Author: Jean

Trying to make sense of it all and . . . for the most part . . . doing it.
Posted in Whimsical Wednesday

Grandpets are the new grandkids

Posted on by Jean

With the younger generation waiting longer to start their families, people like me are having to wait longer to have grandchildren. I’m okay with it as long as they keep letting me call these creatures my grandpets. None have objected, but I do notice their sideways glances when I walk in announcing “Gramma’s here!”

And like any proud Gramma, I brought pictures….

Untitled

~.~

Thunderpaws was so named for the size of his tremendous feet. I like to call him T-Paws. He was such a good boy when he arrived, we were convinced he might have been perfect. That is, until he ate the carpet. Well, he might not be perfect after all, but he’s a very loving boy.

Thunderpaws has us all wrapped around his heart, which is at least as big as his paws!

~.~

Untitled

~.~

Frank is a clever little pup. He has his own social media account on Instagram as Frank The Tank but I call him Frankster the Prankster.

Last month he learned to drive. As far as I know he hasn’t had any accidents or moving violations, but he likes to stop at all the fire hydrants.

~.~

Untitled

~.~

Mufasa is my grand-rabbit. He might be named for the fluffy mane around his neck, or maybe because he’s a brave little bunny. My own dogs are leery of a running vacuum, but Mufasa hops over and sniffs the windy nozzle. He doesn’t seem to mind when his dog-cousin, T-Paws, comes to visit, either.

Admit it. That little bunny face made you smile.

~.~

It’s not like I bring a lawn chair to watch their sports at the dog park, or take them out on their birthdays. Hey, I haven’t completely lost my marbles. But sometimes you have to make do with what you’ve got, and for now I’ve got grandpets.

Peace . . .

Advertisements
Posted in Meditative Monday

Monday, Monday; doo doo, doo doo-doo doo . . .

Posted on by Jean

Monday again. You know you’re singing that song. Or maybe it’s Rainy Days and Mondays. Perhaps You Can Kiss Me on a Monday? Why are there so many songs about Monday? Where is my coffee? And why is it smiling?

coffee-cup-working-happy.jpg

Every day of the week seems to have its own personality. Monday is grumpy. It’s the crabby receptionist at the front desk. If you can pay your dues and get past her, the rest is downhill.

Tuesday is awkward. It just doesn’t know how to be a real day at all. You forge forward, just happy to have gotten past Monday unscathed. No one ever wrote a song about Tuesday. That’s not entirely true, but can you name one without Googling it?

Wednesday is the middle child. You can’t quite see Friday, but you’re far enough in to have forgotten Monday. Wednesday shrugs off the worst of the week. Its happy-go lucky and you’re glad it shows up every week.

Thursday is serious. This is the day that you have to get things done, because Friday comes to town tomorrow, and you know you can’t get anything done with him around.

Friday is the party guy. He’s magnetic. Every day wants to be him. He shows up with a smile on his face and a six-pack under his arm. He lets you get away with things the other days of the week would never dream of.

Saturday is easy-going. Ask Saturday what it wants to do, and it’s going to say it doesn’t care; whatever you want to do. Free love and macrame. Work boots and blisters. Hammocks and wine. Errands and grilling out.

Sunday is unpredictable. You walk on eggshells around that one. She teeters between lazing around the house in pajamas and angrily preparing to meet Monday head on.

So today is Monday, and I’m gritting my teeth behind a fake smile, ready to meet her head on. I’m showered, dressed, fully present, and determined not to let her get me down. I’m going to greet her and however she responds is going to roll off me like water off a duck.

We can do this, people.

Peace . . .

 

Posted in Seasonal Sunday

Earth knows no desolation

Posted on by Jean
“Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.”
– George Meredith, 1828-1909, English novelist and poet

Is there any better metaphor for faith than spring? Whether your faith rests in God, Nature, Love or Self. The proof that life emerges after strife —  indeed, because of it — is ever present in the warmth of spring.

Peace . . .

Posted in Tiny Awesome Tuesday

Barefoot in the Park

Posted on by Jean

Typically, the pinnacle of my day is a very small thing. Like putting my toes in the grass for the first time since autumn.

I nearly missed the park, and when I saw it, I took the last turn into the parking lot. It was a one-way in the wrong direction, but the park was nearly abandoned and no one honked or even noticed. The breeze blew chilled across the icy lake, but the sun was warm between dark blue clouds. Ducks’ wings whistled overhead, and something splashed in the open water along the shore.

Drawn to connect, I smiled an impish grin. I looked left, right, then back, before I slipped off my first leather shoe. The other shoe and both socks followed. In seconds I was barefoot in the park; skin to skin with Mother Earth. The ground was cold and the moisture seeped up to make mud on my heels. But it felt real, like putting my face against the rain, or catching snowflakes on my tongue.

Untitled

It wasn’t too long before I was back in traffic headed home to make dinner.

But I was reminded that sometimes it’s the last turn in the wrong direction that brings us down the right path.

Peace . . .

 

 

Posted in Friday Finds

Good things in small packages

Posted on by Jean

“Good things come in small packages” is another one of those adages my Gramma spoke to me often. Tanaka Tatsuya has been bringing this to life for over five years. You can check out his website Miniature Calendar, but the real fun doesn’t start until you follow him on Instagram.

2-11

I love it when people challenge me to change the way I see ordinary things.

Peace . . .

Posted in Throwback Thursday

Streamers, tin cans and horns

Posted on by Jean

pexels-photo-129065.jpeg

The horns honked every Saturday, sometimes driving around the block right by my house. Wedding couples waved from the back seat, with streamers and tin cans sailing in their wake.

The church stood at the entrance of our neighborhood, as much a playground for us children as it was a place of worship. Baptisms, funerals, and all forms of life events in between took place beneath its roof. And on Saturdays, the expected cachaphony of honking horns was as common as the chirping of birds.

Many wedding traditions have their roots in superstition, and the making of noise is one of them. It was thought that the loud clanging of cans trailing behind a carriage and even church bells would scare evil spirits away from the newlyweds. Eventually, the practice became an expression of celebration.

These days limousines are more common than tin cans hanging from the bumper, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard the honking horns. My guess is that the racket brought more evil spirits out of neighboring homes and business than it ever scared away. As for me and my chums, we laughed and waved and imagined someday riding in the back of the noisy getaway car.

Peace . . .