Storms never last do they baby?

Storms never pass do they baby?

Storms never last do they baby?

Bad times all pass with the winds

Your hand in mine stills the thunder

And you make the sun want to shine…

Seriously, folks, you can be enjoying a *somewhat* warm Sunday afternoon with your “baby” when suddenly the conversation turns to old songs.  (A song  which this particular blogger never knew until five minutes ago after her “baby” started rather mockingly singing this old-time classic and she Googled to discover a Jessi Colter and Waylon Jennings version and now, maybe, she’ll remember at least until tomorrow morning as she ponders “Storms never last, do they, baby?”)

What is it about a catchy tune?  A tune which has the power to jingle, jolt, jab, sing, dance you from your very ordinary day?  And what is it about old-time songs, songs from our childhood, or before our childhood, maybe our parent’s childhood, songs from long-ago, which sing us into a place where our heart throbs, who knows why?  Maybe because we remember our Mama or Papa singing it while they made Wonder Bread & peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, who the heck knows?

When a stranger returns your purse

Angel

This morning I drove north to a coffee shop in Houghton–5th and Elm (may it forever be immortalized in song and dance, as you will soon discover why) and ordered a coffee and cranberry biscotti.

Then set my big clunky red purse, covered with tiny mirrors, a gift from an Indian physical therapist earlier this year (see this story if you’ve forgotten) on the floor.  An inner voice warned me, “Now don’t you DARE forget that purse!”

I then unpacked Ms. Ellie, the laptop computer from the backpack, retrieved the mouse and waited for the Internet signal before typing a lengthy almost 900 word blog (which you may or may not eventually read) while delightedly sipping coffee and inadvertently tossing biscotti crumbs to and fro.

I even forgot who I was for maybe a half hour.  That’s how engrossed and delighted I was in the writing.

Blogging to illuminate, to reconcile

Illumination

Lately I have been enjoying writing blogs that seem to reconcile stuck, limited, or judging viewpoints within.

Something arises.  Some judgment, some feeling, some sorrow, something that’s not yet integrated.

Perhaps it has to do with a friendship.  A sense of longing.  Something deep inside which wants to be accepted, yet there’s still a pushing away, a not-allowing. Perhaps it’s an anger, a sorrow, a not-understanding.

I sit and type, letting the deepest self share its thoughts.

Then–instead of turning too quickly in the next moment–or too compulsively looking toward your comments or visits–it seems that the words in the blog are felt on a deeper level.  I feel the truth in the words, to understand, to allow.

It often feels like a big ah-ha of understanding.  It feels like it translates into true realization, into something real which can inform the next action.

Made of dreams and dandelion fuzz

Make a wish and come to earth for a lifetime.

So many lives are made of dreams, of wishes, of wants, of blow-the-dandelion-fuzz across the back yard so the Forest Owls hoot your deepest desires back to you just before midnight.

I once dreamed of traveling to Switzerland, to Italy, how about France? Perhaps even Mexico, Nicaragua, maybe Ecuador.  I dreamed of writing a famous book, you know, the kind of book which leaves readers gasping, wanting more, truly inspired, truly knowing themselves in some deeper way.

Melt

Rushing stream with tiny waterfalls

The Long Winter seems to be exiting just in time for May.  We can only hope.  Last weekend the temperatures soared to about 70 degrees (21 C) and our snow began to melt, melt, melt.

Three

We humans scurried outside, sun and warmth-deprived creatures, and we luxuriated.

I found an old cushion and sat with my back against maples and poplars and spruce, trying to feel the sap rising up my back.

Sat and delighted in Spring.

Up all night birthing a goat

At morning’s first light–before a busy day–slowly scrolling down the Facebook home page.

Marvelling at the differences in friends, family and acquaintances.  Marvelling that I’m not feeling irritated at the differences this morning–that the mind is not judging, sorting, categorizing as it loves to do.

Instead, look at the sparks of God!

This one ponders if she’ll be up all night birthing a goat.

A week-old baby goat. OK, I didn’t help birth it.

The great and powerful longing

Longing

I awoke this morning thinking about–and feeling–longing.

The longing, like a swirling snake of energy, which has lived with me since I was a wee putter-snapper.  

Do you live with longing?

Oh, she can be a challenging guest, that one, with her slanted green eyes and endless desires which circle round and around and around.  

She lives at the center sometimes, an ache which can’t be filled.  Oh, how I’ve tried to appease her all these many years!  How did I try to appease her?  Let me count the ways.