The weather is exquisite here today and yet I feel that dip toward fall and want to make pumpkin and apple pies.  Perhaps the dip is contemplating the tragedy in Highland Park, a desire for a safe and secure home scented with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves.  I keep seeing the little boy who lost his parents.  He is the age and look of my grandson. I keep twirling his curls wanting to hold him close.

Where do we put such trauma and pain, such empathy for the pain and suffering of others?  How do we breathe it in and allow it to blow through like clouds, rain, snow?

Anna Quindlin told Villanova’s graduating Class of 2000:

“Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the fuzz on a baby’s ear. Read in the backyard with the sun on your face. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness because if you do you will live it with joy and passion, as it ought to be lived.”

I center there.  

Looking east from Sausalito

Looking south from our deck – the hills losing their green

The red chest and head of the bird shine bright, a beacon of Joy

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