Category: Sunday Letters

Maybe So; Maybe Not


I apologize for being unable to send my usual Sunday Letter last week. Did you miss me? I missed you, too! What happened is that my internet connection crashed late Friday. It had been slowing and going in and out for days, but on Friday afternoon, it completely died. I called for repairs and was told they couldn’t be done until “sometime Monday.”

“Oh, no!” I cried. It was the first time in a long while that I would have four consecutive days without outside obligations. I had a big list of pressing projects I could work on undisturbed and I was so looking forward to tackling them. But every one of them required my net connection. My inner child went into a deep funk, stomping her foot and shouting, “Oh Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! Pooh!”

I let her have her tantrum until bedtime. Then I told her everything would be okay, and that the best thing she could do was decide to wake up happy in the morning. To my surprise, she did! And to celebrate her decision, I took her to the park for a long and wonderful walk in the woods.

That night, I suddenly came down with a doozy of a cold that kept me in bed for the next 20 hours.

As I drifted in and out of sleep, I thought about my waiting projects. A couple of my dear fans had asked me to post my “Little Pine” tale again this year. It’s a story I wrote several years ago to welcome the coming holidays. The first year’s version was so popular that I followed it with more Little Pine stories for two years after that. Even with the net down, I decided, I could look it over and make edits. On Sunday and Monday, I did just that. And now the story is unfolding, a chapter a day, right here on this blog. Click here and you’ll find the first chapter. Clicking the link at the chapter’s end will take you to next chapter, and so on. The 7th chapter will appear later today. (They’re short, quick reads. And before you know it, you’re suddenly immersed in Little Pine’s magical world.)

It would have been easy to let myself stay in a deep pit of frustration and disappointment over my loss of the net, time, and energy all at once. My plans had been severely disrupted. But on Saturday night as my cold meds were kicking in, I remembered the old Zen story, “Maybe so; maybe not.”


It tells about an old farmer whose only horse ran away. He depended on it to do his work. “What bad fortune!” the villagers said when they learned what had happened. “Maybe so; maybe not,” the old farmer replied.


Two days later, the farmer’s horse returned, bringing with him four beautiful wild horses. “What good fortune!” the villagers said. “Maybe so; maybe not,” the old farmer replied.

When the farmer’s son was working to tame one of the wild horses, he fell and broke his leg. The villagers lamented, “How terrible!” “Maybe so; maybe not,” the old farmer replied.

A week later, the national army rode into town, forcing all able-bodied young men to join them in an ongoing war. Because his leg was broken, the farmer’s son was left behind. “Such good fortune!” said the villages. “Maybe so; maybe not,” the old farmer replied.

None of us knows what the day will hold or what the repercussions will be of any event that happens. No matter how sure we are that this situation or that happening will unfold in a certain way, life has a way of surprising us. “The only way to keep from being fooled,” I heard a guy say, “is to keep from drawing conclusions.”

In these uncertain times in which we live, I think that’s probably very good advice.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Let It Shine

Anybody can cry about the things in life they lack. We all have our dreams of greener pastures. But the truth is it’s not tears that turn the barren spots green. It’s the life-giving sunlight of joy that transforms them.

And here is how you make the sun rise in your life, even in the depths of your darkest night: Give thanks!

You’ll know you’re in the darkness of night if you want to tell me that it’s easy for me to say, “give thanks,” if you want to tell me the long, sad list of deprivations you’re suffering, the burdens your bearing, and the injustices with which you contend. I understand. I hear your pain. I see your suffering. Honestly, I do. That’s why I’m here, with this little beam of light, offering to share. I’m a joy-warrior; it’s my job.

So listen. Give this a try. You have nothing to lose.

Find something for which you are grateful. Anything. The smallest thing. Can you see? Can you hear? Can you draw a breath? Can you move at least some part of your body?

Can you think? Can you imagine? Can you dream?

Can you remember a happy moment in your life? Who was with you? What were you doing? Can you remember another time?

Can you remember feeling inspired? Loved? Loving? Being kind? Receiving an act of kindness?

What was the best meal you ever ate? The best music you ever heard? The most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen? The best laugh you ever had?

See? Those are the moments of sunlight. They’re in you, a part of who you are. And when you let your thoughts dwell on them, the intensity of the light grows and illumines more and more of your world. Recognize the goodness in your life. Savor it. Appreciate it. Allow yourself to consider it a treasure, and give thanks that it is yours, and that nothing can take it from you.

The difficulties of the moment are only that. Momentary difficulties. Even if you can see no end to them. If you’re wise, you won’t try. No one knows what the next moment will bring, regardless of life’s seeming direction. Surprises happen. Lucky accidents. Unexpected connections. Fresh ideas. Give thanks for possibilities.

Most of all, give thanks for this very moment. Against all odds, you’re here—a one-of-a-kind human being, drawing breath in an amazing and mysterious world. Plug into it’s light. Give thanks!

Then go about your way, humming that sweet old ditty, “This little light of mine . . . I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.”

Warmly,
Susan

Photo by Alex Hu from Pixabay

Reminders for Hard Times

It’s okay to cry sometimes. Life comes with pain.
It’s okay to be angry sometimes. Life comes with injustices.
It’s okay to be weary. We all have our share of sleepless nights.
It’s okay to be discouraged and confused. Sometimes the shadows block out the light.

All of us have our points of weakness. Each of us fails sometimes.
Each of us stumbles. Each of us makes mistakes.
It’s okay. It’s part of being human.

Those who truly love you will forgive you.
And you, likewise, will find in your heart the capacity to forgive those you truly love.

That doesn’t mean you condone the wrongs.
It means you create a space for accepting that we all make errors.
Only the continuous choosing of evil deserves our righteous condemnation.
And those who make such choices are, thankfully, few.
Believe in humanity. For the most part, we all have good intentions.
We all want peace and freedom and prosperity for all, however much we may differ in our ideas about the best means to achieve them.

Life is a mystery to us all. We are in this together, for better or worse, learning as we go along.
None of us has all the answers.

Each of us does the best we can. And sometimes our best is glorious.
Sometimes–actually, more often than not–we are strong, and kind, and brave.
We laugh, we dance, we create, we sing. We do our work; we carry our loads.
We strive to be responsible. We are generous and friendly and helpful.
We value truth, and beauty, and goodness, and we seek to let them guide our lives.

Each of has our strengths. Each of us has our talents.
Each of us is willing to do what we can to make things easier and better for each other.
We are inventive. We are curious. We are problem-solvers. We are industrious.
We are willing to learn from each other. We have the splendid audacity to dream.

But for all of that, sometimes we fail. And that’s okay–as long as we rise again and keep trying.

And rise and try we will. Because we are humans—wonderful, resilient humans. And rising is what we do.

Keep the faith.

Warmly,
Susan

Photo by Mrexentric from Pixabay.com

Riding Out the Storms

I was listening to this meteorologist the other day. “Earth is a dynamic planet,” he said. “Everything here is always changing. No other planet is like that.”

His statement underscores one of my personal axioms: You never know when you get up in the morning what the day will bring. And I don’t mean only the weather. Life hurls the unexpected at us all the time.

I think it does that to grow us, to teach us flexibility. When we get too comfortable we sink into a torpor. The “same old, same old” lulls us to sleep. But bring in a surprise, and we’re on full-alert. All our senses open. Our dreaminess vanishes instantly. We quickly take stock of things. We decide how we’re called to respond. Should we laugh? Or should we cry? Should we reach for our sunglasses or boots?

The bigger changes teach us not only flexibility but challenge us to accept and adapt. A friend of mine, when we went on lockdown earlier this year, said she just kept saying to herself, “This is my life now.” I thought that was a wise way to look at things. It allowed her not to fight against the changes, but to look around at what she had to work with and to make the best of it.

A book I read once about making choices for happiness called that kind ability to adapt “recasting.” The author told stories about people who found ways to keep doing the kinds of things that brought them joy even when their circumstances had drastically changed. They learned how to rearrange their lives in a way that let them continue moving toward their dreams—Maybe not the form they had previously envisioned, but in new ways that could express the essence of them nonetheless.

Our culture is in the midst of dramatic changes right now, the surprises coming like thunderbolts. We all need to put our boots on and wade through it, a day or an hour at a time. Until things settle out, we’re called on to be flexible. It’s going to be a challenging winter. We need to be willing to face uncertainty and to say, “This is my life now,” and make the best of it. When things settle—and all storms do pass—we will adapt and find ways to continue moving toward our dreams.

The key is to know what brings us joy, personally and individually, what allows us to be and do what we most want to experience being, what we most want to express. It’s a good time to decide what we most value and to let those priorities serve as our compass and guide.

While we’re in the thick of things, let’s remember that each of us is being deeply touched by the world’s events. However differently we may be impacted or how differently we view what is happening, we’re all sharing in the experience of significant change. As we strive to find balance in our own lives, let’s remember that everybody else is being challenged, too. Let’s carry some extra packets of kindness in our pockets and hand them out along the way. That’s always a good thing to have on hand, rain or shine.

Warmly, with hugs,

Susan

For the Thrill of It

“Buckle your helmets,” they say. “It’s going to be one heck of a ride.”

For some reason, when I heard that my thoughts flashed back to my childhood and the rickety, old, wooden roller coaster at the amusement park half a mile down the beach from where I lived. People loved it, and on still summer nights I could hear their shrieks through my open bedroom window as they plunged down from the top of its highest hill. We kids loved it, too. Some of our dads ran it on weekends and would let us ride for free when its cars went unfilled.

As I remembered it, a line from an old movie came to mind. I don’t recall any more of it but one scene at the end. A grandmother, her son and his kids were leaving to go to an amusement park and the son suggested she might like to take a whirl on the merry-go-round. “Oh,” she said, “that would be fine. But I much prefer the roller coaster. The merry-go-round just goes around and around in the same old circle. But the roller coaster! That’s where the thrills are!”

There’s a big difference, of course, in plunging down a steep hill on a roller coaster and plunging into the seemingly dire circumstances that life sometimes hurls at us. But the essence is still the same. We go on full-alert, holding on for dear life, praying for a safe landing. In the one case, some part of you knows that it’s just a ride, for the fun of it. In the other case, all you know for sure is that things seem pretty dicey and you better pay attention, assess your resources, and look for ways to get safely to more solid ground.

Nevertheless, it’s all an adventure. And the key to handling life’s cliffs and curves is to trust that we have the wherewithal to see each moment for what it is, letting go of the stories and fears that serve only to pollute our perceptions of reality. Our wondrous minds will unfailingly pull from their stores of experience the best answers they have to guide us in any situation. We’re all far more resourceful that we imagine ourselves to be–and stronger.

A tweet I read this week said, “There are so many things I thought I couldn’t manage. And yet here I still am.” We get through all kinds of emergencies, hardships and challenges. It’s not always easy. Sometimes life comes with sorrow. Sometimes life comes with pain.

When you find that you’re discouraged and weary, take this bit of advice from Yale psychologist Laurie Santos. She teaches a wildly popular course on happiness. “The best self-care is kindness to others,” she says. “The best way to be nicer to yourself is to be nicer to others.” And she has the studies to prove that it’s true.

Her wisdom echoes that of one of my favorite teachers, Tara Brach. When you’re hurting, she says, say to yourself, “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.”

It’s been a difficult year for everyone everywhere. And the challenges keep on coming. Stay present. Breathe. And look for goodness; it’s always there, deep inside every moment.

I’ll leave you with another piece of wise advice as we head into the week’s unknown. This one comes from Kurt Vogenaut: “Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”

Wishing you a week of grace, a grand sense of adventure, and a heart overflowing with love.

Warmly,

Susan

The Constant Answer

Here’s my quote of the week for you. It’s from Neale Donald Walsh:

“What would love do now?
This is a marvelous question. It washes away all doubt. It bathes the mind with the wisdom of the soul.”

Tuck that one in your pocket and carry it with you everywhere you go. Start your day with it. When you let it guide your actions and words, you’ll be a joy to everyone you encounter. And when you remember it too late, it will show you how to repair whatever damage has been done.

Love comes in an endless variety of forms and can express itself in countless ways. An email a friend sent me a few weeks ago touched me with the insight the purest among us–our children–have about it. I stumbled across it again today and thought I’d share it with you. It made me laugh and it touched my heart, and I hope it will do the same for you. I’m sorry I can’t credit the source, but I offer my happy thanks to the person who compiled it.

Here it is. Enjoy!

A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8 year-olds, ‘What does love mean?’

The answers they got were broader, deeper, and more profound than anyone could have ever imagined!

‘When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time , even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love.’ Rebecca- age 8

‘When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.’ Billy – age 4

‘Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.’ Terri – age 4

‘Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him , to make sure the taste is OK.’ Danny – age 8

‘Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and just listen.’ Bobby – age 7 (Wow!)

‘If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate.’ Nikka – age 6 (we need a few million more Nikka’s on this planet)

‘Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.’ Tommy – age 6

‘During my piano recital , I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn’t scared anymore.’ Cindy – age 8

‘Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.’ Chris – age 7

‘Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.’ Mary Ann – age 4

‘I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.’ Lauren – age 4

‘When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.’ (what an image) Karen – age 7

‘Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn’t think it’s gross.’ Mark – age 6

‘You really shouldn’t say ‘I love you’ unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.’ Jessica – age 8

And the final one: The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman’s yard , climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his Mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, ‘Nothing, I just helped him cry.’

Wishing you a week where love guides you and fills your heart to overflowing.

Warmly,
Susan

Song for the Broken Things

For a few glorious days each autumn, the world sings with color. I make a point of visiting a large cemetery in a nearby town where ancient towering maples rise above the monuments and tombstones, blessing them with a rain of falling leaves. The maples’ massive boughs wear brilliant orange, scarlet, yellow, burgundy and lime that dance in the breeze and take your breath away with their splendor.

I pause now and the to read the names engraved on the granite markers, the dates that span the lifetimes of those they commemorate, some nine decades, some but a few days. Here’s a mother and father, their sons and daughters, some with their spouses and children, some without. And always I seek out the two near the center of them all that make me smile in their juxtaposition. The first one, a large marker, nearly four feet high, is engraved with the single name, “Jolly.” Behind it, the second one, equal in size, says “Moody.” When I found them, a ray of sunlight bathed Jolly’s marker, there beneath the orange trees, while Moody stood in the shade. Together, they make a poignant statement. And it seems fitting somehow that they’ll stand together until the granite crumbles away with their reflection of life-experiences: Both.

I read a poem this week by Alice Walker, “I Will Keep the Broken Things.” She describes mementos that she keeps on a shelf even though the vase is missing a piece and the woven basket’s side has a jagged hole. Then she goes on to say that she will keep the memory of someone’s laughter even though it is missing now. She thanks the broken things, the pilgrim of sorrow. And she ends by saying “I will keep myself.”

It left me with the same feeling as my stop by the markers at the cemetery. We’re all broken things, and we all have our bits of brightness and laughter as well. And we’re all worth holding in reverence. We all deserve to stand on a shelf of honor. Not because we’re perfect. But because we dare to be, to live, to weather the storms, even with our missing pieces and jagged holes, even when life steals our joy and leaves us standing in darkness.

Something larger and more ancient than us rises above us and spreads its roots through the earth on which we lie. And sometimes we get brief glimpses of its resplendence and feel its love, raining down like leaves on a light autumn breeze, whether we’re jolly or moody.

Be at peace. And whisper to the broken things, as Alice Walker did, “Thank you so much.”

Warmly,

Susan

Winds of Change

Here in west central Pennsylvania, it’s the week when autumn’s colors peak. Scarlet and golden trees glow from the hillsides and lawns, their leaves raining down in the breeze like love letters dropped from the heavens. Roadside stands have appeared with heaps of fat pumpkins and baskets of peppers, squash, onions, and tomatoes. In the fields, giant machines harvest the soybeans and corn.

Summer has slipped into memory, leaving its bounty behind. We gather it in preparation for what is to come. And here, in this moment of transition, I stand, awed, at the beauty of it all.

A mere six months ago, the trees and fields were bare, the hillsides wearing only the green of scattered pines. Patches of snow and ice still lingered as we searched the landscape for signs of spring. And now! All this bounty!

It just goes to show you that no matter how bleak the world may seem, miracles are unfolding, just out of sight. You just have to trust that everything has its season, and all of it has its own reason, however mysterious its reasoning may be.

On my window sill I have a rock engraved with the word “Change.” It’s my little reminder that change is the only constant in our world, the only thing that’s permanent.

The key to living with maximum joy is to accept the impermanence, to learn to dance to life’s changing rhythms, to welcome change as a revelation of who you are and what you value. It lets you tap your accumulated wisdom as you make choices about how to respond to its unfolding events.

Change teaches us not to cling to things, to be willing to let go of what we’re experiencing now so that we can embrace the gifts of the next now, and the next. It teaches us to be one with the present, open to all that it holds. It shakes us out of our dreams, waking us, alerting us that a spacious reality is beckoning, full of possibilities and wonders.

Change shows us that life is always in motion. Change is the music, and life is the dance.

The seasons change. The weather changes. All things come and go.

But remember this, too. Through your choices, you have the power to influence the direction of change. You can speak. You can be silent. You can act or be still. You can give or withhold. You can love or be unkind. And each of these choices makes a difference in the way that things will go.

Even when change is beyond your influence—day will follow night regardless of what you do—you have the power to accept and be open, or to resist and be imprisoned by your resistance.

I can see autumn’s beauty and be filled with awe, or I can mourn the loss of summer or dread the winter’s approach.

When I open to its beauty, it energizes me. I am one with its scents and colors, with the dance of the flying leaves, with this wondrous moment, with the realization that I am alive in it and a part of it, with all its drama, and it is a part of me. And all is well, and the next moment will take care of itself.

Warmly,

Susan

Remembering to Play

I finally got around to harvesting the herbs today–the lemon balm, the mints, the oregano. I put if off as long as I could. They have been delightful companions since they first popped from the ground all those weeks ago.

I let my mind drift back to those days. It was early spring. So many life-changing events have played out in the world since then that it’s almost as if we’re in a different corner of the universe somehow.


It’s hard to think about how life was as the year began. It is for me, anyway. I liked what we called normal in those days. I sometimes grieve its loss.  Now I feel as if I’m living in some kind of sci-fi, nightmarish, action-packed, heart-rending tragicomedy where everything is at stake. And there’s this huge war going on, a battle for mastery of the planet between what some call the Evil Empire and us, the Human Race. They’re after our minds and our souls. And the fog of war is thick; our perceptions and interpretations can be deceiving. The bad guys, who would enslave us, are sly and tricky beings. They come in many disguises, with marvelous tales. We have to be wise, continuously questioning everything, holding to our truest light when making choices. As I said, the bad guys are sly and come in many disguises. It’s amazing how smooth they can be at winning your trust.

The fragrance of the herbs catches my attention and snaps me back into the here and now. The dream world has vanished completely, instantly evaporating away. I hear the quiet purr of the dehydrator’s fan. The refrigerator is humming. The windows are dark now. Only the soft light from the pink LED amp illumines the kitchen. I hear a car pass on the road outside.

I’m making tea with some of the mint, and I take it off the heat to let it steep. I can’t resist pouring some into a little china cup to get first dibs on the taste.

A friend calls. His brother in California is buying an newer electric car, a Lucid Air or something. I remember that the name made me think of lucid dreaming. (Maybe this is all just one, big, shared lucid dream?) We talk cars, food, the arrangements in our lives designed to prevent the spread of the Rona any further. Somehow we get into talking about opossums and tell our possum stories. I tell him I brought my house plants inside. Summer vacation is over.

I walk into the kitchen after the call, carried by the fragrance of the drying herbs. I think of Modoulamin and say a prayer for him. I want to begin writing about all the things I have learned from our friendship. He’s been quite a teacher. Still is.

I take my tea to the table and seat myself at the keyboard there. What I had intended to tell you about in today’s letter was my re-discovery of a wonderful mind-hack. But then I got mesmerized by the fragrances and hurled into the dream. Anyway, here’s the hack of the day: Instead of saying “I have to,” say, “I get to.”  I used it today, and what a difference it made! Try it! You’ll love it!


Here’s what triggered it. I had been looking over my do-list at the pending projects that needed to be accomplished in the next 2-3 weeks. It felt a bit heavy and daunting. Later, I I ran across this wonderful quote from poet and naturalist Diane Ackerman. “Play is our brain’s favorite way of learning.”


Play! I’d forgotten how to play! “I get to harvest the herbs today!” I said to myself, remembering. And so I did. And how it felt like refreshing, joyous, meaningful play!

l will be enjoying the fragrance for hours and hours. It feels like a reward.

I’m going to sit down with my tea, turn on some social media and see what’s happening in our upside-down world now. I laugh remembering a cartoon I saw. A woman was pulling back her window curtain to reveal a rising sun. “I wonder what chapter of Revelation we’re on today,” she said.

At times, the changes do seem biblical.

But let me leave you with yet another quote about how to get through it all:

“Smile, breathe and go slowly.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

That’s beautiful advise. Life is good. Remember to play.

Warmly,
Susan

On Chickens, Eggs, and Infinite Worlds

Somehow my friend and I got into swapping stories about chickens. I was telling him that I got to eat a couple eggs this summer–the best I’ve ever had–that were less than half an hour from the chickens. He asked if the eggs were brown or white, and I told him they were green, a pale olive, but that I had eaten pink ones, too. And they all looked alike inside. (Sort of like people, hey?)

I didn’t know if one hen laid only green eggs and another the pink ones, or if the eggs would surprise you with their color every time one appeared, or what the rooster had to do with it all. I didn’t know, either, at what age hens began producing eggs, or how long a hen can live. Eating freshly laid eggs, I told my friend with a laugh, doesn’t suddenly turn you into a chicken expert.

Chickens are like anything else, I said. You could spend a lifetime learning about them. And some people actually do, learning whole universes of other stuff along the way. It’s one more instance of my observation that every door leads to an infinite world.

It’s true. Start anywhere, and one thing leads to the next, to the next, to the next. Tunnels lead to more tunnels or to a sudden flight of stairs. The roads make sudden turns. And it just goes on and on. Part of it, I think, is because we’re such curious creatures. We keep asking questions: How? Why? Always? What if? And the big one: What happens next?

We keep peeling back layers upon layers of information, spending minutes, hours, months, decades, every answer revealing yet more to be discovered, to be known, to be experienced. And it all grows us. We even get to keep the memories, and they themselves can be tunnels to explore. Isn’t that amazing?

“Every door leads to an infinite world.”

Part Two of that is, “Everything can be a door.” That’s because anything at all can wake you up to the moment, get you to seeing all the possibilities before you, asking what you want to make of them, which one’s are calling your name, singing the best music.

I heard once that it was a custom in a certain spiritual tradition to train its practitioners to become alert whenever they passed through a door. Maybe they had a bell suspended from their doorways to ring as an additional signal to wake from their thoughts and dreams. I don’t remember exactly. But it seems like a wonderful exercise.

Wake up and walk on. I like that.

Eventually, I suppose, you could discover that every moment is a doorway. that you, yourself, are a door, opening to an infinite world.

 Be curious as you go, and keep your sense of wonder. It’s all a mystery. Be humbled by its immensity, but celebrate the fact that you’re alive and perceiving, right in the very midst of it. Keep your senses of humor and adventure honed. You never know where your road may lead. Who would have guessed, for instance, that we’d get to these musings from a conversation about chickens and eggs?

Sending you smiles.

Warmly,
Susan