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Like a light breeze your strength hit me and exploded my mind. 💙 Painting: Strong Woman by Aricadia (Javanese artist) How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861 How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BxM38HmFeCF6Ch0zUyJ_vGF-kId98bcqbsUY2w0/?igshid=hsuvqb3dkcl0

Just for today. I'm not alone. We are many weary souls, drifting through. Dig deep for gratitude, search wide for hope. Do the mundane; it will change and beauty will return. Everything passes. Desiderata Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy. Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BxGJD71hohy-HtHs1EZoAWUkCLdI5Wrkzse9940/?igshid=151tpqcbs2qws

Yesterday.....is no longer. Today I find new adventure. I'll go pour a few teas and coffees and say hello to some folk I know. I'll have those I love in mind til another day is begun. A Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807 - 1882 What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labor and to wait. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BxAi0CCFSnHIG_kY9OtMLFuH3cuvvfxK--f5Es0/?igshid=1qf8jclpmeyqc

Building, creating, imagining, involving, mending, nursing, caring, playing. Learning, living, loving. Poems of Home: II. For ChildrenA Good Play Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894) WE built a ship upon the stairs All made of the back-bedroom chairs, And filled it full of sofa pillows To go a-sailing on the billows. We took a saw and several nails, And water in the nursery pails; And Tom said, “Let us also take An apple and a slice of cake;” —Which was enough for Tom and me To go a-sailing on, till tea. We sailed along for days and days, And had the very best of plays; But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, So there was no one left but me. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/Bw-ZMbEh4LTjEswJd8XqqsyzOJPyPkuJZWy_U80/?igshid=ji3f3dxtsa3a

Today was about talking, interaction, conversation, learning, caring, kindness. A lady of 93 spoke to me on the bus. "You look tired", she said, "Keep going." I then spoke with her and thanked her for noticing. I learnt about her. I learnt that she doesn't get out much. Her niece visits to go out and about with her. She lives in a bungalow, "...our own", she added. Who we is I don't know. I enjoyed our conversation. I loved the waving when she got off and I reciprocated. She was delightful. I imagine she has always been beautiful. It's pretty amazing, life. We are pretty amazing. That memory will stay with me. Thank you, kind soul. Painting: Woman With Fan by Gustav Klimt A Time to Talk When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don’t stand still and look around On all the hills I haven’t hoed, And shout from where I am, ‘What is it?’ No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/Bw7pjlbBSyGs3JiWe0T2zgHZTX_dtEujXOh1UU0/?igshid=1czrpy6clt6cv

A lovely walk with my two Wonder Women. Nature, birds, song, greenery, air, movement, peace, coffee. I heard birdsong, I heard the daily grind, I heard traffic, I heard people, I heard silence. Then I listened. That'll do for now. Painting: Olive Trees with Yellow Skies and Sun by Vincent van Gogh Thought for the day: "Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around." Leo Buscaglia Please Listen When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked. When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I shouldn’t feel that way, you are trampling on my feelings. When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me, strange as that may seem. Listen! All I ask is that you listen. Don’t talk or do – just hear me. Advice is cheap; 20 cents will get you both Dear Abby and Billy Graham in the same newspaper. And I can do for myself; I am not helpless. Maybe discouraged and faltering, but not helpless. When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy. But when you accept as a simple fact that I feel what I feel, no matter how irrational, then I can stop trying to convince you and get about this business of understanding what’s behind this irrational feeling. And when that’s clear, the answers are obvious and I don’t need advice. Irrational feelings make sense when we understand what’s behind them. Perhaps that’s why prayer works, sometimes, for some people – because God is mute, and he doesn’t give advice or try to fix things. God just listens and lets you work it out for yourself. So please listen, and just hear me. And if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn – and I will listen to you. Leo Buscaglia https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/Bw1tPhEFC3JctfLIRxu8vfRA-c50MynOYM0CF00/?igshid=6hkq7rmij4fz

Using the reserves to experience the park. Swing high. Run. Climb. Balance. Jump. Be. Painting: The Derelict House Without this -- there is nought -- Emily Dickinson Without this -- there is nought -- All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird -- Heard opposite the Sea -- I could not care -- to gain A lesser than the Whole -- For did not this include themself -- As Seams -- include the Ball? I wished a way might be My Heart to subdivide -- 'Twould magnify -- the Gratitude -- And not reduce -- the Gold -- https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwxaKqFh0sJW0lyXluTqcq12GkxMuIwkoVT3Ys0/?igshid=e0ormeg5a4o0

Talk. Listen. Communicate. 80% of communication is nonverbal. That makes it different. I'll just have to learn anew. That sounds quite exciting. Then stop. Coffee works. Notice what's around you. Don't talk. I could close my eyes and be anywhere. Hang about, is that the time? 😊 Painting: Stop the Time by Jose Blanco Communication is the Key by Karen Hamilton Communication is the key The answer to all thoughts which flee, Some try to run and hide away It's much simpler to think and say If you're sorry then say you care Explain your thoughts and why they're there If you love them then voice your mind; Communication to be kind So many words run round our head Spoken wisely they're put to bed, So many thoughts bounce mind to heart Voice them carefully, let them part Blessed we were with words to say Blessed to make things feel ok Blessed to have such precious time Blessed to voice our wonderous minds Time seems short in this fast paced life Waste no time, we've no time for strife Careful wording could help a lot To voice those thoughts your mind can't stop https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwukqIwh_NHsnZSKu6P1q4CcMW7Ee-0eTxJqiI0/?igshid=2p8u6f6ieb81

We walked on the Greenway to Nursery this morning. We were late (for what?). We'd had tears and tantrums, hugs and holding, Weetabix and strawberries. Options to dress, choices of 'transport', selection of headgear. We walked on the Greenway. It was Emaline's choice. She likes green. It's her bestest favourite. I suspect she changed her mind yesterday but I'm yet to discover the new colour that sits atop the throne of bestest favourites. I chose my own way back. And now I will rest and reflect on that wonderful morning. My battery's almost flat. It was worth it. Painting: Poor Boy, Long Way From Home by Stephen Slater In Perpetual Spring BY AMY GERSTLER Gardens are also good places to sulk. You pass beds of spiky voodoo lilies and trip over the roots of a sweet gum tree, in search of medieval plants whose leaves, when they drop off turn into birds if they fall on land, and colored carp if they plop into water. Suddenly the archetypal human desire for peace with every other species wells up in you. The lion and the lamb cuddling up. The snake and the snail, kissing. Even the prick of the thistle, queen of the weeds, revives your secret belief in perpetual spring, your faith that for every hurt there is a leaf to cure it. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwrR7kMllrLSbH-hNcOv5SykX-reYukFzBfbcg0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=j8qn402zlc5n

I noticed this as I went about my business today. A walk to an appointment. Yet, barely three steps in I see this yellow perfection. Stood tall, framed by its fellows, pleasantly doing what it is designed to. I'm glad I saw it. I'm glad it helped me smile. I'm glad it led me to think. It needed nothing save what it gets from Mother Nature. I'll let it be and enjoy its presence. Photograph: Meconopsis cambrica - the Welsh Poppy in my secret garden. The Spite Season by Henry Howard The soote season, that bud and blome furth bringes, With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale: The nightingale with fethers new she singes: The turtle to her make hath tolde her tale: Somer is come, for euery spray nowe springes, The hart hath hong his olde hed on the pale: The buck in brake his winter cote he flinges: The fishes flote with newe repaired scale: The adder all her sloughe awaye she slinges: The swift swalow pursueth the flyes smale: The busy bee her honye now she minges: Winter is worne that was the flowers bale: And thus I see among these pleasant thinges Eche care decayes, and yet my sorow springes. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwohtJLhjKytPXLrjE_HUZ7-SOuhcBEEvTFG-w0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=16ly8we217jb3

This. The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings. (Robert Louis Stevenson) https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwnFV2jBb84Yqjv77Rbpg5WNK2O6XvS-ZTTPq40/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=k32lp5se4a7o

Thanks to a friend for this. Eckhart Tolle, "The Power of Now". Find your inner riches. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwiD9euDX7u_zs1tNXDqaCRbLuz7zE-JRnq2uE0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=pt2ds0xnf0j4

Today she is off-colour. Nothing else matters. I managed to help my Dad and Linda cut our grass and tidy our little lawn garden a tad first. Now I'm Dad, bridge, platform for jumping, carrier, fetcher, pillow, comforter, whatever she chooses. My Jabberwock can go do what it likes for the time being. It is not important. "Shine your soul with the same egoless humility as the rainbow and no matter where you go in this world or the next, love will find you, attend you, and bless you." - Aberjhani Jabberwocky BY LEWIS CARROLL ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwhSe8WjSm9xtIhS_vtp9yhtcF8QIU3Gd65-yo0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1qvlo6yy9i7ny

Yesterday was about planting seeds. Simple. Soil, water, seed, soil, water, warmth/sunshine. The anticipation and hope is key. The nurture and care, the discipline, the love. I'm looking forward to seeing the fruits of our labours. Then we'll find out what magic my daughter can introduce to our little forest and Eden. Painting: Enchanted Forest by Jackson Pollock The Seed-Shop by Muriel Stuart Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry - Meadows and gardens running through my hand. In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams; A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That will drink deeply of a century's streams; These lilies shall make summer on my dust. Here in their safe and simple house of death, Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap; Here I can blow a garden with my breath, And in my hand a forest lies asleep. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwffCYPD5H5UcE83M-NU8nQ5H5iRNdOFtScPnA0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=9fbezbm2j3cl

A delightful walk home with my daughter today. "I can't believe I'm doing this, Daddy, it's awesome." Yes, it is, my darling. Yes, it is. Tops off a lovely Spring day having lunched with my 'awesome' wife and seen reminders of what it's all about. Hug someone. Quick. Everything's a short season in the end. Painting: Childhood is a Short Season Girl Nothing Gold Can Stay BY ROBERT FROST Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwXoAXMFCtj7220y1NKeu18qwPEc8rdyuz8ZRU0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1pwnhorvybg16

Ever noticed how many petals each dandelion has? It's really hard to count then all, so interwoven and overlapping are they. They're a distinct shade of yellow. Say dandelion and the listener can immediately picture that vivid yellow. And then the perfect head becomes a glove of seeds ready to be dispersed. Each with a chance of continuing the cycle. Each with their destiny in the hands of things beyond their control. Float, flow, drift, sail, grow. Grab the chance in the sandy soil between the paving stones, and flourish. Give me another year of yellow perfection. Thanks. Painting: At The Dandelion by Alexey Shalaev Let Go “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” they said, “You’re a dandelion in the breeze, look what the winds of change have done to all these autumn leaves.” “Hold on, hold on, hold on, This big wide world is not for you, Hold on for long enough for the last gust to dance on through.” So I held on, held on, held on, They said that’s how you know you’re strong But not until I wilted did I notice something wrong. I thought holding on was bravery But when winds of change do blow Sometimes it’s even braver still to let go, let go, let go. Erin Hanson 2015 https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwSgxIgBQUCuDiWMxWBqYElC9aTy4ONvYqouM80/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1gbrfp95p8g28

I do it wrong, I annoy, I anger, I don't do it quick enough, I say the wrong thing, I make mistakes. I'm vulnerable. I'm silly. I'm funny. Imagination. (She's in Italian in that there castle with a roof, no, sorry it's Africa, the hottest place on this planet, not Mars, the hottest planet or the Sun, it's a bit dark, and hot) Painting: Reach For The Stars by Jen Norton "Vulnerability is not a weakness, a passing indisposition, or something we can arrange to do without. Vulnerability is not a choice. Vulnerability is the underlying, ever-present, and abiding undercurrent of our natural state. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence of our nature. The attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt to become something we are not, and most especially, to close off our understanding of the grief of others. More seriously, in refusing our vulnerability, we refuse the help needed at every turn of our existence and immobilize the essential title and conversational foundations of our identity." David Whyte https://www.instagram.com/boorinho/p/BwNYOpqB7CtzTwdDSjgNdoyHOsjahpKCLT2MFY0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=9z3zdcvobtfu

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