These Unique Winter Days

                                                      HAPPY GROUND HOG DAY!

Lake Betsy on a Summer Morning

It doesn't seem possible that we've been dashing about without coats and boots in balmy, above normal temperatures.
 I thought the old ground hog would surely stay out for a sunbath, but alas, he went back in his hole for another six weeks of winter. 
If the next six weeks are like the last, he's going to miss some lovely days !
Yes, it has been the warmest winter in many years for most of the USA. 
Canada has kept the cold and bluster to the north, and many are hoping the trend will continue.
Like an unexpected gift from Mother Nature, many gentle days have brought sun and rain but very little ice and snow.
Snow shovels stand idle in garage corners and dry boots stand in lines by back doors. 
Even winter coats are seldom pulled from closet hangers.  Rather, we snatch lighter jackets and scarves as we go out our doors.
People don't appear as winter weary as usual. 
Fewer chapped hands and cheeks.  Fewer aching muscles from scraping ice off windshields and digging out driveways.
Most of us are very pleased to be experiencing all the benifits of an easy winter.
Yet, there are those of a more somber nature who suggest that this is another sign of global warming.
In secret, others wonder if global warming can be all that bad if it feels this good!
I stand neutral on the subject, quietly doing my part to save our beloved planet from harm by recycling, watching fuel consumption and encouraging others to do the same .
Yet, I'm an optimist at heart.
Some winters, I've seen over my lifetime, are simply warmer than others.
While we can, in our own individual ways, help to improve the health of the planet, we also owe it, to the Source of Life and to ourselves to enjoy our short time on earth. 
This includes rejoicing in the special moments offered by by rare warm, winter days. 
We can live responsibly and still, without guilt or fear, be happy to lift our faces to an unusually warm winter sun with which we've been blessed.  
Happiness and peace to you, my friends.     Sandra

September Hatchlings

Inside Their prickled eggs, Like chicks The chestnuts grow; Warmed beneath the feathers Of September sun Until, one day The cracking Will begin- No tiny beaks inside To peck their way out, Only patient waiting For the coming Glossy fall Of perfect globes To earth Below. Sandra Peasley Bush

Summer Storm

Along the river, a line of Ohio hills begins to disappear behind a milky curtain of rain.

On our West Virginia side of the river, an uneasy calm suggests that all will not be well for long.

Suddenly, a mean wind breaks the stillness, tossing tree boughs and sending birds flying toward the shelter of a nearby thicket.

Raindrops, one...two...twenty...thousands wash across the land.

Lightning cuts a jagged ridge through the sky and thunder cracks and rumbles loudly, as though shaking  rain from the dark clouds.

No longer someone else's storm, seen from afar, this storm is ours to claim and endure.

After holding our attention and setting a mood of uncertainty over the valley, the storm moves on, its fury prepared to bully other communities down river. 

Rain slows, lightning offers pale flashes of light and thunder 

sounds in weak, far away claps.

For awhile, what seemed like confusion and threat held us in its grip.

In fact, the storm was always in the process of passing.

The clouds were always moving and evaporating.

Wind, after reaching its gusty peaks, was ebbing into a light breeze.

The storm was not the constant.

The constant was the blue sky and the sun above the clouds, out of sight, but ever present.

Hope is like that...always there, in spite of the appearance of troubling circumstances. 

The beautiful words to the old song, Whispering Hope, say it best:

...Wait tll the darkness is over,

Wait till the tempest is done;

Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,

After the shower is gone.

Whospering Hope, oh, how welcome thy voice;

Making my heart, in its sorrow, rejoice.

Blessings,   Sandra

Hummers and Humans

     It is early morning when I go out into the courtyard to fill the birdfeeders with seed. 

Suddenly, a soft breeze passes my face and a tiny figure hovers, less than a foot from my nose. 

His emerald green body with its splash of iridecent red, meets my eyes like a floating gemstone. 

It is, of course, the ruby-throated hummingbird that has come to greet me before making his way to the nectar feeder. 

We have become comfortable with one another over the summer months. 

 It wouldn't take much for me to entice him to one of my fingers for a visit. 

But, for now, we content ourselves with this special, warm encounter that we share several times a day. 

There is one thing that troubles me about this dear little bird.

He doesn't want to share.

Other hummers come, anxious to plunge their slender beaks into the little plastic flowers holding sweet sugar water, only to be dive bombed and bullied away by my beautiful friend. 

Oh, he has a mate that is permitted to join him, but all the others are, in his mind, trespassers.

Half his energy goes into making sure no outsiders come to "his" feeder.

"No, no!" I want to say, "I made that nectar for all hummers to enjoy, not just one or two!  Please share!"

Perhaps he is afraid there won't be enough, if he shares with the others.

Or is it that he wants things all to himself?

I can't pretend to know. 

All I can do is continue to love him and encourage him to share....as well as a human can relate such a concept to a little bird!

I wonder if God knows a similar frustration when humans refuse to share with one another, the abundence that has been provided for all. 

                                                                      Blessings,    Sandra

Hummers and Humans

 

A Hummingbird Feeder for One

The Truth About Small

If size meant much...

We woldn't see these bits of feistness on wing.

So bold...so sure.

But size means little

In the natural world.

As any hummingbird....or bee...will testify.