Dear Friend, I love January. I love the newness—the feeling of a fresh sheet of paper not yet marked, the anticipation of what might be written on the page of this year.
I love this time of the year, summer is still holding on but autumn is descending with cooler temperatures and blessedly less humidity. (I will NOT miss the humidity of summer.)
She gathers raspberries in white plastic pails
Oh Lord, Creator of blue heaven and whispering green leaves, Maker of strawberry fields in sunshine and the ripe scent of berries and earth, Designer of fireflies flickering like city lights In the darkening shadows of June evenings, To You we bow Created to Creator Humbled, Loved.
I wish I could draw in pen and ink the image, a memory my camera was too slow to capture: Two little boys marching into the woods, galoshes, skinned knees, and croquet mallets held tight in chubby hands, resting on small shoulders; determined adventurers seeking treasures of pinecones and rocks, slaying dragon(flies) and monster(trucks).…
On rainy spring days I am reminded of Mr. Schulz’ 11th Grade Creative Writing Class. It was there I realized how much I like to write. And it was there that I discovered a world of poetry outside Whitman and Shakespeare, who lived behind dusty jacket covers in our house. I discovered William Carlos Williams…
Dear Friend, Have I mentioned to you before how much I love winter? There is a sweet purity in the crisp, whiteness of a field freshly bound in snow that gives me a strange sense of exhilarating joy. I get the same feeling with a fresh piece of lined paper and a newly sharpened pencil.