Sometimes I feel like an overturned cup of confetti… Until I remember cups are for holding liquid, not everyone else’s bits and pieces. Confetti wants to be thrown around, shared, and bring colour to the world.
Remember, it’s okay to throw those bits around, as long as you clean up after the party is over.
Trees are more like people than we often think. They hide so much beneath the ground, just like humans hid part of themselves behind pretending.
Beauty, intricate personalities, strangeness, connectivity, how we and they reach out for each other.
It’s often not until something unwanted, something uncomfortable happens and washes away the dirt, that we get a glimpse of what a person is really like. Sometimes, it’s not pretty. Other times, it reveals amazing things.
Not all buried things are bad or ugly. Even when beautiful there are things that need to STAY burred to grow properly, other things need to be protected for a.
But then, after growth, they need to be pulled up, and out, before we can use them.
I wonder what carrots think when they are harvested?
There is something about the color orange.
It inspires and glows. It’s joy to pull orange things out of the dirt, and pluck them from a branch.
Was it a shriek of delight or fear? She didn’t know as it forced its way from her chest to the cavity of her mouth. A little heart pounded the rhythm of it as it bubbled into an audible note.
“Stay back. You can’t catch me.”
The floor moved. The carpet rippling right before her eyes. Its colours swimming and shifted, a living thing.
“Hurry!” the others yelled at her as they bounced up and down in excitement. “Its rising!”
She stood on her pillow, feet sinking into its marshmallow softness. She danced like a cat.
Her body moved before her mind, responding to the call. The marshmallow softness was her downfall. Toes slid, the truth of its betrayal apparent in a second that stretched to an hour in a single heartbeat.
White sock stained brown on the bottom touched carpet. Hands held before her broke the fall, and she giggled with gleeful horror as the waves of colour splashed.
“She’s done for.” The pain in Carter’s voice rocked her back to reality. His terror was exaggerated, but real.
Another scream bubbled out as her ankles were grabbed and the friction of carpet on prone stomach threatened a burn.
“I’ve EATEN you May!”
The blanket muffled the voice, rainbow patterns shifting with movement.
“You have to join me.” “I know, I know.”
Her breathless reply held only a mite of disapproval. Her chest still rose and fell with heavy adrenaline induced gasps. She grasped the offered corner of his blanket, eyes sparking.
“The worm GROWS!”
They yell the words together. The trumpet of doom.
Learning to grow in silence can be hard. Sometimes we think all the action happens when our lives are spinning at a crazy pace. But we still grow in silence. It’s like a child doing most of his growing while asleep.
Or a brain learning when it’s allowed to be bored.
When WE are silent, the world doesn’t stop its own babbling. In the echoes of our human noise, we often miss how our world speaks to us, sings to us, even prays with us.
Maybe it’s because I am getting old, but I breathe better in the quiet.
The Mourning Dove is not a creature I ever thought about before our first homeschool unit last September. There are several pairs that call our neighborhood home, and a few of them even wintered here instead of flying south. Our feeder was a welcome buffet.
Their call is a haunting song of love.
I was captured by the beauty of the European starling in our lessons. Aggressive, invasive in North America, and so aware of its own striking appearance.
I do not need to hide, I am emperor of the skies.
They exude confidence, wrapped in shimmering tones.
The European Robin is much smaller than its cousin from North American. This little guy is fragile and lively.
Curiosity becomes a common trait in generation that live around people, but experience little danger.