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Enoch – Then & Now
I have a cast iron skillet – my original one, actually. I have named it Enoch. You will learn why, if you read this post. I enjoy cooking. Love it, in fact. Several years ago, I read about cast iron and decided to give it a whirl. Amazon to the rescue. A large skillet arrived, weighing approximately the same as a bowling ball. It was “pre-seasoned.” Black, glossy and ready for action. Please bear with me as I report my own sacrilege. The skillet was used – not remembering on what was created during the maiden voyage. Not knowing better, I used Dawn, a scrubbing sponge and sometimes a stiff…
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Waiting
Action is easier for some than others. It’s pretty much been my go-to standard. Several weeks ago, I was praying – bantering in my own way. It was the middle of the night and I was wide awake. Questioning. Searching. Wondering. Listening. The Littles were snoozing quietly. It was just me and the world – and Whomever was listening. And I asked what I thought was a very “simple” question – “What am I supposed to do?” Normally, I don’t get a nearly verbal response – I won’t spout that I get answered always or frequently. That’s simply not true. Whether or not this was a “divine message” or not…
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Alone Versus Lonely
At work, I function as kind of an extrovert—unless I happen to be in “analyst” mode. Then, not so much. I have come to the conclusion that the extrovert is simply my “business casual” work personality rather than apparel. What I find these days is that after a series of days being bathed in fluorescent light, seated in my cubicle, alone time is highly desirable, if not mandatory. Alone. Not lonely. The quiet is where and how I recharge. There is a big difference between feeling lonely and having the introvert require alone time to process and restore. Our world has many distractions—phones, screen time, demands. People having conversations within…
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Memories of Dad
He was born in Virginia during a time of financial difficulty in the United States. Lloyd Harden Garretson, July 1, 1924. In my opinion, the world became a better place upon his arrival. As a youth, he had two paper routes each day to help his family survive — one before school and one after. With his bicycle, he faithfully rode through the hills of Roanoke delivering the daily news without complaint. He was strong, wiry and persistent. Later, he worked in a custom furniture shop, where he learned the craft and discovered he had an almost uncanny ability to recognize fine wood. He remained a master woodworker throughout his…
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Raindrop Rhythm
Rain flows from the sky – in steady streams,tumbling down the street. I watch,marveling at the sheer magnitude. Listening to the roar. The weight in the cloudsbreaking free, as nourishing waterfor Mother Earth. Simple raindrops…infinitely complex. Nitrogen in lightning,flashing within an iron sky. The dancebetween the clouds. Air that smellsclean and damp. The wind is quiet just now –leaves on treesseeming to welcome the outpouring. A gift to be treasured – as surely as the sun risingon a given morning. Rain is welcome –on my faceand in my heart. Flow over methis morning. —————— Sometimes the sky speaks in water, and the heart can only answer in rhythm. – RG
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Who Knew?
I am, by nature, a farm girl. I prefer the language of trees, of wind in the branches, the smell of earth awakening after winter and open sky. Thankfully, I grew up on an 80-acre farm where that love was stamped into my heart and soul. The 100+ year-old house was situated on a hill that overlooked a pasture and hayfield to the west, a sprawling garden with a few fruit trees dotted around it to the east – and to the south there was an open field that wandered into the woods. The woods was a visual evolution of seasons. It would be easy to miss if one wasn’t…
