In the Garden


To me hath been granted a garden,

Tho only for my care,

To nourish the plants and flowers that may be growing there.

 

Twas God that granted this garden,

For only the other day

The owner, my neighbor left it,

To use it, as I may.

 

To God will have grown these flowers,

And to God shall they be given, And I but the steward in that back yard,

For our Father who art in Heaven.

 

There’ll be some for the poor and lowly,

And some for those sick in bed,

And others for those in hospitals,

And for the children whose parents are dead.

 

And so shall all the flowers,

Be a hope for those whose life

Is shut from the beauties given by God,

Who are lost in this world of strife.

 

And everywhere in this garden,

That God hath granted me,

Shall love be planted and grow,

And I his servant be.

 

As for the blossoms that come there,

A message each shall bring,

Beauty and love and joy and hope,

And every flower shall sing.

—Excerpted from  In the Garden by  Murshid Sam, Samuel L. Lewis

 

BJSquiggel

 

The last roses Photograph and copyright by /barbara Mattio, 2016

The last roses. Photograph and copyright by /barbara Mattio, 2016

 

From the greenhouse. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

From the greenhouse. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The tropical. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The tropical. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

 

Pollination. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Pollination. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The flame of blossoms. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The flame of blossoms. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The gathering of the Monarch butterfly. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The gathering of the Monarch butterfly. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

 

They track the Monarch butterflies to follow their migration paths. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

They track the Monarch butterflies to follow their migration paths. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

 

Mums in the fall garden. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Mums in the fall garden. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

 

Art for the garden is whimsical. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Art for the garden is whimsical. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The Impostor. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Matttio, 2016

The Impostor. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Matttio, 2016

The pale beauties. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

The pale beauties. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Life is pink. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Life is pink. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Container garden. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Container garden. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Water fountain. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Water fountain. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Garden Sculpture. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Garden Sculpture. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

A mystic ring. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Magniflower. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio, 2016

Namaste

Barbara

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A New Perspective


 

 

 

 

 

Full Poem:

 

I was not born on the upper rungs of the ladder, though I am white. My paternal grandfather raised a family of eight washing windows and I am so proud of him. He had the work ethic. My maternal grandfather went to Chicago to work during the Depression to support his immediate family and the extended family who crossed over from the old country. He was a tool and dye maker. He sent money home to Cleveland to buy food so my grandmother could cook food and feed all of them. My pride in them as people is immense and I inherited my desire to make the world a better place comes from their example.

In truth, I never talked about people of color. They were there but they weren’t people of color. They were just people we knew. Archie Bunker introduced me to racism, bigotry and hatred.

 

When I heard this young boy’s poem, I was touched. There are people who get it. And they tell  others and some of them get it and they tell others and on and on. I challenge all of you who are non-haters, non-racists, non-bigots to tell someone who you really are. Speak up. This is the time before we find ourselves in another World War. The world is shaky right now, but we can stabilize it with our voices and our actions.

We can want or even demand that our elected officials stop the racism and hatred, but it truly is our job. This is our world and we are the ones who are responsible for speaking, nay yelling, out the truth. Black Lives Matter, Women are equal even if not legally, refugees deserve compassion and assistance, women deserve equal pay for equal work, Muslims deserve to worship in their own way. Everyone does except for those who feel their way is the only right way and non-believers deserve to die.

 

I believe we can get past this without a war. I believe that love, peace, forgiveness and compassion is where we  begin.

 

Namaste

Barbara

 

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friends

       People of color everywhere are friends and share life’s ups and downs.

Labor Day Greetings


WhirlyGIg

 

 

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Labor Song

Ah!  Little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills,

Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.

Ah! little they know of the blessedness toll-purchased slumber enjoys

Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys;

Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sign for or gain;

Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain;

Nothing to break life’s monotony, rippling it o’er with its breath:

Nothing but dullness and lethargy, weariness, sorry and death!

 

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,

Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rudder or ploughshare or pen

Laboreth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,

Winning home and its darling divinities, –love-worshipped children and wife.

Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly, the sharp chisel rings,

and the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings, —

He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race,

Who nerveth his arm for life’s combat, but looks the strong world in the face

–Denis Florence McCarthy

 

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Hello everyone,

I am going to see some of the grandchildren for the holiday. I hope you enjoy this post. It was fun to put together for you all. I will have pictures when I return and will look forward to reading your posts.

 

I wish you all fun, safety and a happy heart.

Namaste,

Barbara

 

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