Our squirrel friend, Mrs. Twig, is now ready for her part in the story about Fig Newton and friends.
Mrs. Twig’s knitted basket is supposed to be filled with knitted acorns. Bah! Why would I knit acorns when I can find some perfectly lovely natural acorns practically right outside my door at the right time of year? Besides, it looked like a lot of bother knitting tiny acorn caps and making tiny wool balls. So her basket is filled with faux acorns until I can find some real ones.
But that’s not Mrs. Twig’s dilemma. For that, you’ll have to stay tuned for the next part of the story. Hopefully tomorrow!
Faux acorns, faux blog posts – all will be deleted in time.
It’s me again, the lazy artist. I had two more people volunteer to be the motivating agents for me to break out the watercolors. That was about 4-5 weeks ago. I recently finished one of those paintings and sent it on and have been thinking about the next one. It’s a good thing I don’t have to make my living doing this.
I began with the idea of a door and sort of went from there. Kind of surprised me what I ended up with, actually. That’s a delightful thing about the creative process – you never know where it may lead.
No admittance except on blog business…in the morning.
I went to get a bone density scan today; it’s almost like a whole set of medical things accumulate and come due all at once when you turn 65. Anyway, I went in and handed off the little labels to the young woman at the desk. She took them and said, “youcabeseedednsummon’llcuhgeddya.” I pondered this mysterious assortment of squashed-together syllables on my way to the waiting room and came up with a translation of “You can be seated and someone will come and get you.” There is no Duo-Lingo course for this kind of thing – you just have to do your best with what you’ve got.
I started up weight training again after having quit due to the Great and Unwarranted Shutdowns of 2020. Yes, I said that – don’t argue with me in the comments, please. I feel very timid in the weight room and hoped to have it all to myself. A fellow about my age came in and made use of the spinning machine that was right by the last weight machine. Rats – I couldn’t use that while he was there. Why not, you ask? Because I had to figure them out again and was too shy to do it in front of someone else. Then another fellow came in, a young and very muscular individual who was listening to music with earbuds and singing along rather robustly every now and then. At first I thought he was chatting us up, but no. I finished up early and slunk away home. It’s a start!
When the weather warms up, I’ll catch up with the morning deletions. Until then…brrrr!
What do you think of when you hear the word “plague?” Some of us might go directly to the Old Testament plagues: pestilence, blight, famine, locusts, etc.
I was reading in the book of 1 Kings recently and was struck by a phrase the Solomon tucked into the middle of a long prayer of dedication after the temple was completed.
“Whatever prayer, whatever supplication is made by anyone, or by all Your people Israel, when each one knows the plague of his own heart, and spreads out his hands toward the temple, then hear in heaven…and forgive…and give to everyone according to all his ways, whose heart You know (for You alone know the hearts of all the sons of men)…
Ah, suddenly the plague is getting very personal. No longer a thing that comes from without, this is the inward plague that resides in our hearts, the sins that uniquely characterize us. It reminded me of Jeremiah 17:9:
“The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick. Who can understand it?”
Who indeed? The Lord alone knows the hearts of men. I don’t know what your besetting sins are, but I know the plague of my own heart and so does He. And through Christ, He hears in heaven and forgives.
ALLELUIA!
The sun sets on the post and it will not rise in the morning.
Speaking of illumination (which I was earlier this week), behold these clouds on fire, lit into flames by the setting sun.
Perhaps it was a sky like this that inspired George Croly to write the last verse of the hymn “Spirit of God, Descend upon My Heart”
Teach me to love Thee as Thine angels love, One holy passion filling all my frame; The kindling of the heav’n descended Dove, My heart an altar, and Thy love the flame.
Ah, now I am verklempt.
When the internet sets tonight, this post will be all aflame.
My older sister died in 1987, nearly 40 years ago now. Last summer, my brother-in-law was cleaning out his basement and when he came across her collection of shells, he asked if I wanted them. “Sure!” In my mind, this was a small shoebox-sized collection. When I picked them up a couple months later, he gave me two largish boxes. So now I have shells. Lots and lots of shells. So many shells.
For now, they’re residing on a bed that doesn’t get used, but I can’t keep them there forever. I understand why my sister collected them. They’re gorgeous.
If you ask a scientist how shells are created, you’ll get a very tidy explanation about how mollusks make shells using specialized cells in the outermost layer of tissue on their bodies, called a mantle. Keep reading and you’ll be delving into a complex world of specialized cells, secretions, proteins and minerals like calcium carbonate. So yes, the usual soulless but accurate compilation of information. I’m reminded of what C.S. Lewis wrote in the book Voyage of the Dawn Treader when the travelers meet an old man named Ramandu. He tells them he used to be a star, which prompts Eustace to say “In our world, a star is a huge ball of flaming gas.” To which Ramandu replies, “Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of…”
So what are shells? When the Lord made mollusks, He looked upon their soft bodies and gave them a way to protect their vulnerable flesh. Even the most mundane shells are marvelous works from the Great Artist’s workshop. He did not build slums for them, but masterpieces of beautiful architecture. Because that who He is. That’s what He does.
(Technically, the starfish isn’t a shell. It’s not a fish either. Some scientists prefer the name “sea star,” which brings us nicely back to the discussion of stars. But all that is neither here nor there. It’s part of the collection -that’s what’s important.)
I am pondering what to do with this largess of shells. Display them? Sell them? Paint them? Use them in craft projects? Give them away? What would you do?
This blog mollusk will not survive without a protective shell.
One of my sons gave me a book for Christmas called “The Bible of Illuminated Letters.” Even though the instructions call for all sorts of hoopla that I’ll probably never do (like mixing your own colors and using gold leaf), it’s a very appealing art form, so I decided to give it a try when I sent him a thank-you note.
The “T” was from the Celtic chapter of the book; there are lots of others to choose from but I decided to start with the easiest.
“Illuminate” means “to make something visible or bright by shining light on it.” The earliest forms of illuminated manuscripts were for religious use in the monasteries of medieval Europe. How fitting to illuminate the words of Him who is our light.
And there will no longer be night; they have no need for lamplight or sunlight, because the Lord God will illumine them; and they will reign forever and ever. Revelation 22:5
You know what’s going to happen to this post in the morning…
I can’t remember when I started biting my nails, but photos indicate that it started early. Why does one do this? Those of you who have never bitten your nails probably recoil at the thought. It’s kind of a weird habit when you think about it. Which you shouldn’t. My mom applied some nasty tasting stuff to my nails to get me to quit, but I just got used to the taste and kept right on with it.
When I got engaged, my husband-to-be expressed a desire have me pick out an engagement ring. “Oh, I don’t want an engagement ring,” I said, “It’ll draw attention to my hands.” Those unsightly nail-bitten hands! He ignored this bit of vanity and I quit biting my nails for a while to make them more worthy of the ring. But old habits die hard and over the years I’ve returned to it off and on.
I had an insight recently that if I made my nails pretty, I wouldn’t be nearly so tempted to bite them. I purchased a nice color of nail polish and one morning before church I did the deed, looking forward to the no-doubt elegant looking nails I’d be sporting. The result looked like I’d commandeered the nearest 5-year-old to do it for me and unfortunately I didn’t have time to undo it. Also, I had deceived myself as to the length of my nails, a deception that was completely undone when they were covered with dark red polish.
I laughed so hard! Vanity, vanity, all is vanity. But I haven’t given up yet.
On to the topic of inflation. I’ve been detecting a disturbing kind of inflation, one that can’t be detected when you buy groceries or gas. Here’s part of a discussion I was listening to:
Man #1, upon hearing something he agreed with: “Oh, a hundred percent!” Man #2, after more discussion and hearing something he agreed with as well: “Yes! A thousand percent!” Man #1, a couple minutes later in the discussion: “I agree, one million percent!”
Friends, what is happening here? Can’t we be satisfied with one hundred percent anymore? And if that’s not enough, we are suddenly needing to be “beyond grateful” and “beyond excited.” Why? What happens when “beyond grateful” is no longer grateful enough?
This is an inflation you can do something about. Don’t let it happen to you.
Musings have been brought to you by Lynniebeemuseoday.
I one-hundred-percent (but no more) plan on deleting this in the morning.
Some of my long-suffering followers have noted that I’ve been awfully slow in finishing the story about Figgy the Intrepid Frog. If it were just the writing process, I’d have finished it long ago, but the story itself emerged when I started making a set of felt animals from a book called “Little Travelers” by Simone Gooding. The last animal in the book (and the last chapter of the story) is a matronly little squirrel named Mrs. Twig. I started Twig last April and didn’t even know then if it was Mr. or Mrs. Twig, but things have settled themselves out nicely since then.
I burst out of the 2024 gate with a great deal of zeal for finishing projects and conquering the Beast of Procrastination in my life. Meet Mrs. Twig!
There are a few more elements to her ensemble (a picnic blanket and a basket of acorns) which I intend to whip out speedily – yes, speedily! You heard it here first. And when she’s done, the story’s end shall come.
I have a lot of bookmarks, more than I can possibly use at one time (even though I usually have half a dozen or so books going at once). I like rotating them in and out of use so that I can enjoy each of them. I’m an Equal Opportunity Bookmark User, an EOBU.
One of my sons once gave me a mug that says “Bookmarks are for quitters” on the side of it. Ha ha! There have definitely been times when I’ve been so caught up in a book that I couldn’t put it down and finished it in the wee hours of the morning. That was when I was younger and could get away with such foolishness. It doesn’t happen very often anymore, so I guess I’m a quitter.
I came across an old bookmark recently that had somehow left the rotation and gotten itself all entangled in my box of stationery cards. Great was my joy in being reunited with it! I immediately put it to use, marking my place in the book The Great Divorce, which I’ll be reading through with all the young women in our family.
My daughter Ruth made this for me when she was probably about 5 years old. Wishing to express one aspect of our affectionate feeling for one another, she wrote on it, “FERENS.” Not bad for a five-year-old who just knew her letters and and was learning how to write things out phonetically. How it warmed my heart to know that she thought of us as “friends.” And how it warms my heart to know that after all these years and with all the distance between us, we are still “FERENS.”
I’ll probably delete this ferendly post in the morning.
Lynniebeemuseoday 