Category Archives: NATURE: PUBLISHED


Life has been very busy for the last year. Four contract writing jobs. Searching for and landing a permanent job, while trying to?keep up with those four very different contract positions. Moving into an apartment. (Not good). Looking for and buying a home. (Very good). Moving out of the apartment?into the new home. (Very, very good-and the lake view is gorgeous!)

I’ve moved four times in five years. I do not like cardboard anymore. Not the color. Not the smell. But, I love my new place!

In the midst of all, I discovered INSTAGRAM!! Yahoo! Instagram is fun! Instagram opens the door to?creativity and imagination. Instagram is possibility. Instagram makes me smile.

And, when I get my new business launched, Instagram will be my?business partner and this will make me happy!

Thank you Kevin Systrom and Mike Krieger. You rock! What you made inspires me – and millions and millions of other passionate?Instagram devotees!

If you, dear Blue Sky View follower, would like to take a look at my Instagram, the link is:

Anne Marie Hunter Instagram




Easter Sunday 2016

Easter Sunday Mount Ashland

Icy spring?winds sing,

Through mountain pines flocked with Easter snow,

Fresh?songs of love and hope

On Easter last year, a good?friend, my dog and I hiked Mt. Ashland during a wildly windy?snow storm, nearly a blizzard. I wrote the poem, above, to honor our joyful?Easter celebration,?playing?in untouched snow drifts and chasing each other around sky-high evergreen trees. Our laughter echoed in the majestic silence, cradling?us amid the unspeakable beauty. Though surrounded by winter’s?purest and finest, if one looked and listened?closely?between the snowflakes, spring was whispering her promise of rebirth.

Today, Easter Sunday, 2016, I left early for church and walked out into a silent, serene?snowfall. Enormous, wet?snowflakes gently drifted from the dark gray sky, covering the ground. Again, through the snow, I felt the promise we are assured every year–even the?coldest, longest?winter will end and spring will come. Nature, and our spirits, will bloom and flower once again. In a?world that doesn’t offer many guarantees, we have this promise and can hold this hope, even when winter is at its very harshest.

?In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?Albert Camus


National Puppy Day

Today is National Puppy Day.

My thought is this: there?is no random coincidence about the fact that the words ‘Dog’ and ‘God’ are each other’s mirrors.

God is Dog?spelled backwards. Julia Cameron wrote a book about it. So did many others.

Thank God for dogs.

And, puppies.


The Wise Sage….

The sage dwells among those things that can never be lost.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?Change Tzuly

I read this profound quote recently and thought about what, exactly, those things are that can never be lost. Life is unutterably temporal, so what are those diamond-like slivers of light and love that are not.
Please add your own comments. Specifically, from your point of view, what are those things in life that can’t be lost?
My own “can’t-be-lost” list follows:
Dreams that came true
Dreams that still might come true
Your own God-given talent – unique from any other’s
Perseverance through?seemingly insurmountable fears and obstacles–that go on much longer than you ever imagined they would or could
Goals accomplished?against all odds–with grit, guts and soul you didn’t know you owned
Love you gave to another
Love you received from another
Your shamelessly, in-love heart placed in the hands of another–with abandon, regardless of outcome
Your first kiss
The first time you kissed your first child
Your most memorable?birthday
Music that made your heart happy – then, listened to countless times over?with the same joyful effect
Music you danced to
Art you swooned over
The moment?you had the heart and wisdom?to recognize the depth of another’s sorrow
The moment you offered compassion to that fellow human
The day you saw your own mercy, compassion or kindness in action–and the happiness and freedom it brought to that?someone
The day you realized life will go on, despite a broken heart
The day you realized that broken heart is no longer your own headline news
A compliment from friend or stranger that lands you on top of the moon
Giving a compliment or smile that sends someone into the happiness?stratosphere
A special, always-there-for-you animal that made you laugh, and loved you, without ceasing, every day–for years and years
More Prayers

Your list?


Recipe for Beauty

Setting sun.

Still October?pond.

End-of-day sunlight?crafting?silver glass from cool water.

Fall’s best offering,

Leaves in red, yellow, orange,

weave shafts of golden light


that dance across the liquid mirror

to the silent song?of dusk.


My Dog

Each day, I look into Mickey’s face many times. In the morning, when I tell him to get out of bed–so I can make the bed; when I leave for work each day and wish, each and every day, I could take him with me; coming home from work and barely able to look into his face because he’s so exuberant–his face a blur as he races?around the apartment so happy?I’m home; in the car, when we’re at a stoplight and I pet his ears and spend stoplight moments enjoying his utter cool and beauty.

But, recently, when I look into that face I love, I see more gray hair (a lot more). I see a twinge of pain in the middle of our runs when he slows down, limping a little. I stop, looking into his face, and see the heart and spirit of a puppy whose 10 year-old-body doesn’t quite feel like a puppy anymore.

My heart feels fear and pain about loss I have not yet faced but which I know will come. My dog is my everything and I wonder how this happened. My life, for most of my life, has been?full and blessed with the love of friends and family, as well as great fun and adventure. But somehow, events transpired and unfolded over the past several years, and my life is much different than it was, or than I expected it to be at this time. And, my dog is my everything.

An?unexpected crossing of paths (actually moments) between me and a lanky black puppy in 2006, (that redefined my life, even more than it was being redefined at that time), has landed me in the place of being head over heels in love with a dog who I will outlive, and yet, who gives me the heart to live?and the example?of how to do it with zest, passion and joie de vivre.

I choose to live in the present, for the most part. Silver dog hair on my car seat, as well as?on my dog’s pretty face, propel?me to the future. A place I really don’t want to see?without him.


Easter Sunday, Mt. Ashland

Icy spring?winds sing,

Through mountain pines flocked with Easter snow,

Fresh?songs of love and hope


Native American Beading

I have a passion for Native American culture and a profound respect for Native American peoples. The following article was born out of this passion and respect.

Native American Beading



For many summers when I was a child, I had a garden. It was a tiny garden, all my own. And, in my garden, I planted just one thing–radishes. I didn?t plant radishes because I liked to eat radishes. Far from it. I just loved to grow radishes. The idea that those humble brown seeds, nuggets smaller than peas and wrinkled all over, could grow into such beautiful, bright red vegetables, topped off with those lush, dark green leaves, was a marvel to me.
During the spring, summer and fall, all of my brothers and sisters grew their own gardens, too. They planted more highly anticipated, admired crops such as juicy strawberries, treasured blueberries or pumpkins with those glamorous golden blossoms that transformed into orange horse carriages in October. Then, there were my radishes, which went pretty much unnoticed by everyone but me.
My tiny patch of soil (at the back of our backyard), was about a square yard in size and tucked behind three immense-to-me pine trees. My big enterprise consisted of a hoe, a soup spoon for hole-digging and one package of Cherry Belle or Crimson Giant seeds. I loved the very beautiful radish drawings on the front of the packages.
Barefoot weather and radish planting season arrived together in Kansas each year, toward the end of April. I was single-minded about my radish garden. As soon my Mom bought the seeds, I got to work. My first step was to clear the garden and make the dirt clump-free and ready to plant. I?d pick a sunny afternoon after school (they were all sunny then, it seemed), to clear rocks, slivers of brick and other winter leftovers. I tossed them across the fence into the neighbor?s yard or behind me–anywhere just to get the debris out of the way.
Then, with my hands wrapped around the smooth wooden handle of a hoe twice my height, I broke up the lumpy light brown dirt until it was a soft dark brown, just right for nurturing those wrinkly little miracles.
Time seemed suspended during the preparation and planting. When the dirt was ready, I used the soup spoon to dig the holes. They were about an inch deep and a couple of inches apart. I usually planted five or six rows. After the holes were dug, I opened the package and poured the seeds into my cupped palm, careful not to spill any, or as few as possible. I dropped the seeds, one at a time (or two or three), into the holes. Then, I pushed the dirt back over each hole. I watered them with several partially filled buckets, lugged from the hose spigot at the side of the house. When the planting was done. I stood and looked over my accomplishment, pretty proud of myself.
The waiting began. Each day for several weeks, I walked out to my garden looking for that first up-and-out-of the-shadow-of-the-soil green leaf tip, promising that radishes were on their way. I watered them, forgetting only occasionally, I think.
One package of radish seeds yielded weeks of magical harvests. Pulling radish bunches out of the ground captivated me. To my eye, they were shiny red perfection, flocked with the brown dirt that protected them as they burst out of their tiny hard-shelled, furrowed cocoons. With the latest bunch clasped in my hand, I would walk confidently inside and set them on the wood block island in the center of the kitchen. I walked around the island several times. Best bunch ever, I thought. Just amazing.
I don?t remember much about the radishes after the harvest. I think they made their way into salads occasionally and my Dad liked them, too. But, my happiness had crested when they came out of the ground.
Also posted in PEOPLE: PUBLISHED

Your Rainbow

I wish you were here today
To see the rainbow that bridged the mountains,
Moments after a morning rain.
We would have watched,
Amazed to silence and perhaps reluctant to blink,
As the crystal ribbon of light kissed our eyes,
Becoming a memory?in our hearts
To reach for on lonely, starless nights.


For Terrie