Monday, April 16, 2007

Nor' Easter hits Rhode Island

...and I get a second row seat! (which was still pretty danged good!)
It was lovely!
The wind blew so hard, the house shook!
The power went off and on, and the rain blew sideways.
Oh sure...
to many of you this is not such a great thrill, but this is not the sort of storm we get typically in the high alpine desert.
And so I spent a large portion of the wee-hours pacing the upstairs compartment that is my room, with a lovely glass of diet tonic water in my hand and 6 of the vanilla scented candles lit, enjoying the fierce winds as they whistled around and through the house - making the candles flicker.
Such moments - in quiet partaking - are what life is made of.
Many moments.
A secret smile witnessed on the face of a child.
I laugh shared between baby and parent.
The tremor of an earthquake felt as the trees bow to the soil.
The awesome glory of the ash plume given to the sky by the volcano...
moments of silence. Taking only minutes or seconds, are glimpses of the perfect peace of eternity.
At least I think so.
This particular storm ROCKED!!!!!!!!!!

And then, the dog rolled in some horse poo so I had to depart from my reveries to bathe the stink off her.

The ethereal moment is replaced by the mundane.
Thus the ethereal finds it's value.

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

Lawn Bard

Lawn Bard.
The older I get, the more I cry.
There are many reasons to weep for joy.
Poignant, perfect stories and the people who live them.
Man's life truly is like a blade of grass.
Living briefly - for a season only.
He grows and lives and withers with the end of autumn.
I sit on my porch and gaze out over a cup of tea, at the new life growing on my lawn in springtime.
Each blade of grass, as an individual life - each one with a living story worthy of telling.
That is how man's life is.
Brief, it flowers, it withers, it dies.
When you walk down a city street,
Whether you are in Peoria Illinois, New Delhi, or London,
You pass people on the street.
Each face, each set of eyes bears an epic worth telling, worth remembering.
Each life is a story.
The telling, from start to finish, may be long, taking many nights before a winter-warmed hearth, or may be so brief as to lend itself to a bedtime story.
Each one is worth the telling.
Each one WILL be told.
Each one is worth the remembering.
Each one WILL be remembered.
Many pass far too quickly for those around to take time to notice and commit the telling to memory...except God.
He is the Great Author, as well as The Great Bard.
When all things end, all of the Books will be opened.
All of the stories told.
Each story a comedy, a drama, a tragedy and often, a Victory, combined.
We will hear them all in the twinkling of an eye.
Stories of quiet greatness, that went overlooked and untold here while we wore this Fleshly Tent, they will be told and sung by the Greatest Bard Who Is Ever Living.
And so, on this lovely early spring afternoon,
I sit on the porch, and watch the lawn return anew, and think.