One of my favorite simple crafts to do with the kids is making ladybugs out of rose hips!
I had all sorts of rose hips hanging over my fence today in all their spunky glory.
We pulled one off and cut it in half with a pair of scissors–very easy. Then we took a black sharpie and drew spots on it and voila–our very own pet ladybugs! They are adorable!!
P.S. They make great tea too!!
I lie here on my pink puffy bed in my pink silky pajamas, or pink flannel depending on my mood (the only thing you can bank on is that there will be chocolate smeared somewhere on my attire), with my pink feathered pen, writing my most delicious daydreams. Funny? Sometimes. Scandalous? Hopefully. Inspiring? Perhaps. Full of love? Always.
Welcome to my World.
Experts speculate which ancient battle Winged Victory was created for, but does it matter? We are all fighting our own battles in our own way every single day. The fact that we are here, out in the world, celebrating the majesty of the human spirit through art, creating our own art, walking through these treasured creations, letting their astonishing beauty wash over us, is a winged victory in itself. I wiped my tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and walked on, with my shoulders rolled back and my dress rippling across my hips.
And now, I have a marvelous treasure safely stored in a rainbow silk scarf, some fragile fragments of a certain palace, a palace so beautiful you can still see its reflections in the sky over Mt. Kilimanjaro when the light is just right.
Then I thought, I wonder if Anger Gardening is a form of therapy?
If it’s not, it should be. It’s dazzling in its wildness and simplicity. I watered my soul garden with my tears and my rage, then lifted my face to the rain and felt my soul bloom into a thousand blossoms lit by fireflies.
Today when I was driving home, I saw our next door neighbor getting out of the car. A nurse was pulling up his pants and helping him with his walker. He’s a very old sick man, and he lives alone in a big mansion. I’m told he was a famous New Orleans judge for years. I feel sad when I see him–he’s bent and shaky and both his feet are wrapped in casts. One night his nurse came knocking at…
Well, she asked the next biggie: “Mom, who is the sandman?” “What do you mean?” “Is he a guy?” “Hmmmm, well, he’s kind of like a flying gnome with a long beard and a bag of sand over his shoulder.” I don’t know, what do you tell a four year old about the sandman who comes and sprinkles sand dust dreams over her eyes at night?
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” Hemingway