©Joan T. Warren
This new mini-post series, “Grace is. . .,” is an impromptu, occasional, free-style offering of random kindness. Feel free to share your thoughts on grace in the comment section below! Spread the joy. 😉
©Joan T. Warren
This new mini-post series, “Grace is. . .,” is an impromptu, occasional, free-style offering of random kindness. Feel free to share your thoughts on grace in the comment section below! Spread the joy. 😉
Coming home from a precious, short visit with my daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter this weekend, there was plenty of time alone in the car to think. As I considered some of our conversations, ideas emerged, in Haiku form–a short poem for a short visit. I love Haiku’s minimalist framework, as it presses and refines immense meaning into a mustard-seed shell. Without further ado, my offerings:
Photo by Denesia Christine (the missing middle member in this generation of three)
Generations here
heart to heart our stories share–
legacies of love.
Photo By Denesia Christine
*******************************
Rooted, solid, old
autumnal trees, mountains, me~
glowing as we fade
©JoanTWarren
Under the shade tree our love withstood all falsehoods that summer, long ago.
Above the tree line, frigid wind, snow and ice sever all but the most adapted life forms.
In this harsh environment, against all expectation, alpine wildflowers paint the rocky terrain with vibrant hues of pink, purple, white and yellow:
Colors we typically associate with femininity–
certainly not our definition of rugged.Though the largest clusters are one to two inches tall and less than a foot in diameter, most are miniscule–those pictured here, just an eighth of an inch! These tiny beauties have the power to attract attention despite intense competition from endless mountain views and pristine open skies:
Miniature stature we typically deem picayune– certainly not our definition of majestic.Sometimes needing several years to produce their brilliant best, they bloom as long as they’re able, which is sometimes just a day, a week, perhaps a month at most, then rest for the long winter. If damaged by caribou, moose or tourist, it may take years to recover the wound.
This level of productivity we might typically judge as insubstantial, flimsy–certainly not our definition of efficient or prolific.
Yet who among us could survive the throes of an alpine home?
Rocky Mountain National Park – National Park Service
How is it, then, these dainty fairies thrive amidst frozen, barren, wind-torn and rocky terrain? Read the rest of this entry
There’s something about one’s heritage that runs deep. Be it genetic memory, collective unconscious, morphic fields, or some other forthcoming mechanism, I believe we encounter intangibles like values, interests and talents with innate responsivity that tends to override our conscious efforts.
When I was a child my family joked about our heritage, blended as it is, saying we were mutts or Heinz 57. Mostly, though, my ancestors were Read the rest of this entry
This weekend we took a quick trip to visit Randy’s mama, Louise, as she recovers from hip surgery in a small town in western South Carolina. After spending the day with her, we hugged family goodbye, knowing someone was there with her as she fell asleep for the night. We enjoyed dinner with some family and headed to mama’s house to sleep. We fell asleep in freshly changed sheets, comfortable yet painfully aware that her battle is not over, and grateful that so many provide so much for her each day.
This morning, Randy walked through and around mama’s home. The place he grew up. A simple two bedroom-plus-den brick ranch home, still with its original bathrooms, kitchen cabinets and linoleum floor. The house is immaculate. The kitchen pantry efficiently shares its tiny space with the hot water heater. It is kept perfectly clean, stocked with all the usual basic needs, including the ever-present box of individually-wrapped raisin cream pies that countless grandchildren and now great-grandchildren scurry for when they visit. Which, by the way, is often. The refrigerator is neatly lined with their pictures and cards, one for “The Greatest Great-Grandmother in the World” hand-scribed in crayon. Out back, the chairs are neatly tucked ’round the patio table. Flowers bloom, those long-nurtured cuttings of red-hot pokers from his grandfather’s yard,
Mama’s Red-hot Pokers
transplanted here fifty years ago, accented by recent additions of assorted flowers in neatly lined pots along the driveway. The lawn is recently mowed, weeds at a minimum. Trees are groomed beautifully. A simple home, a precious place rich in memories, obviously well tended.
There is no way mama has been able to keep up any of this. Read the rest of this entry
Joan T. Warren: Heart to Heart 