Plaasabilities

When I was a kid I had a favorite poem, The Swing, by Robert Louis Stevenson. How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside-- Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown-- Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down ! Back then I could often be found in the backyard giving the swingset a workout, usually while singing my favorite church songs at the top of my lungs. Childhood joys are so simple, aren't they? Now, decades later, some things haven't changed. I still love to go up in the air so blue, but now I drive a car to the top of the Smokies where I can see over the rock walls to the streams and green valleys below. My feet may be firmly planted on the mountaintop, but my spirit is flying -- up in the air and down! And yes, I...

"Frost Away" The fog was just beginning to lift near the Walker Camp Prong Crossing on Newfound Gap Road. Great Smoky Mountains National Park © 2014 Kristina Plaas, All Rights Reserved Sundays are always very hectic for me in late fall. It's what happens when you are a church musician who is given the added responsibility of organizing programs for large regional meetings and Christmas. Most of us love Christmas music but making those musical events happen is a huge challenge. Given the changes in my life the last few months I haven't been as effective in meeting those challenges as I would like. I see everything that either needs to be done or that I haven't done well and feel, um, discouraged. I keep giving myself the guilty "should" lecture, listing everything I should have done but haven't. Add Sunday night fatigue to the mix and the results aren't good. Tonight, just as I was about to cave and have a very nice, personal pity party I...

Winter woods aren't desolate As they would seem to be, For beauty dwells at every turn For searching eyes to see. The black of trees is ermine trimmed; Each bush is wearing lace And Nature's spread with lavish hand White velvet every place. Where winter sunrays lightly touch The ice-encrusted stream, Upon its crystal countenance A thousand diamonds gleam. No, winter woods aren't desolate-- There's beauty enough to spare; And those in search of loveliness Will surely find it there.    Virginia Blanck Moore   The Best of Ideals ©1978