Embrace Each Season

Embrace Each Season

Let the old leaf loosen

without asking the tree

to resist the changing season.

Let the morning arrive

in colours yesterday

had never imagined.

Let the river flow

beyond the banks

that once contained it.

Let the wind rearrange

the branches of your life,

making space for light

where darkness once lingered.

There is wisdom

in what falls away,

and beauty

in what gently emerges.

The seed does not fear

the darkness beneath the soil.

It simply trusts

that something within it

is slowly coming to life.

So embrace each season

with a gentle, unassuming heart.

Let old dreams soften,

let new ones rise.

You do not have to know

where the next path leads

to trust the way ahead.

Breathe in the present.

Release what has been.

And delight in the mystery

of what’s unfolding,

for every moment

is opening

into something new.

And perhaps,

in accepting and welcoming change,

we discover

that nothing is ever truly lost,

only moving gently from one season to another.

~ 'Embrace Each Season' by Spirit of a Hippie

~ Mary Anne Byrne

~ Art 'Fall Fairy' by Cinnamon Cooney

Source: Spirit of a Hippie on Facebook

In Praise of Craziness, of a Certain Kind

 

On cold evenings
my grandmother,
with ownership of half her mind –
the other half having flown back to Bohemia –
spread newspapers over the porch floor
so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath,
as under a blanket, and keep warm,
and what shall I wish for, for myself,
but, being so struck by the lightning of years,

to be like her with what is left, that loving.

Mary Oliver

ai art by me

On the day of the Autumn Equinox

 

I’ve often heard the wind whispering to the trees, but I’ve never listened closely enough to what she had to say.

Until now.

Today I pause... I listen and I hear it.

I hear the wind as she wraps herself around the branches of the trees and whispers to the leaves,

“do you want to dance?”

I watch then as she pulls the leaves into her arms, twirling and lifting and guiding them around a sunset-coloured dance floor, where yellows and oranges and reds already lay sleeping.

And I want to join in;

I want to run and twirl and lift the leaves into my hands.

To throw them in the air and watch them land gracefully upon the fire-tinted ground.

I want to feel alive, just like these leaves do, even as they change and fall and

slowly fade. I want to let myself go, to face the wind and to warm myself in the

fiery sunset beneath my feet.

Yes, I want to join in.

And today I have watched, I have listened and I can hear the

rhythm. And now it is time for me to dance...

to the beat of autumn’s heart.

*****

On the day of the Autumn Equinox - a poem I wrote back in 2024 for my 2025 calendar

Becky Hemsley 2024

Artwork by Alena Mosina

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

Be careful what you wish for

 

Be careful what you wish for,

Don't assume your life is bad,

There's plenty of people out there,

Just wishing for what you've had.

Too often we take for granted,

gifts for which we've been blessed

Always striving for more, we assume,

to be more deserving than the rest .

So pause and breathe, reflect awhile,

Look closely at your fate,

There’s beauty tucked in every day,

In each joy, which eagerly awaits .

For every wish that beckons you,

There's someone else who sees,

The life you have, its warmth and light,

And prays it brings you peace ...

C.E. Coombes

Art by Tijana Lukovic

Source: Serendipity Corner on Facebook

Where the Soul of Man Never Dies | Appalachian Folk Hymn

 

A Rich Tapestry

 

A Rich Tapestry

May our lives be a reflection

of all we have lived through,

the joy, the sorrow,

the seasons that shaped us,

and the moments that changed us.

May grief not be something

we hide from the story of who we are,

but one of its deepest chapters,

a quiet testament to the love

that still echoes through our lives.

For those we have lost

do not simply vanish.

They linger in the language we speak,

in the gestures that carry their imprint,

in the tenderness we offer,

in the quiet places within us

that their love helped shape.

And perhaps this is what it means

to remember,

not to remain anchored in the past,

but to let what was

continue illuminating

all that is still unfolding.

May sorrow open us to tenderness.

May every farewell deepen

our understanding of love.

And may every memory

glow softly

within the life we continue to live.

And may we walk gently onward,

knowing that every life is a tapestry,

woven from moments we cherished,

sorrows we endured,

people we loved,

and memories that remain.

Some threads are golden,

some are dark with grief,

some almost invisible with time,

yet each belongs to the whole.

And perhaps that is the beauty,

not that every thread is without sorrow,

but that woven together

they become the story

of a life deeply lived,

a life made richer by its tenderness,

more compassionate through its sorrow,

and more luminous

for having loved so fully.

~ 'A Rich Tapestry' by Spirit of a Hippie

- Mary Anne Byrne

~ Art by Yasuaki Nadaya

Source: Spirit of a Hippie on Facebook

*Letter to Life as I approach my 95th birthday

 

Some things bloom late—but they still bloom beautifully.

At 55,
I became known to many as Hyacinth Bucket — a character I believed would be a small role in a little sitcom. ( Keeping Up Appearances on british TV).
Instead, she carried me into millions of living rooms, and oddly enough… into my own heart.

She was loud, proud, impossible to ignore.
And somehow, she helped me embrace parts of myself I’d kept hidden for decades.

That role didn’t make me famous.
It made me whole.

At 65,
I stopped waiting for permission.
I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could feel opera in its native tongue.
I discovered I rather liked my own company.
I read poetry aloud to no one in particular, simply because it softened the day.
I learned how to be alone… without being lonely.

At 75,
I returned to the Shakespearean stage — a place I once feared I had aged out of.
But this time, I carried no fear of critics or applause.
I stood in stillness.
And I let the words move through me — not because I had something to prove,
but because they still had something to offer.

It wasn’t a performance.
It was presence.

At 85,
I picked up a watercolor brush with unsure hands.
I painted what I remembered:
roses from my garden, old hats from the 60s, faces once seen on the London Underground.

Not to exhibit. Not to impress.
Just to preserve memory — one soft stroke at a time.
Each painting was a small act of remembering.

And now, at 95,
I write letters by hand.
I bake rye bread.
I breathe deeply in the mornings and whisper thanks to the sky.
I listen more than I speak.
I laugh often, but no longer try to be the one who makes others laugh.

I have nothing left to prove — and so much left to feel.

So I’m writing this not as a farewell,
but as a gentle reminder:

Growing older isn’t a fading.
It can be a radiant unfolding.
A blooming — not back to youth,
but back to yourself.

Let these years ahead be your treasure years.
You don’t need fame.
You don’t need perfection.
You only need a presence.

Show up. Gently. Fully. Authentically.
And life — if you let it — will always meet you halfway.

Attributed to Patricia Routledge RIP