Winter of discontent

I am in the mood for spring to come right now.  I have observed the bare beauty of winter trees, luxuriated in the feel of soft scarves and warm mittens.  I have drank cider, made cookies, and packed away all my Christmas things.  If there is not going to be snow this year then I am ready for spring.  (Not that things work that way and, yes, I know that, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.")  It is just that last year we had lots of this at home..

and this at our favorite local historic site, where we spend a lot of time year round.

No snow so far this year though and it has been rather dreary.  Dreary paired with illness has had me stuck in the house.  The upside is that I have been working on projects and planning projects.  (Okay, okay, and reading blogs and spending way too much time on Pinterest.)  I was inspired to work on our living room thanks to Donna at Funky Junk Interiors.

While it has been dreary, it is no reason to be discontent because I find gifts from God daily that I am counting here.  This was a gift today...

So were Bitsy's words breathed out in awe, "Oh Mom!  It is like the sun is posing for you!"  I think I need a reminder of the beauty around me, of possibilities, and of gifts.

Naming Thrush Cottage

   

I have always wanted to name our house.  It is an interesting little place, built by Barry's grandfather, Pat Mason.  (I will post pictures of the house at some point.) We love history and literature and this spills over into our (developing) romantic flea market cottage decorating style. 

A few semesters ago I took a Modern Poetry course and was studying the symbolism of birds in poetry.  The Thrush snared my interest.  Such an everyday bird but with a beautiful song.  In Whitman's When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd  the thrush represents the voice of America crying out at the death of Lincoln. The thrush also symbolizes poetry and the imaginative spark that brings about its creation.  With such symbolism what name could be better for the history major and his wife, the English major, in the little cottage home where stories, poetry, and art is created by all its inhabitants.  We are all thrush and we each have our own song.