Nuggets of wisdom buried in the debris of a compost pile

When I first began writing my column, the name I was to call it came easily. My habit of contemplation is rather like meandering along a wooded lane, or beside a bubbling brook, or, sometimes it can even be like wandering down a dry, dusty road. The point is that I never seem to follow my muse in a straight line, hence, “Meanderings.”
 
The strangest things can stimulate the feet of my thoughts with an “itch” to begin their meanderings...simple things like birds squabbling, or the line of a song, or a sweet scent that stirs some distant memory; things that gently move through the swirls of thought, around the corners of memory or past the landmarks of time searching, searching for construct, form and expression.
 

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