Sometimes a wee bit of the Irish puts a spring in your step, a smile on your face, and a twinkle in your eye.

Erin go bragh

How many of us had dreams where we are flying? Raise your hands!

A good friend of mine would dream of seeing again. When I was recovering from knee surgery I would dream of running. But to dream of flying, where does that come from? Is it a long lost memory from our ancient past? Maybe, as some folks theorize, it comes from a cellular memory. For what ever reason, a flying dream is one we like to share with those who will not think us crazy or odd.

Something about a close friend that is both compassionate and supportive. They will share in our excitement, support our interest, share their similar experiences, and smile in the communion of sharing. What a joy!
And for those who are critical, judgmental, cynical, patronizing or just plain stick-in-the-muds; You are really missing out.
Viva Familia!

Cultural crafted symbols within the seasons of our lives.
So many contrived holidays, celebratory days, and honorariums. These, no matter how contrived or disingenuous, become milestones, benchmarks, and triggering mechanisms.
Holidays trigger feelings, emotion, types of thinking, and memories.
Memories are echos of the past that are called up by trigger mechanisms.
Holiday memories of the past, with friends, family, enemies, and folks involved in the rituals and trappings of the holiday.

What we want as memories are the pleasant ones. But we are thinking beings who's survival mechanisms are about safety/fear. We survive by not repeating threats to our survival. We remember what is bad to protect ourselves; to survive. But that skill needs to be in it,s place.
The new skill is to allow the warm, satisfying memories to come forth.
It is about recognition of what we remember, how it serves us, and what we choose to accept, and ultimately enjoy.

Right now I remember how poor we were as a family when I was young, but how happy and rich we were in love and family. Tin can lids for decorations, hollow eggs painted, and smiles/laughter all around.
These echo through me as a sweet song sung in the canyon of time.
La Dolce Vida

Walking through the winter woods with L. The morning forest with drifting mist reflected in the rays of morning sunlight in shafts of warming light.
A bird flys through the forest canopy overhead. We could hear it's wing pump through the air.
"I hate the company. I hate what they do to people"
L's head bent down as if ramming though the air as we walked.

L's words; "hate", "they", "people"; "company", what was really the issue?

Looking around the forest. The word "forest" but what is behind that word? We are talking about a place filled with trees, but there is so much more to a forest.
L's words were about what was going on deep inside. L was talking about L.

"Raise your head, L, and look around you. What do you see?"

L's words and bent head let me know L was disconnected, was in pain, was not really present but deep inside thoughts and feelings yet unnamed, unrealized.

I wondered how many times we all been lost in our own forest when in reality we weren't lost at all; we are right here.

Halloween was the first rain.
Cold night drizzle not as resolute as a hardy downpour.

By Thanksgiving weekend a healthy rain has come and gone followed by crisp cold mornings but a warm trusty Sun peeking through the clouds. The seasonal stream behind the house has not yet begun to flow. A walk toward the lower pasture means crossing the stream bed.
Dry and covered with bleached smooth rocks, like old bones, that testify to last years torrent of life giving water.
The rain promises to fill the stream.
The dry stream is the history of a promise fulfilled.
But then this notion is just a play on words in the mind.
Promise is about an expectation.

In nature there is only, in the sublime and overt, Nature.
Promises are often the precursor to disappointment.
Petulant Human!
Bon mot!