Continue reading “Curating Wonder — Children of the Industrial Revolution”
As I write this afternoon, I periodically glance up to take stock of the room. It’s so quiet I forget that I’m not alone. My husband is leafing through a gardening magazine. It’s a very Canadian thing, this longing for planting season while snow is still in the forecast. Continue reading “Feeling Nostalgic — About Children”
A friend of mine recently shared her feelings connected to the cutting down of a tree in her yard. I thought of paraphrasing her words, but she expressed her thoughts so beautifully, I couldn’t alter them. She wrote, “We lost a dear tree today, a beautiful green ash that stood eighty feet high. Years ago when our house was being built and all we had was a wooden shell that tree rose above the roofline and declared itself part of the house. It’s been a home for squirrels and birds and probably a raccoon here and there. It hurts that we lost it.” Continue reading “Feeling Nostalgaic — Hearts Tied to a Tree”
Hands are a living narrative written by a lifetime of use. There is a story recorded in every weathered crease, a lament in every callous and an anecdote in every scar. Our hands have toiled and cared for others. They’ve admonished and loved. They’ve conveyed exasperation, underscored points of debate, wiped away tears, and applauded revelry. They’ve held on and they’ve let go. Continue reading “The Meaning of Hands”