.this living hand.

31::365

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.
~ John Keats

.22::30.a note from heaven

A very dear woman in our family passed away several days ago. Today, we gathered around her closest of family and friends, remembering and honoring the life she lived. She was a sweet soul that gave her heart to everyone that she made contact with. Her selfless acts of kindness and love touched so many lives. It's so very rare to meet and know someone with such a beautiful spirit. Today, I want to share with you a poem she wrote 26 years ago, in honor of the passing of her husband.

A Note from Heaven
by Eliza Bell Williams

I've found the true meaning of Grace
since I've met my Savior face to face.
I feel well and young and glad
No one here is ever sad.
There's beautiful flowers in every room
You can't imagine the sweet perfume.
Pearly gates and golden street
Smiles from everyone you meet.
Lots of babies to love and hold
Children everywhere and never a scold.
There's not a crutch or walking stick
Everybody is well, nobody is sick.
Everyone loves each other
Just like a family, sister or brother.
There's fruit on most every tree
All can hear and all can see.
This home is pure delight
And as the Bible says, "Jesus is the Light."
Live your life to the fullest, then receive your crown
And I'll be here waiting to show you around.
~Your Loved One

.wild ones.

None can have a healthy love for flowers

unless he loves the wild ones.

~Forbes Watson

.Rabbie Burns.

My love is like a red red rose

That's newly sprung in June:

My love is like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love.

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my love,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

~My Love is Like a Red Red Rose

Today marks the 250th birthday of Scotland's favorite poet, Robert Burns.  Surprisingly, many have never heard of him, although they know the words to some of his poems, and songs.  In most of the English speaking world, after the clock has struck midnight on New Year's Day, we sing the infamous song, "Auld Lang Syne," which is most likely the most popular of all is work.  In Scotland, many celebrate the anniversary of his birth with a gathering called, "Burn's Night."  Unfortunately, tonight our plans had to change, so we did not get a chance to "toast the haggis," and down our whiskey.  Instead I make mention of this bard here, a brief tribute to a man from my husband's hometown, Alloway in Ayrshire, wishing him a very glorious 250th birthday, wherever he may be!

.the key.

~Dear Stranger,

I found the key you hid behind 

the old mirror in my room.

Many years have gone since you left it,

For what reasons?  I have no clue.

I tried the locks on every door

and even the gate outside.

But none of them would open

no matter how I tried.

Perhaps to a treasure chest,

Somewhere buried in the lawn?

Or sunken deep in an ocean,

now a home for fish and prawn?

Will it unlock the door to a castle,

in a land far, far away?

Or will it free a guilty man 

whose life had gone astray?

Now wait!  Look here!

What is this upon the floor?

A note left for me to read?

How'd I not see it there before?

A letter somehow overlooked

fell from behind the looking glass.

A note for me, a stranger,

with a message from the past.

It reads:

~Dear Stranger. . . 

You have found the key I hid behind 

this old mirror in my room.

It is not a key to greater wealth

nor is it one that saves from doom. 

It is simply just a reminder,

to anyone, great or small, 

that the key to one's own happiness

is in the reflection on the wall.

(a poem by yours truly)

.making time.

Hello everyone!  Hope all is well in your neck of the woods!  I've been rather busy with my "day job" lately, a little more than I had anticipated.  But, things will be slowing down considerably in February so I guess I'll just need to suck it up and wait, then I'll be able to spend more time doing things I really want to do.  Meanwhile, I am reminded how imperative it is to "reclaim the weekend" and spend more time doing simple things that add more quality to the day.  This is something that I have been trying to claim in my own life.  What brought it to mind was an article in January's issue of the British Edition of Country Living magazine.  The cute illustrations by Rose Forshall are what originally caught my attention.  As I went on to read the article, I recalled days with less responsibility and more free time to truly enjoy simple things in life.  I ask myself, why can't I make a point to do that now?  I can.  It's all about making time.  Sure, we can't throw some ingredients into a magical bowl and literally make time, (don't we wish we could!) but we can try to discipline ourselves to set aside time for things that really matter.  Make time to bake your own bread.  Make time to spend with friends and loved ones.  Make time to just sit still and be.

What is this life if, full of care,

we have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs

and stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

and watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

we have no time to stand and stare.

~Leisure, by W.H. Davies

Today, my focus was on sending out some notes to friends, letting them know, "I'm thinking about you."   

~stamp set:  Cavallini Papers & Co.

~note card:  Hobby Lobby

.a poem.

Sweetest dream

the slightest stream

that runs 

within the 

crevices of my 

cluttered

mind.

A great hope

floats

upon you

like a massed ship

to grandest

discovery.

Reveries 

sweet reveries

play upon the keys

the longing tune

of one 

yearning to find

oneself.

~me.

 

.i miss my photoshop.

This has not really been much of an eventful week.  I'm still working on getting Aislin's costume together (I know, I'm running out of time).  The hardest thing was trying to figure out what to dress the wee girl in!  I thought, 'Hey! Let's dress her up as a fairy!'  Then, tempuratures plummeted to 40 degrees!  So. . . I've decided, she's going to be a gypsy this year.  Fully clothed, head covered, warm.  

I've been looking at some blogs and flickr accounts here in the last few days and I'm simply amazed at how beautiful everyones images are!  Which then, of course, got me to missing my Photoshop.  My PC killed over a few months back, again, after having it fixed.  We think that there was a power surge in the house we're renting (the wiring is really messy), and that the power strip that we had didn't do much of anything, obviously, to protect it.  So right now I've been using the Mac Notebook.  Unfortunately,  I don't have PS on it since the one I have was for Windows.  Argh!!  Oh but looking at the use of layers and texture is AMAZING!!  Zee, over at Pixieblossoms, was nice enough to leave some links to tutorials on her blog.  I'm dying to play with some of my older photos to give it an even more vintage feel.  I miss my Photoshop.  :o(  I guess, for now, I shall continue to utilize iPhoto, but it's just NOT the same!!

I have been trying to write some poetry lately.  Honestly, I'm not quite brave enough to share it with all of you just yet.  But before I go, I wanted to leave you with some lovely words.  This time, from the poet, Amy Lowell. 

Life is a stream 

On which we strew

Petal by petal the flower of our heart;

The end lost in dream,

They float past our view, 

We only watch their glad, early start.

Freighted with hope,

Crimsoned with joy,

We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;

The widening scope,

Their distant employ,

We never shall know.  And the stream as it flows

Sweeps them away,

Each one is gone

Every beyond into infinite ways.

We alone stay

While years hurry on,

The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

~Petals

.beauty in nature.

Ahh. . . I LOVE this time of year! Autumn. It is a time of transition, color, and beauty. When I lack inspiration, all I have to do is look to nature. I altered this photo of a tree I had taken yesterday to give it a vintage feel. Mostly I did it to be able to enhance the lines and texture, as to not be distracted by the intense blue sky. And boy was it intense! There is such beauty in nature. During fall, as well as in springtime, I am left in awe by what wondrous lovelies there are to see around us. O, Autumn, the Muse of so many a-poet! I shall leave with you all today a piece from the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

with banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

and stately oxen harnessed to they wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

so long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves;

thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

and, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

.writing for the soul.

Throughout my life, poems have always held a special place with me.  Not that I can say that I am in any way a poet.  Nor can I say that I have a vast collection of poets sitting upon my book shelf.  As a matter of fact, I only have two:  Robert Burns and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  The importance of what poetry is to me is that it has been an outlet to express oneself in such a way that it provokes emotion, not just of the writer, but moreso the reader.  Whether that emotion be joy, sorrow, anger, love.  There is no denying that there is a beauty in poetry.  If it were not the case, Shakespeare's plays would not hold as much weight and reverence amongst the masses if they had been written without meter and prose.   

So where does all this blabbering about poetry and such lead to?  Well, nowhere big really.  As some of you may know, with many of the life changes that I have had in just the last several years, I have become quite jaded with myself.   Numb.  Any fire, any creative, emotional blaze that burned within me has been dwindled to mere embers now.  Or so it seems.  I have been trying desperately to incorporate ways of creating something everyday.  ANYTHING.  It has been quite difficult.  Even a simple 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 card looks like a oversized canvas that I am to paint and there is no idea, no inspiration in sight.  So that is where poetry has, once again, made its way back into my life.  Pulling out the thoughts already cluttering my mind, and displaying them down on paper.  Perhaps, even as a drawing.  Not as a literal drawing with pencil or paint, but rather drawing with words, with metaphors.     

While on a break at work, I browsed through our poetry section.  I was actually on a mission to find W.H. Auden's works, but in the process found the above book:  Poetry as Spiritual Practice, by Robert McDowell.  I am just a few chapters into this book, and already I can sense that it has given me the encouragement that I need to write again.  Not that I was great by any means.  I just needed something that was going to help me to find ways to wake my emotions up.  And although my creative heart seems a little cool to the touch, those mere embers, covered up by ash and dust, will soon indeed spark a wildfire once more!  I hope so anyway. ;o)