I have music in my universe. Worldly music in mundane moments. Driving in the car, I hear the song of the wind through the windows. From my front door I hear the music of a train in the distance; it’s brakes singing a song of lonely longing and hopeful sighs.

I hear the power of leaves rushing in the wind, and the percussion rattle of acorns falling onto the ground.

Music…birds whistling from the cattails in our swamp, little frogs chorusing, bats whisking; tree to tree, rain dropping into grass, car tires swishing on wet pavement.

My musical universe wraps around my soul, brings me peace, brings silence to my heart.

Soldiers one and all

Animals War exhibition

Lest we forget to honor all who have served, and will serve;  to protect us all.

Thank you!



children of the poor

Yesterday I watched a news story.  Women and children are coming to our boarders, believing that they will find freedom.  Believing in  the American Dream;  met at the border by rich US citizens, turned away, screamed at, disregarded as people.  We furiously protect what we have, forgetting where we got it!

Trail of Tears

We forget that our ancestors came from other countries; pushing out the native people who lived here.  In many cases with genocide.

We forget that our ancestors came, and lived in hovels, worked, scraped, struggled.  So that they could have the American Dream. We forget that they were scorned and terrorized, yet kept coming.  thp-ny-tenementWe forget where we came from.

This is not a treatise on immigration policy, I am not smart enough for that.  This is a call for understanding and love, for a return to our basic values of liberty and justice for all.  What are the words?

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This is how most of us arrived here.  My great grandparents from Prussia and England with little, working their way here to the Midwest, coming to dream.

Today, everyday, remember and honor.liberty







May your season be blessed


pagan-christmasMay your spirit be joyful, your hearts full of love, your families and friends warm and safe.

May the spirit of God help heal our world with abundance and health on this Christmas day.  Amen

Re-Define Neccesity

I am thankful.  I have more than I need.  I have more than enough.  My home is filled with stuff, my cupboards with food, my car with gas.  I have love, I have family, warmth, friends, joy.

I have employment, enough to live, not enough to immerse myself in conspicuous consumption. 

During my youth I embraced minimal living, reveled in it.  As I grew, I forgot the beauty of less, fell more and more into the trap of gain for the sake of having.

At this stage of my life, I am returning to the basics of life.  And I delight in this.  I am remembering gardening, canning, raising chickens, and glory in the prospects of the fantastic freedom of recreating my life in a simple, less hectic fashion.

 For Thanksgiving, redefine your necessity.  Give thanks.

The Bones of Me

We have history, us humans.  We have our own personal story and the heritage of the people before us.  We have the bones of the past that we can spend moments honoring and clothing in our own skin.  We have the bones of ourselves to cover, protect, and move into life.

There is an old story from many cultures about The Bone Woman.  This woman lives in the forlorn places of our world, deserts, ocean islands, mountains, and inner city ruins.  She collects bones.  Look closely and you can see her.  Perhaps shuffling down a cracked city sidewalk, carrying a bag or pushing a shopping cart.  Watch her and you notice her every now and again bend over, and pick up an object, maybe something shiny, or even cracked.  She  carefully wipes it clean on her shirt, or coat, or skirt, and places it gently in her bag or cart.  You may be a little afraid of this woman, she seems like someone you should not know, someone who does not live the way you are comfortable with.  Perhaps she mutters to herself, or smiles at you with no teeth, or smells not  the way you would want someone to smell.  She does not care that you disdain her.  Her thoughts and plans are on the one job she has, collecting the bones of the world.

At the end of the day she goes to her home, maybe a desert cave, or a tree house.  And in her home she takes those items she has spent the day collecting, and places them with reverence on the shelves that line her home.  Sometimes, when she has enough of the right kind of items, the right amount of items, she sits on her floor, and gathering these correct pieces around her, she arranges them, fastening them together, a colorful stone here, where a heart would be,  a bird’s nest fit right where it should go, bones fit together to form a marvelous skeleton of a living creature.  Humming softly and quietly a tuneless yet melodious tune she watches this creation stand, usually on four paws, but at times on two feet.  She watches and hums as a soft energy forms over this skeleton, and it begins to move, muscles and ligaments begin to grow, holding it strong, and skin or fur shimmer over it all, and eyes blink, and ears twitch, until finally the creature is living and ready to have a life of its own.

Opening her door, or the thin rags covering the entrance to her cave, the Bone Woman beckons to her newly born child, and watches as it bounds outside running free and alive.  Running over rooftops, through desert brush, rocky outcrops, wet ocean floors.  A story reborn.

We are like that.  We rebuild our lives, regain our own stories, hopefully daily.  Our lives are a process of  fulfillment and growth.

Blessings on your stories my friends!

It’s a Beautiful World









My My My


Views From an outsider

learning about Dassel and it's glorious history

Writing about...Writing

Some coffee, a keyboard and my soul! My first true friends!

Tilly Evan Jones

“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.” ~Mary Oliver

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Lost Creek

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