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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.   |
| My May mother died on the Ides of March. Two months before reaching 100. Her daughter held her hand. It was time. She'd almost died at 35, survived burying her husband, a stroke, a heart-attack. Reluctantly... she gently let go. |
| Mom and Dad's roots fight. There's no contest. In the war between apples and walnuts the walnut tree always wins. At the dinner table the war continues. Still no doubt who will win. The child refuses to eat Waldorf Salad. |
| The violet petunia defies the pavement, sprouting in a crack, drilling down roots, lifting up leaves... and showing off one small flower... that I dare not pluck. It takes courage to bloom where planted. Death comes soon enough. |
| Death disposes of life's accomplishments and its failures with the same sigh. Consider the tree. Each dies many lives: first when it's cut, then when it's fashioned for human use, finally when it's trashed then burnt. |
| What rings when tapped? What holds life's elixir — yet remains invisible? The cold clarity in your eyes betrays your lips. Your heart of glass resides within you — as clear as crystal. Your words spill forth — as potent as poison. |
| I offer you... shade, rough bark to climb on, the fragrance of roses, red fruits come autumn, a sparkling crown to make you cry out in awe come winter. I offer you... my life before you respond with your ax. |
| Golden threads worth more than gold itself... Sell your body — or your soul — still not enough. Ignore the high cost of living, the expense of dying. This elixir of Persia — mere strings of pollen — worth more than your very breath. |
| "Nice" they say. Nice? Is that all they can say? I've stored up my essence all winter, held back in spring, now I blossom as big as a dinner plate and beckon you to inhale my sweetness! Nice? I'm magnificent! |
| No longer kosher this wandering-Jew's purple and silver stripes are chopped up into pieces and now must seek refuge elsewhere. All I need is some water, a bit of soil, the peace to call this new place home. |
| This altered photo can never do it credit. And what of the wind, the water, the sun that nourished it, the artist who pruned it, the child who watered it? At its core it can only be its authentic self. |
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