Pumpkin in the Buff

     Most of my blogspace is crammed with words, but now and then, I choose to record my Song of the Lark moments. Those instants when the soul stands stripped of swag before the simple beauty of creation. 

     This is one of those.

The Photosynthesis of Scones

     The leaves on my little pot of indoor mums were turning yellow, so I took them outside this morning for a cupful of photosynthesis. The sun laid its arm across my shoulders, friendlywise, persuading me to linger awhile and share a cup of warm as well.

     Perhaps it was that second swig of cordial, but when I went inside, drunk with blue sky, bright leaves and the cider-snap of cold in the air, my usual whole grain toast for breakfast had lost its appeal. A little intemperate photosynthesis for this potted mum was needful.

     So I made scones: weightless white flour, insubstantial sugar, pure butter baked into bites and dolloped with cream whipped into light-footed clouds, and the glad-hearted cheer of cherry jam.

     What a pleasant way to convert light into energy.

Men Shout

Christ's Entry into Brussels in 1889
by
James Ensor

Men Shout

Men shout

People turn their feet to listen

And truth is trampled in the rush to judgement.

A man shouts:

Fire!

And there, beneath the wall of stone

With blindfold askew

Justice is executed.

                                                                  ~ Nib of Nib's End ~

     This poem is a result of my frustration with what I hear in the news. And whatever the artist's intent may have been, his painting reflects my view of the State of our Union.

     I, to say the least, am unhappy with my choices for the upcoming election. But I am not blaming the candidates; I believe they both represent a symptom of a much deeper problem...a problem that cannot be fixed by any political decision. So, despite my frustration, I am at peace. My hope is not in a candidate. My faith has never been in Democracy. I have put my confidence in a King of kings whose government is secure and whose reign is eternal despite how the mob may choose to represent it. 

Psalm 2

The Passenger's Photo Album - Sulawesi

Hardboiled eggs for lunch in Sulewesi.

Funny People

     My husband is funny. It is just one of the things I love about him. He makes me laugh and laugh. Many years ago, on our anniversary, I gave him this greeting card photographed by George Daniell because it reminded me of his continual cheerfulness and good humor. He is a clever punster and even though my daughters have often referred to his steady flow of wit as punishment, we would all miss it if the fount went dry. Wouldn't we, girls?

     My live-in daughter is funny too. She has a dry wit, and her one-liners keep both my husband and me in stitches.

     I think I am funny, it's just that, more often than not, I am the only one who thinks so. I can laugh myself to tears over one of my own quips while my family looks on, baffled. On rare occasions when they join in, I feel quite pleased with myself.

     Some people are just born with the ability to see the humor in things and the skill to bring others in on the joke. So it is, with the current political climate tempting us to despair, it seems we rely more and more on the funny people, the talk show hosts and wags of social media to assuage our distress. It doesn't really change anything except our own ability to bear the vicissitudes of life with a lighter heart.

     "I'm at that age where I watch such things with two minds, one that cackles at these capers and another that never gets much beyond a rather jaded and self-concious smile, like the Mona Lisa." 

                                                                    ~ Alan Bradley ~

     "It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humor." 

                                                                    ~ Charles Dickens ~

Sunroof Snapshot

Connected

     We bought a car with a sunroof and are enjoying another perspective as we travel through this world.

Connected 2

     And while we truly appreciate the technology that brings us together when my husband is abroad, when he is home, we stay connected the old-fashioned way.

Rain Rain Go Away...

     It has been a hot, dry summer. I have lost patience with hand watering the shrubbery and flower beds. I have let the parsley frizzle in the herb plot and the rootbound mint wither in its terracotta pot. Only the basil receives the care it deserves. I find work to do in the shade of air conditioning. A volunteer cherry tomato vine flourishes between unkempt cracks of flagstones on the hillside beside the house, defying brassy skies and gifting my neglect with small globes of sweet red fruit. Every now and then, I give it a splash of water from the hose in gratitude.

     The tail-end of August brings us a respite of showers, and despite the tropic weight of air that can make even a mosquito sweat, I am glad. The grass is green. The young birch in the back garden has ceased scattering handfuls of yellow leaves on the lawn. The delicate impatiens spilling artfully from its broken pot no longer swoons in the late afternoon sun.

Fungus grows in unexpected places.

Rain diamonds collect on gossamer strands of web.

     Hence, I am not in accord with the weathermongers who, after only a handful of days of intermittent rainfall are already singing the tune they suppose we all wish to hear: rain, rain go away, come again some other day...

     I and my tree fairy are quite content with gray skies and raindrops on the windows.