My little Gekko (of PJ Mask notoriety: Gekko, Cat Boy, and Owlette). Around his knee is a taped piece of cardboard that prevented his knee from bending properly. He proudly wore it for the 24 hours I was there, except when sleeping, calling out “Gekko knee! Gekko knee! Gekko knee! Gekko knee!” Imagination, make-believe, and creativity are this one’s names. Perhaps we will be writing stories together someday, that the bigger Little will illustrate.
My mother, in the form of a hummingbird this time, has been hanging around on the deck for an hour (and counting), as I cooked and ate my breakfast on the other side of the windows. She sits on a fir branchlet caught on the rail in yesterday’s winds, occasionally flying to the feeder I filled with fresh syrup yesterday.
It’s a lousy photo (one of those times I miss my real camera), but it’s not about the picture. I am feeling the presence of my mother on this shortest day. Blessings for the Solstice, dear readers.
“This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you will be walking
toward the dawn.” Jan Richardson
Every cold winter day, my mother would ask, “Is there hoar frost?” Of course the first time I had to ask her what it was; but once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. It is surely one of nature’s most amazing works of art.
There have been several mornings lately that it was probably out there—suspected when a Seattle friend posted photos from the north—but I didn’t want to get dressed and leave my cozy chair to go look. Or maybe the sunrises lately have just been more than enough. Can your heart burst from too much beauty?
Today was no exception, but this afternoon I noted when I drove up the driveway, that my garden in the meadow had escaped the weak sun in the cloudless sky and was still frosty. When I returned from my errands, I went to check it out before embarking on today’s mission to move some wood from the partly cut up downed tree to the woodpile.
And not to slight the fauna, at the woodlot I found more art: woodworm, nature’s carvers.