Be Kind

There is nothing as beautiful as kindness. Little actions, big shifts. A split second smile. An incidental text. A hand reaching out to take another. Sacrifice.

Kindness is treasure in ruin, found between layers of pause and possibility. Everyone carries one story. Be there. Listen. Let it bring you to your knees. Imagine a Dove, how its tiny heart pounds as wings take flight. Hope rises from ash.

Life is crazy and Butterflies emerge. There is mercy in mess. Mumbled prayers are answered. Whisper, “Hallelujah.”

Be the light home.

There is nothing as beautiful as kindness.

“Be Kind, Be Calm, Be Safe”

-Dr. Bonnie Henry

COVID19, Write, Kindness

French Butter Keeper

“If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.”

– Julia Child

Julia used a butter keeper. What is a butter keeper? Something beautiful and useful for the kitchen. There are many styles on the market. A simple ‘French Butter Keeper,’ from the ‘Crate and Barrel’ Marble Collection is the one I chose.

Drop an ice cube or small amount of cold water into the large vessel. Cut a cube of butter. Press and pack the softened butter into the smaller vessel. Invert the butter vessel into the water. A seal is formed. Voila!

The butter stays chill on the counter and spreadable. Change the water after two-three days. Instructions and reviews are posted on the ‘Crate and Barrel’ Website.

https://www.crateandbarrel.ca/french-kitchen-marble-butter-keeper/s116933?localedetail=CA&a=1552&campaignid=6494776978&adgroupid=84773585424&targetid=pla-294971530742&pla_sku=116933&pcat=HSW&ag=adult&gclid=CjwKCAjwr7X4BRA4EiwAUXjbtyyoTUfRkfaJRfaOcwHCtOr0tMtNlXn4PvpqLqW-OQLI3Q9odbamxxoC72wQAvD_BwE

Perfect toast every time.

Summer felt as Winter. On that grey morning, I cried. I cried because in that moment I knew: I’d have beat down the gates of Hell for him and he simply forgot. He forgot the songs we sang, rock candy, and sand. And me. He forgot me.

draft

entry from a scene

Paeonia

Bees dance. If the sun is hot, you’ll swear they talk.

“Walk barefoot through the garden until you find her,” they say.

Paeonia. The bees have held back her stories and claimed her as one of their own. They beckon to follow beyond the fence of rose canes, thorns sharp. An ornate bird bath stands in the distance. You wonder who placed it there and the story behind it.

You follow to a clearing carpeted by moss. Beneath your feet is hidden evidence of another world- a black tunnelled darkness where drowsy beetles sleep and artifacts are buried: the torso of a child’s broken toy soldier, the bones of a bunny, lovingly set to rest in a cloth lined, cardboard box.

A completely different map. Where you stand, a river once flowed. Boulders line the now dusty bank. Ancient time seeps into your bones.

The bee’s drone reminds you: she waits, green fists tight amidst the darkest of foliage. Wild yet tame. Her head bows under the weight of a heavy crown.

Paeonia.

You sense a rustle, feel a breeze. Soft petals drop at your feet.

And suddenly, you’re in love again.

The world is a mysterious place, so much of what exists is hidden. This truth magnifies the allure. It is the dance of bees, the forgotten bird bath and mossy life. It is layer upon layer. Such is the peony seed that drops from the swallow’s beak to bury between the crack in the paver. Humble yet proud, it fights to bloom another spring.

~ Draft