This morning I think I visited the Valley of The Lilies which also might be called Bliss.
I think the overall name of the past few children’s stories for adults is The Valley of Down Under: featuring Hanks, Bradshaw, Tall Boy, Curly, Pan, mom, dad and Snort. Not sure…..feels right for now at least.
Sometimes when Hanks went to bed at night and she couldn’t fall asleep she made up a world of Her People. Her People were always happy families with a lot of children. Most times they didn’t have a dad and it was just a mom taking care of all of the children.
Hanks had a best friend. Her name was Mary Sue and her mom’s name was Mrs. Dalson. Hanks liked Mrs. Dalson.
Hanks would be eight years old very soon, maybe even today. She wasn’t sure. There was a birthday party planned but mom did the planning and Hanks didn’t.
Mom was going to the hospital to get Snort taken out of her tummy. She didn’t know at first that it was Snort. She told Hanks that when she came home from the hospital she would be bringing a baby sister with her. And Hanks knew a baby sister would be her very best friend in the whole world and they would play together, have secrets, do make believe, laugh, and have a really lot of fun. Hanks could hardly wait to have her mom bring home her new sister so they could get busy playing together.
She had a secret and it was time to go into her secret world. Mom had turned the lights out. It was dark. Dad hadn’t come home yet. Snort was gone again.
Lovely snowy winter January day! I love looking out my office window at my back yard. Snowy paw prints where Aimee has travelled about looking for the all be it cold, nevertheless perfect spot for her morning business. Bless you Aimee. Only the goddess knows if or when I will put on all the cold weather clothes I can find and take you out and about. I am reluctant! I also see out the window into my back yard the orderliness that winter brings following fall clean-up, and a quietness waiting patiently for spring when life will bloom and blossom again. Colour will return. I like the bleak winter scene. And I will welcome green and buds, and the hope and change when March and April arrive.
Maybe I am a dowager. I was objecting to being called a senior, or an elder, or a crone, golden oldie, I rather don’t mind woman of an age. No, I don’t fit dowager. Elder. NOT elderly. But an elder. Like a tree. Tall, arms reaching toward the sky, deep roots. Yah, I could do elder. I am an elder. Sounds like I take up the collection on Sunday mornings, and sounds rather male, but I can be an elder that meditates by myself on Sunday mornings and has given birth to 4 babies. Better than crone. Crones wear a black hat, have long noses, and scare little children. Doesn’t work for me.
When I fall, I must pick myself up, brush myself off, and walk on again alone.