Off my deck one morning I captured these tree tops standing in the cold. A small stone to keep in my pocket was their apparent happy greeting of the sun and persevering, waiting it out. I'm reminded of this same truth whenever I see  four legs, paws or feathers visiting our yard during the day.

Bean the cat seems perturbed as she watches me pack up the last of the Christmas decorations. No more sneaking around, chewing on the tree or sitting in the empty boxes. Life can be like that. Since she won't allow anyone to pick her up or hold her, there'll be no explaining the facts to this serious little feline.

note to self: look up from the computer once in awhile!

              One is apt to overestimate beauty when it is rare. Mark Twain

I was working on the computer early one morning this week when I was blinded by this gorgeous sunrise You catch a glimpse of the lake near us in the first picture, both taken from the frosty deck.

It occurred to me that even if I don't see beauty as it is happening, it is still happened.

Elementary, my dear.                     

Stop by Skywatch Friday for more breathtaking sky views.

cannoli man revisited

On the day after Christmas we wandered the streets of South Philadelphia in the 9th Street Italian market.  Loaded with boxes of cannoli and babas, fresh ravioli and olives--all the things that seem just a bit more authentic to this Italian than the very same things that can be found in the Twin Cities--it is always a magical visit. This district includes a large residential area around and through the market streets--like this store front which reflected the typical Pennsylvania red brick row homes built flush with the sidewalks as well as vintage and antique accordions.

I am grateful for the strong feeling of belonging and history that I feel when I visit this part of town. I'm not really a stranger there. I hear familiar accents in the voices, young and old and can always find warm brown eyes of my paisans. So, today I skip this 'heritage' stone across the river.

Cannoli Man

She took to the road early, turning her face East

Away from the small railroad town where her immigrant grandfather
Sold groceries to cowboys and laborers

But no one recognized her name.
Arriving in her youth, she tentatively placed her feet down as divining rods
On the narrow cobblestones Paul Revere rode.
No one there had shared steerage with her family.

Dinner tables piled high with Sunday's best were long since covered with asphalt
in the city with broad shoulders.
Only drowsy, wine-soaked eyes met hers along the Chesapeake.
Bowing her head, she passed the old flagship church in South Philly.
True north she found his store at the edge of the market,

Falling out from the rest of the buildings like a torn piece of lace.
Shiny cannoli tubes, stock pots, strainers and randomly hung
Yellowing photos of boxers past their prime, Mussolini and the Pope
Her hand closed around his cigar stained, sausage fingers, his sweater's
unraveling cuffs

Comparing origins, he had, in fact, heard her name before.
Turning to her Irish immigrant husband, the shopkeeper asked,
Did you get permission to marry one of our girls?

A familial smile parted her lips as
The small Calabrian dove in her breast
eased it's fluttering--
folded back its wings,
and calmly closed its eyes to rest.

Linking to River of Stones,2012.

farewell to July, so long River

In the scheme of things, having a nose like Jimmy Durante isn't all bad. I mention this dubious insight because for the past couple of summers more and more Pelicans have been visiting the lakes nearby. I love watching them glide in the air, usually in pairs, and meander slowly looking for fish. Its easy for me to identify with the beak, being Italian and all. Having spent a large part of my life wishing I looked like somebody else in one form or another, it occurred to me that even though by our societal standards a pelican is homely, therefore not valuable,  blather the fact that they aren't pretty doesn't seem to matter a bit to them.

My last stone I'm skipping across the river is raised in honor of these fish-eating, beautiful birds who don't seem bothered by how they look. In fact, the only thing on their mind is fish at the moment. Its all good!

a stone's throw from the lake

Yesterday was hot and humid, [surprise]--with a really warm wind. I went for a walk in an older neighborhood. This lovely house with a ecclectic front porch and these lacy curtains caught my eye. They seemed to have a life all their own, celebrating the breeze off the lake.

 

sweet smooth stones

stones.that.soothe

A tough, hectic week leaving me feeling inept, childish, sweaty...these sandpipers must have been sidestepping the pebbles like the ones that had lodged in my shoes.

Their message: keep moving and notice that your shadow moves with you.

Thank you, dear feathered sages and I guess I'll be grateful to those irritating pebbles.

like a rock

This morning I was clocked on the head by a big pointy rock--instead of the usual smooth and warm stones I've been collecting.
Rounding the bend around the lake I saw two little creatures, seemingly in repose at the edge of the road. By the time I reached them and got my wits about me I realized that they were two very young racoons both hit by a car, likely following mom or dad back from a midnight drink in the lake.
Heartbreaking. indelible. image.

Sighing, I have thrown this rock stone back in Owasso Lake. 

when is a stone not small anymore?

Yesterday when I schlepped up the stairs to the baggage claim to meet Dave's flight I heard the unmistakable sound of live piano music. At the top of the escalator an upright piano lives next to a sign saying, 'I'm a piano. Play me!' The reason I love the piano and don't play is a topic for another lifetime day but suffice it to say that I stopped and stood listening to a young woman sitting straight backed on the very piano bench, wearing flip-flops, weaving a lovely melody for at least ten minutes. Then she stopped, looked at her hands, rose, put on her backpack and I saw her walk away pulling her roller-suitcase behind her. I did thank her because she had indeed stirred my week-weary soul.

Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are 

 [lyrics from Sara Groves' Add to the Beauty]

Happy weekend, fellow stone gatherers!

gathering of days

stones in a pile:

the light coming through the birch trees
standing like soldiers

rain, rain, and more rain leaving a heart-shaped bit of fungus growing on my deck

lacy light patterns on the shady walkway

put your small stones one on top of the other and see what they say to you

Saturday stone

Love your self's self where it lives.
Anne Sexton

Though it sounds a bit Hallmark-y something has taken up residence in my heart that feels a bit like self-acceptance. I think I am essentially the same person I've always been, in spite of a mounting stack of calendar pages.
As I toss this stone across the river, I wonder where it will settle?

small stones and skywatching

This awesome view was taken from the motorcycle as we were heading home along the Mississippi. The sunset seemed to have a Gypsy's life of its own behind us which I tried to capture in spite of our speed. More captures @ Skywatch Friday.



Listening to the Brubeck Quartet today playing Take Five for possibly the hundredth time I relived the 1960's in just under five minutes. A perfectly smooth small stone skipping across the river.

word-less Wednesday and one small stone

Jerry Van Amerongen

throwing a small stone in the river today

The lumbering Great Blue Heron flying along next to my car and then above so I could see his curved neck and feet neatly folded. Slow and deliberate with breakfast on his mind.

Y is for Yarrow--a mensch & yarrow--a flower

The yarrow is growing wild now along the path around the lake where I walk. Its delicate white flowers are my small stone for today. Hundreds of tiny white stars twinkle on each plant.

'We're part of a long train ride...'

Yarrow is also Peter Yarrow of Peter Paul & Mary, now and then. Who doesn't have a memory of this group if you've alive for at least 40 years? The trio has sung and marched for freedom, peace and understanding, not afraid to speak out against war and civil rights.

Peter wrote Puff the Magic Dragon, among many others. Since Mary Travers passed in 2009, Paul & Peter continue to make music. Visit my post here about the day Mary died and how I knew.

'As we Jews say, `let him be a mensch first; everything else will work out.' Peter Yarrow

See more Y's @ ABC Wednesday.

one small stone: a rainbow as the sun goes down after a storm at dusk

one small stone and a one small bun



First note the two inch high ears--the small stone I'm tossing in the river today. Amazing.
Along a walk to Caribou Coffee I saw this new rabbit  foraging in a vacant lot. Needless to say I almost missed him because he was so one with his surroundings. And don't think I didn't envy his/her lunch of dandelion greens too!

Happy weekend my bloggy friends! Keep watching and listening.

two small stones in one July day

July 1st small stone:  the small, gray frog I mistook for a chunk of broken cement in my flower pot.

July 2nd small stone: watching the 4 newly fledged house finches with their tentative and comical new wings. I can't forget the 4th baby I accidentally scared out of the nest when the others had already left.   Its not nice to laugh at other klutzes.

Gather more stones here.