Archive for November, 2011

Just in case anyone wondered… I also love a lot of things.

Sometimes it astounds me the love I have for simple little things, or simple little people. (No, I didn’t have anyone in mind when I said that)

Another thing that astounds me is how often love and thanks are basically the same thing. When I list things I’m thankful for, it always strikes me that I might as well be listing things I love, because they’re one in the same, for the most part.


1. Like cups of homemade hot chocolate in my Dr. Who sunflower mug when I’m home alone on a chilly November day.

2. Or the way I can use camera lens and shutter to make our (frankly quite homely) floor look not so bad, along with unfinished door area and walls that I painted.

3. Ginger cat in blue plush chair that really must go. (the chair, not the cat) Photogenic kitty is photogenic.

4. Parakeets… that we own for, I’m sorry, what reason? Oh that’s right, no reason. At least they’re cheerful about it. I can hear them now, chattering and picking on each other in the back room.

5. And of course… the wee little feathers that explode across the living room every time they have a little ruffle.

6. Patches of sunlight bursting through cloud cover to snuggle down in rarely clean corner.

7. Fat, happy kitties.
(Even though he’s really smiling through his teeth thinking “don’t you dare put me outside, you creep. I fight daily to get on this bed, and you ain’t makin me move.”)

8. Books in almost every room of the house.

9. Nibbley beaks of aforementioned birdtypes.

10. Photo-ops just sitting around the house, waiting for my creative eye to spot them.


And last but not least, here’s yours truly. Feeling pretty good, and definitely ready for Christmas, if the t-shirt is any indication…

(Also needing new glasses.)


❤ ❤

P.S. Here’s a bonus Moment with Terrence… Enjoy it while it lasts, he’s hardly ever like this.



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She has always been proud of her multitasking. Her fingertips attack sticky typewriter keys, pounding out rhythm to rival that of dripping eaves.

Sky gently washes white framed window pane, hushing house noise and urging her; stay indoors. Feet cold in wool stockings curl and grip wooden chair rung, and pauses come; she cracks her cold stiff knuckles; One. Two. Three.

Cold cracked lips are touched by flash of warmth.

Coal grey yarn finds way into hands. Twisting and knotting; flawless harmony, growing under straight clacking needles.

Moss green eyes watch carefully, taking in not much, and flicking upwards, remembering characters spilling life onto typewriter paper.

People so real, springing forth from her overactive mind, laying out their life plans; clinging somewhat unwillingly. Knowing they want freedom; knowing she holds them in her loving, albeit cold, hands.

They find themselves mildly questioning; wondering if freedom would hold the answer. There might be something more out there, just waiting for them to meet it; hopes and heads high.

But perhaps it would be better to stay; tucked into security of creator’s sun gold, wheat field mind.

But what if she pushes them out? Forms life; world; love and hardship? Can they find peace in that? They wonder, lashes hovering over eye orb.

In time they may see the underlying plot, they muse. Knowing she knows all. She creates their darkest selves; their strongest fears and fiercest loves. She knows them.

And sometimes… just a little… they might see a touch of her in them. They might catch a glimpse of her face; the whole picture.

And it hits them like shattered glass. Piercing through even the toughest barkskin; she loves us. They fail. Fall. Give up. Give in. Cry. Break. Love. Feel. Fix. Heal. Help. Live.

They Live.

And they know that there is a complete picture, somewhere.

A picture that tells them; you are loved.

Every one of you; you are loved. Your tangled, self-cut hair; your nimble, sunbrown fingers; sense of style and pretense of dislike. The way you fling words; seemingly careless. Your desire to be loved; and vain attempts to hide it. She loves it all.

Even your dark minds. Self serving; never taught true value. She doesn’t blame you, you know. Your haughty casting about of yourself; choosing to be wrong. She knows what lies beneath all that. She knows the hurts you harbor in your aching, calloused soul; twisting and skewing your perception of otherwise beautiful.

Yet she loves you. Unconditionally, and forever. She loves you. For you are hers; birthed from a love of beauty and a creative spirit.

She loves you.

And if she had two hearts, they would both pump the same beat. They would push warm blood through her veins; and with every cycle they would push out love for you.

For you are hers, and she loves you.


❤ ❤

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