A big pile of new books waiting to be read
Wonderful bouquet of wild flowers on my table
New tea waiting to be tasted
Delicious meals
Finishing a fun knitting project and starting on a new and exciting one
Waiting for a wonderful snail mail to arrive my post box
Mini-home-spa with Morning Calm products
Prepare a birthday snail mail for a far away friend
Music
and
OF COURSE SOME DARK CHOCOLATE...*smiling*...
Happy weekend
my
sweet ones!
Mmm, sounds like heaven!
ReplyDeleteHope your new neighbours are behaving themselves!
Have a lovely weekend dear friend.
xx
thank you my dear friend!
Deletexxxx
sounds like fabulous self-care. best wishes and happy weekend to you.
ReplyDeletei have been quite good at practising self care the last years...it didn't come easely but VERY glad now that i have been able to learn it : )
DeleteLåter underbart!
ReplyDeleteha det jätte mysigt!
stor och varm kram på dig min söta!
å så koselig å se deg her inne,
Deletegjorde meg glad!: )
stor-glad-varm
klem
Veldig mye bedre blir det ikke, V. Alt det gode finnes i det enkle; en blomst, en bok, smil og sjokolade.
ReplyDeleteGod klem til deg,
Lilli
: )
Deletego'klemmer
It sounds like your weekend will be lovely! Enjoy!
ReplyDeletethank you
Deleteand
enjoy yours too!: )
It sounds so poetic an relaxing weekend!!!! Have a very good time!!!
ReplyDeletethank you
Deletesweet lottilou,
wishing you a beautiful weekend.
V!!! Thanking the comments and info you make in my site, I wanted to leave you here the poem in which you have commented (because I love it). It is writen by one of the best writers we had in Argentina (if not THE best): Jorge Luis Borges. Here it goes.
ReplyDeleteAnother Poem of Gifts
I want to give thanks to the divine
Labyrinth of causes and effects
For the diversity of beings
That form this singular universe,
For Reason, that will never give up its dream
Of a map of the labyrinth,
For Helen’s face and the perseverence of Ulysses,
For love, which lets us see others
As God sees them,
For the solid diamond and the flowing water,
For Algebra, a palace of exact crystals,
For the mystic coins of Angelus Silesius,
For Schopenhauer,
Who perhaps deciphered the universe,
For the blazing of fire,
That no man can look at without an ancient wonder,
For mahogany, cedar, and sandalwood,
For bread and salt,
For the mystery of the rose
That spends all its color and can not see it,
For certain eves and days of 1955,
For the hard riders who, on the plains,
Drive on the catttle and the dawn,
For mornings in Motevideo,
For the art of friendship,
For Socrates’ last day,
For the words spoken one twilight
For that dream of Islam that embraced
A thousand nights and a night,
For that other dream of Hell,
Of the tower of cleansing fire
And of the celestial spheres,
For Swedenborg,
Who talked with the angles in London streets
For the secret and immemorial rivers
That converge in me,
For the language that, centuries ago, I spoke in
Northumberland,
For the sword and harp of the Saxons,
For the sea, which is a shining desert
And a secret code for things we do not know
And an epitaph for the Norsemen,
For the word music of England,
For the word music of Germany,
For gold, that shines in verses,
For epic winter,
For the title of a book I have not read: Gesta Dei per Francos,
For Verlaine, innocent as the birds,
For crystal prisms and bronze weights,
For the tiger’s stripes,
For the high towers of San Francisco and Manhattan
Island,
For mornings in Texas,
For that Sevillian who composed the Moral Epistle
And whose name, as he would have wished, we do not
know,
For Seneca and Lucan, both of Cordova,
Who, before there was Spanish, had written
All Spanish literature,
For gallant, noble, geometric chess,
For Zeno’s tortoise and Royce’s map,
For the medicinal smell of eucalyptus trees,
For speech, which can be taken for wisdom,
For forgetfulness, which annuls or modifies the past,
For habits,
Which repeat us and confirm us in our image like a
mirror,
For morning, that gives us the illusion of a new
beginning,
For night, its darkness and its astronomy,
For the bravery and happiness of others,
For my country, sensed in jasmine flowers
For Whitman and Francis of Assisi, who already wrote
this poem,
For the fact that the poem is inexhaustible
And becomes one with the sum of all created things
And will never reach its last verse
And varies according to its writers
For Frances Haslam, who begged her children’s pardon
For dying so slowly,
For the minutes that precede sleep,
For sleep and death,
Those two hidden treasures,
For the intimate gifts I do not mention,
For music, that mysterious form of time.
THANK YOU
Deletedear gabriela!
i SO understand why this is one of your favourite poems, WHAT A POEM!!
aha! a twin soul....
ReplyDeletehttp://i1115.photobucket.com/albums/k550/cloudgatherer/2012-05-31_17-57-54_109.jpg
books and food...both feasts in themselves and both equally as sustaining and delicious!
yes a twin soul..: )
Deleteohh and how nice to see:
we have some of the same wildflowers in our bouquets!
oh you're something wonderful!
ReplyDeletekisssssssses
: )
Deleteyou 2,
KISSES
What a lovely start of the weekend, Vibeke. Enjoy!
ReplyDeleteoh thank you dear mette
Deleteand
i wish you the very best of the rest of the weekend to you too!
maybe you are going to the market with a friend...
hugs
oh ! you picked them ? nearby ? what graceful company while you read . . .
ReplyDeletewent away for the weekend, without chocolate - it was hard )
x
yes i picked them by the roadside just a little walk from my home! i LOVE wild flowers....beautiful...
DeleteWITHOUT chocolate....what a hard thing....ha-ha...you should make "him" your travelcompanion next time : )