatures
It is so strange, the beginning of a new year always sends me backwards in my thoughts. Perhaps it is because there is so much more time behind me than in front of me. I am 77 years old; turning 78 in February. I live a full and happy life in "real" time, however past memories have a way of holding me in their ethereal grip and I go stumbling along after them like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.
Today I was wandering in a fenced in yard; I see wooden steps leading
Updated 01-09-2015 at 05:39 PM by RheaB
Each of my three cats have different personalities. Belle, the oldest, is laid-back and fearless. She's quiet, rarely complains, and wants to be wherever I am--especially if I am in the kitchen. Her favorite place there is between my feet. "Whatcha doin'? Whatcha makin'? Can I have some?" She never makes a sound, but she makes her presence and desires known by her proximity. Usually, to keep her out from under foot, I set out a plate for her of whatever she might like (she'll eat pretty
Her country swarmed with strangers. Her religion was both diluted with foreign ways and saturated with ritual. Her God had been silent for generations.
Until one night, one amazing night, when she discovered she'd found favor with Him, that He had chosen her to be the mother of His Child.
What was it like to be Mary, mother of the Son of God?
Did she wonder if it was a dream? Perhaps it was the overactive imagination of a young woman