We come here with nothing

 

We come here with nothing
And we leave with nothing.
From birth to death, everything
is a gift.
Each person that passes our way
friend or foe, each comes with the
gift of learning.
Learning how to love, learning how
to set boundaries and learning how
to let go.
Throughout our journey we develop
grace, empathy and acceptance
and we learn to let go of hate,
as it's too heavy to carry.
Our natural state is love.
We came through love and
we return to love ...

C.E. Coombes

Art via Etsy

Source: Serendipity Corner on Facebook

Appalachia Connection

 

Driving through Kentucky feels normal… right up until the land starts folding in on itself like a crumpled piece of paper and you realize you’ve entered that part of the state.

One minute you’re cruising through smooth rolling farmland, thinking life is easy, roads are straight, and directions actually make sense. Next thing you know, you’re deep in eastern Kentucky where every road curves like it has trust issues and every hill looks like it’s hiding something.
You glance at the map and it’s just… wrinkles. Endless ridges stacked on top of each other like the earth decided to freestyle.
GPS? Completely overwhelmed.
“Turn left in 500 feet” — there is no left. There is only mountain.
You start going up… and up… and somehow still going up. Then suddenly you’re going down so steep you’re questioning your brakes, your life choices, and why this road even exists.
And don’t even get me started on what’s tucked back there: • a random house halfway up a mountain like gravity is optional
• a truck behind you that knows every curve personally
• and a road name that sounds made up but somehow isn’t
Meanwhile the rest of Kentucky is just minding its business, nice and open…
but over here? This is where the terrain said,
“Let’s make it interesting.”
Only in Kentucky can a “shortcut” turn into a full-blown mountain expedition.
And the wildest part?
Locals drive it like it’s a straight line.
Source: Kentucky Life on Facebook
**************

I was born in the middle of those wrinkles in Hazard.

If you’ve ever seen that part of Kentucky from above, you know what I mean—the land doesn’t stretch out, it folds in on itself. Ridges rise and fall like waves that never quite settled, and roads wind in ways that make you trust the curve before you can see what’s coming. It’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived inside it.

Growing up there leaves its mark on you.

For me, it left a deep and lasting fear of heights. When the world drops off just a few feet too sharply, I still feel it—that tightness, that awareness of how quickly solid ground can disappear. I think it comes from those narrow roads carved into hillsides, from looking out and realizing just how far down “down” really goes.

And yet, I love it.

I love that land in a way that feels stitched into me. Because those hills don’t just hold roads and trees—they hold stories. They hold my beginnings. They hold the voices, laughter, and quiet strength of people who know how to live close to the earth and even closer to each other.

This is God’s country, not because it’s perfect, but because it feels sacred in its honesty. There’s a humility in the land and in the people who call it home. A kindness that doesn’t ask for attention. A resilience that doesn’t need explaining.

I still have family there. People who carry on the rhythms of that place, who wake up to those same hills and call them ordinary, even though they’re anything but. And there are others—my people—laid to rest in that soil. Roots that don’t just grow down, but hold fast.

Maybe that’s why the connection never fades.

Even with the fear. Even with the distance.

Because no matter where I go, part of me will always belong to those mountains—to the curves in the road, the hush of the valleys, and the feeling that somehow, in all that ruggedness, I was held.

And in some quiet way, I still am.

Image source: Kentucky Life on Facebook

Breaking Through

Source: Ullie Kaye Poetry on Facebook

Billy Strings - Uncloudy Day

 

Remember to look for the daffodils.

 

In grief my love,

look for the daffodils.

It may not be actual daffodils of course.

It might in fact be the sunrise outside your window as you draw back the curtains one morning.

It might be the decision to draw back the curtains at all, after weeks of being comforted by the dark.

It might be walking past their photo and smiling instead of crying;

or picking up that empty mug on the coffee table that hasn’t been moved since they left.

It might be a message from a friend that you now feel ready to answer; and it might be that meal you cook for yourself after days of surviving on not very much at all.

Because in the winter of grief,

these are all signs of spring; they are the beacons of hope that perhaps there are lighter days to come. Days that are a little less harsh. Less dark. Less bleak.

Winter always comes back of course, and so there will be times when the darkness returns: when you find solace in the closed curtains and in the empty mugs.

But each time,

remember to hold on to hope. To the signs of spring.

Remember to look for the daffodils.

*****

I've been seeing the daffodils spring to life round me recently, and I've been reminded of this poem.

Becky Hemsley 2025

Beautiful artwork by Aimee Ruoff Art

This is from my second grief and loss collection.

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

***** ***** ***** *****

It may not even be actual daffodils…

But something about them carries a quiet kind of magic. The kind that gently pulls you back into moments you didn’t realize you’d tucked away so carefully.

This poem by Becky Hemsley hit me differently today — maybe because this time of year always does. There’s something about those in-between days… when Spring tiptoes in just enough to be noticed, then slips away behind a nippy breeze.

I can feel it though — that shift.

I am a better version of myself when the sun lingers a little longer, when the air softens, when the first blooms start to appear. When the world feels like it’s waking up again.

The anticipation might be my favorite part — knowing what’s coming. Warm days. Open windows. Birds singing like they’ve been waiting all winter just to be heard.

And somewhere in all of that… the daffodils blooming again.

By me... My thoughts... polished by chatgpt.

It may not be actual daffodil's...

But they do have a strange magic that makes me reflect on memories of the past when I see them. This poem from Becky Hemsley hits differently. I am a better human when the sun is shining and the daffodils are blooming. When Spring is creeping in on select days and the contrast of nippy days like today increases anticipation for the warm Spring days and beautiful daffodils blooming, and the birds singing their hearts song.

********************************

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Source: Poetry Foundation

The Greatest Guitarist Ever

 

The greatest guitar solo ever recorded wasn't about speed or skill—it was about making four minutes feel like flying and falling at the same time.

Cambridge, England, 1960s. A teenager named David Gilmour sat in his bedroom, guitar across his lap, listening to the same blues records over and over until he'd absorbed not just the notes, but the spaces between them.

His parents—his father a zoology lecturer, his mother a film teacher—couldn't give him wealth, but they gave him something better: permission to care about beauty.

They bought him his first guitar. They let him chase something that couldn't be measured in exam scores or career prospects.

David learned to play by asking a different question than most guitarists: Not "how fast can I play?" but "how much can I make you feel?"

THE PHONE CALL THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

By 1967, David was playing in small bands around London—talented but struggling, like thousands of other musicians trying to break through.

Then his childhood friend's band called with an impossible request.

Syd Barrett had been David's friend since they were teenagers in Cambridge. Syd was brilliant—wildly creative, charismatic, the kind of talent that seemed touched by something otherworldly.

In 1965, Syd co-founded Pink Floyd. By 1967, they were one of Britain's most exciting psychedelic bands, with Syd as the creative visionary.

But Syd started slipping away.

Not physically—though sometimes he'd stand on stage and simply not play, staring into nothing. But mentally, he was fading—lost to LSD, mental illness, or both.

Pink Floyd had concerts booked. They called David in December 1967: "Can you help us? Just temporarily, until Syd gets better?"

David said yes—to help his friend, to keep the band alive, not knowing he was saying goodbye.

REBUILDING FROM ASHES

Losing Syd should have killed Pink Floyd. He'd been the songwriter, the vision, the creative engine.

But what remained—Roger Waters (bass), Richard Wright (keyboards), Nick Mason (drums), and now David—decided to rebuild.

Roger began writing darker, more conceptual material. Richard's keyboards created atmospheric soundscapes. Nick's drumming provided a precise foundation.

David became the band's emotional soul.

His guitar didn't scream for attention. It whispered truths you didn't know you needed to hear.

Through the early 1970s, they found their sound. Then, in 1973, they created something that transcended music.

THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

The Dark Side of the Moon wasn't just an album—it was a complete artistic statement about existence itself: time, death, madness, money, the crushing weight of being human.

David's contributions defined its sound:

The guitar on "Time" captured the terror of wasted years.

The vocals on "Breathe" made melancholy feel like meditation.

The solo on "Money" turned greed into groove.

The album stayed on the Billboard charts for over 900 consecutive weeks. It became the soundtrack to a generation's introspection.

THE SOLO THAT DEFINES A GENERATION

If you mention David Gilmour to music fans, they'll say one thing:

"Comfortably Numb."

The final guitar solo from The Wall—four minutes that have made millions cry.

It's not the fastest solo ever played. Not the most technically complex.

But it might be the most emotionally perfect.

David recorded it in a small room with a practice amp. Largely improvised. Pure emotion translated directly through his fingertips.

That solo has been voted the greatest guitar solo of all time in countless polls.

Because David Gilmour never tried to impress you with technique. He tried to make you feel.

Source: Caylus on Facebook

I never lost anything.