Dear Fountainpen,

Tame chipmunk "Chippy"  admiring one of your note cards

Tame chipmunk “Chippy” admiring one of your note cards

Dear Fountainpen,

On Sunday we carried our ceramic Christmas tree–the one Barry’s mom crafted for us many years ago–upstairs from the basement.  I discovered some of your hand-crocheted snowflakes and sprinkled them beneath the green tree.

You’ve been my friend since 2009, a blog reader extraordinaire, devouring my stories about trees, nature and our Little House in the Big Woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

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Posted in December 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 50 Comments

On Cattail Pond

 

Cattail Pond

Some of you may remember the movie “On Golden Pond” that came out in 1981.  Don’t you love the image that name invokes?  A serene pond-lake golden in the sunset.  A pair of loons welcoming the main characters home.  Ahhh, idyllic.

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Posted in November 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 29 Comments

Yesterday’s woes

Spider on web between electric wires on garden fence.  What kind of spider IS it?

Some of you have been wondering where the heck my blog post Prayer for the teensy weensy spider went.  A few faithful readers received their email yesterday inviting them to visit Lake Superior Spirit and discover the whys and wherefores of that wee creepy crawlie.  Imagine their surprise when no such post appeared here.

“Page not found” says the link, according to John and Sybil and Pam.

These dear readers sent messages, comments and emails inquiring “what the heck happened to your post?”

OK, here’s the good, the bad and the ugly.

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Posted in November 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 46 Comments

You are a cell in my body

 

Friends

Together

I’ve been thinking this weekend how every person we meet has the potential to change us, to widen our world, to prompt us to let go what no longer serves.

How each friendly or shining spirit can lift us up when we’re faltering, when we’re unsure.  How we can energetically add support to each other by our simple presence, our loving words, our sunny hello, our humble offerings.

How even each frowning or ignoring face has the possibility of either hurting our tender hearts more deeply–or perhaps redirecting our attention to our own inner light.  We are sometimes bruised by what we perceive to be rejection, or perhaps we’re called to ponder what might be causing them pain, what causes them to shut down their own tender hearts.  I’m sure we’ve all traveled both paths.  The path of closing our inner doors in the face of travail, or the path of opening even though it hurts.

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Posted in November 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 34 Comments

Horizon Envy (once again)

Long shadows at sunset

Dear readers,  I am having a wee bit of a challenged week both physically and mentally, and keep surfing the Big Wide Internet searching for distractions to soothe my spirit.

Some of you long-time readers & friends may remember this post.  It’s the third time I’ve published it.  Because, oh just because, it seems to express something important about horizons and lack of horizons.  Larger views and smaller views.  How we can change our perspectives to recognize the gold that shines in things we don’t particularly like.

The first time I published this was in 2009.  The second time in 2011.  I am guessing probably some of you haven’t considered your horizons recently.

I am reconsidering mine as we speak.

Love, Kathy in 2018

Here is the formerly published post:

 

Magnificence of sunset clouds

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Posted in November 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 27 Comments

Breathing with trees

Ash3

Yesterday I sat with my back against an ash tree.  Its top branches waved in the wind about 85 feet above my head.  Barry had pointed out the ash earlier as we peered at it from the kitchen window.

“Look at the ash this year, Kathy,” he said.  Its crown holds feathery-looking seed pods.  Most of the leaves have fallen unto the earth, but the seeds linger on.  Wikipedia says they’re samara seeds whose shape enables the wind to carry the seed farther away than regular seeds from the parent tree.

Call the seeds wingnuts, or helicopters, or whirlibirds or whirligigs.  There they fruit on top of an 85 foot ash, pregnant with baby trees.

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Posted in November 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 48 Comments

Longing

Autumn leaf underwater

Autumn leaf underwater

Do you ever wake up on a Tuesday morning with an undefinable longing?  It palpitates near the heart, perhaps, beating its insistence with a red drumbeat whispering, “Please, please, please.”

Of course a mere human can’t figure out what longing wants, can she?  We can only feel the red threads of fire, the way they rise and fall like matches sparking logs into conflagrations of rising flame.

Longing–and her twin, restlessness–have been my companions these many years.  Do they visit you in your little house in the woods or city or suburb or small town?  Do they come in unexpectedly and wipe all your pretty organized well-behaved china teacups from your cupboard? Do they smash into your perhaps contented moment and demand attention like a petulant two year old?

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Posted in October 2018 | Tagged , , , , , , | 53 Comments