Sparkles

Christmas seems to be the season of sparkles.  Years ago, when I worked at Hallmark Cards, artists would groan when an assignment came to design a card with glitter, which appeared to be, at that time, so uncool.  It's quite in vogue this year, however, and is applied generously to a wide variety of cards.  Now we find glitter everywhere, as it spreads from the cards to the table and to our hands, our clothes, to Barley's hair, and beyond.  

Don and Tava and I sat at the kitchen table the other night, and while Don engrossed us with stories from his year in Vietnam, glitter sparkled on his face.

I love those sparkles that come on the inside, too, that sparkly feeling that washes over you, sometimes when you least expect it, that says, "This is Christmas!".  

This year, those sparkles started for me when I was at my desk working and listening to James Taylor at Christmas, and they came again at the Christmas eve service at our small country church. The pastor read the familiar story from the gospel of Luke about God coming to earth in the form of a baby.  In the dim candlelight, we shared communion as a reminder of why He came, to give His life so we could fully live.

In the wee hours of Christmas morning, I got up to put our traditional stew in the crock pot. Barley came padding in softly from the bedroom, so I plugged in the Christmas tree lights and petted him for a few quiet moments while we both enjoyed the sparkles. 

The music played again, this time in my heart:

What then can I give Him, empty as I am?

If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb;

If I were a wise man, I would do my part;

What then can I give Him?  I must give my heart.

James Taylor - In the Bleak Midwinter 


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Little Things Thursday

First posted 12/25/10

Early Birds

It was still dark on a recent morning when Don stepped out on the front porch on his way to feed the creatures, as he does early every day.  Even before he glanced up, he could sense something watching him.  On the top of a rock pillar about 12 feet away stood a screech owl, still as a statue, peering down.

Don backed slowly into the house and woke me up to tell me about it.  Suddenly wide awake, I stepped into my slippers and grabbed my camera.  I flashed one shot from the doorway, took a few steps, and flashed another.  As I moved closer, the beleaguered bird granted just one more portrait photo before flying silently into the darkness.

Our visitor a few days earlier had not been so quiet.  The rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker had called me to investigate. At close range it sounded like a jackhammer on the front porch.   To my relief, I found a downy woodpecker snatching goodies from a mud dauber's nest that we should have cleaned off after the first frost.

In the summer, mud daubers, a kind of wasp, build nests of mud and lay their eggs, then stuff the chambers with spiders that they have paralyzed.  When the eggs hatch, the larva find their Big Macs already packaged and ready to eat.  This time, however, the woodpecker had beaten them to the take-out window.

Meanwhile, from the stands, 

a normally noisy bluejay watched silently
and was probably wishing he had called in his own order.

Oh well, an acorn would have to do.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Snow Glory

It's cold out, and Last Friday's snow still lingers on the ground.  I gather Barley's boots from the hearth and he comes to me, wagging his tail slowly and lifting his front paw.  When his boots are cinched, I suit up: boots, coat, scarf, hat, and two layers of gloves.  Then we're off, boots crunching through the snow as we head down to the hollow.

We follow an old path through the woods, marked heavily by deer tracks as well as our own footprints.  Where deer prints diverge from ours, Barley investigates, nose to the ground.

The trail opens into the hollow and we pause, listening to the silence.  It seems to permeate everything until it's broken by a song bird and then by distant crows.  When we continue, a dry creek bed leads us through a broad valley, covered with dried remnants of last summer's wildflowers and on to the edge of the lake.

Barley wades in, boots and all, undeterred by a strip of ice that intersects the cove, 

eases into the frigid lake and treads water, pivoting slowly and taking in the whole scene.

Then he's out.  He shakes, the motion starting at the tip of his tail and working forward to his nose. Suddenly, he's a race horse, running in a wide circle over the loamy soil and through the dried flowers. He was born for this.

Barley's a little like the birds of the air; he doesn't worry about what he's going to eat (Beneful Dog Chow) or wear (blue boots) or what's going to happen tomorrow.  We'd do well to have that kind of trust.

Do not worry about your life, 

what you will eat or drink;

or about your body, what you will wear.

Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?

Look at the birds of the air; 

they do not sow or reap or store away in barns,

and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. 

Jesus/Matthew 6:25, 26

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Hunger

Click on any photo for a larger view.

After waiting 'til March last winter for a decent snow,

we got an early start this year.

Sleet came down most of the day Thursday,

covering the ground with tiny styrofoam like pellets,

and Friday's snow piled on top.

When the thermometer headed down, 

we found our appetites sitting on the high side of the teeter-totter.  

We weren't alone.  

The corn and sunflower seeds we feed the creatures 

disappeared almost as fast as we could toss them out.

Blue jays wore their heads on backwards...

and Cardinals perched near the feeders like Christmas ornaments,

waiting for their number to come up.

Fox sparrows thought nothing of the cold, knocking the snow out of their way with swift kicks.

The crows were emboldened to come close to feed, even perching on the deck.

Barley's appetite stays at its peak year round...

but his energy soars when the snow comes.

While all the creatures outdoors have voracious appetites,

so do we.

Pass the popcorn, please.





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and Saturday's Critters