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Joilene Rasmussen

I like old Nursery Rhymes, ballads, and other pieces of social lore...

...long walks on the Western plains at midnight, with the moon free and bright, looking wind-blown...

...reading Grimm's fairy tales to my children, and remembering being read a story by my grandmother, in which live dolls went swimming, and were subsequently hung on a clothesline to dry...

...drinking quality green tea scented with jasmine flowers...

...and dreaming of the day I'll own a Friesian horse, with sturdy, tidy-minded ponies for the children - Dartmoors, I think. A Morgan for my man.

I enjoy my conversations with ghosts, and learning about the little pointy-hatted men who live in my yard.

I think I would like to travel, yet it is not probable at this season of my life. So I've done the next best thing, and taken up this poem as a sort of theme for my thoughts:

There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself -
Finite Infinity.

- "There is a Solitude of Space", by Emily Dickinson

You'll see what I've done with it in my Spirit Journey hubs.

Who are you?

My blog...a bit of everything important to me, but mostly the strange stuff in life. Paranormal, and such. Currently, my husband and I are looking at buying a house on about 25 acres...a good place to raise kids and critters. The house is a 1928 kit home, and needs much TLC, but the whole property has quite a lot of good points, and gives us much to work with.

My other profile:

There you'll find a more everyday view of my family and I, and my love of goats, cheesemaking, and homeschooling.

On attitude:

The dove says, Coo, coo, what shall I do?

I can scarce maintain two.

Pooh, pooh, says the wren, I have ten,

And keep them all like gentlemen.

And again -

For every evil under the sun,

There is a remedy, or there is none.

If there be one, try and find it;

If there be none, never mind it.

And lastly:

Hinx, minx, the old witch winks,

The fat begins to fry,

Nobody at home but jumping Joan,

Father, mother and I.

Stick, stock, stone dead,

Blind man can't see,

Every knave will have a slave,

You or I must be he.