April 25, 2013


Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us. –Oscar Wilde

Yesterday, when I returned from an evening walk, I was filling up a five gallon bucket of water for our sheep and I happened to gaze up at our hills. It must have been the quietness of the evening or the change that comes from season to season that I began to reflect on the past.

Coming fast down the hill, I remember, was our giggling two sons on big wheel tricycles; Their tiny feet barely touched the pedals as the two of them raced to the bottom. Many times, when our sons were a little older,  they raced down the same hill on old wooden sleds or quads. Like salt over potatoes their lives are sprinkled generously over this land. And though they are young men now, each day I walk here I know that they are part of this land, and that I am the only person besides my husband who can bring to surface the beautiful images of their young lives. The images float like clouds above changing seasons. And each season I open the diary in my mind and let the memories blossom. 

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