What got left behind? I loathe making dinner. I despise it. It is the absolute bane of my existence. It’s gotten so I don’t really enjoy eating dinner all that much. I’d just as soon have cereal. Or toast, (whole
The Stolen Child, one of my favorite poems, by one of my favorite authors; beautifully set to music by one of my favorite singers. Listen, read the words, and be inspired. The Stolen Child by W.B. Yeats WHERE dips the
I’ve been a hygge lover since I was a child – quite a small one actually. I can nearly see it. See me. Round feet pattering, small hands, (just like mine now – only not…), stuffing the bear family into
“I don’t like standing near the edge of a platform when an express train is passing through. I like to stand right back and if possible get a pillar between me and the train. I don’t like to stand by
(In Retrospect: Tumbling Summer Talking To Jesus) And these are the questions rolling in over and around me day after day, as I silent talk to Jesus: Has the garden been watered, have the dogs been fed, do the
And oh I’ve been getting up earlier than the kidlet and official teen and older teens, savoring Morning Grace. Looking askance at the messy counter overflowing with dirty dishes; abandoned last night when we were off to bed too late.