There’s a tree that I’ve been watching And I see it in my dreams For it calls to me and whispers As it dances in the breeze It whispers of a struggle From the roots up through the trunk And from there it tells of healing Grown of nurture, care and love Becky Hemsley 2021
I couldn’t find the special eclipse glasses we used in 2017 even though I know I saved them, so I used a colander and it made some really awesome crescents on a white background. The sun was only about 70% obscured here, no ring of fire, but super cool to safely experience.
Here’s a relevant poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 – 1919)
A SOLAR ECLIPSE
In that great journey of the stars through space About the mighty, all-directing Sun, The pallid, faithful Moon, has been the one Companion of the Earth. Her tender face, Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race, Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun, Shines ever on her lover as they run And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.
Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise, Down from her beaten path she softly slips, And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes, Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips. While far and near the men our world call wise See only that the Sun is in eclipse.
Yesterday’s angst is over; problems solved — today is Friday the 13th, a day that was once considered unlucky until we learned that its negative image is rooted in the patriarchy suppressing the power of the female.
Rather than being afraid of Friday the 13th, especially since its ruled by Venus, we could instead manifest its magic as a day to connect to our beauty and nature.
For me, that’s always been the easiest route; my animal family is all about love. This IS home, along with art and a poem.
I shall Gather up All the lost souls That wander this earth All the ones that are alone All the ones that are broken All the ones that never really fitted in I shall gather them all up And together we shall find our home
“Gather up” A Poem written by Athey Thompson Taken from A Little Book Of Poetry Art by Elaine Bayley curated from Pinterest
“Whence October is upon us, There shall be magic in the air, why it shall be everywhere. All ye leaves shall fall as Autumn does call. And as the faery folk are now gathering up and foraging, tonight I shall be leaving them a wee offering. Why, I shall leave them a few freshly hand picked Bramble berries & a wee tipple of Whiskey, Oh why how merry they shall surely be.” –Athey Thompson
First I’m hot and then I’m freezing. I confess that I’m having a hard time locating the magic in October. Not yet.
Because I wasn’t very smart last year and didn’t get a pneumonia vaccination, I ended up really sick with the most horrible case of double (bi-lateral) pneumonia, so bad that but for the fact that I’m incredibly stubborn, I would have been hospitalized,
THIS time I got the vaccination, reluctantly, because I always endure side effects for about thirty-six hours: headache, chills, fever. Most people only experience a sore arm but my immune system likes to give me a more ambitious taste of reality.
That’s why I’m now wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa, drinking ginger tea and binge-watching my new obsession, Blue Heelers, an Australian TV show from the 90s about the daily lives of Victorian police officers working at a police station in the fictional small town of Mount Thomas.
I think I’ve pretty much exhausted all the available British shows, so I had to search in a completely different hemisphere. Yes, it’s outdated with the gigantic brick-like cell phones, floppy disks, and scrunchies, but I’m learning a lot of new words like “mozzy” for mosquito, “esky” for Eskimo cooler, “slab” for six-pack of beer, “good on ya” and “you beauty“. I had to look up “it’s my shout, mate” to learn it means whoever said it will pay for the next round of drinks.
Previously my DIL and I loved A Place To Call Home, Rake, The Newsreader, The Doctor Blake Mysteries, and of course, Bluey.
I’m bracing for more vaccinations next week because it’s better to have a robustly active immune than the alternative. The first Covid vaccine sent me immediately to urgent care with an allergic reaction (read about that here) but the rest of them have been well tolerated except for the thirty-six hours of subsequent hell.
She held within her hands
A forever glowing light
Filled with love
O how it shined so bright
And everywhere she did go
Whether it be near or far
She left a little
Of her delicate, loving light
For everyone’s
Delight - Athey Thompson
In my own little rose-colored fantasy world, I wish I was wearing a sheer gossamer gown with butterfly wings so that I could share love and sparkles with all the flowers.
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. –Joyce Kilmer
I looked up from weeding the veg garden at green leaves and the bluest sky kissed by the sun. There’s a bird singing somewhere in there but I couldn’t locate it.
It’s cooling off even here in Southern California and now we can anticipate (or dread) shorter, darker days, to give us plenty of time for self reflection on the passage of time.
The Falling Leaves
Today, as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.
by Margaret Postgate-Cole (1893–1980)
I had to add this melancholy Nat King Cole song and just noticed he and the poet have the same last name. How cool is that coincidence!
How, It only takes One precious little soul To light the way For so many of us, to see
A Little Poem by Athey Thompson
A true artist, Athey Thompson strips language down to what is most moving and emotional, at least for me. There is abundant beauty in its simplicity. Her words deeply resonate.
I woke up this morning to a glorious blood-red sky.
It was about 6:30 or so, and I realized what day it was.
This was about the same time, twenty-two years ago, that I had taken my first sip of coffee and turned on the news to learn that the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center had been crashed into by hijacked jets.
I woke up my son and while we huddled together watching TV, there were other reported terrorist attacks on the Pentagon and a crash in Pennsylvania.
The September 11 attacks of 2001 caused the deaths of nearly 3000 victims and nineteen hijackers. Thousands more were injured and long-term health effects have arisen as a consequence of the attacks.
This sky is a poignant reminder of that tragic day.
William James Collins is an American poet who served as the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003.
The Names is his poem about 9/11.
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark. Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name -- Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins. Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner -- Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor. When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple. Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds -- Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z. Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart. -- Billy Collins
Full of #gratitude and being #grateful with a poem by one of my favorites, Becky Hemsley, to help dispel any lingering Saturday blues and also because it’s too hot to stay outside.
Photo of Big Sur by Enchanted Seashells
When the ocean waves engulf you And there’s water all around And when you feel you’re in so deep You might as well swim down When the forest’s looming darkly And you can’t see your way through When the trees are overbearing And they’re closing in on you When every path is dangerous And treacherous to tread And you decide to stop And stay forever lost instead
Well…
I hope the sea is sapphires That buoy you with their blue I hope they shine a little Of their precious light on you I hope the forest prides itself On all its emerald leaves And helps you see your brilliance Through the darkness of the trees I hope your paths are gilded And are lined with golden hues Where ruby roses grow through grass That shines with diamond dew I hope you feel the sunshine And the warmth that it possesses I hope you see the way the clouds Are shining at their edges ‘Cause there’s richness in the darkness, When you’re lost, beneath the surface There’s treasure waiting for you And I promise you it’s worth it So don’t give up or in ‘Cause pressure builds a precious stone You’ve everything you need And you are stronger than you know So please keep going up and through Keep walking, swimming, climbing And keep on searching clouds for silver Sewn into their linings —Becky Hemsley
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 