Valentine's Day

Valentine is.........My kind of Christmas! ღ.♥A day to make LOVE out of the momentsღ.
Perfect weather - always!ღ.♥ Pretty ~ everything pretty!ღ.Classical music and Jane Austen quotesღ.Sparkles and kisses and bird chirpsღ.

Berthe Morisot

YOU pierce my soul, I am half agony, half hope I have loved none but you.
 ~ Jane Austen {Persuasion}
 

 Valentine is.........

Life and flowers and purityღ
Mended hearts and answered prayersღ.
♥ Hope and Grace aboundingღ.♥
St. Therese The Little Flower
Roses and all flowers ღ.
Friendships, children and Cherubims

 

Monday Morning Resolve

Painting By: Berthe Morisot

"The better part of happiness
is to wish to be what you are. " ~ Desiderius Erasmus

Should I indulge in a second cup of coffee? I'm thinking in writing as I diddle on this thought. My mornings are sacred to me. I want them all to myself; hugging quiet, quaintly reflective, full of these lilting bird songs I am most blessed to hear considering that outside the confines of my gated living, the bombarding noise of a chaotic city thrives!

Even here, my home secluded and a tale afar from the main thoroughfare, I cannot escape the dribble tattle of noises, noises, noises: a plane flying overhead, the neighbors maid doing her morning laundry (the screech squeeze sound of scrubbing a mere rhythm to the stereo she has open ), a car and two and three every now and then, and now the other neighbor with her pots and pans. Inside my home, it is my cleaning lady, moving chairs, sweeping and dusting. Kindly, I send her on a brief errand if but to reclaim a moment of that perfect peace I had when I first woke up.

Ah, I know these are the sounds of life, but at 43 my mornings have taken a clearer definition to me, and I must do something ( wake up earlier, or change routines) to honor that early solace need that my soul craves. If only I could move to the mountains or have my home a walk to the sea. I cannot! Maybe, someday. Today I embrace the gifts that I presently enjoy:

• my pretty city cottagey' homey' ( and a community park to enjoy) 
• morning kiss
• a clear sparkly fresh morning,
• somebody to help me with chores, 
• that smile I had when I opened my eyes, 
• a resolve to have the day play out beautifully ( which means I am healthy of mind),
• a healing from almost 2 months of allergies and sinus attacks ( i can breath! I can breath!)
• and the most significant, a lifting of my spirits! 

Today I will accomplish what need be - and then some, like:

• writing my list of 100 things to enJOY for the rest of the year!  
• my lovely menu for the week ( and purchases that need be done) 
• plans for decorating, and my garden plantings too!

Most of all, I will take care of myself. This is a must. Only then can I have something to give of me to those I love.

Cherished

By: Trofimov Oleg

 ♥´¯`•.¸¸.• ♥ •´¯`•.¸¸.♥

What can I do with my happiness?

How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it?

i want to kneel as it falls over me like rain,

gather it up like lace and silk, And press it over myself again."   

         ~ Anais Nin

"Why do you  always smell sweet?"
He whispered -- his face slightly buried in my hair, our {tender} moment suspended - before he had to reluctantly pull away, walk to the door and lend himself to the day's hustle. It wasn't so much a question. It was a statement bestowed as an answer to itself.

A time ago, I won't bother to discern the exactness of hour, but it was when the light of the day drew golden shadows on leaves merry making to the mellow bliss of a contented February breeze, he took my hand and pressed it consciously on his lips. He let's go, gazes at it, smiles and tells me my fingers are perfect candles...it pleases him.

My days are pearls and lace and roses. How could I have forgotten, neglected, that we weave the love we adorn. Love presses itself over and over to my person. Enough of incessant snuffles,for life calls that I employ myself to happiness.

I sit here, contemplating,
how utterly grateful I am
to be eminently,
cherished.


The Lady Prism

About The Painting:

Trofimov Oleg has the most seductive paintings, truly! His masterpieces are undoubtedly gateways to visual paradise. There are several pieces of his which speak to me the most. and I do intend to share  those in my page. His beautiful paintings can be found here: OLEG TROFIMOV

No Misgivings

Every day includes much more non-being than being. This is always so. One walks, eats, sees things, deals with what has to be done; the broken vacuum cleaner; ordering dinner; washing; cooking dinner. When it is a bad day the proportion of non-being is much larger."

- Virginia Woolf

I posses the Woolf dilemma: An incessant fear of bleeding on the page. Part reason why I've much refrained from pouring and writing my heart out last year. Realizing how bereft my space had become, an acrid twinge of hurt pinged from my insides. Not writing is akin to dishonesty - close to disowning that soft part of myself that has always been.

However, discomfort reigned. This I admit. What would those who know me say of the me that trifles with semantics? A disconcerting thought until I read what Dani Shapiro had to reveal: 

It is only in the silence that our voice emerges. It is only in movement of the hand across the page, one word following the next, in the crafting of sentence that we know ourselves. We can talk ourselves blue in the face, and we may be telling a certain kind of truth, but it is not the deepest truth, not the truth of our private heart. 

This afternoon, late in the day there is that silence. So what can I say? That my under eyes have soft worry lines, that my chest still hurts from a prolonged seasonal bout with sinus, that my spirit still feels heavy from the shock of having my eldest son figure in an accident, that I think of myself wishing I could get an upgrade chip version of me.There.


Maybe a little rant can do good for the soul. Good times have rolled. No remiss in acknowledging that. My thoughts have always gone the course of the positive.But just this once, perhaps, there can be no misgiving in penning the bog that weighs me in.