167. I Love ... driving in October

 

Slowly, 

scooping up the beauty 

and rich colours

of the leaves

with my eyes.

Soaking it in;

the yellows and oranges

but particularly

the reds.

I could drive the 

country roads

from dawn to dusk,

and it still wouldn't

be enough.

166. I Love ... that my Grandies love Creating

 

They expect it.

That when they come to our house,

they will be pulling out the 

paper,

pens and crayons,

tape and glue,

scissors and stapler,

and did I say

paper,

paper,

paper.

And maybe rocks and wood.

Everything is fair fodder.

And don't I LOVE IT.

165. I Love ... hosting workshops

The energy,

the creativity,

the laughter,

the sharing,

the learning,

the creating.

What fun it is to have a group

around my kitchen table;

playing together.

164. I Love ... Still Loving

Yes.

I am growing older

All that means

is that I

have found

more things 

to

Love.

I Love ... finding past writing

I counted once,

how many journals that I have.

Shocking.

Sort of.

Not my fault;

they kept inventing prettier & prettier ones

that pull me in 

and won't let me go.

I have to come up with something

to write in them to justify 

'yet ANOTHER one'.

Which actually is how 

'My Loves' 

began. 

It started as 500 Loves

but considering it has been xx years,

and I am aging with 

TOO many journals

that simply drop off,

I changed it to 200

to be more realistic.

When I come across a journal,

as I came across this blog

7 years after I started it,

the words I wrote

often surprise me.

It makes me wish I wrote

more consistently.

163 I Love ... certain words

for no particular reason

other than

I do.

Indigo

Melody

Birdsong

Songbird

Ceremonious

...

I don't even know

that I love them

until they present themselves

and I think,

hmmmmm ...

I love that word.

162 I Love ... the smell of fresh cut hay

It takes me back

to my childhood.

It takes me back

to the farm,

to the horses,

to my Dad.

It take me back to our kitchen;

figuring out after lunch

whether it would be 

dry enough

to bale.

I revisit

standing on the hay wagon,

grabbing

heavy, prickly bales

and pretending

that I was strong enough

to lift them easily.

I was not.

I drove the tractor instead.

But I rode on the

bumpy, noisey thing to the field

and back to the barn, 

breathing in that wonderful

summer fragrance.

The smell of the hay,

the feel of the sun;

it all comes back -

a whiff of the past.