Black & White Wednesday ~ Chill

I close my eyes and I'm transported back to a very fancy, 1960's cocktail party. Think Mad Men. My grandmother's fur coat comforts me. Haunts me. I'm unsettled and pleased at the same time. In my mind I am not the child watching the events from a staircase or balcony, but I am one of the bejeweled. Hair up, diamonds sparkling, evening gown brushing the floor as I glide under the chandelier at the entrance and into the foyer. I'm quickly surrounded and someone reaches for the precious fur wrap and my powder blue clutch. As soon as my hands are free, the host hands me my favorite cocktail. With a kiss on the cheek and the perfunctory, "Happy New Year" my fingers close around the crystal tumbler. I feel the familiar chill, which oddly begins to warm my already frigid hands.

Clink, clink. I swirl the gin and tonic. I smell the lime. I hear the jingle jangle of the ice cubes and all else falls away. As the music fades, lips are still moving. I see laughter, but don't hear it. Women move across the marble floor in heels, but there is no click. No clack. Everything falls silent except the sounds of ice.

At the bar, cubes are scooped from a bucket and sent clanging into the glasses. The sharpest jangling comes as ice hits glass, with undertones of ice on ice harmonizing and sweetening the tune. As the liquid is added, the melody mesmerizes me completely. In these few seconds, even before the gin touches my lips, I am comforted. The familiar relief from the tension of the day and the insecurities that come with the who's who of the grand event is waiting for me. The singing ice is my harbinger.

I open my eyes. Clutching my grandmother's coat, I look out across the pond. There are cars and wind and many people out for an afternoon walk. Yet it is the ice that holds me transfixed. The frozen chunks of pond water mix and mingle, jostle and jingle like hundreds of drink laden hands at a cocktail party. And I'm carried back to the moments when I crouched on the stairs watching the magic, the mystery and the misery of the fancy, grown up world around me.

{Composed from Tuesday's free write for Writing Naturally ~ Winter}

Please link up and share your

Black & White photos!

{I'm also linking with Just Write}

Sunday Sermon?

At this time in my life, I don't have a church home. I'm a believer without community...without a family of fellow believers with whom I long to share my prayers and songs and worship time. I have found community and spiritual support in other ways...through old friendships and new...but there are days when I miss having a local church home that I can call my own.

This past Sunday, I was feeling the need for a sermon. Not the tell-me-what-to-do-and-how-to-be type of sermon, but a stir-my-soul kind of sermon. Hungry for a spiritual something, I went for a long walk through one of the most beautiful cemeteries in our area. In this place I saw family, love, loss, pain, death, separation, hope, faith, honor, respect and longing. I felt the stone cold finality of my earth-bound life and the can't-capture-it-or-tether-it-down eternal nature of the soul. And I was reminded that I'm just one small piece of the infinitely wide and wonderful whole.

It's the perfect time of year to wander in this cemetery. Consecrated in 1831 and open to all faiths, the grounds themselves are a world class arboretum. I can't imagine actually being able to describe how beautiful this place is. There are always scenes when I visit that stop me in my tracks. Moments where I think, "Pinch me...this is like a dream."

On Sunday, every where I turned there were new shades of color. And it seemed to surround me! Up above, on the ground, over every hill and down around the ponds. Each tree, each branch and each leaf joined together to cocoon me...to carry and shelter me as I threw all my cares away. Every tiny chirping bird, little rose bud and individual leaf reminded me how vital each small piece really is to the infinitely wide and wonderful whole.

In this place where death and life are so profoundly intertwined, I heard my sermon. As I wandered out, beyond my front door, trying to figure out what "all this" is for, I sure heard a wonderful sermon. My soul was stirred and stilled....my heart was filled....and my mind was both awakened and quieted. Self was put back into perspective.

I left the cold stone and the vibrant trees aware of my humble state and convinced that I matter.

Though I was still missing those hymns....

Joining Kathy for

Song-ography

{today's inspiration was Pinch Me by Barenaked Ladies}

and linking up with

Just Write

Made New

I fell in love with the rose of sharon this winter.

I think it was the small seeds inside the dried pods.

They reminded me of sunflowers.

I took hundreds of photos of the faded, drooping and crinkled flowers.

I googled and googled until I discovered what type of bush I was shooting.

And I couldn't wait to see the transformation from dried stem to flowering plant.

Last week I saw this.

As the old hung on for dear life,

the new pushed through.

Fresh.

Vibrant.

Strong.

And in an instant the anxiety that had been plaguing me faded.

As I work to shed some old, unhealthy habits that

{let's just say it}

hang on for dear life

I worry that they will

{once again}

win.

I'm longing for fresh, vibrant and strong.

I'm pushing for fresh, vibrant and strong.

Somehow it helped me to see the old and the new co-exist on this bush.

I was reminded that change does not always happen in an instant

That just because evidence of the old hangs on,

it doesn't mean that the new is not growing.

Let me say that again.

Just because evidence of the old hangs on,

it doesn't mean that the new is not growing!

I love that thought.

My heart needed that thought!

And I am, once agina, grateful that my photography slowed me down,

opened my eyes,

and guided my heart towards a healing connection.

Joining Kat for 

Photo Heart Connection

and Heather for

Just Write

Today We Remember

this old city
so proud to call her home
cobblestones
cornerstones
monuments and medals
we walk the streets and she's the same,
we walk the streets and she's changed

this old city
so perfectly imperfect
today we remember
today we celebrate 
resilience
rigor
courage and comebacks
we stand together
learn together
laugh
love
and live together

this old city
standing as one
telling the world that
we are 
Boston Strong

{please take a minute to look at DEAR WORLD: Boston Marathon as we remember}

I'm linking up with

Texture Tuesday and Just Write

Now

the big picture isn't finished
i look up, out and around and i don't see spring
yet
colorless
leafless
the softening limbs taunt me
tiny buds play with me as if an elementary school art class has been given markers to dot the sky
i know
i hear emerson
adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience
i know
yet i fail

again and again i remind myself
the bigger picture isn't finished
is it ever?
really?
i watch my children
so many seasons have come
and gone
they're young, but old
kids, but not
breaking ground, showing their colors, more than a bud
not yet a flower
not finished, but flourishing
not perfect, but whole

could it be that the bigger picture is always finished?

always finished...
i look down, i look in, i look closely
i see stems stretch
small petals wink and the tiniest of flowers nod
we are whole
we are safe
in this moment we have all that we need
though we are not finished
though i am not finished
this elusive bigger picture just might be

and i am grateful
for the love
of now

Joining with

Texture Tuesday

and

Just Write

Beneath the Surface

I knelt down in the snow right at the edge of the pond in order to capture the reflection of the clouds. It was almost 6:00. I'd been out of work for an hour, I was still outside and there was still some daylight left! As I focused on the melted waters, I thought about all that's been churning under the frozen surface all winter long. There's another whole world underneath the ice. A world that's easy to forget about while the snowy, winter white blankets the pond.

Kneeling there, alone with my thoughts, I breathed in the crisp air and felt a tear slide down my cheek. These moments of connection. Of letting go. Of purposed solitude. These moments are vital. Cherished. It is these moments that melt me. That keep me open, and connect me to all the questions that churn inside me. I seem to always have far more questions than answers....which I guess is pretty normal. But these past few months, my 'deep waters' have been particularly turbulent.

Until yesterday.

Kneeling there, alone by the melting pond, I found an answer. It came first in the hint, the whisper of a tiny thought. Churn-surface-melt-beneath...these words invited me to dance with them. A slow dance. A safe dance. With each connection, another whisper and then.......then the melody grew stronger. And an idea was born. Where there had been trouble and confusion, there was now peace and understanding. Clarity.

As I rose to continue my walk, I felt a kinship with this in between season. No longer winter. Not yet spring. All that is hidden under the frozen waters, the hard earth, the barren branches...all that has been churning is ready to burst. I felt ready to burst! I've got things to say to some people. Things to write. A path to pursue.

It's been a long winter. Oh, the actual winter season hasn't bothered me. But the months of troubled waters churning beneath the surface of me?.....well, that "winter" is ready for warmth. For blooms. For spring.

Joining others for

Just Write and Texture Tuesday

Shhhh.....

"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields,

that it kisses them so gently?

And then it covers them up snug, you know,

with a white quilt; and perhaps it says,

'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'"

Lewis Carroll

I wonder, as winter digs in her heels, how I'd live the season differently if I were a tree. If my only "work" right now was to rest. If I knew that I was planted right where I belonged. Nothing to hurry towards, no expectation of bloom or fruit. I think I would know that, in this season of shorter days and long, frigid nights, all that was needed was the gathering of strength. And I'd be glad that, as my branches await the longer, warmer, sunnier days to come, my roots can continue to grow in the blanketed earth. The earth that is kept warm. That does not freeze because of the snow that continues to fall.

As I began this year, I chose "tree" as my inspirational word. So I've been watching them closely...and happen to love this time of year when only branches decorate the sky line. I said to my brother the other day that it's not the snow that is a bother...it's that we all insist on plowing right through it and getting on with our "normal" routines. It's so hard to close down, stay in, quiet down and rest. I can be like a toddler who is too busy to be bothered with a nap. Fighting rest, fighting a change of pace. Resisting the quiet. 

Now, I know I'm not a tree. And school, work, travel, fresh air and grocery shopping will continue to be a part of who we all are - even in the dead of winter. But I'm going to take a hint from the trees, and try not to rush the season. I'm going to head outside during today's snowfall and listen to the quiet. I'm going to leave work early if the roads show signs of worsening...and not worry about loosing a few bucks. And, when I wake up tomorrow the sky will be bright blue, the storm will have passed and "my" branches will be snow kissed yet again. Sure...there's part of me (the cold part!) that feels ready for the spring. But I'm going snuggle up under my soft, white blanket...and wait patiently along with the trees.

Sharing today with

Texture Tuesday

and

Just Write

Our Path

path chosen

we'll walk together

side by side

hand in hand

then arm in arm

seasons pave the way

gently, slowly at first

that season of young love, of firsts

of caution 

of exploration

i learn your touch, i know your hand, i hold on

path brightens

we walk with little ones

under foot

swinging between our hands

riding high on your strong shoulders

seasons 

so many seasons

colorful, vibrant

calm, stormy

those roller coaster seasons hurry by

i seek your touch, i treasure your hand, we hold on 

path diverges

we choose our way together

changed as we are

weathered

we choose together

we look ahead

blessings pave the way

and we beg the seasons to grow lazy

to be gentle and slow again

a pause for a flower

stillness

a breath, a moment

the cherishing

i need your touch, i hold your hand, we let go

Linking up with Project Underblog, Just Write, dVerse Poets and Texture Tuesday

This

For this.
For this, I turned off my office computer at 4:50, instead of 5:00.
For this, I cleaned my desk, put on my coat and jangled my keys at 4:55, instead of 5:00.
I was handed one last folder to file
{with my coat on!}
and one more form to scan...
But, for this, I was out the door and in my car at 5:00 exactly.
For this, I hurried along, willed the cars in front of me to "move it" so we'd all make it through the light.
I could tell from my office window that the sunset was colorful.
Dramatic.
And I wanted a few minutes of this light by the edge of my pond.
Even just a few minutes at the end of the day, are exceptionally refreshing.
Like a palate cleanser.
The icy winds were gusty. Bone chilling.
But, for THIS
I braced myself against the cold,
took many long, deep breaths
and a few color-filled photos.
Thank you, God, for this.



Linking up today with
Just Write, Texture Tuesday and Sweet Shot Tuesday

Simply

"No act of kindness,

no matter how small,

is ever wasted."

Aesop

In a world, where glitz, instant fame and social media trending have become actual goals...where selling, and winning and earning seem honored above all else....where what's right often takes a back seat to who's right....and where bigger we're told is better... Yes, in the midst of this world, it was a gift to sit next to my father on Saturday in the back pew of my childhood church, and absorb the stories being told about a friend of ours. About her life well lived.

As Sue was remembered, there were stories of courage and generosity. Of wisdom and tenacity. There was praise for all she did as a wife, a mother, a friend and a contributing member of whatever community surrounded her. But it was the kindness - the repeated mention of the gestures of kindness from a woman who seemed to know no other way - that stood out above all.

Kindness is a quiet, understated and often invisible quality. I think it's easy to minimize it. To down play it...oh, anyone can be kind. It's no big deal, really. Sure, I can be kind...but what else can I accomplish? How can I have a broader impact that just little acts of kindness? Oh, kindness. Simple, available-to-every-human-being kindness. How very misunderstood you are.

On Saturday, from the back pew of my childhood church, kindness spoke boldly through the life of our friend. Kindness announced its presence. Kindness was visible, tangible, noticeable...remarkable. As passionately as the wail of the bagpipe filled the old, stone chapel, so the power of kindness penetrated to the depths of our souls. And we were called to remember.

Not only to remember a life. But to be reminded of a most powerful way of life.

Joining others for

Just Write, Texture Tuesday, & Sweet Shot Tuesday

Searching for the Words

There's something about his little hands. And the concentration. And the way his head is slightly bowing down. He was sitting on his dad's shoulders and holding up this sign for all of us to see ... way back in April, just a few weeks after the Marathon bombing. There was just something about his purity, innocence and sweetness that stood out in stark contrast to the polluted, hateful evil that had just attacked our city. Something about that sentiment...because when terror strikes we all feel small, weak and vulnerable.

My husband and I were fortunate enough to attend half a dozen Red Sox games this season. Each time we were at Fenway, several first responders or victims or doctors or nurses or military service men and women were honored. They climbed onto the top of the home team dug out and received a long, loud ovation from the home team crowd. The players visited hospitals. Raised money. Helped us to heal and to remember.

And they got busy, grew some beards, and won a few games. With every hit, run, pitch and out they marched closer to the pennant. THE pennant. It was hard won. The post season baseball was incredible - some of the best, most tense {and intense} games I've ever seen! But, better than the baseball, was the spirit of joy and family the team was bringing to the city. The closer we got to that final out, the more we all remembered. And when the guys won the world series, in the home town ball bark....for the first time in almost 100 years...well, they somehow managed to make it feel more about all of us than it was about them.

It wasn't just a public relations thing.

For us, they were Boston Strong.

{photos courtesy of ESPN}

On Saturday, when the Boston skies were crystal clear and the trees were fully decked out in their all finery... there was a parade. A HUGE freaking parade! Several million people poured into downtown and cheered together. The crowds were packed into Copley square, all around the site of the marathon finish line. The duck boats stopped. There was a moment of silence. Then thousands joined in the singing of God Bless America. It was beautiful.

But it was the sight of the crowds safely gathered down town that struck me the most. It reminded me of the first time I saw a plane fly across the clear blue sky near the Hancock tower without incident after 9/11. There they were. The crowds in the same place. Cheering and singing and praying and remembering and celebrating. And all was well.

It was our moment. It was my full circle moment. We can't ever bring back those who were lost. And I can't imagine the healing that still needs to take place for those who were forever changed by those bombs that day. And I know there are other people. Other places...so many, too many others who need healing as well.

But for a few hours, on a perfect fall day, our city FELT the strong. Boston Strong.

And for that, I'll be forever grateful to this wonderful team of bearded baseball players.

Greetings from my home town!

Linking up today with

Just Write, Communal Global & Texture Twist

Black and White Wednesday: That Place

"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged

to find the ways in which you yourself have altered."

Nelson Mandela

This is that place for me. That place that remains unchanged. 

I am blessed to be able to visit this valley almost once a year ~ the large sky and open lands greet me. Inspire me. Fill me. This place {and the family we have there} have been a haven and a constant through the most tumultuous, unstable years of my life. And I am beyond grateful to have them.

My return to Oregon this year was as wonderful as ever...the mountains, sky and fields were still just as magnificent as when I left them. There was one thing, though, that was very different.

Me.

There's been a shift. And it's kind of hard to describe. Yet it's as obvious to me as the wisps of the clouds across these vast skies. I left the valley last year determined to make, of my daily surroundings, more of a sanctuary. To live with a more profound appreciation of  the beauty and the gifts around me. I know that I have lived with more awareness this year. Less regret. More surrender. Less dissatisfaction. More honesty. More peace. 

It was so interesting to feel inspired and comforted by my 'unchanged' place...but not to have needed it as I have before. I didn't arrive parched and emotionally spent...my soul thirst fully quenched only as I left. And I am just delighted! Delighted to realize that I've found sanctuary and am more soul-filled in my day to day then I've been for a very, very long time. 

Delighted by this change in me.

A Pair of Old Ducks

The last time my husband and I went 'home' to Oregon, just the two of us, I was pregnant with my daughter.

That was Christmas, 1986.

There have been close to thirty trips since then....all of them as a family of three or four. Almost all of them in the summer. There were many years we traveled all the way from Europe...those were the days of TWA, hours in the St. Louis airport (I think I could still draw a floor plan of that place) and crazy car rides back over the mountain with Grandma and Grandpa. Our trips to Oregon have always been a dream come true for our kids and a great oasis of rest, love and care for me!

On Saturday night I cried a bit at the end of a movie. Not unusual for me....but it had been a while. I gathered myself with a trip to the ladies...and said good-bye to my daughter and her husband who had been hanging out with us for the evening. And then...oh my! When they left the flood gates just opened and the tears started to flow. Not shaking sobbing tears, just silent steady tears. When my husband asked what was wrong I said....I don't really know. I guess I just haven't cried in a while.

{You can imagine how much sense that made to him!!?!}

So I sat with my feelings and let the tears come....my heart was just aching a bit, I guess. Not aching over what is, but over what will never be the same again. And that's a very odd kind of ache. Because what is - well we're good. My husband and I are a happy pair of ol' ducks. And our kids are busy with their lives...as twenty-somethings should be! We will travel this week, see family...rest and enjoy beautiful Oregon. And the now, the what is, will be just as wonderful as it always is when we're there. But, I've got to be honest.... in spite of all this good, there will some pieces missing. 

And the tacky post cards I send my kids will say, "Wish you were here."

Linking up with

Project 52

Just Write

and

Tuesday Muse

Special thanks to Tracey @ Haiku Do You for her Antique Postcard texture

Black & White Wednesday: After the Storm

In my side yard stands a rough, old stone wall. It is surrounded by untended, vine-like plants and bushes. Without fail, every spring, these forgotten stems and branches yield new growth. It's really a tangled, confusing mess of different  weeds, creepers and flowering bushes. I have no idea how old the wall is or who planted what grows here...but this is my fourth spring in this house, and I've grown attached to my little jungle.

I enjoy the lilacs, the tulips and the blue bells that return every year. I've counted 13 different kinds of leaves in this 15 foot square corner of the yard. I've photographed the bare limbs in winter and the dewy leaves after a summer rain. And I adore some of these branches that find themselves covered in reddish-orange berries in the fall. Year by year, season by season, there is beauty here...an in-spite-of kind of beauty.

Beauty in spite of neglect.
Beauty in spite of disorder.
Beauty in spite of chaos.

Beauty against all odds.







It's this - this unexpected bud that emerges in spite of it's gray, dead, stiff, knotted and scraggly surroundings - this is what attaches me to this unremarkable corner of my world. I'm reminded that good and fresh can emerge in spite of evil and indifference. I'm reminded that emptiness and pain can give way to abundance and love.

In this I see the arms of the rescue worker tirelessly lifting fallen stone.
I see the body of the teacher laying atop their students.
I see the face of the child being pulled from the rubble.

There is so very much we can't explain in the world. We can plan, nurture, organize and cultivate. We can build well, live well and love well. But bad/sad/hard/horrible things still come.

So today, as I mourn with those who have lost their most precious ones...as I ask the questions that have no answers...I will also remember to hope. I will remember gratitude and kindness and community.

I will look for the beauty that emerges after the storm.

I'm linking up for Just Write at

the extraordinary ordinary 

And you can link up your

Black & White images here!

I Wonder

i wonder
watching them chat
two easy friends
at a window table on a sunny afternoon...

i wonder...
was it jumping rope
with skinned and knobbly knees
that first connected their
friend souls?

was it shopping for mini skirts
giggling about new, shapelier knees
that knit together their
friend hearts?

i wonder....

random freshman roommate?
the neighbor right next door?
have they been each other's 'person'
since their children were first born?
or
perhaps hers was the hand to hold -
knees bent, head bowed -
when ailing parents shared a hospital room...

as I watch and wonder,
I know it matters not 
when
or where
the seed
the precious seed of friendship
was planted

for it's a seed that knows no season
and looses track of time
plunging deeply
rooting itself in
two soils at once
asking very little
yet
giving so very, very much



Linking today with:
Bigger Picture Blogs
Project 52 and
Just Write

Trying

Can you feel it?
I can.
Spring is trying. The sun is trying.
And we're all trying to be patient as we wait for the "out like a lamb" side of this somewhat two-faced month of March.
We're being told up here in the Boston area that we could get hit with another foot of snow tomorrow. Sigh.
Last week they said three inches and we got a foot. I'm hoping the reverse holds true tomorrow.

But enough about the weather.
I only share the weather report because it seems to perfectly reflect my state of being....longing to burst forth with light and warmth and growth and change....yet somehow blocked. Clouded in. Fogged over. Even frozen solid. Oh, I don't stop. And I don't even have any tangible complaints. In fact, if you ask me, I'd probably give you a pretty sunny report.

Like March, however, I can be a bit confusing. Or confused. Let's call it two-sided, cause I sincerely hope I'm not two-faced.

With the changing season that is my life comes new horizons - promises and more time and self acceptance.
This new season can also be accompanied by profound waves of nostalgia - by thoughts of all that's been fulfilled, by the awareness of less time and by the fear of some questions that cut me to the core of self. Cloudy, right?

But can you feel it?
I can.
Even as I type, I can feel it. That light that's inside trying to burst forth.
With each stroke of the key board, each feeble attempt to put this all into words, I feel it.
A surrender to the now. A willingness to be caught in this tug of war between the seasons of my life. And a determination to push through the clouds and the fog until there's a clear path before me.

One of the highlights of this 11th week of 2013, 

was being asked to guest post

for Bigger Picture Blogs!

Please head HERE to see scenes from the sunny side life...

brought to you by My Weekend!

Linking up with Project 52, and Just Write

A Girl Can Dream

Don't mind me while I trespass in your back yard.
The weathered wood of your boards draw me out of the church yard, through the crunchy leaves and into your private space.
You are beautiful.
And I begin to wonder...as I wander...
{wondering is the best thing about wandering}
I wonder who's hands labored to build you and how many seasons you have stood your ground under this sky. Under these trees. Did you stable horses? For a country gentleman or a war hero? How many children ran playfully through your doors, chasing their dog....chasing a ball...or chasing each other?  How many youngsters were ushered outside in the bitter cold to collect eggs and finish their chores? I wonder if any young lovers hid away here together...just a blanket, some hay and each other.

Did you pass through many seasons neglected? 

And who's loving hands restored you? 

As you stand today, in the back yard of a lovely old home, I'm longing to belong to you. To become a part of your story. I'd set up a cozy nook in your loft. A writer's nook. Under the window...a funky old secretary desk and a sink-down-deep-into-it chair. Some favorite old photos and a vintage lamp or two. The down stairs would house bold, long mismatched tables and chairs. With tool laden workbenches lining the walls and baskets stocked with colorful paper...we would craft here. Books, cards, banners, frames...we'd craft here together. Our friends who love to knit would be chatting as they sat in the comfortable couches that line the back wall. We'd make magic here together in my studio.
And memories.

And there would be parties.
Where husbands and friends and children could join us. And share in the friendship that we found in this place while we craft and chatter away. Can't you just picture the tables outside with bright table clothes and lanterns....filled with snacks and drinks and bathed in tunes and laughter that are just loud enough to entice the neighbors to join in!

Oops. Someone's coming.
Better wander off now.
A girl can dream, can't she?!!


Joining Heather to Just Write
and linking up with Tricia for Barn Charm

****Please link up with me here this Friday for Six Word Fridays. This week our word is STUFF****

Wistful

Driving past an Oregon barn on a summer day.
Oohing and ahing over the scenery....and the horses.
Watching the sunlight dance across the sky and kiss the green...
               today I'm wishing I was right there.

Instead, the rains are beating down and the winds are blowing.
The last few leaves of autumn, drenched and tossed by the wind, will be raked away soon.
Today my bones are achy, my head's pounding, and my bed's got a magnetic hold on me.
I've had to let go of what I enjoy the most, in order to rest and make it through the have tos....
                 and that's got me kinda cranky.

So I'll just close my eyes, and drift back to sunny Oregon.
And remember that the holidays that bring kids home
and family together 
are just around the corner.

Linking up here

and here

The word for this Friday (11/16/12) is

SOUND.
{A favorite sound? Of sound mind? Sound the alarm? Safe and sound. 
Sound bites from your week.}
Link up here!

Joy

I will never forget walking through the dining room and into the kitchen of Claude Monet's home in Giverny, France. Every nook and cranny painted sunshine yellow. I'd never seen anything like it. Or imagined anything like it. Brighter than the yellow was the blue of the kitchen tile....It was fanciful. Fun. And I wanted to move in.

It didn't take more than a few minutes for me to be filled with joy. A joy that my serious, understated and "beige" self rarely experienced. An inside out kinda joy. A caught me off guard and took me over kind of joy. The pure loveliness of it took hold of me and has never let go.

I had the honor - the pleasure - of visiting Giverny several times when I lived in France. I treasured each visit, and hope I get to return again some time. Until then, I'll just rejoice whenever nature herself surprises me with her yellows and blues. And I'll take lots of photos when she wraps them up and gives them both to me at once!

Giverny Photo Credit
Please join me on Friday for Six Word Fridays. We're linking up right here on my blog and this week's word is WANDER. {click on the tab at the top for details!}