R's rue

          Haworth Parsonage - Home of the Brontës    ©Ken Biggs Once upon a time a man called Patrick married a woman called Maria. She was six years younger than him. Eighteen months after the wedding, their first daughter was born. She was named Maria after her mother. Little over a year later, the couple welcomed a second daughter who they called Elizabeth. Four more children followed in quick succession. The third child, another daughter, was called Charlotte. Next came a son who was christened Branwell for that was his mother's maiden name. A year later Emily arrived and eighteen months after her came another daughter - christened Anne. They were the Brontë family and in the first half of the nineteenth century they lived together in the Pennine village of Haworth, here in Yorkshire. Patrick Brontë was the local vicar. Mum and Dad with five daughters and a son - how happy and fruitful they should have been. But then the deaths bega...

 My hand might have five fingers, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve really only used three. I watched a movie earlier about a famous pianist, and hours later I started to use all five fingers going from C to C. It was enlightening for me.  One, I’ve never felt accomplished just by using all my fingers. Getting my fingers to do what my brain was asking of them was monumental. You can teach an old dog new tricks.  You just have to be teachable. My fingers are stretched and achy, but I’m understanding why God gave me five fingers.  Two, I stretched the big muscles daily, but I often forget the little ones. Let me say that the left side of my body is the weak one, so if I’m not conscious, my right side does everything. My left side is sore, because it never gets used.  Three, I’m in awe. I never thought my fingers could do what it just did. No. I’m in amazement. Utter shock. Will I ever be Chopin. I doubt it, but what my body allowed me to just now leaves m...

 Slushy snow Icy rain The weather Shows every side As the sun Awaits It’s starring role The dogs sleeps Snores and growls Until it finds It’s perfect spot For peaceful repose The fire roars It’s sound The perfect accompaniment  To this overcast  Morning  from R's rue https://ift.tt/yGr1YlC