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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.   |
| I have embraced the bittersweet since an early age. The observations of the Great Japanese writers: Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694), Yosa no Buson (1716-1783), and Kobayashi Issa (1763-1826) informed me that Nature could be sweet, even as it was juxtaposed with the bitterness of my upbringing. I was 11 when this song became #1 on the music charts. It was called "Sukiyaki" in America but I learned the real words, and although it is a beautiful uplifting song its roots are firmly planted in the bittersweet soils of reality. Kyu Sakamoto (10 December 1941 – 12 August 1985)) joined those who died young and left a haunting memory when he and others were killed in a tragic airplane crash. May we remember him and this beautiful gift he gave us. Ue o muite arukō Namida ga koborenai youni Omoidasu haruno hi Hitoribocchi no yoru... I look up while I walk So the tears won't fall Remembering those spring days But tonight I'm all alone... Complete lyrics in Japanese and English ▼ |
| My boyfriend is having a breakdown. There's nothing I can do. I called one friend. He responded for a few seconds ... faking it. She said "don't worry." But I'm worried. I want him to call his mother. He won't. I left a message for his mother but I don't know whether she received it. I sit here not knowing what to say nor do. I tried to make him eat. He only drank a matcha frappe... slow sip by slow sip. What song goes with this? Maybe Time after Time? It's sad. I'm sad, and very conflicted. Chorus: If you're lost, you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting Time after time If you're lost, you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting (I will be waiting) Time after time So I sit here waiting while he stares at the TV... I just turned on the sound... very low. 1475 |
| Scarlet wept. Her replacement glowed fresh and pink. Petals of their ancestors lay strewn around their feet. There was no denying destiny. Will I be remembered? Was I enough? One exhausted tear fell, then another. Rosa blushed. I won't forget. |
| BE TRUE A blog can be about anything but to be of value it should be true to itself. A P-log contains poetry. A T-log is about travel. This entry is in my N-log ... about nurturing and nature. A personal blog need not be about adventure, scandal, politics, opinions. It can be a vignette of daily living. And although that may be boring to some... so be it. Authenticity matters. Sometimes the greatest value is being true to yourself and what interests you. How does one judge a blog? Why bother? I leave comments to engage with the writer not to correct their grammar. But, if I had to judge : 1. Is it of some value to the author, others, me? Does it shed light? A positive, imho. 2. Is it a mere copy/paste of impersonal lists, lies, and other people's problems? A negative, imho. I want to know the author: their thoughts, emotions, their personal joys and struggles. An impersonal piece may be good journalism or marketing, may get an A+ as an essay for English class; but, if it doesn't connect or shed light why should I bother? I love to get to know bloggers but nefarious schemes to hurt them is immoral. ~ 200 words |
| Something I must write to... “Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.” ― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 |
"Blogging Circle of Friends "  "I guess that flowers aren't just used for big apologies I guess I should've been more conscious how you spoke to me"~ Lauren Spencer-Smith's Song Flowers Let these lyrics inspire your entry today. December's petals With the colors of the rainbow let my heart speak, with each hue of eternity's bloom repeat your name. Roses come in all colors except blue. But lavender will do. The fragrance of Angel Face will make a doubter fall in love. And Oklahoma's petals give a name to its deep red hue. A pink blush in front of a row house in early December once reminded me of you and banished the blues of autumn faced with the onslaught of winter. But January came with a rush of snow and even the white rose wept before its frozen blows, and became a ghost of friendship lost. "I guess that flowers aren't just used for big apologies I guess I should've been more conscious how you spoke to me" I know that roses hide behind their thorns till summer. I know the melody that patience offers; but without your harmony I cannot sing. Let me offer the yellow blooms of Goldielocks that fade beneath the searing sun, or Tropicana that cheers us up with orange on cloudy days. No gloomy weather lasts forever. Call me. Call me by your name. With the colors of the rainbow let my heart speak, let each hue of eternity's bloom repeat the same. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.65] (20.august.2022) |
| we kneel among cloudberries a patch spread out like a picnic blanket we savor each amber drop until twilight when we curl up in our sleeping bags i dream about our hike across stony boggy vidda along ancient paths how we stop at huts along the way greet fellow travelers heading the other direction we have no direction no goal other than cloudberries now rain wakes me up the monsters still sleep like the bears they once were i roam through their nightmares they snore unaware i lured them here to kill them now dagger in hand i don't dare |
| You are desperate to use the bathroom. But, you share this with several others. It's down the hall (waaaay down the hall), and it's cold despite the heat being set to the 'normal' temperature. Being an older person, your legs and ability to hold it ain't what it used to be. How do you handle this dire situation? I may have inspired or even suggested today's 30dbc prompt (above). I don't remember but I responded: I live in an 'old' hotel built in 1908. Fortunately the common bathrooms (toilet in one, shower in the other) is right next door. The halls can be cold, or on the third (2nd to Brits) hot as hades in July. If it's occupied it's 21 steps down to the one on the second floor. Those steps seem to multiple as the years pass me by. I hope someone can come up with a humorous response to what can be a 'tragedy' if I don't get 'there' in time. If you are young imagine having to hobble on a broken leg! Of course someone might come up with the old Scot solution: open the window and yell "gardyloo!" "Gardyloo!" Gardyloo! Beware what flies out yonder window to the gutters below. Beware it does not shower you with its fragrance malodorous and rare. Not, the cologne of lilac, vanilla, pine that greets you on your paths through glen and garden! Nor baby powder, fresh and fine. Don’t look up! It stings the eye. So beware when next you hear the cry: Gardyloo! Be quick and step aside. © Kåre Enga gardyloo: an old cry in throwing water, slops, etc., from the windows in Edinburgh. In Real Life during covid I would pee in a cup. This building has AirBnB units so I never felt safe and even avoided taking a shower. In summer when it's 100 outside and maybe more inside (my two windows face south) I might be wearing very little or nothing and have to put something on before I use the toilet. Heaven help me if I suddenly don't feel well. My legs and lungs are having problems with the stairs; but today I took a stiff walk 'to the licker store to git me some vittels'. It's called Orange Street Food Farm but the back wall is full of beer and wine. I got cashews and cherries and pork chops. I don't drink. I went looking for my scarf earlier and couldn't find it so I asked in two places. Nope. On the way back I was pelted with snow but lo and behold my green knit scarf was hanging from a white picket fence in the 300 block of 5th street. It must've been hanging there for a week. This is the second time I've lost it only for it to find me. I do like it. 1169 |
| 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 |
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