Prairie Lily Arts

Summer Blooms

 
   Plush as pooled velvet to the eye

Smooth as silken threads upon the skin

Every delicate layer exquisitely pieced,

Interlocking,

Stronger together than apart...

And infinitely more beautiful.

Summer Dance

 

Today I step gingerly,

Eyes wide,

Watching something divinely orchestrated,

Careful lest I disrupt the design...

 Summer's theater

Played out for me.

Warm Fuzzies

 

Warm fuzzies... and it's not just the luxurious caress of a cashmere robe on summer skin, nor the piping hot bath with creamy, lavender bubbles.

Yesterday was a big deal to me.  Milestones. Chapters opening. I was able to share it with a best friend who knew me before I even built the home in which we now laugh.  And then I heard my Dad's voice... my rock.  My mom's voice... my soft place to land.  The voice of a heart friend who shares my penchant for peeking at the last page before the journey is barely underway.  The ding of a news-filled email arriving from a trusted long-time confidante.  The last chocolate cupcake on my grandma's serving dish, topped with a heaping swirl of butter cream.  A birth announcement from the delivery room as a childhood friend becomes a daddy, anew... first moments of a brand-new life.    The momentous, the everyday, the solitary and the shared.

Out of the Park

 
Sometimes you just want to knock one out of the park.

I remember during revival one balmy summer evening much like tonight, we all gathered for a game of softball in the open land behind the church.  I was up.  I could hardly lift the wieldy old wooden bat into position.  There was nothing athletic about me as a little girl.  And I knew if I even made contact with the ball it would just drop like an iron shot at my feet.  Dread washed over me.

How he knew, I do not know. 

Voice of Gratitude

Each week I find joy visiting the blogs of so many friends participating in the Gratitude Community at Holy Experience.  On "Multitude Mondays" they add to their rolling lists of blessings in their lives... big and small... obvious and subtle... fleeting and enduring.  Yesterday, in the still of the night, I thought about writing my first installment to join them.  Somehow my thoughts strayed to our plans for learning this year.  Those ideas spilled into thoughts of my boys... their distinct differences, their unique strengths... all of the things I appreciate and treasure in their young selves.  And then it struck me.  Do I tell them enough... specifically... what I appreciate about them?

 

Focused on the Blur

Bokeh, the art of the blur.  Looking through the lens, I am drawn to it.  I pursue it.  I play with it.  Am I preoccupied with it?  Am I so distracted with the blur of the background that I lose focus on what is important? 

In life?

Sometimes the peripheral can become distracting.  The swirl of busyness invites the eye away from our intentions... 

A Brand New Day

I'm a morning person... and a night owl.  (How did that happen?)  The rising sun bathes the horizon with a daily gift of renewal.  I love to wake up quietly... a cozy quilt... diffused lights... the melody of the birds and the harmony of the creek... the aroma of sweet, cinnamon goodness drifting from the oven.  Bare toes step onto tender, dew-drenched grass, and I drink in the cool morning mist... releasing it slowly.  I ease into a chair on the porch and draw my knees up to my chest, resting my cheek.  I watch and listen.  These moments are fleeting... and beautiful.  A brand new day.

Depth of Impression

It was love at first sight.  Art.  France.  Giverny.  Gardens.  Lilies. Water.  We were made for each other.  From the first glimpse my little-girl eyes drank in, I have loved Monet.   Soft.  Natural.  Romantic.  His paintings breathe music into my heart.

Last year my son was proud to present to me his rendition of the Japanese footbridge over the water-lily pond of Giverny, keenly aware of my fondness.  Andrew loves art.  Period.  Much like he appreciates music, travel, food, architecture... and people... Andrew finds something to appreciate about each example he encounters.  As we planned a trip to Maine, we discovered that this lovely footbridge in Somesville, which reminded me of Monet's beloved garden, was on our daily path from the summerhouse to Bar Harbor. 

Red, White and Blue

   
  "Beneath Their Sheltering Wings"

I was elated that Jenny chose "Red, White and Blue" as the theme for this week's photo challenge.  It speaks of summer, of pride, of a much-loved way of life.  My candidate images range from an old-fashioned soda fountain in Bar Harbor lined with polished blue and chrome stools beneath a bright red Coca-Cola fountain to little boys perched on a red and white cooler with their heads cast back in unbridled laughter to a U.S. Coast Guard boat tied off with a dive suit tossed on the dock.  I sort through photographs of U.S. Flags flying freely from Maine to Florida, each with its own unique character: whipping in the wind atop rocky cliffs, capping towering sailboat masts or gently waving a warm welcome home to a rolling tree-filled farm.  We are a proud nation.  So many "Red, White and Blue" moments wait to be captured. 

But for today's entry... one special image stands alone... purely from a sentimental standpoint. 

Without Fear ~ Part II

 

See Part I here.

"What's your hurry?" he asks.  I scan the row of doorways searching for Sam's mom.  She watches, motionless, cradling the baby and wrapping her arm around Sam like a fragile chick beneath her wing.  I was on my own.  I look up at him, questioning.  He smiles... but not with his eyes.  I tell him my mom is sick, and I need to go home to call her for test results.  He relaxes his arm, lowering the bottle... but keeps my keys. 

Without Fear ~ Part I

The furniture was crowded awkwardly along an exterior wall.  Even the baby's crib was drawn away from the long, open interior wall.  Scarcely an hour had passed before I heard gunfire.  Conversation continued without notice.  But knowing mama-eyes caught mine... naive and sheltered.  I had never known true want.  She saw it.  This mama of a gangly school-girl and a chubby-cheeked baby boy saw my trembling heart.  I was scarcely more than a child, myself. 

"Just don't stand by that wall," she nodded toward the empty space.  They were accustomed to the sharp ricochet of bullets exploding in this long row of apartment homes.  The brick exterior walls were like barricades.  The thin interior sheetrock was mere paper.  Here, where even the police were daunted, I'd better learn fast.

History Penned by Hand... and Baked

Opening an old, handed-down, handwritten recipe collection is like stepping back in time.  So much is revealed through the handwriting, the order, the common ingredients and the evidence of use.  My fingers travel immediately to the pages worn, tattered and stained... these are marks of love... a legacy of memories made... family history unfolding.

Happy Birthday, America

From this small, proud town I call home

Thank you.