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Talk Books. Drink Coffee.
Australian Spec-fic writer. Feminist. Weirdo.
Walking in the footsteps of great writers
Finding my way back out of motherhood -- while mothering
Random ponderings on the state of the Universe
Nancy Roman
tell your stories, love your life
Purposeful Content Creator
Jean M. Cogdell, Author-Writing something worth reading, one word at a time in easy to swallow bite size portions.
A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.
Talk Books. Drink Coffee.
Australian Spec-fic writer. Feminist. Weirdo.
Walking in the footsteps of great writers
Finding my way back out of motherhood -- while mothering
Random ponderings on the state of the Universe
Nancy Roman
tell your stories, love your life
Purposeful Content Creator
Jean M. Cogdell, Author-Writing something worth reading, one word at a time in easy to swallow bite size portions.
A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.
Gina, funny you write about this.
The other day when I was caught up in a snow storm I took a walk through the pine forest. Some of the trees were so badly damaged they may not live. I couldn’t help but feel they were alive, alive in the sense I think of myself as being alive.
The concept that what lives eventually has to die is part of life on the farm but I couldn’t help but see mortality in myself and in the trees some of which were over a hundred years old. I knew we had something in common: it was life.
I also recalled this saying by John Muir.
“Trees go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!”
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