She was torn and battered. Gaping holes completely filigreed one of her wings, with bits missing from the other one as well. And still, she flew. more “Flying with broken wings.” …

Over long dark pants, heavy shoes, and an assortment of t-shirts, they had pulled on fluffy pink tutus. Some carried riding crops, some wore fancy hats.

They were not of any particular age group. Or economic background. Or race. Or education. What they shared in common is that they were all women. Women who have experienced cancer. They are Women Beyond Cancer, according to the name of the group in which they participate. And this day they were dancing. Outside, in the warm sun and cool breeze. Dancing with a horse named Prince. more “Dances with horses.” …

Frodo was bred to race. Frodo, however, amiably declined.

A large, grey, beautiful Thoroughbred, Frodo simply refused to conform to the life of a racehorse. He just didn’t have the heart for it. Instead, his heart was much more inclined toward building relationships. Rather than compete, he preferred to socialize. Rather than train for the opportunity to stand grandly inside a winner’s circle, he inherently walked gently around in the corners of people’s souls. more “Frodo: From racehorse to war horse.” …

She was no bigger than the nail on my little finger. A tiny bit of winged life. I found her floating on the surface of the water in the dog’s drinking bowl. She was pale and ghost like, wings spread in perfect symmetry. more ““Just living is not enough,” said the butterfly – Hans Christian Anderson” …

There is something rather poignant and oddly perfect about receiving coloring books from your older sister for your birthday. Especially when you’re both long, long past your mid-century marks. It’s as if she is saying: “I remember,” as only an older sister can do. more “Coloring books from my sister.” …

I like to believe it waits just for me. It is, after all, only a few blocks from my house, with parts of it almost hidden. It is an old brick wall of undetermined age. Cloaked beneath heavy ropes of wisteria and ivy, it is slowly falling away, clutching pieces of itself together with decaying iron bars still inset in its impotent sides, protecting nothing. more “Abandoned beauty.” …

He was barely two weeks old. The colt with no name. He had a sort of air of expectation about him. Like he thought maybe someone would be taking him back home soon. And he would be able to see his mother again. He was starting to get hungry; and I suspect he wanted very much to be able to taste and smell and feel his mother’s warmth. more “The colt with no name.” …

A spirit came knocking at my door the other night. Twice it knocked – five raps each time. And then it sat its misty, transparent, ethereal self down on a chair just outside the door, awaiting my answer. I saw it through the window. more “A ghostly knocking at my door.” …

The tiny kitten was found in a window box of flowers. Sitting among the tulips. Discovered by a young girl named Rosie.

Leading up to that moment, the innocent animal had been pushed out into the dusty street with a broom, soaked with a hose, chased by a dog, and threatened by a woman wielding a stick. And she was homeless. But she never lost hope. And, finally, she was safe. She was found. She belonged. more “Lessons from a storybook cat.” …

When Groucho Marx said: “If you aren’t having fun, you’re doing something wrong,” he probably didn’t have Aiken resident and engineer, Steve Hand, specifically in mind. Nor was he likely referring to black holes, time warps, gravitational waves and fourth dimensions – or two-mile-long vacuum tubes, laser beams, 40 years of invention, creation, innovation, and supposition – or a long-anticipated, often doubted, once-in-a-lifetime, scientific breakthrough that, when converted to sound, was no more than a small, faint, “chirp” – perhaps as if it were one long, collective, exhaled breath that could be heard all over the globe.

But, according to Steve Hand, it was breathtakingly fun. more “Having fun … doing something right.” …