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Posts Tagged ‘yellow’

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As he later explained, he knew he’d done something. Or maybe he hadn’t done something.  Regardless just in case he owed me an apology, he decided to pick up this plant and leave it sitting in the sun for me to photograph. 😉 Have a good rest of the week, folks.

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as seen through the rippled glass

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Of late, I’ve met a man from a war-torn country who now lives and works in the U.S.  He has described to me scenes of great brutality inflicted by man upon man for reasons like this person looked like someone from that country versus this country.  He often has a smile on his face.

I am noted for seeing even an empty glass as half-full, but this man’s ability to find the positive puts me to shame.  Why is he so happy?  Not because he has a job that pays exceptionally well. He doesn’t.  Not because he’s made many new friends in this country.  He hasn’t.  I think it is because, even as the soil ran red with blood around him, he remained open to the possibilities.  He saw the beauty amidst the horror, like the flowers blossoming near that same bloody field.

He remained hopeful.  Or, as he once told me, he has love in his heart and so long as you have love, what else do you need? Hmmm.

One day I did chance upon him not smiling. I asked the first question that came to mind. “Do you still have love in your heart?”  He did not react with surprise to my words.  His brow furrowed in deep thought.  After a moment, he nodded, and then he smiled broadly.  “Yes, Cynthia.  Yes I do!”

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To celebrate Chinese New Year, a friend shared a fresh pineapple.  As I photographed the tasty remains, golden memories surfaced.

Cans of fruit cocktail mixed with jello.  That’s my earliest memory of pineapple.  My mom always poured the jello into a lovely crystal bowl.  One of those bowls that only came out of the cabinet at special times of the year and which we children were forbidden to touch.  It was usually strawberry or cherry jello and so the gold of the pineapple chunks would always stand out magnificently in contrast.  My first fresh pineapple I tasted when an aunt from up north came to visit for a week or so down south.  My younger brother and I watched enrapt as she took our father’s butcher knife and sliced open that fresh pineapple.  She then scooped out the innards, coarsely chopped them and then mixed with some fresh strawberries, a mixture that she then put back into the basket of the pineapple rind.  What a magical event for us.

Nearly two decades later, while traveling in Krabi, Thailand, I sat on a stone wall by the beach digging my toes into the sand.  A wizened little lady came up to me.  She carried a big stick and from the stick hung plastic bags filled with fresh cut pineapple.  I’d been warned to be cautious of purchasing certain food items from street vendors.  But I didn’t want to be rude.  We couldn’t speak the same language but she made clear the price.  Not much in American dollars.  Plus she handed me a sample to taste.  She had small fingers, work-worn, that reminded me of my mother’s.  I bought a whole bag.  Even if the fruit hadn’t been good (though it was), her smile would have been worth the purchase.

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A little yellow squash given as a gift by a friend, earlier in the autumn.  Still catching sunlight in the kitchen.

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like sunrise

and sunset.

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