December 10 – THREE GIFTS ICED COLD
An iced cold coffee is an excellent post work out gift that I look forward to gratefully!
The beautiful design of frost on my Subaru windshield is a gift that reminds me of my Designer. I found a couple cool, (or icy cold!) “frost” poems. The first one is exactly how I think of frost. It is used with permission ©Joan Adams Burchell. Click to see her website for other beautifully done poems.
Branches were dipped in frosting this morn
and the sun cast a fairyland spell;
Each fragile twig looked feathered and white
and beckoned a heart to swell.
A winter treasure – a sight to behold –
while silence augmented the scene;
I wanted to walk through an open gate
to find the artist, supreme.
No gate could I see, the artist unseen,
awe captured my soul;
The canvas would change, as nature intended,
but I’d witnessed her morning’s goal.
The Frosted Pane
One night came Winter noiselessly, and leaned
Against my window-pane.
In the deep stillness of his heart convened
The ghosts of all his slain.
Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,
And fugitives of grass, —
White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,
He drew them on the glass.
A third ice cold gift is seeing my holly, yucca and other plants resiliently bearing up under the ice . To see them remaining evergreen under such conditions reminds me of the work of remaining joyful and thankful even when my conditions are “taxing”. There’s a grand plan even for the annuals, for in death they drop seeds for the following year. I have a designer who gave me a way to hold up, also, but it’s a choice I have to make. It’s a choice I often refuse to make well. Jeanne Pierre de Caussade, author of “Abandonment to Divine Providence” said ‘You would be very ashamed if you knew what the experiences you call setbacks, upheavals, pointless disturbances, and tedious annoyances really are. You would realize that your complaints about them are nothing more nor less than blasphemies – though that never occurs to you. Nothing happens to you except by the will of God, and yet God’s beloved children curse it because they do not know it for what it is.’ That’s me. A blasphemer.