inspirational

What Looks Like the End

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“There will come a time

when you believe everything is finished.

That will be the beginning.”

– Louis L’Amour –

 

What looks like the end is simply the beginning. I think that’s the lesson of autumn as the leaves drop away and the trees go bare, as flowers wilt and dry and fall from their stems, as birds fly south and the winds grow cold. Even the calendar year heads into its last pages. It would be easy to believe that everything is finished. But we’ve been around long enough, haven’t we, to know that it’s just the beginning.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

The Secret of Cupped Hands

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I have a daydream of the present moment, the now. In that dream, we stand with hands cupped before us, holding what we thought were the thorns of the past. But they’ve turned into fragrant flowers. As we cradle these flowers in our palms, something marvelous happens: the petals become wings, and with one joyful toss of our cupped hands, we send them flying into the future. And when we lower our hands, we realize that, in spite of everything we let go, our hands are not empty. They are full of mystery and grace and hope enough to fuel our next steps.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

Garden Gossips

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Four black-eyed Susans,

crones of the planter box,

have lost their golden petals.

Their dark brown seed heads

sit atop tall stalks,

surveying shorter blooms—

pink coneflowers,

sun bright coreopsis,

fluttery white windflowers.

The black-eyes lean toward each other

nodding in the breeze,

garden gossips

sharing the season’s secrets.

Shhh! Shhh!

Peace.

– kh –

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

From Thorns to Flowers

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I have a daydream of the present moment, the now. In that dream, we stand with hands cupped before us, holding what we thought were the thorns of the past. But they’ve turned into fragrant flowers. As we cradle these flowers in our palms, something marvelous happens: the petals become wings, and with one joyful toss of our cupped hands, we send them flying away. And when we lower our hands, we realize that, in spite of everything we let go, our hands are not empty. They are full of mystery and grace and hope enough to fuel our next steps and fill our hearts with peace.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

Riding at Anchor

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 “Faith is the soul riding at anchor.”

– Josh Billings –

 I don’t often go out in a boat, but I have rafted rapids. I’ve cruised the inner passage in Alaska. I’ve ridden in a gondola in Venice. And I’ve taken the night boat from Guangzhou, China, to Hong Kong. But while I enjoy the adventure of traveling by boat, I find it comforting to ride at anchor, resting, gently rocked by the water. So the soul riding at anchor is a comforting thought. As far as faith goes, I see it as our spiritual disposition, the slant of our hearts toward what we value most in life. Faith holds us, supports us, keeps us on course and steady. It’s our souls deeply anchored.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week and shadow of the week—petal shadows on petals:

 

 If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

 Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. 

Precise, Meticulous Beauty

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It’s hosta season. Their large bouquets of leaves have been content to sit on the ground for weeks, soaking up the summer sun until they were ready to send up tall, thin stems and line them with buds. Last week, they were ready, bursting with light purple buds veined in darker purple. The petals of the buds are folded up, cupping their centers protectively the way my grandson’s hands cup a newfound treasure to hide and protect it.

This week, the buds began to open. Each bloom has six purple petals pointed at the tips. Deep inside where the petals connect to each other, they’re white. From that inner sanctum, one pure white pistil and six white filaments rise taller than the petals and curve gently down like a swan’s neck. At the end of each filament is a tiny, elongated anther of dark purple, maybe even black, with two of the tiniest, vertical, tan-gold stripes on their faces. I am amazed. There is nothing careless here.

It doesn’t matter to this hosta, this precise, meticulous beauty, whether or not I pause here to look closely. Hostas will keep budding and blooming and being beautiful, because that’s who they are. No, it doesn’t matter to the hosta if I see it or not. But it does matter to me.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

The Hawk

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Yesterday, a red-tailed hawk at least eight inches tall perched on the top rail of the fence near our sun room windows. His eight inches did not include his dark tail edged at the tip in white, which extended down over the fence rail for balance. This hawk had a mottled breast of rust and white feathers, a dark head, and bright yellow feet. The bird book I grabbed showed that he was an immature red tail. I was surprised that he stayed so long, at least five minutes, maybe more. So I stayed too, just out of sight, watching him.

All was quiet. The bird feeder was nearby, but my wise little birds were in hiding. A squirrel on top of the swing set was frozen in a crouch, focused on the hawk, who ruffled his dark shoulders and scratched himself. After a long look around, he shot up at a steep angle northward. Shortly after that, the squirrel scampered away, and birds returned to the feeder.

The thing about quiet is that it’s not necessarily peaceful. The quiet that descended with the hawk was actually full of tension. It was only after he flew that real peace returned. Peace was full of birdsong.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

The Peace of Simply Sitting

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After lunch yesterday, I simply sat in my sunroom. I would say I sat in silence, but I was the silent one; the world around me kept humming, although quietly—a gentle tick of the clock, the soft breath of the air conditioner, muted chirps from birds outdoors, the distant rush of a jet crossing the sky. Sunlight turned the tops of the leaves outside a bright green, while deeper in and underneath, the leaves were a forest of dark shadow. A gentle breeze swayed their stems and led them in a slow dance. I was still and silent for only a moment, but that moment filled me with a sense of expanding serenity, and I returned to the tasks of the day refreshed and hopeful.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

The Taste of the Moment

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It had been ages since I’d made pudding, the homemade kind. But I had more than two cups of milk left over from a visit with my older son and his family, which includes two preschoolers. Anyway, the only thing I could think to cook that would use a lot of milk was pudding. So I brought out the pan and sugar and milk and cornstarch and unsweetened chocolate squares (because, of course, my pudding must be chocolate). And I began.

Lots of stirring was involved. But I had time. The pudding thickened and bubbled and began smelling like the real thing. As I stirred, I pulled my focus to the moment. Nothing past to worry about right then, nothing future—though there was plenty of both if I let myself go either direction—but for peace, it was now, in that moment with a gently ticking clock, the soft purr of the air conditioner, a wren warbling outside, and pudding bubbling on the stove.

“Look past your thoughts so you may drink the pure nectar of this moment,” Rumi counseled. The pure nectar of that moment tasted like chocolate pudding.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

Brushing Up

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I’ve been brushing up on my drawing skills by reading a book that I’ve had since college when I took art classes: The Natural Way to Draw by Kimon Nicolaides. He says, “Loosen up. Relax . . . There are many things in life that you cannot get by a brutal approach. You must invite them.”

Hmmm. . . Do I force bulbs to bloom indoors in winter, or do I invite them to bloom by providing the right conditions? Do I try to force my grandson to eat lunch, or do I invite him? Do I force respect or do I invite it? There are, of course, some areas in life when compliance is enforced. But “there are many things in life that you cannot get by a brutal approach. You must invite them.” So “loosen up. Relax . . .” Maybe I need to brush up on my life skills.

Invite peace and nurture it. Cultivate kindness and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week—a suncatcher:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2022 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.