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.

August Hummingbird

AUGUST HUMMINGBIRD

August Beach Days

In times when teenages were really young, they came in daily droves... In 57' Chevys Fan tailed Plymouths, and in red convertibles, laid back and free. The girls...they were girls then... packed in like lolipops...and yes, they knew just who might be on Beaches Six and Ten. Then, swinging beach bags laden down with Coppertone and swimming caps, they searched the crowded sand for a just perfect place to spread an Indian blanket down... to lie in oiled skin beneath the pulsing sun that beat, beat, beat down rays to the rhythm of the hearts below that skipped and shivered when a bronze- tanned Prince walked by with nose Noxema white and hair slicked back, all

Brill Cream cool.

Sandra Peasley Bush

Peaceful River

                                                     The Ohio River at Vienna, WV

The river waters run slowly and peacefully beneath the warm July sky. It was not always so. In the spring, the river ran high and moved quickly. Carrying the waters of melting Northern snow and heavy rains, it swelled over its banks, in many places, and created distress for all who lived nearby. Like the river, our lives go through periods of calm and periods of overwhelming upset. At the time, it may seem that the condition we are experincing will not change, but change it will. And, the new condition that appears will also come and go, flowing like the river, on and on. Enjoy those times of quiet waters in your life and know, with confidence, that you will have everything you need for the times when the waters are not so peaceful. Everything passes. Everything changes.

                                                                            http://sandscript02.wordpress.com/

Peace to you, Sandra

Deer Morning

                                                            After a night of storms
                                                            A buck
                                                            A doe
                                                           Two fawn             
                                                           Coats wet
                                                           Came ambling
                                                           Down the hill
                                                           In search of breakfast
                                                           Stopping still
                                                           A moment
                                                           Greeting me
                                                           In silence
                                                           Before moving on
                                                          Toward tender
                                                          Rain washed leaves
                                                          The buck
                                                          The doe
                                                          Two fawn.
                                                          
                                                          
                                                         
                                                                       Sandra Peasley Bush
                                                     
                                                      
                                                    
                                                  
                                         
                  

Doe in the Morning

Monsters of the Past

Last summer, the tomato plants on my patio were invaded by ugly green monsters that ate away at stems, leaves and fruit.  
Tomato hornworms. 
It was deeply discouraging to see healthy plants stripped in the night of their worth by the greedy, insatiable creatures. 
By autumn, after weeks of plucking off and tossing away the invaders,  I vowed never again to plant tomatoes. 
In the spring,  my garden seemed incomplete without the usual potted plant with its promise of sweet red fruit. 
Yet, I couldn't shake the bad memories.
 I was anything but anxious to try again. 
It was later in the season than usual, when I finally relented.
While I shopped for petunias at the garden center, a healthy young  tomato plant ,bearing bright yellow blossoms, caught my attention.
Oh, how could I face a summer without homegrown tomatoes!
It would be different, this year, I reasoned. 
Now, I'd know how to keep watch for signs of the innocent looking hummingbird moths that become the dreadful worms.
Last year's unfortunate history need not repeat itself.
After all, hadn't I known many prior, worm free years  raising juicy tomatoes?
With a smile on my face, I paid the cashier and tucked the plant into my trunk. 
The new tomato plant took its place in the garden, and to this day, has not shown any signs of infestation.  Plump green tomatos are growng right on schedule.
Soon, we'll be enjoying rosy red slices on our sandwiches and salads, as the memories of last year fade away.
I'm examining my life for past encounters with worms.
What other bad experiences are keeping me from trying again?

Monsters of the Past

CELEBRATE!

BUCKEYES STAND, LIKE PYROTECHNIC ROCKETS,

POISED TO FILL THE AIR WITH FOURTH OF JULY JOY

Victims

Across the road from my house, a copse of trees lines the hillside sloping toward the skyline. One day, a windstorm came whirling through. As I watched from my window, in horrified facination, the wind seemed to target the trees in the center of the growth, snapping off branches and flinging them to the ground like dismembered arms and legs. All other trees, from the sturdy little pines to the tallest water maples, were left unscathed. Yet, in their midst, some that had also been statuesque, leaf covered beauties, now stood stripped of everything but their bare trunks. We can't know why some fall victim to adversity while others seem to spend much of their lives untouched. Often the winds of life seem to blow in cruel, random ways. It does us no good to think of ourselves as victims. No matter what befalls us, we must keep reaching for the heavens and securing our roots deeply into the earth to which we were born. We are, after all, alive every day of our life! Blessings, Sandra

Happy First Day of Summer!

                                                            Summer Solstice

                                                      I've waited for this day
                                                     When sun stays up
                                                     To play, 'til well past nine,
                                                     And we, who put all natural things
                                                     In words
                                                     Rejoice to say
                                                    That Summer has arrived.
                                                    We've now survived              
                                                    The Winter's blast,
                                                    And Spring's damp blooming
                                                    Days have passed;
                                                    The happy sun
                                                    Shall dance a tarantella
                                                    With the glowing moon
                                                    'Stay Summer...
                                                     Do stay long!"
                                                     Don't let the darkness
                                                     Seep into your days
                                                     Too soon.

                                                                      Sandra Peasley Bush
                                     

              
                     
  

The Aroma of Harmony

As I begin my morning walk on the woodland path, I delight in the unique aroma drifting through the air. 
It is one unknown to the world of concrete and pavement in the city below the hill.
 This is the blended aroma of chestnut and honeysuckle.
The long white sword of  the American Chestnut tree emits a harsh, pungent smell,  while the delicate trumpet flower of the honeysuckle vine can, at times, smell too sweet.
When blooming near one another, something exotic happens.
Their scents mingle to form a delightful musky-sweet perfume that is a joy to inhale.

Across town, the Mid Ohio Valley Multicultural Festival is underway. 
People from various countries and backgrounds are preparing their foods, sharing their music and setting aside their differences in order to create, together, a joyful celebration of human sharing.

As we all strive to make this a more understanding, peaceful world, let us remember the honeysuckle and the chestnut flowers in our lives and do what we can to create a sweet perfume of harmony.

Blessings,     Sandra

Sweet Honeysuckle

Chestnut in Blossom