Tuesday, August 30, 2016

The Murmur of Fall

The morning breeze of late August feels a tad bit chilly. Not the kind of chilly that covers your skin with goose bumps, but the kind of chilly that makes you want to tilt your head back, close your eyes and let your cheeks, chin and neck feel the crisp air. The gentle, pleasant wind that dances in your home on a sunny August morning is the harbinger of autumn, the season that turns green leaves to red, yellow, orange, brown and a multitude of other hues only seen in this most vibrant season of the year. While I am not a fan of winter, I surely am a fan of fall. It is a delight to the eyes when you spot the trees in your neighborhood experience a change in color – they toss their green to accept Mother Nature’s gifts of Venetian red, crimson, ruby, peach, tangerine, amber and marigold.

On a windy fall afternoon, if you ever peek through your window, you can hear the leaves gossip about the frosty days that would soon change everything in nature. And when they finally fall off to the ground and you walk on them, you can hear a murmur of the pain of separation, the leaves’ separation from the trees that held them lovingly through spring and summer times. 

** pic taken from Google Images 

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Late-night Scribble

There are not many moments as beautiful as waking up early when most of the world is still asleep. I tiptoe to the kitchen lest my footsteps would wake my husband and daughter. Then through my small kitchen window, I try to catch a glimpse of the world outside: the tall pines, maples and birches, the grey-roofed houses and the azure sky. 

Every morning, the sky dons a new canvas - an endless canvas, I must add. On that endless canvas, a young child paints; he paints with orange, pink and yellow, haphazardly and on top of one another. 

On days he is grumpy, he smears the canvas with blotches of gray - on those days you know the sky will burst open and drench everything below! 

During the summer months when the sun is up very early, the 6 o'clock sunshine glides through my kitchen window and floods the house. The yellow light falls on the cherry wood floor, the beige wall, the round dining table and the teal sofa. Tiny particles of dust dance in the air - a dusty dance, you can call it. I watch the glimmering flecks of dust in the sunlight - they whirl and twirl tirelessly - a dance that does not need music to complement. 

I brew myself a mug of coffee as I enjoy the dust dance and hear the crickets sing without a pause. Summer is a busy season for the crickets. Like the specks of dust that can dance without music, the crickets can sing without music, too! 

With a steaming coffee, I seat myself on the floor looking out the balcony door. On some days, a balmy breeze enters the home and caresses my hair. And while lovingly stroking my unkempt mane, it whispers into my ear, "Aren't you lucky to be able to wake up to so much beauty every day!"

I reply to the soft southern breeze, "I am. Yes, I am."