Monthly Archives: May 2015

Living…in Color (Part 1 – The Wonder Years)


A blogger friend of mine posted recently her thoughts on the virtues of the color green. (You can read her lovely words here:  I must admit, I have grown warm to all things green in recent years.  The lush, verdant deep tones as well as the translucent sun-washed pastels.  But green has not always been my favorite color.  Throughout the various seasons of my life I have gravitated toward different favorites. It has me wondering if the colors of my life reflect my journey.

I may be over thinking this, but I do believe each color can have a specific affect on us.  Like music, color has the potential to touch our subconscious deeply.  So, to test my theory, I decided to do a little research on the psychology and meaning of color,  and to my surprise there is a whole spectrum of science, spirituality and meaning associated with color.  Clearly others have done the over thinking for me!

The first colors to capture my attention as a toddler were bright yellows, often dotted against dark backgrounds – flowers, fireflies and honeybees to name a few. The yellows gave me warm happy feelings. And there was something about artificial light as well, its golden hue disbursing the darkness drew me in like a moth to a flame. The science of color tells me that yellow is the color of the mind and intellect, original thought, inquisitiveness, enthusiasm for life. No wonder I loved it so!

Warm hues of brown, earthy and comforting, also had a deep affect on me during my formative years.  Many of the browns in my life had much to do with my mother, her eyes and hair, and the color of her full length lush, faux fur coat. I remember nuzzling against that coat while drifting off to sleep on road trips during thunder storms or on icy winter nights. Brown was also the color of my first impressions of home.  Bricks, brown window and door frames, brown floors, the brown-framed screen door that led to the back porch…my portal to the world. The color Brown, it turns out, is a friendly color, honest, genuine and sincere.  It is warm and sensitive, providing security, protection and a sense of belonging.

Once I became more mobile during my pre-school years and began exploring the world around me, my other senses started to affect my affinity for certain colors.  Flowers in particular guided my preferences to pinks and lilac/lavender hues. I would spend hours exploring my grandmother’s garden.  My love of and connection to nature rooted deeply during this season of my life. And despite my solitary appearance, I was not particularly alone. I also recall that during this time I actively engaged a crew of spirit guides who accompanied me on my adventures and saw me off to sleep beside my bed each evening.

Pink tones signify unconditional love and nurturing, naivety and sweetness, while also challenging one to be more self reliant. I find it quite serendipitous that lilac/ lavender hues were also part of my color bouquet during this season of my life. Peace, tranquility and a free-spirited qualities dancing on scented lilac breezes, and are hallmarks of purple hues.  It was indeed the most magical season of my life, sparkling with imagination and creativity.

There is much more of my color-filled world to explore.  Stay tuned for Part 2 – Shades of Blue!

For a look into the colors of your own life, here is a helpful website I found: . Happy coloring! 🙂

The Holey Tree

I have no words…too many words. But I digress. The sun just blasted a hole through that tree, don’t you see?

“We’re all a bit mad here…” ~ thanks for explaining Lewis Carroll!

And the theme this week is Truth…still churning.  This is becoming a rolling blog post. TBC.

Photos by kat 2015

This Pentecost


(Artist Unknown)

In the beginning She hovered
over the face of the deep.
Giver of Life, Helper, Witness,
Truth, her fruit is love, joy,
peace, patience, kindness,
goodness, faithfulness,
gentleness, self-control.
Where she is, there is Liberty.
This Pentecost…may
She Who Is….Shekhinah Glory…Fair
Rose of Sharon come dwell
in us, to set our hearts afire!

Kat on Pentecost Sunday 2015

When life gives you lemon crumbles…

I had the best of intentions. Determined was I not to waste the fantastic first day of my long holiday weekend, despite battling a nasty upper respiratory and snotty head cold. Cooking always makes me feel better. That was the logic I was operating under at least.

And so, mindful of the ingredients I had on hand, I began my adventure by perusing Google for scratch-made lemon bundt cake recipes. A quick shower to clear my head and with the oven preheating, I gathered everything from the frig and cupboards feeling pleased with myself for being so productive despite the challenge of feeling icky. And all this before so much as even a cup of coffee! That might have been my first mistake!

I did feel slightly better as I sifted and blended the ingredients one by one. My favorite part of the process was zesting and juicing a fresh lemon; the two special secret ingredients that elevated this recipe from bland, boring box to scratch. Into the oven with the timer set I felt particularly accomplished to have completed the task.

But I was far from the finish. And while there is no sin in celebrating small steps along one’s way to a final goal it is wise always to keep one eye on the prize. “It’s not over until the fat lady sings” or in my case until the cake is flawlessly flipped from the pan and delicately glazed to perfection!

Somewhere between the oven and the money shot the cake missed the platter and I found myself with a pile of steaming lemon crumbs!

I had a few choices at this point. I could have tossed the whole mess in the trash and counted my losses or…

I chose the “or”. But not before stepping away from the debacle for a bit to capture my thoughts. It is a good practice, whenever facing adverse circumstances, to take a moment away from the thick of it. It is there on the sidelines, away from the pressure of the moment that I often find the most brilliant ideas just waiting to surprise and delight me.

What to do with perfectly good cake…even if it is a bit crumbly?!!!

Why of course why didn’t I think of it?! Wait! I did think of it! Save the delicious crumbs and make lovely layered fruit, cake and custard trifles! Brilliant! My guests will never know that I hadn’t planned this special dessert in the first place! And it’s okay if I don’t let anyone think any differently!  (Remembering this for future disaster saves…just let the results speak for themselves…)

And a few more lessons learned in all of this perhaps? That some of the best surprises in life are found by accident. And that we should not give up too soon in the process or we might just miss it!

(Photo of the final masterpiece coming soon! I have custard to make and trifles to assemble! 😊)


Pendula’s Fruit


Pendula, of King George Avenue

I remember her like it was yesterday. She was the most beautiful tree on our street. She held court at the roundabout a few blocks from my house on King George Avenue. She had a proper name, Prunus Subhirtella “Pendula”, but most people knew her as a Weeping Cherry Tree. Considered an ornamental variety of cherry tree, she would never bear fruit but existed to be beautiful; a cascading dome of pink blossoms in the spring and a sturdy perch for birds. In retrospect, I wish I had photographed her blooming season during one of my daily trips by the roundabout. Her full loveliness is now a memory held wistfully by me and others in my neighborhood. She was a stunner!  It wasn’t until after the storm that she truly caught my attention, compelling me to capture her raw beauty on film.

I don’t know why the trees speak to me, but they do. Perhaps they talk incessantly to everyone and only some of us are tuned in to their frequency.  Whatever the truth may be, I heard her loud and clear one day.  So moved was I by her sorrowful lament that I parked my car and went over to comfort her, as if I could, sliding my hands along her wounded limbs. I think she knew I was there.  At least I hope she did. If not then I guess all the rumors about me are true; that I am just an eccentric old hippy who hugs trees. I’m okay with that.

There had been a storm, a terrible derecho, or as many of us unfamiliar with the term would learn, an intense, widespread and fast-moving wind storm.  It had howled through Roanoke a few nights before, stripping her of her leaves and ripping a gash through her truck. A dozen or so of her severed branches were scattered on the ground, left to dry out and die. She was clinging to life, I could feel it, but she had stories yet to tell to anyone who might listen. I visited her several more times over the course of the next year.

Though she was a mangled sorry mess, the birds continued to perch on her barren limbs in the warm sun, warbling their happy songs; no less sweet than in former days when they enjoyed the shade of her green and pink canopy. Even in her brokenness, she found ways to be useful and of service. I was relieved when the city groundskeepers let her season through the rest of the summer, the fall, the winter and into one last spring.


I suppose we were all hoping for a miracle; a comeback, full-bloomed and ravishing. When spring did arrive a scant dozen or so buds burst from a lone sky-scraping limb. My heart sank. Renovations to the park brought cranes, plows and excavators. In one afternoon she was gone, but I will be forever touched and changed for having known her.

Not far from where she stood…a nursing home. Communal communities are where we send our fading family members to spend their final days. I wasn’t there when the storms of life molded the residents there. They too have their proper names, like Smith or Jones or McGillicutty, but most people know them as mom or sister or uncle or grandpa. And there are memories…oh, so many memories for those who will listen.

I imagine that they talk incessantly. In fact, I know that they do! The blush of youth may have faded from their faces, but don’t let their failing eyesight, thinning hair, stiffening limbs and toothless smiles deter you. Their cool frail hands are lovely to hold; to warm on sunny afternoons. Those of us who wish for miracles listen intently to their every word, captivated by the treasures of wisdom that only one who has lived and survived so much can tell.  Oh, and we bubble with joy when that old familiar youthful spark rises to the surface for one more dance, a twinkle in the eye or a bit of swagger.

Because we know, eventually their season here will end, just like it did for Pendula. If we are lucky we will have taken the time to listen and find ourselves forever touched and changed for having known them too.


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