"My great-aunt Alice, Miss Rumphius, is very old now. Her hair is very white. Every year there are more and more lupines. Now they call her the Lupine Lady. Sometimes my friends stand with me outside her gate, curious to see the old, old lady who planted the fields of lupines. When she invites us in, they come slowly. They think she is the oldest woman in the world. Often she tells us stories of faraway places.
"When I grow up," I tell her, "I too will go to faraway places and come home to live by the sea."
"That is all very well, little Alice," says my aunt, "but there is a third thing you must do."
"What is that?" I ask.
"You must do something to make the world more beautiful."
"All right," I say.
But I do no know yet what that will be.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

age

"The AGE of a woman doesn't mean a thing. The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Unexpected



A chance for hearts to mend
A chance that wasn’t planned.
A chance to sit and laugh
A chance listen and gasp.
Someone I didn’t know
Somehow a friend began to show.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Wander lust


Wander lust: a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world. The term originates from the German words wandern (to hike) and Lust (desire). The term wandern, frequently misused as a false friend, does in fact not mean "to wander", but "to hike." Placing the two words together, translated: "enjoyment of hiking", although it is commonly described as an enjoyment of strolling, roaming about or wandering.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

Will you come?


There is a place where black-top ends
Where hills can roll and clouds descend.
There is a place where sounds relax
Where warmth is found and laughter passed.
There is a place to hide from wind
Where friends arrive and smiles begin.
There is a place where time can wade
Where fear can melt and daylight fade.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

What are the colors of pain? Hopelessness? Grief?



In trying to understand my life lived in dirty nurse scrubs in an ICU....I write a lot.  There are so many things to say and not many places to say them....as in most careers a lot happens we just don't say.  Here is my way of trying to describe the colors of pain, hopelessness, and grief.  

Old.
Cold.
Turning white.
Quiet.
Diet.
Turning yellow.
Despair.
Repair.
Turning red.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Turning, twisting, raging, blue.
Task.
Mask.
Turning around.

Sunday, January 5, 2014

My favorite poet

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins
And there the grass grows soft and white
And there the sun burns crimson bright
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
And watch where the chalk white arrows go
To the place where the side walk ends

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go
For the children, they mark and the children they know
The place where the side-walk ends.
                                   -Shel Silverstein

Walk me under summer 's sun.
Talk me into courage over fear.
Take me safely inside.
Walk me through, there are so many ways I depend on you.