Saturday, 22 August 2015
Much ado about not a lot . . .
Each time you pick a daffodil
Or gather violets on some hill
Or touch a leaf or see a tree,
It's all God whispering, "This is Me."
~Helen Steiner Rice
I'm a bit of a slow starter this morning. Some mornings are like that. I get up, come down stairs and have a bit of a cuddle with Mitzie and then let her out for her morning ablutions. While she's out there I get myself a drink and take out her Dentastix so that it's ready for her when she comes back in. She has one of those each morning.
That happened and then while she was eating it, I took a few minutes and gazed out our back door along the back garden . . . listening to the birds, looking at the sky, trying to predict what type of weather today will bring. It's quite hard to predict actually because it usually never ends up being how it begins. I think it was Bob Hope who said, when talking about England's weather . . . ""If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes!" Yes, it is that changeable.
The garden is looking quite tired now . . . and the birds are a lot quieter. It is to be expected at the crowning of the year . . . a sense of contentment is settling in. The fledglings have all flown the nests and set up on their own. The chatter now is like old women set up on their stoops, placidly passing the time of day with each other. The excitment, for now . . . is over . . .
The gulls squawk overhead. I do believe they are Herring Gulls. We never used to see them when I first moved over here . . . almost 15 years ago now . . . but they are ever present these days and they are quite noisy. I never quite know if they are complaining or happy. It all sounds the same to me.
I look down at the carpet in front of the kitchen sink and notice a slug trail over it . . . glistening in the morning light . . . and I shudder. I saw a slug yesterday on the back patio that was at least six inches long and the thoughts of anything like that being in my kitchen gives me the willies . . .
However do they even get in?
There is no sign of it now, save the tell tale glittering trail . . .
Once again summer is winding down and I have not saved any lavender, or rose petals . . . or pressed any flowers. Each year I think I am going to do just that and then . . . I don't.
I wander back into the lounge where Mitzie is polishing her paws on the sofa and I sit next to her for an extra little cuddle. She never minds. If I am lucky she will roll over onto her back and present her belly for a little snuffle. Yes, I do snuffle her belly . . . and I am not ashamed to admit it. She smells particularly nice this morning because she has been groomed this week. Her coat is shiny and smooth . . . and so soft. The pads on the bottoms of her feet smell like popcorn. I love it . . .
I remember the old dog we had when I was a child as I am stroking her. When I began Grade eight, I was fourteen . . . my mother's boss was moving and didn't want to take their dog with them. Her name was Penny. She was a beagle and quite tubby. My mother thought it would be good for a boy to have a dog and so she took Penny and brought her home to us, thinking it would be my brother's dog. We were all so very excited to have a dog in the house. We already had a Siamese Cat . . . Simon (how inventive right?) . . . he . . . was decidely not amused.
I fell in love. With her copper coloured ears . . . mostly likely how she got the name Penny. With her soulfully liquid brown eyes . . . we were a mutual admiration society. I was going through a particularly difficult time at school that year. That was the year it was decided amongst my school chums that I must be a lesbian and so it was a particularly lonely year for me and I was not very happy. Wounded even. Penny understood. With every stroke of those soft copper-coloured ears came healing and acceptance.
That is the thing about animals, and most especially dogs. They love unconditionally. They do not care if you are fat or thin . . . tall or short . . . ugly or beautiful . . . smart or stupid. They just love.
I can't help but think there is a lesson in that.
And so I have spent my morning puttering, and thinking . . . and stroking . . . and thinking some more, and now the clock has struck seven bells and I am startled because somehow two hours have passed, seemingly inconsequentially . . .
And the sun is peering up gloriously over the rooftops to the front of the house and pouring itself over the slate tiles and onto the pavements below, making each aging leaf and fading petal glisten and come alive. It looks finally like it is going to be a good day after all . . .
Or for at least the next five minutes anyways . . .
"Seek the Lord and his strength,
seek his presence continually!
Remember the wonderful works that he has done,
his miracles . . . and the judgments he uttered."
Baking in The English Kitchen today . . . a Peanut Butter and Banana Cake. Scrumptiously dense and moist.
Wherever you go and whatever you get up to today . . . don't forget!
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And I do too! God bless you all.