Once upon a time
when women were birds,
there was the simple understanding
that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk
was to heal the world through joy.
The birds still remember
what we have forgotten
that the world is meant to be
celebrated
~Terry Tempest Williams
Photograph: Viola Loretti
Snow. Snow snow. Snow snow snow… As with other words, repeated it becomes strange, a meaningless sound, a feel of tongue and teeth and lips. Words. Not the thing itself, not at all. Else we would stop each time some words are said, stop to feel the crystals melt on the tongue, face lifted to the sky, face brushed with kisses.
Walked in, played with, fallen into, more like a heaven of white and joy. The magical, the mystical, the miracle of timelessness.
in the stillness of the night…by barbara klonowo
Thank God the snow has at last begun, winter has at last appeared, our coats now matter, zippers pulled tight. And we can know we belong to this earth, this place where each portion of the year has earned our respect, our love, and often—our sweet surprise. The light upon the earth has begun.
Some beauty on Monday to guide the week along. More than beauty, some joy and understanding. An interspecies comment on what can be.
Here are some photos posted by Other Perspectives. Meet Ingo and his best friend Poldi, the owl. Credit: Tierfotografie Tanja Brandt
And more, just because it’s so difficult to select out those to eliminate.
And lastly, because the eyes have it:
This is a fox called Juniper. She is the happiest, most vocal, and loving fox I’ve ever seen. She is a rescue with a special permit to keep. Her person is Willow Brooke, and she has a page on Facebook. This is also her photo of Juniper. She calls this the “Pancakes Squee face.” I look at this face and cannot help but feel some joy, and a skin-shiver of specialness.
And but then, this is the only place where fur should be special, bring joy, or anything like a skin-shiver, yes? Don’t you just want to hug and cuddle that creature? That special being that brings the gift of herself wherever she walks. Or runs. Or sleeps.
Writers Ink—Writing and Stuff 