Lambing season

Lambing season. 

I've been hunched over the drafting table and hunkered down at the computer for days and days.

 So when Becky and Lori invited us to Lori's barn, where lambs had been born "just last night!" I was literally jumping for joy.

"YES!!!"

I even got to snuggle with the newborn lamb on the right... She fell asleep on my lap!

 It's been raining... 

and raining...

and raining...

So the pastures are full of water and oozing mud. 

Lori had "adventures" bringing the mamas and babies in from the field.

She's guessing nine or ten more will be born any minute now.

Such soft fuzz, pink little ears.

Their skinny newborn legs like tiny miracles...

Mr. Wonderful almost glowed...

Oh, the beauty of new life,

of spring just barely on the horizon!

Lambing season.

Smitten again, as if I'd never seen a sheep before.

"I might," said Lori, "have a tiny one who needs to be someone's pet."

Gulp.

Through the fog...

The morning light brings a subtle beauty to the river, seen through the freezing fog along the river.

Everything is softened...

the colors seem muted and gentle.

The most ordinary scenes are almost poetic

and everything we see looks like an oil painting come to life.

Foggy winter mornings are my favorite for taking photos, 

something to be savored in silence.

Simple truth

Just a little reminder from my heart to yours...

Do you recognize each moment as a precious treasure?

Every step I take reminds me how blessed I am to walk.

A tongue to taste and food to eat- what a gift! Dogs at my feet, music in the air!

Electricity, the miracle that heats my home and brings light in the evenings.

I sniff the air and enjoy perfume. My heart beats well without my even thinking of it...

I can go on and on and on.

Truly, I am surrounded by miracles. 

Please note- artwork © Sharyn Sowell, all rights reserved.
Please do not re-post without permission.

Seeds of hope in winter

 Do you ever find yourself feeling frozen inside?

Resembling a forgotten watering can left outside, forgotten in the corner of summer's lush garden gone barren and brown?

Like winter has invaded, freezing out hope and leaving behind a world steeped in chill gray?

I haven't spoken normally for six long months.

These months of forced silence have been drab in some ways, cold and isolated.

But when you look closer at a garden or a life, the frozen times are full of life laying dormant...

the seeds of beautiful things to come. 

 If we look closer, even in the frost, the seeds are waiting.

For a plant to grow, the seeds have to fall into the ground and wait in the dark.

For a life to grow, sometimes the seeds of faith are watered with tears, laying dormant for a season.

What looks hopelessly dead today will spring to life.

So it is with hope.

 It's normal to want to skip over the hardships...

 to wish life were always summer, always easy...

 but the frost has a beauty all its own

and hearts that persevere through the wintery chill of difficulty have their roots sunk deep into faith and gratitude and compassion.

Even while the frost is thick

and life feels so frozen,

there is the knowledge...

the rock solid, absolute faith,

the confidence of good things preparing to burst forth.

But meanwhile,

there is beauty in winter, too.

In waiting.

In sure and quiet hope.

Winter afternoon

 This winter afternoon, short but beautiful...

 

...our everyday walk,

packed with the familiar sights, smells, sounds... 

The ordinary beauty of the barns we pass every day...

skeletons of trees whose bare bones and subtle coloring show a stark delicacy

against the quiet winter sky.

And overhead, the honk of geese, the flapping of hundreds of wings and the amazing beauty of big birds landing, coming to a halt in the muddy fields puddled with rain water.

In silence, I pause to ponder sheep in the fields, moss atop a worn wooden fence post.

Winter afternoon.

Small pleasures.

The joy of changing seasons and the pleasures of home and farmland.

The sun sinks as I close the door of the little house and turn on the light.

Home.

Borrowing (from) the neighbors

We live in the best neighborhood anywhere.

It's the kind of place where we do a summertime barbecues together, autumn bonfires, and warm pies left on the doorstep across the street. 

(Yes, really!)

We borrow cups of sugar and canning equipment.

And now, when it's Christmas and there are no children in our house, we don't just borrow from the neighbors, we actually borrow the neighbors themselves.

Which explains how we came to have a loud ruckus, complete with gingerbread houses and sticky fingers and all manner of happy chaos.

After the gingerbread houses were decorated, when the children were still shouting, "ho, ho, ho!" they redecorated the tree and then moved on to the dog.

Oh, what a long suffering pet our Penny is! She actually enjoyed being strewn with ribbon and ornaments.

Oh, the merriment of having children next door 

and sticky fingers in a Christmas kitchen...

The blessing of laughter all through a neighborhood!

Ta-da!

It's been busy-as-the-bees work in the studio this month and a fair bit of Santa's Workshop as well,
but we are thrilled to share with you at last the first of what we're hoping will be a series of videos.

Click here to watch the video

You'll see my work and hear the voice of my delightful agent, Alicia Dauber.

Hope you enjoy the peeks into the studio with me!

Listen

On clear nights, I almost think I can hear the universe singing.

Sometimes it's soft as fog.

Sometimes brilliant and deafening as thunderclaps.

Mornings when the rain drips like music on the roof,

or those moments when you hear the call of a blackbird

or the snap of an ordinary dry twig

it seems like the whole earth,

everything from the great wide sky

to the tiniest mushroom

The whole earth is singing a song of gratitude and joy.

It's the music of life, the rhythm of the seasons, the vastness of the globe swinging on its axis.

Stop.

Listen.

Can you, too, hear the whole earth singing?

All images © Sharyn Sowell. Please do not copy or use in any form without permission.