35 results for 'Cielo'
A glorious, strong sun came out today scattering merriment and mirth upon the earth and thoughts of God upon my heart, and the landscape, dressed in the colors of the high desert looked supple and renewed by the snows of yesterday in their mustard-yellow and reddish-purple garments.
In the back gardens, birds were serenating the air in a thousand dreams. In winter boots and thick layers, I walked through snow-covered garden paths, and the scent of winter was everywhere.“Weave, weave the sunshine in your hair”, said the birds of the morning, and I did, I did! My heart basked... (more)
Looking outside the kitchen window this afternoon—can the soul be transported to another place and time through what we see and feel?
The dim grayish light of rainy days; the skies low and dampened and opened to contemplation inevitably hurling me back in time to a long gone past. I am again six or seven years old, and I’m sitting in the old bench with blistered and peeling white paint that someone has placed in the far left corner of the front porch ages ago; ages before I was born—the same old bench where, at night when fireflies and frogs begin to disclose our future by way of poetry... (more)
The bougainvillea at the entrance of mom’s little walled garden has started to bloom again. And how my heart has danced inside my soul upon seeing it! You see, this bougainvillea is a sacred kind of a thing to me… For years, whenever we used to go visit my parents down in South Florida, I would take my mother’s hand and run down to the garden with her... to the bougainvillea at the entrance of her garden for a special moment. Under the tree's beautiful, copious canopy we would stand together, arm in arm, laughing, hugging... until we took possession of the moment. Through the lenses of... (more)
And so we slept for two nights in the gypsy tent, charming as can be. And we made toast in a campfire and fresh coffee in a coffee percolator, while the enchanting music of the red winged black bird drifted in on translucent waves of gentle evening breezes.
The gypsy tent can be a revelation to a person who doesn't get up at dawn. The birds sing like mad on cold spring morning in lonesome campgrounds, but most of the music is over by the time the sun rises. It was magical waking up to the sound of birds making such joyful ruckus on the roof of our trailer, and by the 'windowless' windows... (more)
I wish I could inhabit a place where I can be eternally delimited by the color green—warmth enveloping body and soul. I wouldn’t mind if humidity soaks the dust of this land I dream of; or if perhaps, it is the heat of the dessert what nurtures it… if only I could stretch out my arms and feel this freedom running through my veins all year around.
I live in the land of winds. I am a prisoner of ice; a fire moth trapped within frozen blaze-like fingers made of ice. Iciness and the rawness of a land that’s more accepting than I am. That’s where I shall dwell. If you look outside my... (more)
A band of strong thunderstorms blew through our valley yesterday evening. Wind... wind is a mystery to me. Wind whips things around and slashes on trees and roofs and things, and you get blown around like an autumn leaf...
I find strong winds unnerving; yet, there is something powerful and mysterious and exhilarating in their nature that pulls me to it... I harbor the spirit of the storm chaser in me—riding the air in my long skirts, dancing atop swirling clouds as if in a ballroom...
Child-like delightfully jumping up and down. Ridiculous. Laughing my lungs out; as if some invisible... (more)
And God opened His hands and the airs were filled with beauty and songs... songs in the wings of mourning doves, and songs in the yellow throat of the Western Tanager. And on the tree branches, music in the leaves as they bend and lean and swing together with the breezes.
It is magic--a magical season indeed. Sitting here this evening in the porch, eyes closed; just listening to all the voices of the natural world, I felt transported—transported to "that" long ago beginning. What an amazing gift to be able to listen to all voices individually—altogether. Like a symphony; a sharp... (more)
The wind is tossing the lilacs
This is May... this is the month of enchantment
...and thus, from my gardens, come my stories... come the color bursts of tiny stars-like flowers; the exotic and strange fragrances wafting in the early morning air. It come, too, the hypnotic effect of arching stems swaying in the wind; the mysterious singing of the trees as gentle breezes rattle their leaves; and too, the intriguing housing complexes, underground roads and passages of all the species of miniature creatures who dwell in it...
.... and there's God in the midst of it all, and... (more)
Daylight is an old man sitting outside the jagged shack...
Hand on cane chin on hand.
And his old soul is a butterfly sitting in the brink of time.
A moment decisive. And me too--tested has been the day.
Empty handed I befall lips sealed windswept
I am the old man.
Have you ever felt this way before?... And I was struck all at once how life was out there going through its regular courses, and I was caught in its whirlpool; suspended, waiting, caught in a cell within a cell; between living my life and not living it the way I... (more)
It felt like summer this past weekend; high temperatures as we haven’t seen around here for this time of year since 1934—surely a record on these chilly mountains of ours. And gardening was truly a delight. Although I’d have to say, we worked like mastodon work horses from early morning to late evening cleaning, repainting the porch’s floors, planting and taking out old bushes that were originally planted in the wrong spot, dividing, mending and replacing all the sprinklers that had broke down over the winter—mud in my face and hair, mud in my hands and feet.
Are you like that too?... (more)