Inspiration

This story I would like to tell is about friends of mine. Friends of my husband’s and mine, who recently got refugee visa’s from the Ukraine, and are now living in Oakville, CT.

Twenty something years ago, my husband is working in the shop, and the woman who was the engineer, she was crying. He said, “What is wrong Galina?” She said that my friend Irina in the Ukraine, she lost her husband at 28 years old of diabetes, because if the was money, there was no medicine, and if there was medicine, there was no money.

I will touch briefly on the birth of stars.

Our Miracle Universe, absolute darkness. Not a hint of light. No stars anywhere. No sounds of any kind. Nothing of any kind. Nothing at all.

Then suddenly a huge explosion like the universe has never known before, and probably will never know again.

In a matter of seconds, the universe was engulfed in a huge cloud of hydrogen gas.

The Big Bang had just occurred. From a tiny point called a singularity in the universe, the universe as we have come to know was born.

Did you ever go outside and feel that all the birds were singing?

Every single one. So many different songs. That there was a kind of happiness in the air. An exuberance at this moment. As if anything was possible.

Strange, isn’t it - the thought “As if anything was possible?” Most of us rarely think of this.

Suppose, just for a moment that it really is true – that it can be true - that anything is possible right now, just because I tune into and play with “anything is possible.”

What would you do? Really, what would you do?

It seemed like it would be our ordinary 30 minute walk around our neighborhood, the same route, like every other day – but far from it this day.

First, as we approached a corner, we suddenly noticed a huge turkey vulture sitting on top of a telephone pole with its back away from us.

It was completely unfazed as we stood there for a few minutes admiring this unusual, beautiful sight.

But nothing prepared us for what we were about to come upon in the next few minutes.

I like to doodle. With an extra fine black pen on a piece of ordinary white paper.

The black ink is so stark, yet so controlled, so elegant because the line is so finely precise.

Doodling is one of earliest ways I remember to cope with frustration, with worry, with stress. It relaxes me.

There’s something about setting pen to paper that feels like raw creativity, pure play – no agenda – no picture in mind – just giving myself over to the moment.

It’s amazing to see the kind of plaything a child loves and craves. For example, a big empty cardboard box. A little snip here and there and presto, a small house, or a store, or a spaceship.

Their imagination is so intense and vast and immediate – that it can go way beyond the “stuff” in front of them, and “grow” their own little world.

I love this memory.
Artwork by Bruce Zboray www.bruce-zboray.artistwebsites.com


The children were small, our boy 5 and our girl 8. We went to Newport, Rhode Island for a day. The highlight of the trip was the Cliff Walk.

It’s a stone pathway in back of the mansions about a mile long.

Artwork by Bruce Zboray www.bruce-zboray.artistwebsites.com


I love stone walls.

I live in New England and pass many stone walls on my daily walk.

Some are very neat, crafted with an artistic eye and fitted very precisely in beautiful patterns, like big rock, little rock, little rock, big rock. They’re cemented together.

I sincerely thank whoever discovered the muffin.

There is something really irresistible about a muffin – all kinds of muffins.

Others may love their croissant, but I love my muffin.

Right away, I think of muffins wrapped in red and white checked gingham in a honey-colored wicker basket. I think of New England or charming European villages with fresh baked breads. I think of the open hearth, with a log fire, at the center of a home.

It’s so primal – food – eating – our daily bread.