Windworn Winter Grass - Livingston, Montana

“As the wind at midday rains whitening over

  the grass,

As the night-bird glimmers a moment, fleeting

  between the lonely watcher and the moon,

So softly inaudibly they rained,

While I sat silent.”

 - From “Among the Ferns” by Edward Carpenter

Winter Grass, East Missoula, Montana

While brushing my teeth earlier this week, I mentally composed a short email to my sisters to share a highlight in my workday. And I suddenly missed my mum so very much.
(Let me just interject that to be on the verge of tears while brushing your teeth is awkward at a minimal level, and has the potential to be a very messy scenario - toothpaste foam was not designed to be inhaled OR to exit via the nasal passages. Thankfully, neither of these happened to me, but I hope you laughed a little just imagining that.)  
Back to topic: I count myself so fortunate to have had a mum who was not perfect but definitely loved us and hoped good things for us. She was always so proud of what we accomplished, but even more of the qualities of character and excellence she saw develop in us. While sisters are amazing cheerleaders, there still is nothing quite as confidence-building as having your mum in your corner, beaming with pride like only she can - and reminding you to give your best and keep your chin up and things will look better in the morning. Despite years to adjust (fat chance that), I miss her steadfast support. 

In our day-to-day busy-ness, we often forget that what holds true value is fleeting.
Take this day for what it is, and choose to enjoy, to embrace, to remember what is good, and pure, and gracious.

And if your mum is still alive on this earth, please call her or send a little note saying thank you. It may not matter for what - "thank you" is often enough on its own. 

Winter Grass, Stormy Sky, Missoula, Montana

Christmastime often takes us back to childhood, sparking memories with seasonal smells, sights, and sounds. Anne Cassidy's post today about Chincoteague, Virginia, pulled me back to winter afternoons wiled away indoors with a friendly sunbeam and one of Marguerite Henry's many horse novels that peppered my childhood with engrossing historical tales.
May all your Christmas memories this year be of the bright variety.

(So, I was just kidding about the swans yesterday. I know, juvenile of me.)