itting on the porch.
Feeling the cool breezes and listening to the rustle of leaves. Contemplating ... almost nothing. After a very difficult week, full of dishonest people pushing against one another in the never-ending dance of corporate futility, I have finally returned to my home. God has provided a beautiful, cool day with a refreshing breeze and deeply textured sky as the setting for today’s rest. Thank you God—my rock and my refuge.
They topped the rise and the white house reared its perfect symmetry before her, tall of columns, wide of verandas, flat of roof, beautiful as a woman who is so sure of her charm that she can be generous and gracious to all.
I have always loved porches and feel tremendously blessed to now be living in a home with three porches and a spectacular view of the Shenandoah Mountains. The lack of traffic sounds (replaced by the sounds of summer insects and the distant sound of an impromptu pick-up baseball game) heightens the pleasure of this peaceful pastoral scene.
The week has come to an end. The work is done. The weight of the world, but for a moment, has been lifted.
These fancies arise in the soul—alas, how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquility when the bodily and mental health are in perfection, and at those mere points of time where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of dreams.
And so I capture this fancy, where all that we see—or seem—is but a dream within a dream.
Edgar Allen Poe
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