Happy Birthday, Annabelle!.❤

 

 Princess Annabelle Turns Nine Today!

And now here she is, The Heart of Our Home

Happy Birthday, Annabelle

❤❤❤

Comfort Read

 

I've been spending so much time talking about it not being my birthday that I've ignored sharing comfort reads.

I need to do better.  

I love this beautifully written novel - 

Description from Amazon:

“Exquisite” (Lisa Barr, New York Times best-selling author of Woman on Fire) and “utterly engrossing” (Katherine Gray, cohost of the Netflix series Blown Away), The Color of Ice will wrap you in its spell, all the way to its unforgettable ending.

Set among the glaciers and thermal lagoons of Iceland, and framed by the magical art of glassblowing, The Color of Ice is the breathtaking story of a woman's awakening to passion, beauty, and the redemptive power of unconditional love. 

The stunning new novel by the author of award-winning novels Queen of the Owls and The Sound Between the Notes . . .

Cathryn McAllister, a freelance photographer, travels to Iceland for a photo shoot with an enigmatic artist who wants to capture the country’s iconic blue icebergs in glass. Her plan is to head out, when the job is done, on a carefully curated “best of Iceland” solo vacation. Widowed young, Cathryn has raised two children while achieving professional success. If the price of that efficiency has been the dimming of her fire—well, she hasn’t let herself think about it. Until now. 

 
Bit by bit, Cathryn abandons her itinerary to remain with Mack, the glassblower, who awakens a hunger for all the things she’s told herself she doesn’t need anymore. Passion. Vulnerability. Risk. Cathryn finds herself torn between the life—and self—she’s come to know and the new world Mack offers. Commitments await her back in America. But if she walks away, she’ll lose this chance to feel deeply again. Just when her path seems clear, she’s faced with a shocking discovery—and a devastating choice that shows her what love really is."

P.S.

It's still not my birthday.

Nope. Still not my birthday . . .

 

But - 

We did go out yesterday for lunch.  We went to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants.

We chose Mexican for two reasons.

1 - 'cause we love it.

2 - because ICE invaded us  here in the NC High Country for a few days and some well-loved local businesses closed their doors and stayed home to stay safe from the masked thugs.

The least we can do is show our support by giving them our business.

It was delicious, as usual, and there was a good crowd. ❤

So today the Chiefs are playing, it's a gorgeous day, and even though it is still not my birthday, here's another birthday poem.

Light bulbs on a birthday cake.

What a difference that would make!

     Plug it in and make a wish,

     then relax and flip a switch!

No more smoke

      or waxy mess

      to bother any birthday guests.

But Grampa says, “it’s not the same!

      Where’s the magic?

       Where’s the flame?

To get your wish without a doubt,

You need to blow some candles out!”

          BY CALEF BROWN

Art by Tricia Robinson

STILL not my birthday . . .

 

But i did buy myself a pretty new red dress. ❤

(i am not as old as Cheerios).

Cheerios by Billy Collins

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago

as I waited for my eggs and toast,

I opened the Tribune only to discover

that I was the same age as Cheerios.

Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerios

for today, the newspaper announced,

was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios

whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.

Already I could hear them whispering

behind my stooped and threadbare back,

Why that dude’s older than Cheerios

the way they used to say

Why that’s as old as the hills,

only the hills are much older than Cheerios

or any American breakfast cereal,

and more noble and enduring are the hills,

I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.

Source: Poetry (September 2012)

Birth Month Reflections

 I will be turning 77 years old this month.

Seventy-Seven.

No longer a spring chicken.

No more dancing on a tabletop after a drink or two too many.

Now I'm more apt to fall over my own feet simply walking through our living room.

All the more reason to stick to calmer activities - like sharing poetry.  😎

I once knew a woman

With lines on her face

Who’d lived most her life

In a much different place

A place where those lines

Were respected, revered

Where it was known

They held the wealth of her years

And here, in a place

That was scared to grow old

She made us all realise

The beauty age holds

For one day she stood

And attracted a crowd

She started to speak

As we all gathered round

And we hung on each word,

We were all mesmerised

For her voice was so powerful,

Knowing and wise

She smoothed down the crown

Of her hair on her head

Then she lifted her chin

And her voice as she said

“These lines are not something

To hide or to fear

But something that says

‘I have lived, I was here’

They’re not to be counted

Like bars of a cage

But like rings of a tree

That grows stronger with age

Grounded and grand

Persevering and proud

I’ve earned every stripe

So I’ll wear them out loud

And though you might think

I’d look better with none

Just wait til you learn

How I earned every one

Because I’m much more

Than the way that I look

And these lines on my face

Are like lines from a book

That holds all the tales

Of the things gone before me

So come, take a seat

And I’ll tell you my story.

     - - - Becky Hemsley

art | Krystal Kliedon

No, it's not my birthday . . .

I like celebrating birthdays.  

What makes more sense than to celebrate the birth of loved ones (AND your own pretty  self?!)?

So.  Today for no reason I decided to start Celebrating the Occasion of My Birth Month by sharing some poetry.

Stay tuned - more birthday poetry to come! 

Birthday

By Kathleen Rooney

At first, birthdays were
reserved for kings and saints.
But it’s rainbow sprinkles and
face painting for everybody
these days.

The best way to avoid having
your birthday ruined is to avoid
having any expectations for
your birthday.

Without the delineation of
years, time would become
an expanse of open water.
Horizonless, shark-filled. One
of my biggest fears.

A rush of Orange Crush—that
sparkle on the tongue—and
“Make a wish!” shouted at the top
of tiny lungs are a couple of things
I recall. Balloons and streamers
and the first piece of cake. Conical
hats with elastic chin straps.

Is a birthday party an instance
of what Durkheim meant
by collective effervescence?
Profane tasks cast away for
a sacred second?

Whence my ambivalence about
birth as a metaphor? Birth for
entities not brought forth from
a womb?

“Happy Birthday to You” is
a bit of a dirge.

It’s said that the party hat may
have originated with the dunce
cap. An abrogation of social
norms? Not punishment in
school, but foolish cavorting.
Worn for the pinning of tails on
donkeys. The tossing of eggs.
Sported for a sack race.

Don’t say “A star is born” unless
you’re talking about the movie.
Don’t tell a woman her books
are her babies.

For my next birthday, please
remember that I love getting
mail. You could send me a
funny card, and maybe a
package. A package full of
money. Or a necklace made
of lapis lazuli, believed by the
ancients to ward off melancholy.

What an ego boost, to have
one’s birthday suit evaluated by
another person as cute.

“Today is the oldest you’ve ever
been, and the youngest you’ll
ever be again.” Supposedly
Eleanor Roosevelt said that.

I wouldn’t say I have a problem
with mortality. If anything,
I tend to gravitate toward the
timeworn: a neighborhood
where the roots of the trees
crack the sidewalks.

Birthdays are about pleasure—
excess and decadence.
But pleasure is painful.
Because memento mori.
Because hoary cliché: We’re
not getting any younger.

The candles gutter; the candles
go out. Better to blow them
dark yourself.

Birthdays are okay, but what
about death days? Of the
365 days we cycle through
annually, on one of them,
we’ll cease to be alive.

Should the hour of arrival be
more of a factor? Should some
of us have birthnights?

Mayonnaise is my favorite
secret ingredient for cake,
birthday or otherwise.

There’s no predicting the
days of greatest significance.
Best simply to be vigilant.
Like my friend Beth said, not
even trying to be wise, “In
my life, the piñatas come
around pretty quick—I just
swing at them with my stick.”



Kathleen Rooney is a poet and a novelist. She is a founding editor of Rose Metal Press, a nonprofit publisher of literary work in hybrid genres.

Comfort Reading

 

As a botanist, Robin Wall Kimmerer has been trained to ask questions of nature with the tools of science. As a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, she embraces the notion that plants and animals are our oldest teachers. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Kimmerer brings these two lenses of knowledge together to take us on “a journey that is every bit as mythic as it is scientific, as sacred as it is historical, as clever as it is wise” (Elizabeth Gilbert).

Drawing on her life as an indigenous scientist, and as a woman, Kimmerer shows how other living beings—asters and goldenrod, strawberries and squash, salamanders, algae, and sweetgrass—offer us gifts and lessons, even if we've forgotten how to hear their voices. In reflections that range from the creation of Turtle Island to the forces that threaten its flourishing today, she circles toward a central argument: that the awakening of ecological consciousness requires the acknowledgment and celebration of our reciprocal relationship with the rest of the living world. For only when we can hear the languages of other beings will we be capable of understanding the generosity of the earth, and learn to give our own gifts in return.

Snow and New Book

 Yay, snow!  

Just a little, but still magical.  

Especially with this gorgeous new book to spend the day with.  

Striving for a drama free day - No News, No trump, No Politicians. 

 I'm sick and fucking tired of this country breaking my heart day after day after day.

SNOW AND SNOW

by Ted Hughes 

Snow is sometimes a she, a soft one.
Her kiss on your cheek, her finger on your sleeve
In early December, on a warm evening,
And you turn to meet her, saying "It''s snowing!"
But it is not. And nobody''s there.
Empty and calm is the air.

Sometimes the snow is a he, a sly one.
Weakly he signs the dry stone with a damp spot.
Waifish he floats and touches the pond and is not.
Treacherous-beggarly he falters, and taps at the window.
A little longer he clings to the grass-blade tip
Getting his grip.

Then how she leans, how furry foxwrap she nestles
The sky with her warm, and the earth with her softness.
How her lit crowding fairylands sink through the space-silence
To build her palace, till it twinkles in starlight—
Too frail for a foot
Or a crumb of soot.

Then how his muffled armies move in all night
And we wake and every road is blockaded
Every hill taken and every farm occupied
And the white glare of his tents is on the ceiling.
And all that dull blue day and on into the gloaming
We have to watch more coming.

Then everything in the rubbish-heaped world
Is a bridesmaid at her miracle.
Dunghills and crumbly dark old barns are bowed in the chapel of her sparkle.
The gruesome boggy cellars of the wood
Are a wedding of lace

Comfort and Hope

 I've recommended this book before, but if you missed it, or purposely ignored my recommendation - I'm Baaaccckkk . . .

From Amazon:

"NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • Discover the word-of-mouth hit hailed by Ann Patchett as “A cause for celebration”—an intimate novel about the transformative power of the written word and the beauty of slowing down to reconnect with the people we love.

“Masterful is the pace at which Evans fills in the blanks of her protagonist’s life.”—Frank Bruni, The New York Times

“I cried more than once as I witnessed this brilliant woman come to understand herself more deeply.”—Florence Knapp, author of The Names

LONGLISTED FOR THE CENTER FOR FICTION FIRST NOVEL PRIZE AND THE ANDREW CARNEGIE MEDAL • A PBS TOP SUMMER BOOK • LIBRARYREADS PICK OF THE MONTH

“Imagine, the letters one has sent out into the world, the letters received back in turn, are like the pieces of a magnificent puzzle. . . . Isn’t there something wonderful in that, to think that a story of one’s life is preserved in some way, that this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone?”

Filled with knowledge that only comes from a life fully lived, The Correspondent is a gem of a novel about the power of finding solace in literature and connection with people we might never meet in person. It is about the hubris of youth and the wisdom of old age, and the mistakes and acts of kindness that occur during a lifetime.

Sybil Van Antwerp has throughout her life used letters to make sense of the world and her place in it. Most mornings, around half past ten, Sybil sits down to write letters—to her brother, to her best friend, to the president of the university who will not allow her to audit a class she desperately wants to take, to Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry to tell them what she thinks of their latest books, and to one person to whom she writes often yet never sends the letter.

Sybil expects her world to go on as it always has—a mother, grandmother, wife, divorcee, distinguished lawyer, she has lived a very full life. But when letters from someone in her past force her to examine one of the most painful periods of her life, she realizes that the letter she has been writing over the years needs to be read and that she cannot move forward until she finds it in her heart to offer forgiveness.

Sybil Van Antwerp’s life of letters might be “a very small thing,” but she also might be one of the most memorable characters you will ever read."