My online journal sharing interests in photography, nature, coffee life, journaling, fountain pens, bicycling, spirituality and asking deep questions.
May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.
Neil Gaiman
Hoping you surprise yourself in 2022!
My brother-in-law has a new hummingbird feeder. As the morning sun rose I stepped over to catch a starburst breaking the roofline along with the feeder and got photobombed.
My sister and I arrived home about 6:45 pm last night. I had a wonderful time with family, filled with laughter and way too much food. But isn’t that what normally happens during the Thanksgiving holiday. Once again reminded of how much dislike I have for air travel. Have a great Tuesday!
Had time to watch these fisherman yesterday afternoon at Timnath Reservoir in the east bay area. Lovely, graceful birds.They seem to be aware of the social distancing guidelines.
I had a quiet walk at Reservoir Ridge Natural Area yesterday evening. It was a hot and muggy day so I was sweaty by the time I returned to the car. May have to take my monthly shower a week earlier than scheduled.
It was also very quiet. In the hour I was there I only heard one meadowlark, far off in the pasture, a half dozen red-winged blackbirds chattering in a tree and this mourning dove, who was mourning.
It is preoccupation with possessions,– more than anything else — that prevents us from living freely and nobly.
Bertrand Russell
Wonder if the freedom from possessions is why birds enjoy singing, everyday.
Sixty-seven years, oh Lord, to look at the clouds,
Mary Oliver
the trees in deep, moist summer,
daisies and morning glories
opening every morning
their small, ecstatic faces—
Or maybe I should just say
how I wish I had a voice
like the meadowlark’s,
sweet, clear, and reliably
slurring all day long
from the fencepost, or the long grass
where it lives
in a tiny but adequate grass hut
beside the mullein and the everlasting,
the faint-pink roses
that have never been improved, but come to bud
then open like little soft sighs
under the meadowlark’s whistle, its breath-praise,
its thrill-song, its anthem, its thanks, its
alleluia. Alleluia, oh Lord.