A friend of mine was bicycling alone down a little-traveled road outside of Sacramento. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a structure in the distance. What he found was a small shrine with a marble statue of Mother Mary covered with dust and dirt from the fields, the paint of the wooden board behind her cracked and peeling, her feet covered with fallen leaves. My friend knew that he could not leave the Divine Mother in such a condition.

When my first grandchild was born, his survival was not certain. He spent many weeks between worlds in the neo-natal care unit of the hospital before he was released to the care of his parents. When I met him he was already wide-awake and conscious.

I was riding on the local municipal buses in Oakland, CA, where I live. One evening the bus was particularly crowded. I was sitting, but many people were standing, including a mother holding her six-month old baby in one arm while hanging onto the pole with the other. The baby began to cry, quickly escalating to a piercing shriek.

I love to go to my physical therapist’s wide-open office. First, I take the elevator up to the top floor of the 14-story building. The room is full of light entering through an entire wall of huge windows framing a panoramic view of the Oakland hills, with white clouds drifting across the deep blue sky. I am warmly greeted by angels with smiles and free coffee and kind, helpful and empathetic practitioners. I’ll just stay here, I think, but I only have 30 minutes and then I have to go back down the elevator to the street, where there are…

There is a parklet on Lakeshore Ave. near my apartment where three groups of huge cedar trees have been allowed to stand. Even though birds love trees, we do not have many birds in this area other than sparrows. But yesterday, as I was walking by the first group of cedars, I glimpsed a flash of brilliant blue darting between the trees.

Saturday night I went online and joined Black Lives Matter. It was the funeral of Rayshard Brooks, a young man with a wife and two children, shot by police, that was the trigger. I cried with them and then thought, I have to do something besides cry!

I have a friend who has a small, green parakeet, whose name is “M” for M & M’s because M and M’s are sweet. My friend has figured out exactly what “M” likes and has arranged her house accordingly.

On top of my refrigerator there sits a philodendron, which, since I am short, I seldom see and even more seldom, water. The other day, I looked up and really saw it. The leaves were curled up and turning brown. “It’s going to die!” I said to myself, “unless I water it right away.” I couldn’t reach it with the watering can, so I pulled it down, put it in the sink, and turned on the water. It was a last ditch resuscitation effort.

It was a cool, spring day at the Albuquerque, NM zoo, a park-like zoo with enclosures for the animals as natural as can be achieved by human beings. The chimpanzees, however, were crowded together in a cave-like structure while their new home was being constructed.

Since I am almost 89, I am one of the “vulnerable” ones, but I don’t feel vulnerable. I feel protected. Why?

Since my last post, I have been singing “Morning Has Broken” every day, and truly, no matter what the time, it makes the sun rise for me. The singing doesn’t have to be perfect. It only needs to come from the heart. The saying should not be “Home is where the heart is”, but “The Heart is where Home is”.

This morning, the first morning of 2020, as I was standing in the kitchen looking out the window to the apartment building next door, Cat Stevens’ beloved song, “Morning Has Broken” suddenly started playing in my mind. I have not heard that song for many years, but all of sudden, there it was –