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 |  Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here. |
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NURTURE your NATURE  Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it? We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.   |
| Robert Waltz recently wrote a blog about change. My thoughts (added and edited): It's the end of September and Autumn is my second favorite season. In Montana it's a mix of green and gold with splashes of red and rust. The bears have been visiting the apple trees to bulk up. I have to remind myself not to hibernate as days shorten. It's a time of change. We change even as the landscape changes. For instance, those of us of a certain age become wrinkled and then the wrinkles get crinkled. Some deal with it by buying cosmetics, others by surgery, some by proudly embracing every crack and crevice. Blessed is the lover who says "I wish to caress each wrinkle". But what about parts that, like autumn leaves, fall off? Personally, not all change in my life came about by my efforts. I did not beg to have head injuries from a car accident. And although I suspect it actually helped later with my ability to think in Spanish I shouldn't wish that on others (seems a bit drastic). It may be a factor in my present mental slippage. And yes, I'm at a point that I need to acknowledge that and hope that it's temporary. In 1849, French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr wrote "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose." Yes, even change can look like it isn't changing as humans tend to remain human over millennia and individual and systemic changes can be very slow. Some folks remain recognizable decades later! Regardless, they have changed. Part of my personal struggle is remaining flexible enough to adapt to internal and external changes. The River of Time keeps flowing. Yesterday I wrote a serenade to the sunset I just missed. Serenade to a dying September Nothing to say ... you blush the horizon and move on. I'll abandon you then and descend to the bathtub where waves lap gentle and wet warmth soothes, a decadence my worn-out feet have begged for. I may turn out the light, may light a candle, inhale the fragrance of last season's lavender, in the quiet remember your blush, savor your hush, and bathe in the moment of a dying September. © Kåre Enga 2021 [164.235] (29.september.2021) ~370 words Posted in "Blogville "  1159 |
| Leaf-cutters As underneath the canopy a trail of leaves I spy, I bend my body, bow my head to the parade that passes by. In obeisance to love of life, in admiration I can't hide, I applaud each ant that balances a piece of green in stride. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.229] (15.septembre.2021) 1155 |
| I'm dying (we all are). But am I living? What does being alive really mean? What is the point of staying alive past one's expiration date? Are we-who-still-live willing to embrace our mortality and immortality? Out of circulation. The coins minted the year I was born are scratched, discolored, worn, the copper tarnished, the nickel dulled and whatever was silver melted down long ago. No bills remain that aren't tattered, torn. What was once of some use in exchange for a cookie or a glass of milk, is now deemed worthless and tossed in a jar or abused, flattened on tracks as trains pass or stretched and molded into trinkets at a hot tourist spot (now closed). Is it my time to go? If so, why do I hang on. I'm old. Not so much by the calender date. That's just a reminder that I've survived thus far. So many haven't. Am I old because I remember when songs first came out — fifty years ago? Am I old because I remember, albeit vaguely, how things used to be done? No, I'm old because I can't zig and zag and zog like the youth I once was. I just can't keep up as my body gives out. But I'm not dead yet. Just slowly dying. Like wasps in autumn, a final frenzy before a frost puts their sting to rest. Am I resting when I nap or merely practicing lying prone before I'm laid out? In the morning, do I look like I've slept in a coffin? Some days it takes more than sunlight to get me up and more than coffee to wake me. My expiration date cometh. Sooner if I don't take better care of myself and fall off the shelf. I'll have to embrace that reality now or later, like it or not. And I will. We all do at the end. Until then, I may as well keep learning — and living. But do I look beyond? Realize that my life is a gift not just to myself but to others. What kind words or wisdom, still unspoken, need to be said. What inspiration I wrote for someone will be stuck in a book and forgotten, to be read and bring forth smiles decades or centuries later. Beyond the Veil of Death will my actions still matter in the material world. I remember my mistakes and shudder. My Muse might know, but he remains as mute as the angels that pass overhead, those who will return at the proper hour to chant the final poem. ~425 words "Blogville " 1154 |
| I admire well centered and calm people. Those that remain unperturbed or oblivious no matter what. Me? I'm always on alert. I am a wounded person. Layers and layers of woundedness from my own insecurities and sensitivity. ผมอ่อนไหว I'm not sure why but I suspect I was nervous as a child, shushed, 'half-blind', clumsy, funny-looking, clueless. I was made fun of. My parents protected me but failed to build my self-esteem and didn't quite grasp how I was different. Looking back? I was. In some ways I was more like my grandparents than my parents. But they didn't live close and frankly, no family except for my mother's sister and some cousins of my father lived near. I was to be seen not heard, had to be careful with my glasses at age 6, and was supposed to stay clean. We were poor, but no one was supposed to know that, so nothing could be broken, ripped or torn. None of this helped. I was chatty and loved playing in dirt. So I played with close neighbors but admired other kids from afar. These days? There are so many to admire... from afar: Gare, who is unflappable like my father; Nick who is well centered with a good moral compass; people who glow. I keep my inner light hidden under a basket. I fall in love with rational people, centered people, even those who share my passion; but, I can never be them and whether they love me is questionable. I never felt lovable, so even when they do, I have a hard time accepting that. I fall in love with characters in books and movies. I can even love the flawed characters I create. But famous people? They are role models for others, everyday people matter to me. "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" PROMPT September 13th: Who do you see as role model of yours, either a professional or 'everyday' person, and why should everyone else know about this person.~325 words In "Blogville " 1151 |
![Merit Badge in Blessings
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Just cause I read some of your writings and like it.](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Blessings.gif) A favorite given to me by Apondia. Blessings: never to be 21 again. I was blessed to turn 22. The hellish year continued but I survived it. 22 is still my favorite number. With 364 days to celebrate my life there's no need to focus on that one day I reserve for myself. Needless to say, I don't do birthdays. But, if you really don't like me being here then maybe I should schedule my own euthanasia on that day to save space on my headstone. Month/Day will suffice. If not, then my name or no name, just "Fred". Too late now to die young and leave a good looking corpse. I looked real good at age 23 cutting shatter-cane in the milo fields of Kansas. Funny... P'Med... died on his 22nd birthday in "He's coming to me". Makes me want to write "Forever 22" (ตลอดไปยี่สิบสอง) I'll keep posting this until someone watches and comments. *sigh* Now, this is another kind of blessing. A surprise from Kit of House Lannister. My first awardicon for this 13 year old blog. She liked "Opening the garden ... of the heart [109] (36 lines)" a story-poem of 36 lines for: "Share Your Faith" .Opening the garden ... of the heart The garden opens its gates each year ... as the gardener watches in anticipation, as frost and freeze have finally yielded ... yet early visitors want a carpet of color (its not quite spring) and holler to each other, "How little these bushes, how ugly this stream, how useless they seem."1 The gardener knows better and calmly explains, "in time we will harvest bushels of berries. these will be red and juicy, those black and loved by bears we'll be lucky if they don't glean them first." "Well, this one tried to grab my purse!" "Ah, to love a rose we must forgive its thorns, to inhale its fragrance we must nourish its nature, cherish it for whatever it offers... and never scorn.2 They walk through the drizzle under umbrellas, sidestepping the puddles, avoid every wet frond. "Why don't you drain this dank muddy pond?" "I'm fond of the blossoms that rise from the muck each summer." The visitors wrinkle their noses. "Yuck." "Well, lets move on and not block the view for those behind us."3 Around the back bare trees overshadow slick paths, shading the promise of ferns and moss. "I like flowers. I have no use for forests." "This tall tree pelts us with nuts by the hundreds; these twigs ease pain; this straight limb will give its life to provide us shelter; these beckon with golden leaves come autumn; they have earned my respect and deserve to remain."4 And so the gardener gently guides his guests breathing deep to put his own anger to rest as he remembers his teacher, a master gardener, who showered him with patience over the years and taught him how to overcome inner fears by showing him how to tend the garden and make it his friend.5 © Kåre Enga [177.109] (29.juni.2020) posted in "Blogville " 1151 Footnotes |
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