no limit

Know your limit, collect within it.
Library book sales are such a temptation to the weak.
I was just going to look,
and then,
I was just going to buy the one small book for my grandson. The title was Vancouver Canucks for goodness sakes.
Of course, I felt I really must pick up the three out of print George MacDonald's for my Dad.
Mary Had A Little Lamb had illustrations that would make a quilter weep for joy, created with fabric and wool and embroidery. It couldn't be left behind either.
Christmas with Rosamunde Pilcher was an amazing find. It contained a short story that broke my heart with it's beauty. I have already imagined its sequel.
Oh the power of words,
the joy,
the comfort.
Books really can take on a life of their own. Like companions or wise old friends.
Now how can you limit that.

fairy dust

I sifted sand from the Oregon shore through my fingers this morning. A row of sun whitened sand dollars sit on my deck railing. When they are lifted for closer view, a little stream of Oregon sand creates a tiny mountain, like an hourglass without the glass. As time has trickled away, so has much of the sand, but there was still enough there this morning to slide through my fingers; cool and silky glitter dust. It makes me think of fairy dust and wishes. I need only clasp the smooth, round sand dollar to hear the sea gulls cry on the wind, to feel the cold, firm sand under my feet. Memory is our fairy dust and we can travel with wings the winds of time.

misty

Mist swirled inland from the sea this morning. Marine air, the breath of the ocean. The world faded into gray and I thought I heard the distant notes of autumn. What a beautiful world. Here in the midst of smoldering July, is a gift, a promise of the freshness of fall.

sticky

My son-in-law has likened exiting our daughter's Volkswagen, to hatching. Well, in we clamoured anyway, and set off in the golden light of early evening, our destination, Birchwood Dairy. The occasion was "Birthday Ice Cream" for my father's 88th. As we swung in to the parking lot, I could see my grandchildren, like little flowers, in front of the barn. From the shadowy stall, large eyed cows gazed out at large eyed toddlers. These were invalid cows, my grandson informed me, taking a respite from the rigors of milking.
The sun still held some of the intensity of the heat of the day and so we retreated into the air conditioned parlour. Before long, we were debating the merits of sugar versus plain cone, one scoop or two, and flavor, flavor, flavor.
Back outside, we clustered around an umbrella topped table, a chair for each, and each in a chair. My little granddaughter has attained that age of Independence, and held her own ice cream cone. The frosty orb defied gravity and clung to the cone, which was held every which way but upright. The evening heat began to take it's toll, and blobs of pink cream dropped onto her dress. This was a big worry to her, and she waved her cone precariously in one hand while pointing with concern to her hemline. It was when the cold stickiness reached her skin that she decided, enough was enough. "Do you want your Mommy to change you," I asked. "Oh yes," she nodded clamouring out of her chair, into my arms. Her legs and dress were sticky, the hand she clutched mine with, even stickier, and she firmly placed her ice cream cone on my shoulder, as if knighting me. I knight thee, sir grandma, in honor of acts of bravery in the face of great stickiness......... I had forgotten how much fun getting sticky can be.

objet d'amour

An anguished cry, pierced the air, and my daughter's heart. Blood curdling was how she described it. The sound had come from my little grand daughter's room, where she lay napping. Up the stairs my daughter flew, her heart in her throat. She threw open the door. Her eyes were on her child in an instant. There, in the crib, stood her little girl, smiling sweetly and welcomingly. And there, on the floor, lay a little hair elastic. Ahhhhh, so that's all it was. My grand daughter has developed a fixation with little things, right now, it's hair elastics, and she clutches them in her hand all day. She won't let go, even at meal time, and squawks when her mother washes her little hands, around the elastic of course. They are always pried out of her sleeping hand at nap time and bed time, but this time it was missed. The scream was the sound of separation, of being parted from her objet d'amour. Childhood is a training ground for the rest of our lives. Little pains, little partings, they teach the heart to heal. Resilience, the wonderful compensation.

free

I woke up in a bit of a funk the other morning. A dark cloud that had dogged my steps the day before, had settled over night, and chilled my soul. Funks feel sad and listless. As the day wore on, I unwisely indulged my mood with self pity, and the funk turned in to a snit. Maybe it's a natural default to blame others, when really, so many choices are our own. Of course, a snit left unchecked can erupt in a snark or even a snipe. I have come to love the expression, "always change a losing game." Thank you Lord, for showing me there is another way. I can be sorry and change, instead of just being sorry. I can forgive and love, instead of giving up, and I can be thankful and accept joy instead of counting up the negatives. Ahhhh, freedom from myself, to be myself.

on the other side

My husband created a make work project for himself. It involved moving a wide swath of gravel from the front of our house to the back where it will prevent mud from tracking in. The resulting dusty, barren area was quickly clothed with rolls of lush green grass and our front yard magically doubled in size.
One thing so often leads to another, and a pergola seems a natural, next step; Someplace deliciously cool and shady, a place to rest and escape the heat of summer evenings. Of course that will mean finding a table and chairs, and maybe a lantern or two.........Change can be exciting, and newness refreshes. Sometimes it's true, the grass IS greener on the other side.