Both…

I Love the way day and night, night and day, melt so softly into one another. A pure moment. Bold strength in the way everything is a silhouette as all colors fall away or are yet to be awakened. Mystery hidden in the shadows. Disguised hope of what may come next. Or a veil slipped over the glory of what has just been. If you’re not in the moment of the passing, if you see with your eyes just what I share, You are free to let go. Let your imagination fly with possibilities. Is it this one? Or that one? What has been? Or what will be? Your choice. Neither is wrong. Both are exquisite…There is only now.  Whatever you choose, open your heart… don’t miss it…

What are you hungry for?

“When I write of hunger, I’m really writing about love and the hunger for it, and the warmth and the love of it…and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied…and it is all one.”  M.F.K. Fisher

 

I’m so so hungry this morning.  For food?  Yes and no. We hunger for so much more than sustenance. The foods we love and the foods we don’t love all have stories for us, about us. When we share a story about our food life, if you listen closely you’ll hear more than a recipe for the perfect turkey.  Today I’m hungry for the food of childhood summers reminiscent of long lazy days. I want the foods that tell stories and satisfy with love even more than with calories. This week that means chocolate sheath cake! 

 In my family as in most there were fine cooks and simple cooks. People tell me that my Mother was a great cook. But as I remember her kitchen she didn’t cook very often and then it was food food because one should eat.  She used to say – we’ll play like it’s done. By the time I was eight years old she was cooking for only the two of us.  And after all, a little girl doesn’t eat that much. Once in a while she would conjure up a feast. Mostly though, we ate simple fare and spent our time on other pursuits. My Mother could tear the whole house apart when she was inspired by a project. She wasn’t afraid to try anything even if it made a horrible mess.   Although Mother gave up cooking for the most part she loved food and miraculously never gained an ounce.  I think she was too busy for weight.  It just couldn’t get a grip on her.  She moved too fast. 

 Later in life when I was grown and she moved more slowly, after taking her to the doctor I would ask – what would you like for lunch, Whataburger or Mexican? Mind you, we still had donuts left from our morning pre doctor stop. Without skipping a beat, she  always answered – Both – and she meant it. I would make a few mild attempts at encouraging her to choose one or the other. Both, she insisted. And so, Both it was. First, we would have a sit down lunch of Mexican food where she cleaned her plate as I struggled with how full I felt. Then, I’d drive through Whataburger to pick her up a large burger, fries and coke which would be enjoyed and gone before the day was over. Mother loved food, all food. I’m not sure if it was sheer gusto for the enjoyment of the simple pleasures in life. 

Or Perhaps she remembered what it was like to be without. There were times when I was a girl that work was hard for her to come by and the fridge was pretty bare. A few slices of cheese and a jar of pickles doesn’t offer a great many choices. She was so clever that she once made tomato soup from saved up ketchup packets!  I assure you we never went hungry.  And Mimi’s house wasn’t far away, with something always simmering on the stove. We’d leave her house with a full tummy and Tupperware laden with leftovers. 

 That is probably why I try to feed everything and everyone who comes near me. You think I’m kidding? Just ask anyone who’s been in my kitchen. Seriously.  there’s bird seed for the wild birds. Nectar for the hummingbirds. Crumbs for the fish at the lake. Even my composted scraps are offered to the animals.  They’ve been gobbled up by raccoons, opossums and coyotes now and then. Those animals, the wild ones, sneak up at night and drive the dogs crazy! Why are you at my house? Why?! Those egg shells belong to me! 

 Where was I…oh yes… So, although I have good strong food memories of my Mom, they aren’t so much to do with her actually cooking. For that I only have other people’s stories of her skill in the kitchen and a handful of treasured recipes.  Yesterday, I baked her Chocolate Sheath Cake in the same silver pan that she always used.  Ah, chocolate cake you say.  That’s nice.  I must have a dozen chocolate cake recipes.  Wait, no, no, you don’t understand.  As a girl I didn’t like chocolate.  That’s right, I didn’t like chocolate.  I can hear you gasping in horror.  When you’re a kid chocolate is everywhere!  It’s the thing! Chocolate cakes, chocolate frosting, chocolate ice cream, chocolate candy, hot chocolate, chocolate milk, chocolate is Everywhere.  All I could think was – oh, chocolate, do you have anything in vanilla or maybe some refreshing lime sherbet.  Why does everyone want chocolate? Are you still with me? Have you passed out and hit your head on the pavement? It was hard to be a kid who didn’t like chocolate.  You’re instantly different in a rather odd sort of way.  What do you mean you don’t like chocolate? Everyone likes chocolate.  Not everyone.  Not me.  I learned not to share that part of myself, the part that other kids didn’t understand. 

 You will be pleased to know that I’ve grown to the point where I like chocolate fine now.  A nice piece of dark chocolate after a meal is perfect and yes I can be satisfied with just one.  That’s only because it’s not my be all, end all, go to food.  That would be cookies! Did you hear my deep sigh of contentment.  The world’s most perfect food – Cookies! No plate, fork, or napkin necessary.  When things are bad and getting worse, keep a cookie in your purse! I am utterly convinced that if you slather on peanut butter and add a side of milk or maybe fruit you have a perfectly well balanced meal.  When I’m having one of Those kind of days I even bake them warm for dinner.  The veggies can wait until tomorrow.  This terrible horrible no good very bad day will be redeemed by cookies for dinner.  I’m off topic again…but seriously, cookies, I’m just saying.  Now you know why one of the names I answer to is Cookie.  I can live with that.  

So… a Mother who didn’t cook much, creative meals now and then, a kid who doesn’t like chocolate, and cookies Rock.  What does all of that have to do with my Mother’s chocolate cake? Why is It so special?  Cookie, You don’t even like chocolate for goodness sakes.  Chocolate Sheath Cake is one of only two cakes I recall my  Mother baking.  And, until I was rather grown it was the one and only form of chocolate that I liked.  The only chocolatey food that made me sigh with ease and light up my face with joy.  The only form of chocolate that made me like everyone else, my mother’s cake.  Although these days my pantry is blessedly full and my choices are many,  Mother’s Sheath cake still does that for me.  Is it the chocolate? I doubt it.  When it comes to chocolate I can take it or leave it.  It’s my Mother, of course.  She did something for me that no one else could.  She loved me whether I liked chocolate or not.  My first gift of unconditional irreversible love. 

 

I don’t like chocolate.  You don’t like broccoli. She doesn’t like soccer. And he doesn’t like football. Not everyone will love you unconditionally.  But, we’re each lovable just as we are no matter what we don’t like to eat or to play.  Jack is different from Huckleberry is different from Ellie is different than Bo.  My Ellie girl loves cookies just like me!  Huckleberry is crazy for cheese, all kinds, and pancakes.  Bo is a bacon aficionado.  And Jack j juice box, well, Jack likes a little taste of everything. Don’t you Jack?  I love the ways they aren’t like each other.  I love the silly things that only they can do.  We needn’t hide that which makes us different.  Rather, share it and see how much fun there is in another way.  Bo doesn’t like rough play so he climbs up on the picnic table and watches instead.  The other dogs like him just the same.  

From time to time when I’m hungry for something more, for something undefined, then I bake Sheath cake.  My Mother’s cake in my Mother’s pan.  I love the way the lid slides on and off.  It gives a satisfying click when it’s closed up all the way.  I love the window that lets me peek through to see the goodness inside.  I love to leave a fork in the pan so I can easily snag a bite every single time I walk through the kitchen.  No, it doesn’t last very long that way.  But yes, if you should arrive before I’ve polished it off I will share with you, from the opposite non fork side, of course.  When the pan empties, I’m good.  I’ll go months without making it or even thinking about it.  Then all of a sudden I am missing something… hungry for something I cannot quite define.   A secret anniversary of the heart perhaps. 

There is food that fills our tummy.  There is food that provides a well balanced diet.  Then, there’s the food that speaks to your heart.  Whatever yours is, eat it slowly, savor the taste of it, recall its story, and please, share it with someone you love.  

Chocolate Sheath Cake

In a bowl mix

2 cups flour 
2 cups sugar

In a saucepan bring to a boil

1/2 cup butter

1/2 cup shortening

4 Tablespoons cocoa

1 cup water

Pour over dry ingredients and mix

Add in  

1/2 cup buttermilk 

2 eggs

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon vanilla

Mix well and pour into a greased 9×13 pan

Bake at 400 for 30 minutes 

Five minutes before the cake is ready make the icing

In a saucepan melt 

1/2 cup butter

4 Tablespoons cocoa

6 Tablespoons milk

Stir in

4 cups powdered sugar 

1 teaspoon vanilla 

1 cup chopped pecans

Pour the thin hot icing over the hot cake.

Let cool

Enjoy!

Midsummer’s Eve Tea

May your day be enchanted and ever so bright, filled with magical surprises meant to delight…

May you happen upon a tiny feast set just right, fit for the fairies and their sweet friends the sprites…

May you be touched by the whimsy of midsummer’s eve night, dance a jig neath the moon and its silvery light…

And whatever may come with the dawn of the day, may you always be loved as as you wander your way.  

Big moments?

Spring turns to summer in Texas! Really?  Are you sure? Because, I won’t fib, today mostly feels the same as yesterday.  Ellie rules the roost.  Period.  No ifs ands or buts.  Jack is going at his regular breakneck pace looking for our next big adventure.  And Bo rests his head in my lap trying desperately to be adorable so I’ll share my last bite of buttered toast.  He loves butter almost as much as cheetos.  Even Dobby is getting along splendidly.  He’s a very new story for another day.  Sigh.  How do they find me?  Nevertheless seasons change and my daily life changes with them.  There’s not much to see really.  If the calendar doesn’t remind  me that today is the day, how would I even know.  Most of us are so far removed from the natural world these days that the changing seasons don’t mean as much as they once did. The turning itself is something though. Spring is new!  We’ve waited and tended and worked.  New is upon us!  Spring is a time of flowers, Passover, Easter, and graduations of one kind and another.  We look to each of these as transformative moments.  None of them lasts very long.  But each asks us to reflect on what has been, to celebrate it, often to let it go.  Make way for what’s next.  

When someone graduates do you honor their hard work and  accomplishment or do you encourage them towards their dreams as they move forward.  Honestly, you probably do both.  Still, the celebrations and festivities we most associate with spring are at their core about profound transformation.  How fascinating to me that a single ceremony, a single calendar day can pass quietly before us and yet we are supposed to feel that somehow Now things are different.  I am no longer this.  Instead…I am this…new, different.  It’s an odd moment I think, and it takes me a while to catch up with the meaning of it.  Sometimes all we can do is move through it, letting it be what it is.  We instill such grand importance on what we deem to be the big things in life.  A festival has taken place.  Life is new!  Isn’t it?  

Towards the end of winter branches are bare and the world is rather gray.  Suddenly the air warms up a tad and there are a dozen shades of green everywhere you look. The flower bud closed so tight against the world one day changes its mind and opens its heart in blossom.  It’s true then I suppose that all things transform and renew in a moment that we may not even see.  We are not misguided in our hopes for the future, our dreams of the new.  But, we look too hard for the change itself.  We want to see it and know it.  We want to pencil it on a calendar with a date and time.  We will arrive early to get a good seat.  Our camera will be at hand to capture the perfect moment. The moment of change.  We’ll be there with bells on.  And we won’t miss anything.  

We expect too much from the big moment.  In the expecting we miss the beauty of what is real.  Those things that change us the most usually arrive without fanfare.  They can surprise us with either joy or sorrow and are almost never captured in a photograph.  They are the unseen flowers that dwell in your heart. There are plenty of things I keep track of by calendar so as not to forget them. Others are so much a part of me I couldn’t forget them if I tried. Those are my own anniversaries of the heart.  Mine alone.  There are more of them with each passing year.  My heart is tending a garden while I am otherwise occupied. 

 So, it’s rather fitting that as spring turns to summer there isn’t much to see.  In fact, I almost missed it.  Until, I headed out the door for a nice stretch of the legs.  I walk partially because my sweet but  energetic four legged companions demand it.  Into the woods.  Over the fallen log.  A joyful splash through the creek.  The sky open wide before me as I hit the field.  No ceremonies.  No festivals.  No expectations.  Just an unremarkable moment.  The wind whispers through the trees telling me the story of the spring and its passing away.  Clouds float overhead transforming as I watch.  Shifting effortlessly from one form to another easily letting go of the last one to make way for the next knowing it will be different…but wonderful nevertheless. 

 I reflect on what has been.  It’s the small things I recall.  Early morning feedings of a tiny new life.  Quietly starting wordpress on one of my own anniversaries of the heart.  Being humbled and surprised when someone takes time to read my thoughts.  Too many walks to count.  Waiting.  Simple adventures.  Pie!  Jack j juice box, as cute as a box of juice! Then like the seasons ask of me, I let go and turn forward to what summer may be.  Hopefully an abundance of morning glories.  Reading and writing amidst the daily necessities.  Certainly there will be sorrow too but I’ll take that as it comes, as gently as I can.  

As surely as there will be mosquitoes and poison ivy and very hot days, there will also be iced tea on the porch swing, lazy evenings listening to the frogs, and my annual reading of Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Tucked in among it all is a new anniversary of the heart waiting to be discovered. Perhaps I’ll know it when I see it. Probably not though. Moments like that are far more quiet than jack is when he begs to be noticed. When I’m not looking it will gently take root in the ever growing garden of my heart. And there it will be, waiting. One day it will flower before my eyes and I’ll wonder at the newness of it and how beautifully different everything is than it was just moments ago. 

Maybe…

The sun. Our sun,  is a star.  A star is a star through and through, inside and out.  It doesn't have to decide what it will be.  It doesn't question what it is.  A star just rests in its own innate starness. It does not shine for me or for the earth. It does not fret over what it will do today.  It radiates warmth and nourishment because that is the nature of what it is, to only and always give from the center of itself.  Or maybe, it does shine for both me and the earth and that is one more thing I just don't know.  What if the shining and the warmth and all the goodness of it is like a beacon reaching out across all that we cannot see as an act of love to its own love.  What if the two each moved to close the distance between them in deep affection for one another.  Would we be blinded by their oneness? Would they lose themselves sweetly in each other?  What if they shine for each other, not us, and we simply benefit from their gift of love? We come into this earthly world where there are five senses, taste, touch, smell, vision and hearing.  From start to finish in this life, we are called upon to let go, give up, give away.  In this world, one can lose any of the five of the senses. We don't much like to think about that.  When you are faced with such a loss, do you reach out to understand it or do you turn away a bit fearfully? Then, there's Love… I wonder, could love be a sense as taste and touch are senses?  Could it?  Perhaps, it is the one and only sense of our soul.  The only thing needed for a soul to find its way.  Soul, the unseen at the heart of who we are.  We experience life through vision and hearing and such. But when we are born into this earthly way of being we bring love with us too.  It is not something easily explained.  It is more something indescribable deep within our nature.  Love sits at the edges of all that we do waiting patiently for our hearts to open to the sweet truth it offers.  Maybe we bring the only thing, the only sense, a soul can bring into this world, Love.  And as the love of one awakens in the love of another it sparkles and bounces joyfully from here to there and back again.  But, the more we grow into an earthly way of  seeing and doing we forget what the oneness of love can be.  Not do.  Be.  We are always like the star.  Our shining is never outside of us.  Our warmth is not in an other.  It is forever inside of us.  We simply forget that sometimes. It is in the forgetting that we suffer as we look outwardly for something to touch us and give us the gift of love.   The rich blessing that we seek is deep within all along.  You love another just because you do.  You cannot help it.  We mistakenly think we need something from them in return.  But you don't.  Imagine anyone that you have ever loved.  If time or space or circumstance kept you apart, would you stop loving them?   We forget, I think, what love really is.  We tend to think of love through the eyes of this world as something we can acquire and hold.  Love isn't like that.  Love is like being a star inside and out.  Through and through.   We tell ourselves that we must see or touch someone to love them.   We don't though.   Seeing and hearing are of this world and this body.  Love is of the soul.  Love is so much bigger than all of the five senses put together!  A beautiful enormous invisibility that is hard to even imagine.  So glorious in its brightness that like our star, the sun, it is impossible to look at it straight on.  Simply close your eyes and feel the warmth of it.  Be very still and quiet.  Remember the only sense of the soul.  Love.  Love, that comes with us and stays with us even when we forget to know it.  Waiting tenderly to be awakened.  Learn to let go of the world,  remember what you are at heart… soul created from love to love.   Then… it is enough to know.    

Waiting for the Bus

What’s a bus? I’m really good at this waiting thing, aren’t I?

Can I sit in your lap while we wait?

If you don’t have any cheetos, do you at least have some bacon?

I’d really like to get home to my nice soft sofa, just so you know.

Bo is the waitingest dog I ever did see. No matter where we are, if I stop, then he sits to wait…  If I told him, now sit right here while we wait for the bus Bo, I swanee he would say –  well, ok.  Do you have any cheetos? It’d be swell if you had some.  Cause I’d really love some cheetos while I wait for this bus thing.  But, if you don’t have any that’s ok too.  I can wait til we get home.  I bet there’s cheetos at home.  Cheetos sure do sound good about now.  Say, have you got any cheetos?  When’s that bus gonna get here? – Just so you know, Bo has a slow drawl when he talks.  

Trust in the Bacon

I write everyday.  You probably do too.  A text, an email, a grocery list.  Anytime you string words together for whatever reason, you’re writing.  Writing doesn’t have to look like a story.  I’ve been writing as long as I can recall.  My script was so small in middle school that my poor teacher couldn’t even make it out with her reading glasses.  She asked me very kindly to write larger please.  I hope that I did. These days I wake up before 5am each morning, to write.  Yes, on purpose.  Jack has just a wee bit to do with it though.  I start the coffee, settle the dogs and gather my things.  I write in the kitchen in an old-fashioned grade school spiral notebook with a pencil.  I prefer a yellow spiral but find that other colors accept my thoughts just as well.  It’s silly how we fall into certain routines, isn’t it.  Nevertheless, there they are.  For instance, Ellie at nearly 100 pounds can only seem to rest at night if she’s right up next to me.  I have awakened with more than a few creaks as you can imagine.  But she’s my sweet girl so, there I am.  Back to writing…  Some mornings I’m quite lost and stare at the page not knowing where to begin.  Emptiness waiting to be filled.  There is a beauty in empty spaces.  In Japanese culture emptiness is thought to be Full of Nothing.  And from nothing comes everything… nothing is pure potential… I find that delightfully amazing! When someone asks me out of curiosity what’s in all those spirals.  I giggle and say – a whole lot of nothing.  And it’s true really.  My spirals aren’t meant to Be anything.  They’re just me listening to myself I suppose.  Oddly enough writing that I’m lost often gets me off and running.  How many thoughts do we have in a day, or in an hour, and how many of them are we able to explore and play with to our hearts content.  Not many.  Life tugs at us to keep moving.  So, when I stop long enough to write in my spiral or here on wordpress where do I begin and then where do I go from there.   Do you know where you’ll end up before you arrive or is it more of a wonderful happenstance.  Even if you board the right train with the right ticket punched for Timbuktu, can you  be certain that’s where you’ll get off, where your journey will end?  I will admit a terrible secret.  Often when I begin reading a book, I turn first to the back and check out the ending.  It’s not because I want to judge whether the story is worth my time.  It’s not even because I want to know how it ends.  And it doesn’t spoil the book for me at all.  In fact the opposite is true.  It helps me to let go of reading as a means to find out what the ending will be.  I let go of the worry of what will happen.  It frees me to enjoy the rambling journey of the story itself.  The twists and turns take on a liveliness of their own.  The darkness of the forest holds beauty as well as fear and doubt.  Because I know how the story will turn out I pause long enough to see both rather than hurrying through assuming either the best or the worst.  Of course real life doesn’t allow me to live backwards knowing what will happen.  I’m good with that.  I have no desire to know.   Ellie, Jack, Huckleberry, Bo and Sonya trust we will walk everyday no matter the weather.  They know the lake is ready for a swim when they get there.  They believe there will be squirrels to chase and interesting smells to dig for.  And with every fibre of their being they trust that when the walk comes round once again to Home there will be the wonders of bacon snacks waiting for them as if by magic.  Beyond even the bacon is a soft safe spot to sleep away the afternoon.  No worries.  Perhaps I should read the way I live, forward without jumping to the last page.  Perhaps I should live the way I read, taking one page at a time grateful to be where I am and  wondering at what will come next.  Perhaps I should let go and trust more easily the way my four legged companions do. Perhaps I should face the empty page with the pure anticipation of the fullness of nothing.  Enjoy the journey and Trust in the bacon!

 

life is good when you’re me

 

Ok Jack,

I love that first glimpse of the field in the morning.  I love when the lake is still and my heron is still and I can be still with them. I have much to learn from him.  I love when the sky is as blue as a morning glory like it is today.  I love when no matter where I look there are a thousand shades of green.  Each one different.  Each one beautiful.  I love when a spider’s web catches more than breakfast, gathering light and transforming it into tiny earth bound stars.  I love when the ducks fly overhead and I can hear the faint whistle of their wings against the air.  I love when the blackberries are ripe for picking.  I eat far more than I ever take home.  I love when music fills my heart.  I even love when Jack comes crashing on the scene with his own love of life and tells me it’s time to keep moving – places to go, holes to dig, naps to take. It’s hard to take pictures of Jack.  He could take a few lessons from the heron on stillness.   Ok Jack, let’s go…

 

Mushrooms!

Like clockwork here they are in all their diversified glory just as the white sky day promised…joined by plenty of tiny new friends ready to play hide and seek…

 

White Sky Day

White sky days…I love them as much as blue sky days.  Like an empty page waiting to be filled with text, handwriting, or a splash of paint, there is a story in a white sky day.  Your story.  My story.  A legend.  A fairytale.  A hero.  Blue sky days carry me into forever. White sky days bring forever home to me. The air is heavy with moisture as though I’m in the heart of the cloud itself and it is holding me close to the earth in a gentle embrace.  White goes on as endlessly as blue does but closer somehow.  These days slow me down inside and out leaving behind an inner repose that calms my soul of its worldly concerns.   I look more closely at the smallest things.  My eye searches the forest floor rather than soaring to the tops of the tallest pines.  White sky days don’t always bring rain.  Nevertheless, there is a respite from the brightness of the sun.  No squinting today.  Perhaps that’s why I see more.   The brightest sun on the bluest day lifts my spirits joyfully but keeps my eye moving in self-defense.  Some moments are beautiful because of the softness in the air rather than in the glory of the light.  Science tells me that white is not the absence of color but rather the gathering together of all color.   Whether it is in the form of a bit of glass or a raindrop, a prism takes white light apart and we are gifted with a rainbow.  The chance to see that out of the seeming nothingness of white comes the blessing of all color.  How wonderful is that?!  An artist chooses white to guide my eye carefully through a painting.  At least that’s what I’ve read and after plenty of gazing, it does seem to work out that way.  A dash of white draws me from this place to the next one, from a hand to a cheekbone to the twinkle of an eye, the very window to the soul.  Does the Artist create it just so?  The light is softer on a day like this allowing me to gaze as long as I like. The whites of the ground reach  out to me as though just a smidgen of eternity has fallen to the earth.   These days have a lonesome feel to them.  Not in a sad way.  Rather, it is as though there is something unseen and you feel it must be lovely, if only…    When rainfall does accompany a day such as this then soon faery mushrooms will emerge here and there and the tiniest frogs will cover my path.  One can almost set a clock by these moments.  When enough moisture comes to rest on the ground mushrooms gather within themselves all they need to put on a lovely show.  I look forward to them and begin watching for a hint of a dirt mound suggesting there’s a surprise waiting.  Mushrooms rise up in the same places over and over again. Usually something has died in that spot, the remains of a tree decaying invisibly under foot.  Even in its absence the mighty tree continues to offer life.  Is anything ever truly gone away?  Next time you notice one mushroom, look around, there may in fact be a circle of them where the base of a majestic tree once stood.  Legend names that a magical faery ring.  First a tiny mountain of earth is disturbed.  The next day I might begin to see a touch of color. After that it is truly a mushroom but still contained within its own reality, a closed  umbrella waiting to open at the first sign of rain.  Finally and dramatically it opens itself to the world in trust.  Mushroom!  A room of mush?  A room for mush?  Room to gather what seems mush to me and create something stunning in its complexity and beauty although sadly short-lived.  Mushrooms of all sizes shapes and colors seem to fall in the realm of the faery world, don’t they.  They are petite and invisible most of the time but when they do show themselves there always seems to be a bit of magic nearby as though you might have just missed something quite extraordinary when you were blinking.  Was that a hint of a wing or only a leaf  being carried by the breeze?  Who can tell?  By the following day one can already see signs of the end.  The tiny life begins to split  and brown around the edges.  Its bright color of the day before is fading.  In one more day it will be gone altogether and perhaps forgotten.   Like the snows of winter it will return though, on the heels of a white sky day.  Then once more I will slow to the world and open my heart to the eternity hiding in the smallest seemingly bit of nothing.