Late Saturday Afternoons

I love this time of day probably more than any other...the time when the sun lowers in the sky preparing for the sunset, casting long golden streams of light between the branches of the trees. The shadows are long, but the sunlight is amber. Life seems to mellow out. Even the birds are calm. Women put supper on the stove to cook. Children play in the streets. People rush home from weekend activities to put their feet up on the front porch railing and sit back and listen to the world going by. It's time for a cup of hot coffee on the porch, talking about simple things, or smiling quietly in complete serenity. This is what I love about home.

Winterland

What is an outsider? I have read the words of dear souls...one very young, and one closer to my own sage age. And they both consider themselves outsiders. I think the key to the problem is to see oneself as in the essence of the solution, rather than on the fringe. Without the thinkers, and the poets, and the quiet souls who listen to the night, the world would be a rather dry and fruitless place. I would much prefer to count myself among the thinkers and the poets and the lovers than those who find their comfort in the crowd of average people who dress alike, and think alike, and move to the same music on a daily basis. Thoreau said it best, "If a man [or a woman] does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."