It's All About the Journey

Today is your future. Live in the moment!

To Wales, with Love

My third and his first, we have made our first trip in retirement.

This stop, Wales, UK. Britain. The language was exciting, inspiring.

The lambs were adorable, they would jump and frolic, just like cartoon characters of my childhood!

The history was incredible, from Roman, to Medieval, Tudor and 18th century to today,

living the life of Matthews Street and the British Invasion revolution of innocent days when we were young.

The food and coffee houses were fantastic and the cuisine delicious!

And a little bit of wondering (just for fun, of course!)

But most of all, Wales was about people. People who connected with us on a daily basis. People we were introduced to, who welcomed us and made us feel special, but also accepted. For you I am truly grateful.

To David and Judith Rowe, we thank you from the depths within our hearts! To those you introduced us too, they made our trip a very welcome one to the country, Wales.

My heart belongs to you. I leave you to fly back to my home, but with a cushion around my heart, and my Daniel Owens book tucked in my bag, until next time.

Love, Kathleen


Learning Welsh

Waiting for Wales, 2018, it seems so far away!  Meanwhile, daily lessons and learning more history, and reading David Rowe’s books.,+mold+wales&source=bl&ots=cn2u6Zv3Wv&sig=lTS_6qEMjkjZ_gCGtag17wAXr_k&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjF6uK1zeXLAhXKOiYKHWU3CIw4ChDoAQgiMAE#v=onepage&q=david%20rowe%2C%20mold%20wales&f=false

And learning Welsh with Will

The House at Riverton

The House at Riverton (author Kate Morgan)

I chose it, from the hospital cart in the lobby, for it’s title.  I was captivated by the book all the way through.  Kate Morgan plays her hand well.  While I was able to figure out one mystery, the climax of the story came almost at the end.  Very well written.

The story line regards a lady’s maid, a poor child, whose mother once was a maid at Riverton.  It unfolds almost immediately with our heroine’s fascination with the children who visit the manor.

The aspect I truly enjoyed is how the author can capture the heart of the old person.  The lesson for me is that I need to pay attention, everyone is special.

“I like Sylvia.  She’s one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the 20 year old.”

“…time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints.  Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain. “

This is a true to life (fiction) novel about the ending of Victorian ways and Edwardian times.  Anyone interested in reading about how life once was will enjoy this New York Times Bestseller.  Well done, Kate Morgan!

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Journaling vs. Writing

Is there a difference?  I suppose there is, but it’s all that is inside just waiting to get out.  Whether you write about the boring subjects (self, as posted by one writer), or a mystical fiction book with suspense and/or action written all through it, it really is about SELF, and what happens inside of you, events that twist and turn your thinking around and develop story lines.

I am a writer of nonfiction.  I just cannot seem to develop the fictional story line, no matter how hard I try.  I love historical fiction, but lack the discipline to find out everything I need to find out about an era, the time and effort it takes to check and see if I can use famous names and/or places within my book, or do I have to change the names every time?

Benjamin Disraeli said, “When I want to read a good book, I write one.”  Amazing!  Astounding!  I wish I had said that!  Moreover, I wish I’d written that!  But I didn’t.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Lay this volume down.  You had better never see my essays than to be warped by their attraction out of your own orbit and made my satellite.”  Yet how many, including me, have become his satellite?  I think, what he did not realize, was the power he has, a master of words, to liven the soul, bring it out of the woodwork of my body, enlightening and challenging.

I’m encouraged, on a daily basis, to live to the best of my ability on this pale blue dot, Carl Sagan’s name for the planet, Earth.  We are here but a short while and we think we count.  We count to the generations living only about 100 years, beyond that we become merely a name with two dates separated by a hyphen.  Unless we are a ruler, an explorer with the backing of Spain, or a heretic, this is the only thing people will see on ancestry sites, and the pages that they carry to prove their worth, and that of me, a name that their seed comes from.

Live in the moment, for the moment, do the job you need to do in that moment, or relax, if that is what the moment deems.

Eat.  There is no chocolate in the grave.  Drink more milk, or your favored beverage of the gods.  Do both in moderation, for moderation is the key to our sustenance.

And while you photographers (finger points straight at you, while the thumb points right back at me) are out there preserving the memory, take the moment to reserve it in your mind.  Apples fall, make the applesauce while enjoying the moment of the work, cutting and cooking, and filling the jars, and remember this harvest and the activity and laughter in it’s creation, for this is the life we have.  It may be simple, it may be boring to another, but it is your life, and it is not boring to live it.  (For the sake of this article, I did NOT take any pictures, although my fingers were itching to do so.  Like a good book, we can place it in our minds eye and create it with our own imagination.)

A Morning Walk

I decided to rise from my slumbering mode this morning to enjoy the morning air!  My morning writing, consisting of a handwritten letter to my daughter, needed posting, and I decided to walk it over.  I could have waited, yes, but I’m glad I didn’t.

I don’t know what I like more, the beauty of nature or her sounds.  I’m grateful I can take advantage of both!  

 The perfect fence adornment!

  Living the life in June, the peony and Queen Anne’s lace share  


 I sit this morning on my porch, the Robin sings (he’s the only one I really can remember, and the only one brave enough to hop across my lawn)–oh wait! I just heard the cardinal (but he eludes my vision).

It’s like eating breakfast with Ralph Waldo!  

The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.


The Fiction Writer

i cannot write fiction well.  I am a person of experience.  The books that flow through my mind go past my fingers and float back around my head, due to my own inopportunity to finding the facts, and the stories I need.  So, I have to stick to that which I know.  And the books continue to spin over my head like bees over honey.

Every now and then, I get suggestions of topics to address, from those with passions over particular issues or experiences.  I cannot comment (much) on another’s experience, I am on the outside looking in, only an observer.  

A writer needs inspiration, and the stories will flow, and flow nicely, rapidly, like the stream glancing over the rocks and moss, seeking its way to the larger water.  

So, while I have a glass jar of topics to write, until I have the information that I need, or the inspiration to flow through my fingers, the topic remains inside the jar.  

While I don’t need my dear friend, Emerson, to back me up, his Spiritual Laws has its place here.

Each man has his own vocation. The talent is the call. There is one direction in which all space is open to him. He has faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion. He is like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one; on that side all obstruction is taken away, and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the general soul incarnates itself in him. He inclines to do something which is easy to him, and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has no rival. For the more truly he consults his own powers, the more difference will his work exhibit from the work of any other. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers. The height of the pinnacle is determined by the breadth of the base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat unique, and no man has any other call. The pretence that he has another call, a summons by name and personal election and outward “signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the roll of common men,” is fanaticism, and betrays obtuseness to perceive that there is one mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein.