Every small town has its charm. 
Thermopolis has several, 
one of which is the Wyoming Dinosaur Center. 
I see fossils and bones every day 
inside our home and in the retail shop where my husband and I both work. 
What interests me in natural history museums are models. 
In large part because they are made by artists. 
Artists who are forced to be creative within strict parameters.
How can I be creative, spiritually and otherwise, within the parameters of my present-day life?
What must I do to find my joy?
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
What do you do 
On a vacation I’m pretty amenable to suggestions. As long as the suggestions don’t involve hiking in a treeless environment in temperatures over one hundred degrees, or driving at night, I’m game. That’s how I ended up eye to eye with an ichthyosaur: a sculpture of one, to be exact.
My husband, Rob, wanted to go to the Berlin Ichthyosaur Museum, but naturally, after driving a mere four hours out of our way, it was closed. Like forlorn children, we peered through the windows at the in-situ bones and life-size replica of the extinct marine reptile caught forever swimming through the air.
At least it was only ninety-eight degrees
with heat rising from the metal roof like reverse shivers.
I could see why this place had given up its ramshackle ghost.
And I was ready to abandon it as well.
Even if it did have a few trees alongside the tumbleweeds.
Yet I stayed until Rob had explored everything he wanted to see because that’s what partners do: support one other while silently whining. And before too long, as dusk was falling, we were back on the road—forty-seven miles of dangerous, rough gravel road to be exact. But I was amenable to that because Rob was driving.
I am thankful for: Living on the edge of the western United States. The very end.
Feathers in the sand.
Dew-kissed dahlias.
Making art on a regular basis like this Little Soul entitled There Was a Tree.
Coy koi.
Potted gazanias on our back porch.
A husband who likes to hike.
Our dog Remy, especially when he’s sweetly sleeping.
Fire hydrants.
Helicopter seed begonias.
Succulent geckos.
And headland flowers that grow by the edge of the sea.
This week I had minor surgery on my face—18 stitches—to remove a spot of basal cell carcinoma. I thought I would be able to return to routine activities within 24 hours, but this was not so. I felt thickheaded and unable to perform simple tasks like washing laundry or taking walks. So I had to make do with contemplating natural objects inside the house. As I wandered from room to room in a mental fog, I realized nature was all around me, from artwork I’d made to stones I had collected on the shores of Lake Michigan.
Shed antlers decorate buffets, bureaus and a dollhouse whose chimney spouts a plume of prairie grass “smoke.” Bird nests abound, fashioned of twigs, yarn, even shimmering milkweed seed parachutes. Fossilized corals, pine cones and bones are plentiful, as are stones and dried plants. Papery snakeskin encircles an ostrich egg behind a glass-doored cabinet. A lampshade of lichen-covered birch bark and another crafted from limpet shells glow softly. Nature is everywhere.
Artwork “The Path” © Sondra Sula. All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 