An Orchid Story
This captivating flower opened, having been naturally branded with the Venus symbol.
She had been a gift to me when she lay dormant within the leaves and stems of an older plant.
The previous owner had considered throwing her away.
On second thought, she was offered to me.
I am no orchid expert. I only knew she did not deserve the trash.
I brought her home with me. She was fertilized, and placed in a nice warm spot with plenty of indirect sun.
Before too long, my newly adopted plant decided to thank me with this lovely symbol of appreciation.
It turns out she was and still is the epitome of female beauty.
A Future Monarch
The Milkweed host with its dainty flowerets is being consumed.
This creepy caterpillar has a voracious appetite.
It is not his moral fault that his life is programmed
to consume at the expense of others.
He has little to no idea that his destiny awaits him.
His appetites are in the present, and his addiction
will not end until it is time.
Eventually all that will be left of this lovely Milkweed
will be her chewed up spine.
However, in the wild she has a secret.
She too is programmed.
She spreads aggressively underground.
Life on Earth is not only about the present.
Nature has to plan for future generations.
A Dangerous Encounter
The flower spider found himself lost upon an expanse
of a rough and bumpy surface.
Fate brought him indoors hidden within a group
of cut flowers laid upon the table.
A large hand lifted the flowers into a water filled vase.
In fear of being crushed he jumped and landed on a foreign object.
He was more exposed than before.
His yellow body and dark black legs were in sharp contrast
to this bleached white terrain he fell upon.
He sensed a hand and eye getting closer, and he froze in fear.
He heard a clicking noise and saw a flash of light.
He was frightened and yet still alive.
He felt a rising. The surface he was on was being lifted.
He felt a slight breeze. Everything was moving. He held on tight.
They were moving toward the sun. He could feel the heat.
A finger reached out and lightly flicked him.
He lost his grip and he went flying.
In an instant he landed softly on the grass.
He ran for his life and quickly found cover.
He thanked his lucky stars that his life was spared.
Oh, the Pies My Mother Made
Mother’s Day is coming soon, and I’ve been thinking about my mother’s pies.
She made them regularly after she retired. She made a wide variety, mostly fruit.
To name a few: gooseberry pie, apple pie, peach pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and rhubarb pie.
Her crusts were always home made and hand rolled with a rolling pin. She was an expert.
Recently I’ve been going through all my family pictures. My mother had many glamour pictures taken throughout her life. Though, the picture I was seeking was of her in her early seventies proudly displaying some rhubarb stalks that she had grown.
My mother was never one to sit for long. She always wanted to be moving and doing.
This picture captures her essence that I remember most fondly.
Tree Root Reflections
Tributaries of a monster river can wander away into the woods and form reflecting pools.
Some move ever so slowly; they can appear still to the undiscerning eye.
Water loving trees find their way to the river’s edge. Seedlings can root in the byways of the wandering tributaries.
Their roots sink deep into the mud, and they grow beside these reflecting pools. Some roots can grow so big and strong they can break rock.
To an observer the line between the real and reflected can become blurred.
The Spin is All that Matters
I ran across a bag of wooden spools the other day. They were in a box of odds and ends that had made it into our garage when we were cleaning out my mother in law’s house of forty years. She has been gone for many years now, and yet her memory is still alive in various things we still have around.
The wooden spools are all bare now. All the thread was used up in antique wares. I’m sure they were saved in hopes of being made into future crafts. They could be used since their simple beauty was still apparent. The wooden spools had been made from dead biological life, and thus they still had value.
Long before the wood was cut and shaped, it pulsed with life and color, and with a continuous exchange of gases from within and without. These spools are cylindrical in shape with a hole that runs from end to end. They can be linked together to form a chain. They can be made into decorations, and strung around a living tree, still breathing and growing. They can be assembled with other materials to make a vehicle since all spools can roll.
There is a big hand in all of this, coordinating, designing, and engineering all of it. A mind is needed to oversee it all. I call this mind, God, and I like to sit and contemplate his intentions. I think God is the original, the first and the ultimate one to recycle and reuse. To him the Blue Planet is a woman, and she is still a work in progress for him. His mind has become entangled with hers, and he cannot let go of her, at least not yet. His death will be her death and vice versa.
Can You See Them?
Angels in Water
I took this picture long ago. I am thankful for my creative eye and my sense of whimsy.
Now I am thankful for my sense of humor because this makes me laugh.
Seriously, I am more thankful for my husband and my daughter. They keep me grounded in reality.
Time marches on.
I am thankful that this Thanksgiving I am learning to trust my faith again.
Ocean Waves and Anchors
I hear Moana singing and I think of spirals and tunnels. The sound waves echo around and around and it takes me down a time tunnel, from radio waves to gamma waves to thoughts of ships and anchors, then back to Hawaiian surf boards.
The ocean has been a constant in my life. I was born on an island in the tropics. We moved away before I got to know it. My father learned to sail there, though I don’t remember this.
We moved to a North Pacific coastal town and then onward to a North Atlantic coastal town. Both coasts had beaches. At five we traveled on an ocean liner from the North Pacific Ocean to the South China Sea.
I learned about banana trees, monsoons, and whole roasted pigs with apples in their mouths, and chocolate covered ants. Before we left the South China Sea I learned about rock gardens and tea ceremonies, and kimonos.
At eight we moved back to the Pacific coast, and lived on a Naval base. I learned about war and absent fathers. My brother listened to The House of the Rising Sun, the Beach Boys, and the Doors. I learned how to macrame and play piano. My sister chose the flute.
By the time I was twelve we had settled in the Mid-Atlantic. We became anchored inland, no longer on a coast. Decades passed, we all went off to college. I was the only one to return home and back into my parent’s daily life. Soon after my return my parents split away from one another. My life became divided.
Eventually both my parents passed. My siblings have not returned since then. The past is now the past.
My life has moved on. My vision still works, and I live from day to day anchored in the present. This past summer I bought an anchor T-shirt. It serves as a symbol of my past and both my parents who had worn gold anchors on their lapels. I don’t wear it every day, only now and then, and as the weather chills it will be put away until the weather warms again.
An Abalone Half Shell
Sitting in the sun today, I had thoughts of an abalone half shell. Long ago I had inherited a lovely old basket full of show shells. This is how the abalone came into my possession.
I remembered how the abalone’s color sparkled in the sun. The pastel pink and sea-foam green of its inner side blended naturally. Its outer shell was encrusted with evidence of a past life where other life forms had snugly attached themselves to it.
I knew nothing of its personal past. I just knew it had to have lived a past life in a distant sea. Either a diver or a stormy surf must have brought it up to shore. It wore nature’s artistry with a humble modesty.
One day I had decided to showcase it in a miniature garden I was making. It sat among an array of miniature plants. Since the plants were within their element of soil, they flourished and became overgrown. The abalone was in an alien habitat, and it could not compete. It sank into the soil as the plants took over.
Today my memory of it sent me searching for it. When I found it I saw no evidence of its pastel pink and sea foam green. All its vivid color was covered over with a dark rich soil embedded in its every crevice. I cleaned it out and washed it with a mild soap. I’ll have to soak it in a bowl of water to see if I can bring back its former glory.
movingforwardslowly 