Make Merrie

How the Grinch Stoll Christmas

A little book-inspired craft for the holidays. It's entitled, "How the Grinch Stoll Christmas," and I think it's perfect!
“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons.
It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

Cold, Winter World

In December, the snow is as welcome as can be. Quiet and soft, light and airy. It brings with it such a stillness that allows you to breathe as you have not breathed since spring. It is fresh and invigorating. Cool and calm.








As a girl, I used to walk outside in the December wonderland, singing songs, happy as a lark. Perfectly content in the cold, winter world that was just outside the door. I have always loved the cold, so long as it's not unending bitter.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show. ~Andrew Wyeth

Ol' Santa Claus

I dare you to play this and not end up dancing, or at the very least moving your feet.



Harry for the holidays~

Crimson Sleeps Under Layers of Cold

I can't help but think of roses, even as we approach the official start of winter. I must dream about them at night, and when day comes, the thought lingers on. So lovely under a blanket of snow and ice. Little petals of crimson that sleep under layers of cold. They must be dreaming, too.

Warmed By Christmas

This photo shows a still from one of my favorite movies, "You've Got Mail," that reminds me of Christmastime - such a cozy little shop, all decked out for Christmas.

I love the spirit of Christmas. The lights, parties, and music, (don't get me started on the music!). Sipping eggnog, or reaching for a mug of hot chocolate. Crunching candy canes and getting them stuck in your teeth. Following traditions that were started a generation ago.

And giving. Not so much the giving of expensive gifts, but rather finding or making something you know will be meaningful to someone, really showing them you know them by a thoughtful gift choice.

It's a contageous thing, this spirit of Christmas. It's in the air right now, as you breathe in the evergreen, or are bodily warmed by a cup of steaming wassail. It's as simple as a taste of trifle or fruitcake, slicing an orange or cutting a pomegranite, or trimming the tree with ornaments you have not seen since last year. It's real and it's now.


(Carol)
Carol by Marty McCall/Vickie McCall
candle in the window, cider in the bowl
holly in the garland, joyful songs of old
come hear the ringing of the bells
come join the dancing in the halls
sing now the season has begun
come celebrate the birth of the Holy One

December

No one is a stranger in dear, sweet December!

Photo by Albert Chevallier Taylor

Winter's Breath

The snowy,
The white,
Star in the sky
That burns bright.

The holly,
The evergreen,
Christmas angels
Move unseen.




The silver,
The gold,
Winter's breath,
And Truth retold.

Burning fire,
Glowing flame,
Wreath displayed,
In Heaven's name.


Photo Credit - Reader's Digest

The Sun Sets on November

I really wish I had a better camera. I really wish I were a better photographer. This was so much more beautiful in person, but maybe you get the idea. I am puzzled as to why some birds, including seagulls, choose to remain in cold places during winter. It will be about ten degrees here tonight - how on earth do they stay warm enough? Regardless, they are welcome companions right about now.

Gathering Up Fall

For the rest of November, I'll be the girl gathering up the remnants of fall, for winter dreams. I'll carry its visions proud and girl-like, as I roam my fields, still as the night and quiet as the hush of dawn. Farewell. For now.



Photo credit - Morgan Weistling, "Emerald Dreams"

Week of Thanksgiving

How did it get to be almost the end of November?
It was only yesterday that I stepped outside my back door
and saw leafy green trees neath the blue sky.
Now there is haze over the moon,
and most nights powder pink skies.
Turkey and pie are on the mind,
and the crowds are lining up at the stores.

Enjoy every moment this lovely week of Thanksgiving. Make memories, step outside your door, and breath in the brisk November air. It comes only once every year. It is thanks. It is giving.

Room Windows With Views

The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.
~E.M. Forster

This is so true, and we do find ourselves on a particular path that not everyone saunters on. Each makes his or her own way, and thank goodness, or the paths would be overcrowded. I love the path I am on, and wouldn't trade it for any other. I've walked with John Keats and Fanny Braun, been in a white tower looking down to Camelot, and looked out of lots of room windows with views. It's been impressive so far, and I cannot wait for more.

Pausing For Gratitude

Pausing for gratitude that is written on the heart.There is room to spare for an increase of thankfulness, for there is much to be thankful for.

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder

Windswept Raven Hills

Midnight on the open moor.
A nocturnal walk on windswept raven hills,
Rolled out like velvet carpet.
Stirrings of freedom ignite and awaken.

I'd walk that velvet carpet on the stroke of midnight quite Emily Bronte-like, if I could, (my obsession with moors). I imagine them to be sort of like this.

Roses Between Thorns

These photos were taken about a year ago - roses between thorns~ but you know, the thorns have their own stately sentinel beauty, too. It's all about evergreen this time of year. In December it will be all the rage. Drink it in.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

~Robert Frost