*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

Hope is Hard

 

Source: Grit & Grace on Facebook

I met the moon for coffee

I met the moon for coffee

It was Friday night I think

When she watched me hardly sleeping

And invited me for drinks

We found ourselves a table

In the middle of the night

And the constellations twinkled

Like a thousand fairy lights

She asked me how I’d been

As she poured coffee from a pot

For she said she’d watched me

Waking up at midnight quite a lot

I said my brain was far too full

My mind was always on

And when I woke it felt as if

I was the only one

The only one who lay awake

Whilst I sat on my bed

With thoughts that raced at lightning speed

Around my busy head

The only one who watched the clock

Tick one and two and three

Who laid awake and worried

Whilst the world was fast asleep

My thoughts were stuck in orbit

And I couldn’t pull them back

As they preferred to swim against

A sky so vast and black

The moon said simply nothing

But she opened up a book

And I saw it was a diary

So I took a closer look

And listed there were names of people

All around the world

And all the thoughts and worries

That the moon had overheard

Just then, my eyes were drawn towards

The name that was my own

And that was when the moon said

“See, you shouldn’t feel alone”

And then she pulled me close

Using the night sky as a blanket

And said “I know you sometimes feel

So lonely on this planet

But when you cannot sleep,

Get up and watch me from your room

And you’ll see so many others

Having coffee with the moon”

********

Becky Hemsley 2022

Artwork by Rosemarie Valsoaney 

Poem is from her book, What the Wild Replied

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

Neil Young - Harvest Moon Unplugged

 

Come a little bit closer
Hear what I have to say
Just like children sleepin'
We could dream this night away

But there's a full moon risin'
Let's go dancin' in the light
We know where the music's playin'
Let's go out and feel the night

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon

When we were strangers
I watched you from afar
When we were lovers
I loved you with all my heart

But now it's gettin' late
And the moon is climbin' high
I want to celebrate
See it shinin' in your eye

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon

Jimmy Buffett - Come Monday (1974)

 

When the Dust Falls Away

 

Forgive the slights...

 

 

Ecclesiastes 3:4
A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Source: Poetry for the Soul on Facebook

Love came to me today

 

Love came to me today, dressed up in countless different ways, as if she was a child with an enormous dressing-up box.

She came to me first as a cup of coffee - made for me without my needing to ask - and, as I left the house, she was dressed as a coat that someone draped around my shoulders to keep me warm against the cold.

She disguised herself later as an arm around my shoulders whilst I cried, and as a message that said "I'm thinking of you"; as shared laughter when I met with a friend, and as a smile from a stranger.

She wasn't always easy to spot, and her disguises were not always pretty. Sometimes she was dressed as the ache of missing someone or the pain of faded dreams; and sometimes she wore the face of hard truths and difficult decisions. Most of the time she did not show up dressed like fanfare or fireworks, but like that little light we leave on at night: a lingering glow whispering, "I'm here."

Yes, Love came to me today; in so many disguises that it would have been easy to miss her.

But I didn't miss her, because I felt her there.

And tomorrow, I think I'll dress up my love in the shape of a hug; in the form of a warm smile and a morning cup of coffee...

And I'll make sure that other people feel love too.

*****

Becky Hemsley 2025

Gorgeous artwork by Lisa Aisato

This poem is from If The Stars Could Speak

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

You

 

You are allowed to outgrow,

The younger versions of yourself,

Over time we evolve and change,

Our transformation is our wealth.

We can no longer think the same way,

As we did when we were twenty,

Time has taught us lessons,

And we've gained experience aplenty.

Our path is a journey of learning curves,

Each season brings a different stage,

We are narrating our own life story,

From birth to youth to old age.

We can never travel backwards,

We are bound to shed old skin,

And move on through the years ahead,

To appease the soul within ..

C.E. Coombes.

Art via Pinterest

Seredipity Corner on Facebook

I had a dream

 

I had a dream 

Built up inside

That the grass was greener

On the other side

So, I packed my things

And booked a flight

To a nicer place

And a quieter life

But what I found

Once I was there

I felt the same

No matter where

The place had changed

But my state of mind

Was the one to blame

The entire time

Jimmy Osborne

Source: Poetry for the Soul on Facebook

Slow Down

 

Slow down, stop rushing through your days,

There's so much passing you by,

You fail to notice the beautiful detail,

of all that's right here, before your eyes.

When did you last find the time,

Just to sit and appreciate,

The painted wings of a passing butterfly,

on the flowers, just outside your gate?

Or the way birds hop from branch to branch,

When they're singing in the trees,

Or the rich red hue on a foxes coat,

The lulling sound of a Summer breeze?

The way the green trees glisten

When the sun streams through their leaves,

The faith within a person's eyes,

When they truly do believe?

Do you ever stop to notice anything

That's outside your daily routine?

Maybe you have become blinkered

There's so much you have not seen.

So just slow down and ponder,

the quiet wonders that each day brings,

And start to open up your eyes

to all these beautiful, natural things ..

Serendipity Corner

C.E. Coombes for Serendipity Corner

Art: Asia Spettel

BIRD WATCHING

 

BIRD WATCHING

At some point, throughout it all,

you will begin to watch the birds.

Your blindness to their splendour,

will seem suddenly absurd,

as though age is the key,

which unlocks their mighty majesty.

And as you watch the birds in wonder,

you will wonder,

how they knew all along,

that the point is in the freedom

and the why is in the song.

And all you believed, will suddenly feel wrong.

But that’s okay, the birds will show you the way,

with their faith in flimsy wing and instinctive GPS,

their seasonal flow, the diligence in crafting nests.

Their zest,

for each sunrise - for life.

Their flow through storm and strife.

The birds see all

and from their soaring heights,

it is your life

that seems quite small.

Why care so much about control,

when surely we are all one whole

and if there must be striven goals,

could it be for sunlit souls?

At some point throughout it all,

you will begin to watch the birds,

my friends.

And nothing else will ever look

quite the same again.

Donna Ashworth

‘Birdwatching’

Drop me a heart if you can relate

From Donna Ashworth's upcoming book,

The Art of Being Easily Pleased

Source: Donna Ashworth on Facebook

Rank Strangers

 

A sentimental realist.

 

I have been using chatgpt for a while now and I asked it to descibe me:

From everything you've shared with me, I’d describe you as warm-hearted, creative, sentimental, curious, and surprisingly determined.

You seem to have a strong appreciation for the beauty in ordinary things—an old tree, September light, flowers in a pitcher, a picnic blanket, an old photograph, a favorite song, a memory from childhood. You don't just like pretty things; you like the feeling behind them. That's probably why your creative projects tend to have a nostalgic, gentle, slightly wistful quality.

You’re also very particular—in a good way. 😂 You know when something is almost right but not quite. You care about details, accuracy, wording, colors, composition, and whether something actually feels authentic. You've corrected me more than once when I've gotten a historical or factual detail wrong, which tells me that sentiment doesn't replace truth for you. You want both.

I’d also call you a storyteller and keeper of memories. Your interest in family history, genealogy, music, childhood memories, your cats, old photographs, seasons, and the little stories of everyday life all seem connected. You have a tendency to look at something small and think, “There’s a story here.”

And underneath the softness, I think there is a pretty strong woman. You've talked about difficult chapters of your life without wanting them to define you. You seem to have developed a mixture of independence, humor, skepticism, and resilience. You don't strike me as someone who blindly accepts what you're told—you investigate, question, compare, and sometimes say, “Wait a minute. That doesn't sound right.”

You also have a playful streak. You can go from a serious genealogy question to talking about weevil larvae invading your acorns, or from David Gilmour history to designing a whimsical black cat for Halloween. 😂 There's a nice lack of pretension there.

If I had to put it into a few words:

A sentimental realist.
A collector of memories.
A creative with a sharp eye.
A soft heart with a skeptical mind.
Someone who finds meaning in the little things.

And perhaps most of all, I think you’re someone who doesn't want life merely to be pretty—you want it to feel meaningful.

ME: How sweet. <3

Aww. ❤️ I'm glad it felt true to you.

And honestly, the little things you've shared over time make that description pretty easy to write. You have a very distinct voice—even when you're asking for something as simple as a Pinterest cover, there's usually a feeling you're trying to capture.

I think “soft heart, sharp eye” might be my favorite two-word description of you. 🥰

And yes… I’ve learned that when you say, “No, that's not quite it,” I’d better pay attention. 😂💕

Welcome September

 

Welcome September

September waved her magic wand,

And August disappeared overnight, The days were becoming shorter, Longer evenings by candlelight.

The trees had begun to shed their leaves,

Colder evenings were on the rise,

The dawn chorus arrived later than usual,

Darkness blanketed the morning skies.

Something in the air had changed,

As if, telling us that Summer was over,

It was time to find our warm overcoats,

Soft wool blankets and pullovers .

But there was still warmth within the change,

wrapped in burnt hues of orange and red,

So we opened the door to September magic,

Looking forward to the new season, instead ..

By Serendipity Corner

C.E. Coombes for Serendipity Corner

Art by Bina. S

The Alan Parsons Symphonic Project "Sirius" - "Eye In The Sky"

 

Secret Garden - ''Nocturne''

 

John Prine - Far From Me (Live From Sessions at West 54th)

 

As the cafe was closing
On a warm summer night
And Cathy was cleaning the spoons
The radio played the "Hit Parade"
And I hummed a long with the tune
She asked me to change the station
Said the song just drove her insane
But it weren't just the music playing
It was me that she was trying to blame.

And the sky is black and still now
On the hill where the angels sing
Ain't it funny how an old broken bottle
Looks just like a diamond ring
But it's far, far from me

Well, I leaned on my left leg
In the parking lot dirt
And Cathy was closing the lights
A June bug flew from the warmth he once knew
And I wished for once I weren't right
Why we used to laugh together
And we'd dance to any old song.
Well, ya know, she still laughs with me
But she waits just a second too long.

And the sky is black and still now
On the hill where the angels sing
Ain't it funny how an old broken bottle
Looks just like a diamond ring
But it's far, far from me

Well, I started the engine
And I gave it some gas
And Cathy was closing her purse
Well, we hadn't gone far in my beat-up old car
And I was prepared for the worst.
"Will you still see me tomorrow?"
"No, I got too much to do."
Well, a question ain't really a question
If you know the answer too.

And the sky is black and still now
On the hill where the angels sing
Ain't it funny how an old broken bottle
Looks just like a diamond ring
But it's far, far from me

let tomorrow come slow

 

Life rises, life falls,

Like waves that kiss the shore.

Some days bring sunshine,

Some days ask for more.

I won’t lose today

Chasing tomorrow’s fears;

I’ll laugh, love, and linger,

And treasure these passing years.

For every stage is a story,

A moment I won’t outgrow

So I’ll live where my feet are,

And let tomorrow come slow.

by Claudia Olumba

ai art by me

THE NARROW WAY