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See the Mama wren? She’s fussing at me for being too close to her babies who’re tucked inside the bird house. Discarded shoes litter the grass around the pine tree; two bright blue Crocs, a pair of canvas sandals. When the kids are...
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Photo Source. Only the worst kind of parent hopes that the slow, cold, July rain doesn’t let up in time for fireworks. Or maybe it’s only the worst kind of parent who decides, even after the rain lets up, not to take the kids to fireworks after all. And, in...
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“What do you think of the pink room?” I ask my daughter. “Every time I walk into it I think, ‘Well?’, like I expect it to say something to me, to tell me why it’s so pink,” she replies. Snuggled together on a sunny Sunday morning in bed, we laugh because...
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It fits in the palm of my hand, small and pleasing, like Julian of Norwich’s hazelnut. The cover is cut and glued from scrap paper – the same paper that lines my kitchen cabinet. The pages, cut from printer paper and the binding, a bit of linen cord....
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I have my own picture window now, complete with bird feeder. Grandma fed her chickadees religiously, for years. Filling a rusted coffee can with sunflower seeds, she loaded the feeder outside her big picture window, daily. Seated...
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(Photo Source) Today, I’m grateful to be hosting the words of fellow blogger, Elizabeth Marshall. Won’t you give her a warm welcome as she shares her heart? I am measuring beauty and grace in increments of fragmented seconds. Small flakes of wonder,...
