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There was a true Conference of the Birds in our front garden this morning!  We bought a couple of feeders last week, filling a few with peanuts and a few with mixed seed.  There is a little tree in the front garden that kept its leaves all winter (it reminds me of eucalyptus, not that I really know what that looks like) and offers a choice spot for feeder hanging that is visible from the window seat upstairs.  I hung one peanut and one mixed seed on this little tree.

This morning while I was watching a happy jumble of birds hop from feeder to ground to feeder a cacophony erupted.  The tall Ash tree, still bare, was suddenly alight with little chirping, chattering, twittering birds.  They sounded out in a discordant chorus.  I fumbled for my iTouch, in order to record the sound before they departed.  Good thing I was quick because within minutes the sound ceased, as if on cue, and the whole troupe were off for their next performance.

au revoir!  and…break a leg!

I woke up today feeling like a Picasso painting; except I didn’t. I didn’t wake up feeling disjointed and turned sideways, though I did video the morning bird song with a sideways angle to the camera, so that playback makes you feel you are slipping ever so slowly off the earth…or that the earth suddenly shrank and you see its curve turning, turning, turning.


No, I woke up feeling like a Monet painting. The tiny dots and strokes of paint, each day of my life, which up close and in the moment seem to be only dots and strokes. Though when you step back…and view them from a different perspective, you see they make up a beautiful scene. Intricate in detail and awash with color and grace. Such is life.

The grace to retain this knowing and remind yourself daily to step back. Look at things from a larger perspective and see the tapestry of color and pattern that each breath is creating. Easier said than done!

You know…as much as I don’t want to feel like a Picasso, it would be interesting to feel like a Kahlo! Vivid, in your face, and profane! Like a Wild Woman running barefoot screaming her name on the wind. That would be LIFE –  to feel it pulsing inside in an explosion of passion, tears, anger, joy!

Still, I did wake up feeling like a Monet. With gentle color and brush strokes, engaged in – oh, so refined and delicate activity; sitting on the window seat listening to morning bird song while I sipped my tea. Hmm

With all the mind-is-unified-field-bells-theorem running in my head, perhaps I aught to engage in a little Kahlo-esque activity as I go for that walk later. Living Out LOUD seems to fit with this deep pondering!

…it’s just around the corner!  :fingers crossed:

It still amazes me how in touch I am with the seasons here.  No make-believe, no pretending, no looking at the calendar to convince myself of the turning.  The change in season is on my list of thins I appreciate most about living here. Back home in Texas we have “weather”, not seasons.  Unless you count burning in “hell” or freezing as seasons.  To be fair, the weather in Austin in glorious most times of the year except summer (June-September) when the sun tries to scorch you.  There can be cold winter days, even down to 0 Celsius, but they don’t last and its usually  sunny and mild (think 15 degrees!).  But you don’t get the pleasure of having survived the dark, dreary winter, which propels you to anticipate spring and summer in a way I never have.

We go for a walk down our lane most days.  The tiny road runs along the upper ridge, is low traffic, and the views out over the valley and abandoned Demesne are spectacular.  Yesterday morning it was brilliantly sunny, though crisp, and my heart was filled with gladness at the yellow flowers on the gorse and the song of the little birds!  I haven’t noticed them during the winter, but their chatter has gladdened my heart over the past several days as I hear them more and more.

A tiny Robin alighted on a bush as we walked past, singing her sweet song, and I thanked her; telling her how beautiful she was.  She sang back and I told her there were bread crumbs out at our house that she was very welcome to!  She sang and watched us go by.   We chatted to the neighbors, who were out working on their gardens in the fine weather.  I discovered a little of the history of our house and learned that our own front garden was about to become a magical place, designed for perfect spring revelry.

It seems Mr. Twomey, or his mother, planted an entire front garden of bulbs.  Their green shoots have already emerged and the tender snowdrops have given their show.  Now we await the glorious first chorus.  We were told that the house was already abandoned in the early seventies.  Mr. Twomey, a bachelor farmer, was the last occupant and 30 in 1911.  This left the house  silent and alone for many years before being purchased by the Bailey’s in the late 90’s.  Our neighbor, who spent her childhood on this lane, told of her own delight at peeking into the neglected garden each spring.  The beauty and romance of the forgotten house with its Secret Garden and old wooden stairs….

Romantic, isn’t it?

 

 

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