Category Archives: somethin’

My Friend

I miss the you I haven’t met,
My friend.
Is it
A question of time and space?
No.
Go back
To the beginning.
It’s a question of the human
Race.
A matter of Love
And breathing
Living Grace.
My desire
Is also yours
To embrace.
To embrace God in one another.
Listen
Be close
Relate

Texas

9 Replies

American menu
A burger in the Mexican restaurant
But, hey, they’re playing fifties rock and roll
What can they expect?
It’s a wonder I didn’t order a vanilla shake
Wo wo wo, You really got a hold on me
Hold me
Hold me
Hold me, hold
Me
Just waitin’ for my ride in the sky

photos

12 Replies

I take pictures. It’s fun for me.

I’ve started a photo journal blog, posting photos from my quick, two-day trip to San Francisco. I had a little bit of time to walk around the business district for a little while catching bits and pieces of SF city life.

I plan to post one photo at a time…when i can get to it.

If you would like to see what i’ve got, link-up.

nance.photos

✜

postcards

8 Replies

I have received postcard number two. Actually, i am a bit disappointed with it, as it turned out muddy and dark looking. I’m not sure that anyone would be attracted to this image at all. But, that’s the way it goes. I suppose it could still be used, even though it’s not what i expected. Perhaps it will grow on me. I have named this one “star.” To see it just click “postcards” in the menu above.

I like postcards. They are better than a letter in every way. There is little room to write, so a person must get to the point. Wishing you were here and Love. They are like a kiss on the cheek or a hug. Plenty of room to send fond hello or a short poem. Now, tell me. Would you rather look at a postcard picture, or an envelope? Which one is likely to be put up on the fridge, on a desk, framed, stuck into the frame of a mirror, or used as a book mark?

Sometimes i get very very long letters stuffed in with cards nearing the end of the year. They list a year’s worth of accomplishments, they go on and on and on. I can’t even bear to read them anymore. Please. Do your friends a favor, and send them a postcard now and then, and then send them another one at the end of the year with a little bit of Love. Spread out the goodness over the year.

Take some time to fill out addresses on a bunch of postcards and attach the postage stamps. The cards will be ready for sending. Now put them in a handy spot. Put some in the glove compartment of your car, in your binder, at your desk, or next to your bed. Stuck in traffic? Waiting for a meeting? Early for an appointment? Just thought of someone? Send them a postcard. It’s doesn’t get deleted. It can be touched, held, and if it’s really sweet… it might be stuck in the frame of a mirror.

Art

4 Replies

Art is fairly simple to define.

Art:
What anyone does at any given moment. Your life.

Can you see that everyone does art?

Do your art well.
Use creativity and care.
And most of all, do it in Love.

✜

Hal Borland

2 Replies

An excerpt from
Hal Borland’s Twelve Moons of the Year

Migrating Monarchs . September 27

Frost has come to rural fields and gardens and the fires of life burn low in the insect world. The bugs and beetles are nearing the end of their time. Crickets and katydids seem to sense it; when you hear them on a warm evening now there is a new sense of urgency in their calls. Bumblebees sleep late, sometimes in the shelter of a tousled zinnia blossom, and wait for the sun to warm their blood enough so they can fly. Most butterflies have had their day and slumber as hostages to tomorrow in the egg, the cocoon, or as caterpillars.

But not all of them. Not the monarchs, those remarkable big black-and-orange butterflies. They migrate, even as the birds. Some of them travel 2,000 miles southward. Their migrant flight is under way now, past its peak in New England.

Like migrant birds, the monarchs follow regular migration routes, down major river valleys, along coastlines, across the high, dry plains. They travel the length of Cape Cod, cross to Long Island, follow its length, then cross to lower Jersey and go on down the coast. THey go down the Pacific Coast in record numbers.

No one is sure why these butterflies migrate, or how they navigate. All we know is that they migrate, by the millions, and that monarchs come back every spring. Some probably are survivors of the host that went south; many—perhaps most—are a new generation hatched on the way north. But they won’t be back until frost-free June.

Harold Glen Borland
May 14, 1900 – February 22, 1978

Biography
via essaylet

At the age of five, Borland moved to Colorado with his family in order to live in closer proximity to the natural environment. Borland became aware of the Ute Native Americans as a result of the tribe’s location in Colorado. Borland grew up with an acute familiarity with the outdoors. His experiences in taming broncos have contributed to his depictions of the sport in When the Legends Die. In 1918, Borland attended the University of Colorado for two years before transferring to Columbia University, where he graduated from the School of Journalism in 1923. After serving in the Naval Reserve, he worked in several aspects of the publishing industry, including copy reading, editing, editorial writing, and publicity writing. From 1937–1943, he specialized in nature writing as a staff writer for The New York Times. He also worked as a reporter and a journalist. Borland soon began his literary career with two young adult works of fiction, Valor: The Story of a Dog (1934) and Wapiti Pete: The Story of an Elk (1938). For nearly twenty years, Borland worked as a freelance writer, producing poetry, documentaries, essays, Native American folklore, and two autobiographical works, High, Wide, and Lonesome (1956) and This Hill, This Valley (1957).
Borland began to focus on fiction writing in the 1960s, publishing his first adult novel, The Seventh Winter, in the first year of the decade. Two years later, he published another juvenile novel, The Youngest Shepherd. Borland published his most famous work, When the Legends Die, in 1963. The novel was later adapted to the big screen and translated into nine languages.

Given his background in journalism, Borland also continued to express interest in non-fiction writing, completing Beyond Your Doorstep: A Handbook to the Country in 1962. He also released a collection of his editorials and essays, Sundial of the Seasons, in 1964, followed by a second volume, An American Year, in 1973. Borland died on February 22, 1978, in Sharon, Connecticut, where he had lived on a 300-acre farm with his wife, Barbara Ross Dodge. His farm had been the site of an old Native American village on the Housatonic River many years previous to his residence there.

Borland presents his readers with a remarkably sensitive and insightful portrayal of Native American life in twentieth-century United States. He seems to understand their profound connection to the natural world and their sense of loss at the dissolution of culture and traditions. In When the Legends Die, Borland repeatedly emphasizes the importance of the concept of “roundness,” or the continuity and eternity of old ways, in Ute culture. He recognizes the threat modern American society presents to this continuity.

Borland has made important contributions to the literary world. He is most remembered for his ability to paint vivid pictures of specific geographical areas, through dialect and in-depth visual description. This local color plays prominently in When the Legends Die, which takes place in the southwestern United States.

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9 Replies

i’m dangerous
you see
you might
get Love from me
and who knows what
could happen
under the influence
of such powerful stuff
you know
it could be catching
and do we really want
this?
why
this could cause
a Love riot in the streets
or worse