From the Inside, Looking Out

There is a rebel wind today. The kind that lurks around and suddenly whirls through the treetops. A few brown leaves swirl madly down and tumble across the snow. When I step out the door, it lifts my skirt, Marilyn Monroe style, and blows my hair across my face. I try to hold down my skirt and hold the hair out of my eyes at the same time. It pulls the smoke from the chimney and sends it spiraling down over the roof and scudding across the fields. It rattles the windows and the bird feeder twirls, then striaghtens its self. The flag slaps the air, snapping as it furls and unfurls, red white and blue in the sunshine of this cold breezy day. Inside, the house is warm. It smells of bread baking and window cleaner and pledge. I wonder, how much does a bird weigh? A few ounces for a chickadee? They sit  in the cedar tree and on the bare bones of the lilac bush, calling cheerily to the world. The wind doesnt seem to bother them. They fly straight as an arrow to the feeder, not buffeted at all. They are great grab and go birds. It takes me a long time to catch one with my camera. The juncos and the cardinals hop the ground, gleaning the drops. The titmice and the goldfinches swoop and chase eachother away, some times one getting a turn, then the others. The little bluebird sits on the eave. Hes not supposed to be here in the winter, but he is. I hear him often, but he doesnt usually come to the feeder. Today he sits there looking around with his bright eyes, observing. The wind ruffles his mellow red breast feathers, making him look disheveled and rakish. His lady friend would feel giddy if she saw him now!  The gray squirrel darts from the trees to scoop up the sunflower seeds that got spilled when we filled the feeeder. Hes shifty, glancing around steadily while he eats. The blue jays arent here today,( there must be excitememt somewhere else). Its winter in the Raggedy Garden. The winter garden has its own beauty, like a black and white photo, showing lines and angles that you dont seee in the lushness of summer. Every thing makes a shadow, a dusky replica of every twig , every fence post, every bird, every treee. The rebel wind plays with the shadows, making them move and sway.January is almost over. Where have you gone,month of the wolf moon? Blown by the rebel wind, chased by the cold sun, shimmered by the silver moonbeams.Round and round, the carousel of life, let me live each day that the Lord hath made. Let me live it in peace and let me remember that  underneath are thy mighty arms.                      

Notes From the Raggedy Garden

I thought I could write this on my profile, but I wrote way too many words, so, here goes...I am a lover of the written word, a dreamer of dreams. I love babies, and babies that grow up. I love a hot cup of coffee and hard crossword puzzles. I love the night sky, the way Orion strides across it in the winter, the way the moon rises up over the water, the way the morning star is the only thing in the sky in that brief interlude between darkness and daylight. I like the smell of baking bread, a new mown lawn, and a just lit cigarette. I ache to the lonely call of a flock of geese, high in the twilight,  the sound of laughter in the night, the high happy sound of the children at play. I love the sound of church bells when they are playing hymns, the roar of a motorcycle, the boom and swell of the waves at the ocean. I like old linens, and fragile old china cups. I like blue enamel spatterware, smoky campfires, and water from a birchbark cup. I love the way the first tear wells up in a babys eye, and a road that curves, and surprises you when you get around the bend. I love blossoms on the fruit trees, colored leaves in the fall, the smell of lilacs, and the crunch of snow. I love the way the granite step stays warm after a day in the sun., the flicker of fireflies, and the smell of mint in the morning dew. I love the patina of worn silver in the candle light, the soft brilliance of the May sun, the sad,sad wail of the loon on a foggy misty night. I like the creak of leather, the sound of flip flops running on the dock, the gentle twitter of the bluebirds on the fence. I like the musty smell of the earth after it rains on the hot dry soil, the intricate weaving of the oriels nest, the way the sheets smell when thy have dried on the line. I love old memories, and the folks that tell them, I like the slap, slap of the water on the shore of the lake, and the laugh and gurgle of a brook. I would eat pacific coast salmon every day, if I could, and I like wild strawberries and blueberry jam.I like ancient old graveyards, with their orderly rows of saints and sinners washed white and clean by the wind and the rain and the sun.I love the smell of maple in the steamy sugar house on a frosty March morning.I love a little boy with dirty knees and a gap toothed smile, and a little girl with fairy wings , all crooked, and berry stained lips. I love a man who comes in the house smelling of hard work, and fresh air, and coffee, and a friend who shows up just when you need them the most.I love a hug from a sturdy teen age boy, the fresh lovliness of teen age girls, the breakable feel of a wrinkled old hand. I like to swing, soaring up over the day to day trivia, my feet pointing towards the heavens on a board and a chain. I love the smell and the feel of books, new crisp, unread ones, holding out to me who knows what, and musty, well worn old ones that have already given of themselves so many times.I like the ripple and play of the muscles on a strong mans arm, and the heartbreaking curve of a womans throat, the silky softness of a babys face,the pastel of  a summer sunrise, the way I choke up when I try to read the second chapter of Luke. " And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was good".Genesis 1:31