Free

 

He wanted to catch the beautiful butterfly

It was not to be caught

Tickled by the breeze

Fluttering, Flitting, Floating

Spreading joyous sunshine with sprinkles of love

Carefree, Peaceful, Happy

Free

Laura M.

The Geese in the Cemetery

 

I live very close to a very old cemetery. Geese live there year-round. Geese are migratory birds, and they’re supposed to fly north in the summer. Not these geese. 

They’ve adapted to life in the cemetery. The manicured lawns provide plenty of grass, and between the old tombstones there are bugs, worms, and everything else a goose could want. They seem quite content there. 

Geese are surprisingly large birds—some can stand nearly four feet tall and weigh around thirty pounds. When you see them walking across the cemetery lawn, they look almost prehistoric. 

Almost every evening at dusk, I see a group of adult geese heading west in a perfect V formation. I don’t know where they go. I don’t know when they return. 

But I do know they have made this quiet cemetery their home. Among the old stones, the grass, and the fading light, they seem to have found a place where they can simply be geese—and live their best life.

 - - Georgia

My Favorite Book

 

The War of Art by Steven Pressfield is my favorite book. I have read it at least a dozen times, and I’m sure I’ll read it many more.

The book is about breaking through the blocks that keep us from creating and winning the inner battles that can stop us from doing what we love.

Pressfield writes about the inner critic, the saboteur, and the doubts that can hold us back. These inner voices can be powerful. They often believe they are protecting us or helping us, even when they are actually getting in our way.

When I’m in the throes of doubt, fear, or terror about my creative work, I pick up The War of Art and read a page or two. Somehow, those few pages remind me that resistance is part of being creative—and that I don’t have to believe everything my inner critic tells me.

Then I get back to work.

 - - Georgia

One with Nature

 

I found a special spot in between Jacob Riiss Landing and Breezy Point that has free kayak lessons along with a supply of kayaks to be used for free on the weekends.  The Park Rangers supply everything.  All you have to bring is a pair of water shoes, sunscreen. and, of course, you might want to wear a bathing suit. 

I went on this adventure alone the first time and I was quite nervous and excited at the same time.  The Park Ranger gave me a life jacket and showed me how it should fit properly.  Then he helped me get into the kayak and gave me two paddles. He instructed me on the correct way to hold and use the paddles.  Then he pushed the kayak off the sand and into the bay. 

It was such an exhilarating feeling, to be floating on top of the water and being rocked by the waves. When the nervousness left my body, I actually felt like I was one with the kayak and the water.  It was so beautiful and peaceful. The sun shimmered and sparkled on the surface of the water, making me think a hypnotist was putting me into a trance. 

There was a small island in the middle of the bay, lush with trees and tall bushes. The leaves swayed in the gentle offshore breeze as I imagined the breeze relaxing me in a comfy hammock.  I most definitely felt like I was becoming one with nature. 

After about thirty minutes, I was called to paddle my kayak back to shore.  That broke my “being as one with nature” spell.  I noticed my water shoes were filled with sand, my nose hurt from forgetting to put sunscreen on it and my arms felt like they were going to fall off from all the paddling I did. 

I lost that feeling of being one with nature and became one with my body’s kayaking experience. 

Ellen G.

Learning to Read

 

I have two memories of learning to read. My first is sitting with the Dick and Jane books—yes, I am that old! I was about six years old and could barely understand the words. I felt frustrated, but I kept trying. 

My second memory came when I was about eight. We were moving to a new apartment, and one of the movers called out to another man, asking for a “dolly.” I stopped and suddenly realized that one word could have two meanings. A dolly could be a little girl’s toy—or a small cart used to move things. 

I was shocked and amazed by this discovery. I felt very smart. It was like discovering that words had secret lives of their own. 

I have loved reading my entire life. I love libraries. I love the minds, worlds, and words of writers from all over the world. My thirst for reading and learning has never left me—and I don't think it ever will. 

 Georgia

Silent Rebellion: A Bird Feeder’s Strategy

 

 For years, I’ve fed the wild birds from my third-floor windowsill, delighting my cat and keeping the birds well-fed. Then a neighbor, convinced I was attracting rats, confronted me on my way to the bus stop. His sudden obsession with my routine left me stunned and speechless. For weeks, he followed me, trying to stop my harmless habit. I later learned he was new at the business across the street, and his complaint stemmed from breadcrumbs littering the sidewalk. Rather than arguing, I found a clever solution: I crushed the bread into tiny crumbs, perfect for the birds but invisible on the pavement. In the end, I fought back quietly—not with words, but with a little ingenuity. 

Georgia

Lighthouse

 

There's a lighthouse on the north side of Roosevelt Island here in NYC in the middle of the massive, dangerous East River. It was built in 1872 and designed by James Renwick, Jr.  

 

There are legends about the lighthouse that say a patient from a nearby Lunatic Asylum built a stone fort on the site fearing a British invasion. The fort was later demolished to make way for the lighthouse. To commemorate the story of the patient’s involvement there is an inscription near the lighthouse that reads: “All ye who do pass by may pray for his soul when he dies”.  

 

In the long distant past when my longtime partner died and he was unceremoniously cremated, I had his remains for a while and during that time his soul was restless. Things would go missing; tragedy struck my life, and nothing was right. I knew it was time for him to rest. While alive he liked to fish and enjoyed rivers and oceans.  

 

As a final farewell I wrote prayers and took my daughters to the lighthouse. The three of us had our own ceremony and released his ashes in the East River. From that moment on peace returned, and his restless soul was in repose. All unusual activities stopped and never returned. 

 

All we have left are memories and a lighthouse on the north side of Roosevelt Island in NYC in the middle of the massive, dangerous East River.

Georgia