Thank you Winnie for your support, it means a lot to me, having you here. And everyone else, Welcome! I would like to have an adventure, lets walk down a trail and see what magic we can find, want to? There may be portals between the hedgerows and the corn fields so keep a good eye open. Whichever path we take let's keep nature close by our side and our hearts tuned to the divine, shall we? I have a feeling it's going to be grand. I'll meet you here by the blue door.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
The Beckoning
by Trendle Ellwood
My bridegroom beckoned,
He has informed me of what to wear.
Feathers and beads like veils within my hair.
“Prepare a cape of woolen brown,” says he.
“Warm suede boots to touch the ground.
Have a ritual with Storm.
Your bridegroom awaits you.”
And he spoke of where he would find me.
Beside crystal flowing streams.
Where stone and water meet.
And little fish dance,
Upon our feet.
“Travel by mule over rocky glen, said he,
To find the way within.
Ride with wolf, hawk and bear.
Polar Bear White, she is the mother,
In the cold dark night.
Hawk, he is the one who sees far.
Wolf why, he is your brother.
Prepare three weeks, cleanse with fruit and labor.
The time will come to go,
Three days on sturdy mules, beside moss, riding with kin.
Pausing near flowing sparkling water,
In person,
Crystal aspersion
With no stains.
It is there we will meet again.
Feathers will drift in, from near and far.
They will speak of who you really are.
Gold, bronze, black, brown,
And white.
Look for them, you will see them.
They each hold a piece of the vision.
Wear your hair like in a crown,
The music of the earth will guide you,
The air of the portals sustain you
The path will be laid out, prepare and follow.”
And then he whisperd back to me before he temporarily parted.
“Whatever you do, don’t start Thinking,
That you are dreaming.
Thinking isn’t Real.
Feeling is.
I will wait for you there.”
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
My bridegroom beckoned,
He has informed me of what to wear.
Feathers and beads like veils within my hair.
“Prepare a cape of woolen brown,” says he.
“Warm suede boots to touch the ground.
Have a ritual with Storm.
Your bridegroom awaits you.”
And he spoke of where he would find me.
Beside crystal flowing streams.
Where stone and water meet.
And little fish dance,
Upon our feet.
“Travel by mule over rocky glen, said he,
To find the way within.
Ride with wolf, hawk and bear.
Polar Bear White, she is the mother,
In the cold dark night.
Hawk, he is the one who sees far.
Wolf why, he is your brother.
Prepare three weeks, cleanse with fruit and labor.
The time will come to go,
Three days on sturdy mules, beside moss, riding with kin.
Pausing near flowing sparkling water,
In person,
Crystal aspersion
With no stains.
It is there we will meet again.
Feathers will drift in, from near and far.
They will speak of who you really are.
Gold, bronze, black, brown,
And white.
Look for them, you will see them.
They each hold a piece of the vision.
Wear your hair like in a crown,
The music of the earth will guide you,
The air of the portals sustain you
The path will be laid out, prepare and follow.”
And then he whisperd back to me before he temporarily parted.
“Whatever you do, don’t start Thinking,
That you are dreaming.
Thinking isn’t Real.
Feeling is.
I will wait for you there.”
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
A Whole New World
by Trendle Ellwood
I was washing up honey jars in the kitchen sink when I got to thinking about what the now retired bee-keeper Mr. Burgeaff said to me one day while we were talking with him. My husband was buying some of his old bee equipment when Mr. Burgeaff, with his kind gentlemanly smile, looked right at me, a new bee-keepers wife, and he gave me this prediction “ You are about to enter a whole new world.”
How intriguing, I thought at the time.
My husband interrupted my thoughts as he came through the kitchen to grab some pails to take down the road to the bramble patch. I finished up the jars and went out the kitchen door to take some scraps to the chickens. It was then that I heard the hum. The unmistakable roar of a swarm of bees. I looked up to see a large loose mass of them swirling above the apiary. I could tell that they had not been away from their mother hive for long as they were still in the wide-open scattered stage. Some of them were flying out and then back again to the nucleus of the swarm. The way the whole group of bees appears to roll always reminds me of a hurricane.
As I watched this honeybee hurricane I let the wonder of it wash over me, soaked it in for a moment there in our back yard, the thrill of the honeybee in swarm. I never cease to be awed by the fellowship of a swarm. The power of all of those bees of one mind intrigues me. They are going free, anxious to be independent of the mother hive. It gives me a feeling of new inspiration; watching those offshoots, making their multiplying flight. I knew that my husband would want to know about our bee hurricane and that if he could get to them in time he might be able to retrieve these run-away honey bees. Our daughter came around the smoke house corner exclaiming, “ Mom! A swarm!”
If you want things to get exciting around our house, you detect a swarm. Mercy! Then things will start happening! I took off down towards the black raspberry patch, after my husband. His berry picking was quickly dropped when we brought him the news.
The bees were looking for an acceptable place to temporarily land. A staging spot from where they could scout for their new home. Those who have researched honeybees say that they communicate through dancing. When a bee has found a good place, she tells the other bees all about it by prancing in front of them excitingly. The other bees can tell how good of a place this bee thinks she has found by the intensity of her dance.
The bees must have found a spot that they liked ok because they began to congregate. When they get together they come to a tight little group, which the beekeepers call a cluster. This time the cluster was on the over hanging branch of the white pine which stands shading our apiary from the hot afternoon sun As a cluster, they looked like a dark vortex hanging in the shape of an old fashioned ice cream cone. It looked as if the pine tree had grown a huge pinecone. By this time my husband had gotten his ladder and he asked me hold it as he shinnied up the arbor. He placed his swarm bucket, which he carried with him, as close as he could to the swarm of bees.
I was just hoping the whole time that the trellis was good and sturdy and that he would not come crashing through it. I was reassuring myself in a conversation in my head, thinking, “ Yes he made the arbor for the Wisteria, after all, and Wisteria can pull down houses which I know he knows and so I am sure that he made it strong!”
In the next second, any concerns that I had for my spouse as he tight roped across the Wisteria arbor were put on the back burner. Because in my ear was the unmistakable song of a frantic trapped bee. I had one caught in my hair! I could hear the little bee’s song rising in intensity and frustration as she became more and more imbedded within my curly brown hair. I imagined what it was going to feel like being stung in the brain. I told my husband of my predicament hoping that he might have some good suggestions, but all he said was, “ I hate it when they do that, darn!” and, “ they like fuzzy stuff.”
I abandoned my ladder holding occupation and went towards the house. I tried flipping my hair over and upside down hoping to shake the trapped insect out of my web of hair. I found our daughter and begged her to help me get this bee out of my hair! She kept saying, “ Where Mom? Where?” as I pointed towards the spot where the bee seemed to be inching closer and closer, by the second, towards my scalp. Finally she spotted the bee and I swear she has been hanging around that beekeeping Father of hers too much, because while I had a bee about ready to sting my brain, she paused! She paused to wonder if she should kill the bee! The words that passed through her lips were, “ Well Mom I hate to kill the poor little thing.”
HONEY, I exclaimed to her with my head of hair upside down bobbling in front of her. WILL YOU JUST KILL THE BEE! It is then that she sees my frantic state and she puts two books together and claps them on the section of my hair that is vibrating with buzz. “ Well you are going to have bee parts all in your hair.” She tells me.
I am wondering if she thinks having bee parts in my hair is ANYTHING compared to having a mad bee in your hair. I could not wait to get to that part of my life where I might be worrying about bee parts in my hair! Oh and how wonderful if there were not an ice pack over a bee sting in the same picture with the bee parts. I sighed with relief when after another clang of the books the buzzing near my brain was stilled. I felt bad too, thinking if I had not been so scared maybe we could have helped the little bee weave out of the web that I had set for her. All I knew for sure was that I planned to know where a bee hat and veil were the next time I helped with a swarm!
With a grabbed blanket over my head I went out to check on Husband. He had completed his task and I held the ladder for him as he came down. Ah! We were both Ok. Actually he was radiant from having been a part of the bee convention. I think a touch of their vitality invigorates his soul. He excitedly told me that he had been able to shake the branch and had captured the queen in his bait hive. The joy in him brought a big smile to my face. Yes I Mr. Burgeaff I thought as my husband told me of his adventure, You were right, I entered into a whole new world when my spouse became a bee keeper. I entered into a world full of risks, surprises, lessons and most of all, a world full of many wonders.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
I was washing up honey jars in the kitchen sink when I got to thinking about what the now retired bee-keeper Mr. Burgeaff said to me one day while we were talking with him. My husband was buying some of his old bee equipment when Mr. Burgeaff, with his kind gentlemanly smile, looked right at me, a new bee-keepers wife, and he gave me this prediction “ You are about to enter a whole new world.”
How intriguing, I thought at the time.
My husband interrupted my thoughts as he came through the kitchen to grab some pails to take down the road to the bramble patch. I finished up the jars and went out the kitchen door to take some scraps to the chickens. It was then that I heard the hum. The unmistakable roar of a swarm of bees. I looked up to see a large loose mass of them swirling above the apiary. I could tell that they had not been away from their mother hive for long as they were still in the wide-open scattered stage. Some of them were flying out and then back again to the nucleus of the swarm. The way the whole group of bees appears to roll always reminds me of a hurricane.
As I watched this honeybee hurricane I let the wonder of it wash over me, soaked it in for a moment there in our back yard, the thrill of the honeybee in swarm. I never cease to be awed by the fellowship of a swarm. The power of all of those bees of one mind intrigues me. They are going free, anxious to be independent of the mother hive. It gives me a feeling of new inspiration; watching those offshoots, making their multiplying flight. I knew that my husband would want to know about our bee hurricane and that if he could get to them in time he might be able to retrieve these run-away honey bees. Our daughter came around the smoke house corner exclaiming, “ Mom! A swarm!”
If you want things to get exciting around our house, you detect a swarm. Mercy! Then things will start happening! I took off down towards the black raspberry patch, after my husband. His berry picking was quickly dropped when we brought him the news.
The bees were looking for an acceptable place to temporarily land. A staging spot from where they could scout for their new home. Those who have researched honeybees say that they communicate through dancing. When a bee has found a good place, she tells the other bees all about it by prancing in front of them excitingly. The other bees can tell how good of a place this bee thinks she has found by the intensity of her dance.
The bees must have found a spot that they liked ok because they began to congregate. When they get together they come to a tight little group, which the beekeepers call a cluster. This time the cluster was on the over hanging branch of the white pine which stands shading our apiary from the hot afternoon sun As a cluster, they looked like a dark vortex hanging in the shape of an old fashioned ice cream cone. It looked as if the pine tree had grown a huge pinecone. By this time my husband had gotten his ladder and he asked me hold it as he shinnied up the arbor. He placed his swarm bucket, which he carried with him, as close as he could to the swarm of bees.
I was just hoping the whole time that the trellis was good and sturdy and that he would not come crashing through it. I was reassuring myself in a conversation in my head, thinking, “ Yes he made the arbor for the Wisteria, after all, and Wisteria can pull down houses which I know he knows and so I am sure that he made it strong!”
In the next second, any concerns that I had for my spouse as he tight roped across the Wisteria arbor were put on the back burner. Because in my ear was the unmistakable song of a frantic trapped bee. I had one caught in my hair! I could hear the little bee’s song rising in intensity and frustration as she became more and more imbedded within my curly brown hair. I imagined what it was going to feel like being stung in the brain. I told my husband of my predicament hoping that he might have some good suggestions, but all he said was, “ I hate it when they do that, darn!” and, “ they like fuzzy stuff.”
I abandoned my ladder holding occupation and went towards the house. I tried flipping my hair over and upside down hoping to shake the trapped insect out of my web of hair. I found our daughter and begged her to help me get this bee out of my hair! She kept saying, “ Where Mom? Where?” as I pointed towards the spot where the bee seemed to be inching closer and closer, by the second, towards my scalp. Finally she spotted the bee and I swear she has been hanging around that beekeeping Father of hers too much, because while I had a bee about ready to sting my brain, she paused! She paused to wonder if she should kill the bee! The words that passed through her lips were, “ Well Mom I hate to kill the poor little thing.”
HONEY, I exclaimed to her with my head of hair upside down bobbling in front of her. WILL YOU JUST KILL THE BEE! It is then that she sees my frantic state and she puts two books together and claps them on the section of my hair that is vibrating with buzz. “ Well you are going to have bee parts all in your hair.” She tells me.
I am wondering if she thinks having bee parts in my hair is ANYTHING compared to having a mad bee in your hair. I could not wait to get to that part of my life where I might be worrying about bee parts in my hair! Oh and how wonderful if there were not an ice pack over a bee sting in the same picture with the bee parts. I sighed with relief when after another clang of the books the buzzing near my brain was stilled. I felt bad too, thinking if I had not been so scared maybe we could have helped the little bee weave out of the web that I had set for her. All I knew for sure was that I planned to know where a bee hat and veil were the next time I helped with a swarm!
With a grabbed blanket over my head I went out to check on Husband. He had completed his task and I held the ladder for him as he came down. Ah! We were both Ok. Actually he was radiant from having been a part of the bee convention. I think a touch of their vitality invigorates his soul. He excitedly told me that he had been able to shake the branch and had captured the queen in his bait hive. The joy in him brought a big smile to my face. Yes I Mr. Burgeaff I thought as my husband told me of his adventure, You were right, I entered into a whole new world when my spouse became a bee keeper. I entered into a world full of risks, surprises, lessons and most of all, a world full of many wonders.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Autumn on the Way
by Trendle Ellwood
There is a great resistance in me to admitting that summer has passed her prime. But even through my own lips the word autumn often slips these days. For it is the autumn gold and red raspberries, which are bearing fruit now, beyond our pines. And it is the autumn peach, which softens on the tree. The sumac leaves alongside the country roads are turning red and the goldenrod is budding out. Six weeks till frost after the golden rod blooms is what my Grandma always says. The purple ironweed and the mauve colored joe pye are blooming beside the yellow tall coneflower in unmown fields. These are the blooms, which forecast autumn on these hills of mine.
I picked my last wild edible berry of the season last week in the blackberry brambles. A part of me was glad to not have to fight the nettle, the thorn and the thistle any longer but another part of me was sad. It seemed that I should perform some last rite, some ritual of departure. I wondered what part of me the brambles would most miss until I would be back next picking season. And I remembered that it was my hair that the bramble thorns were always grabbing and so I reached up to my head and plucked a single strand and ceremonially hung it upon a bramble cane. There brambles, I proclaimed, this one is free. And it was not even a grey hair that I willingly left blowing there upon the bramble cane but a bronzed brown one.
Although autumn is stepping in the harvest is still being collected. The bees have not disappointed us, they have been very busy and we are having a wonderful honey harvest. Hubby is filling up jars with this golden elixir and cutting the honeycomb into what I have renamed
Honey Cakes.
Indeed the threat of the end of summer intensifies my enthusiasm to get more jars of preserves sealed and upon the shelves. The apple tree down in the valley begs me to pluck her fruit and preserve it into applesauce with lots of cinnamon, which I am going to do today. The elderberries have turned the color of purple-black and I have been squeezing them and boiling them into purple-red jelly.
The tomatoes and peppers are ready to be made into salsa and that autumn peach longs to be made into jam. I have much to do for autumn is peeking in my window and I must put summer away.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
There is a great resistance in me to admitting that summer has passed her prime. But even through my own lips the word autumn often slips these days. For it is the autumn gold and red raspberries, which are bearing fruit now, beyond our pines. And it is the autumn peach, which softens on the tree. The sumac leaves alongside the country roads are turning red and the goldenrod is budding out. Six weeks till frost after the golden rod blooms is what my Grandma always says. The purple ironweed and the mauve colored joe pye are blooming beside the yellow tall coneflower in unmown fields. These are the blooms, which forecast autumn on these hills of mine.
I picked my last wild edible berry of the season last week in the blackberry brambles. A part of me was glad to not have to fight the nettle, the thorn and the thistle any longer but another part of me was sad. It seemed that I should perform some last rite, some ritual of departure. I wondered what part of me the brambles would most miss until I would be back next picking season. And I remembered that it was my hair that the bramble thorns were always grabbing and so I reached up to my head and plucked a single strand and ceremonially hung it upon a bramble cane. There brambles, I proclaimed, this one is free. And it was not even a grey hair that I willingly left blowing there upon the bramble cane but a bronzed brown one.
Although autumn is stepping in the harvest is still being collected. The bees have not disappointed us, they have been very busy and we are having a wonderful honey harvest. Hubby is filling up jars with this golden elixir and cutting the honeycomb into what I have renamed
Honey Cakes.
Indeed the threat of the end of summer intensifies my enthusiasm to get more jars of preserves sealed and upon the shelves. The apple tree down in the valley begs me to pluck her fruit and preserve it into applesauce with lots of cinnamon, which I am going to do today. The elderberries have turned the color of purple-black and I have been squeezing them and boiling them into purple-red jelly.
The tomatoes and peppers are ready to be made into salsa and that autumn peach longs to be made into jam. I have much to do for autumn is peeking in my window and I must put summer away.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Angels Come By
by Trendle Ellwood
It's not always easy, loading the cab of the pickup truck with the tables, the awning, the chairs and the harvest. Then we set it all up at market only to turn around in a few hours and take it all back down and bring it home again. The folks who come by our stand are not always kind, and it is easy to dwell on the pricks to our hearts and settle there. And so there are times when we wonder if it is all worth it. Our hearts and bodies get tired, our spirits sore. That was the way we felt Saturday morning when we set out later then usual, due to last minute distractions, towards town.
When we got there a newcomer had taken the spot beside us and we were frustrated that the managers had not seen to it that we get the extra space that we had been asking for. But instead, they had let the newcomer have two spots which made us have to squeeze up into one. Although I am a lover of the outdoors I find myself dreaming of a market spot where we can leave our tables, displays and signs up permanently. A spot that doesn't change in size, and is not susceptible to storms, cold and severe heat. And so we were grumbly at seven in the morning as we squeezed into our spot and put our harvest and wares upon our tables. The tape player wouldn't work so we didn't have the music that I thought would cheer us and some of the tools that we use to set up seemed to be hiding.
And so we stumbled our way through the morning as the sun climbed into the sky. My heart went out to Hubby who was tired, overworked and wondering if we should continue setting up at market as he peeled his garlic and placed it in the baskets. Little One found one of the needed tools for me and I exclaimed with passion, " Thank God for Small Favors!" a gentleman walking by overheard me and laughed and gave me a friendly, " Amen!" and I was blessed by his understanding heart. It was not long after that when the tape player all on it's own decided to start playing and our soothing music surrounded us, drowning out somewhat the bustle of the nearby highway. The newcomer beside us was a likeable fellow and I found out that we didn't have to be squeezed up after all and that I had fretted for nothing as we ended up having plenty of space to our other side. We couldn't have ordered better weather for market day. There was no sign of rain and it was sunny without the bothersome winds which sometimes will blow over signs and displays. The day was the perfect temperature.
It ended up being a day of many profitable exchanges, not only in sales but in heart connections. After a slow start Hubby sold a good amount of honey. The highlight of my day was reached when this delightful lady who is a regular at the farm market came by our stand. She has white hair and a beautiful face, which always bears a smile. There is such a glow about her that my heart is always happy to see her. She carries a basket on her arm to put her farm market purchases in. I have noticed that often this basket is over flowing. She is a fan of my mothers slate paintings which she occasionally buys.
At one time she asked me if I also painted and I told her I was really into writing. She seemed excited to hear this and she told me that she writes, and as she left that day her advice to me was to keep a journal and to write down each day the good things that happen. I laughed with her as I asked, " Only the good?"
"Yes" , she said ,as she went on, " It is the good that we want to remember."
And so Saturday when she came by our stand I was glad to see her again. This time she surprised me when she reached into her basket and drew a book from it saying that she had something for me. It was Advice to Writers by Jon Winokur. How blessed I felt that she was giving this to me. I kept that book next to me all day. I even took it to the cafe later when we ate lunch with some fellow marketers. And in one quiet moment as the others were at the buffet I opened up the book to steal a browse through it's pages. My eyes fell upon these words.
" Write from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal." Jeffrey A. Carvor
What a beautiful message to me about writing. I think I have always written from my soul. What wonderful confirmation this is to keep on doing that. And said in such an uplifting way. The soul is eternal!
How fitting that in the whole big book I should open to a page and read words that I could use two ways. If I changed just one word I could make the message say, Market from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle, the soul is eternal. Yes the farm market is fickle and yes sometimes we have tried to figure out what the market people want and have gone out of our way to supply this, only to have them want something else the next week. And so I am reminded to bring to the market what comes from my soul also.
Yes the market people and the weather can be fickle for sure. But I am glad that we have hung in there. You just never know when you will have a day of perfect weather, and you never know when angels will come by.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
After I wrote this piece I went to have a little read with my new book presented to me by this wonderful lady when I picked up a book mark that she had placed in it. On one side was the Serenity Prayer which has always been special to me and on the other side of the bookmark were these words by St. Francis de Sales,
" Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for without being seen, they are present with you."
(1) comments
It's not always easy, loading the cab of the pickup truck with the tables, the awning, the chairs and the harvest. Then we set it all up at market only to turn around in a few hours and take it all back down and bring it home again. The folks who come by our stand are not always kind, and it is easy to dwell on the pricks to our hearts and settle there. And so there are times when we wonder if it is all worth it. Our hearts and bodies get tired, our spirits sore. That was the way we felt Saturday morning when we set out later then usual, due to last minute distractions, towards town.
When we got there a newcomer had taken the spot beside us and we were frustrated that the managers had not seen to it that we get the extra space that we had been asking for. But instead, they had let the newcomer have two spots which made us have to squeeze up into one. Although I am a lover of the outdoors I find myself dreaming of a market spot where we can leave our tables, displays and signs up permanently. A spot that doesn't change in size, and is not susceptible to storms, cold and severe heat. And so we were grumbly at seven in the morning as we squeezed into our spot and put our harvest and wares upon our tables. The tape player wouldn't work so we didn't have the music that I thought would cheer us and some of the tools that we use to set up seemed to be hiding.
And so we stumbled our way through the morning as the sun climbed into the sky. My heart went out to Hubby who was tired, overworked and wondering if we should continue setting up at market as he peeled his garlic and placed it in the baskets. Little One found one of the needed tools for me and I exclaimed with passion, " Thank God for Small Favors!" a gentleman walking by overheard me and laughed and gave me a friendly, " Amen!" and I was blessed by his understanding heart. It was not long after that when the tape player all on it's own decided to start playing and our soothing music surrounded us, drowning out somewhat the bustle of the nearby highway. The newcomer beside us was a likeable fellow and I found out that we didn't have to be squeezed up after all and that I had fretted for nothing as we ended up having plenty of space to our other side. We couldn't have ordered better weather for market day. There was no sign of rain and it was sunny without the bothersome winds which sometimes will blow over signs and displays. The day was the perfect temperature.
It ended up being a day of many profitable exchanges, not only in sales but in heart connections. After a slow start Hubby sold a good amount of honey. The highlight of my day was reached when this delightful lady who is a regular at the farm market came by our stand. She has white hair and a beautiful face, which always bears a smile. There is such a glow about her that my heart is always happy to see her. She carries a basket on her arm to put her farm market purchases in. I have noticed that often this basket is over flowing. She is a fan of my mothers slate paintings which she occasionally buys.
At one time she asked me if I also painted and I told her I was really into writing. She seemed excited to hear this and she told me that she writes, and as she left that day her advice to me was to keep a journal and to write down each day the good things that happen. I laughed with her as I asked, " Only the good?"
"Yes" , she said ,as she went on, " It is the good that we want to remember."
And so Saturday when she came by our stand I was glad to see her again. This time she surprised me when she reached into her basket and drew a book from it saying that she had something for me. It was Advice to Writers by Jon Winokur. How blessed I felt that she was giving this to me. I kept that book next to me all day. I even took it to the cafe later when we ate lunch with some fellow marketers. And in one quiet moment as the others were at the buffet I opened up the book to steal a browse through it's pages. My eyes fell upon these words.
" Write from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal." Jeffrey A. Carvor
What a beautiful message to me about writing. I think I have always written from my soul. What wonderful confirmation this is to keep on doing that. And said in such an uplifting way. The soul is eternal!
How fitting that in the whole big book I should open to a page and read words that I could use two ways. If I changed just one word I could make the message say, Market from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle, the soul is eternal. Yes the farm market is fickle and yes sometimes we have tried to figure out what the market people want and have gone out of our way to supply this, only to have them want something else the next week. And so I am reminded to bring to the market what comes from my soul also.
Yes the market people and the weather can be fickle for sure. But I am glad that we have hung in there. You just never know when you will have a day of perfect weather, and you never know when angels will come by.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
After I wrote this piece I went to have a little read with my new book presented to me by this wonderful lady when I picked up a book mark that she had placed in it. On one side was the Serenity Prayer which has always been special to me and on the other side of the bookmark were these words by St. Francis de Sales,
" Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for without being seen, they are present with you."
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Mystery In Motion
by Trendle Ellwood
There will be a mystery. And the mystery will be, how to rise up from the mud that you were cast from. There will be others who will try to pull you back into this mud, they will tell you that it is where you belong, but your eyes will be on the sky, and you will know in your heart that it is where you are bound to go. They will tell you that the sky is a delusion, a trick, even a deceiver. They will tell you that the light that you see is the devil out to get you. They will think that you are lost when you are finding your way. The mystery will be how you will rise from such. You will reach for the sky and you will grasp it, and maybe just maybe there will be a day when they will also wipe the mud from their eyes and you will be able to reach them with your hands and help pull them up to the sky with you, those ones who told you that it was not possible to arise from the mud that you were cast from. At times it is very very tempting to just fall back down into the mud, after all it is soft, it is warm, it is comfortable, but in your heart you know that if you lay back down into the mud that you will simply die in your sleep there. And to the ones still within the mud you will become the mystery. You are the mystery in motion.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Visit me at my forum: With the Seasons
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There will be a mystery. And the mystery will be, how to rise up from the mud that you were cast from. There will be others who will try to pull you back into this mud, they will tell you that it is where you belong, but your eyes will be on the sky, and you will know in your heart that it is where you are bound to go. They will tell you that the sky is a delusion, a trick, even a deceiver. They will tell you that the light that you see is the devil out to get you. They will think that you are lost when you are finding your way. The mystery will be how you will rise from such. You will reach for the sky and you will grasp it, and maybe just maybe there will be a day when they will also wipe the mud from their eyes and you will be able to reach them with your hands and help pull them up to the sky with you, those ones who told you that it was not possible to arise from the mud that you were cast from. At times it is very very tempting to just fall back down into the mud, after all it is soft, it is warm, it is comfortable, but in your heart you know that if you lay back down into the mud that you will simply die in your sleep there. And to the ones still within the mud you will become the mystery. You are the mystery in motion.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Visit me at my forum: With the Seasons
