This is finals week. Strange and wonderful to think that one semester of my college education is over. Actually, that doesn't quite convey the correct note. My freshman year of college is half over. There, does that add in the little bit of panic? August seems like yesterday but the year is half over already and when I get back to school it will be 2007 already! Oy vey.
At any rate, this is not the point. The point is that a) I should be studying for my finals not blogging and therefore I haven't posted either of the things I meant to post so far this week and the poem for the week may go unposted as well and b) after finals I go home for a month where I have no wireless and therefore may not be able to post often. Sorry.
On another note entirely, I discovered The Common Room today. All right, all right, I had read a few other articles, mostly when Krista linked to them. At any rate, I actually read through the blog for the first time today and I enjoyed it greatly. I don't always agree on religious/political issues but then I don't always agree with almost everyone. And what's wrong with a little civilized disagreement? Furthermore, their taste in books is very good indeed.
Final note--I'm going to be updating the links to the right hand side of the page (I feel like a stewardess: "Here you will find the oxygen masks") and my profile which I decided today is remarkably boring. This will probably be done before I leave but I make no guarantees (actually it will probably be done in the next fifteen minutes when what I really should be doing is going to bed so I get up at a decent hour tomorrow so I have time to study so I do well on my finals). And finally, I updated my Tolkien website--at least, I updated the looks. I will get around to the content soon.
Methought there was something else I wanted to say, but methinks me hast forgotten what said thing was and therefore it must go unsaid. Alas.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Poem
Strange thing
That God's beauty should be small--
A blade of grass or the tip of a wing;
Yet fill the sky
With the glory of spring.
March 23, 2006
That God's beauty should be small--
A blade of grass or the tip of a wing;
Yet fill the sky
With the glory of spring.
March 23, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Housekeeping
Just a few quick things.
~After the "Tea and Thanksgiving" post I was inundated by spammers. Not good. So I started using word verification to try to keep it down. Since then I haven't had any problems. So if you were wondering when that suddenly appeared there's the story. Probably more than you wanted to know
~I won't have wireless access from Dec. 15-Jan. 15 so my time online may be somewhat limited and sporadic. I'm sorry. I won't have disappeared off the face of the earth and hopefully I'll return with wonderful thoughts ready to astound you all. Of course, I might not return with such greatness, but oh well!
~I can't remember if I've said this before, but if you want to know when I update the Changealarm thingy is wonderful. I've used it before for other websites and I can personally guarantee that it won't send you spam. It only e-mails you when the website you signed up for is updated.
~After the "Tea and Thanksgiving" post I was inundated by spammers. Not good. So I started using word verification to try to keep it down. Since then I haven't had any problems. So if you were wondering when that suddenly appeared there's the story. Probably more than you wanted to know
~I won't have wireless access from Dec. 15-Jan. 15 so my time online may be somewhat limited and sporadic. I'm sorry. I won't have disappeared off the face of the earth and hopefully I'll return with wonderful thoughts ready to astound you all. Of course, I might not return with such greatness, but oh well!
~I can't remember if I've said this before, but if you want to know when I update the Changealarm thingy is wonderful. I've used it before for other websites and I can personally guarantee that it won't send you spam. It only e-mails you when the website you signed up for is updated.
Presentation of the Theotokos
The Presentation of the Theotokos to the Temple--Nov. 21/Dec. 4
When the Theotokos was born Joachim and Anna were already old. They realized that they would soon repose and therefore it was necessary to prepare for her future. St. Anna had promised the Theotokos to the Lord so they decided to take her to the temple in Jerusalem where she would live with other young virgins. The Mother of God was three when this occurred. Although she was so young she climbed all the steps of the temple by herself. The high priest took her into the Holy of Holies, where even he could only go once a year, thus signifying that she was holier than even this place. She then stayed in the Temple praying, studying and spinning and weaving until she was fourteen when she was betrothed to the Righteous Joseph.
I am somewhat attached to this feast day since it is my name day!
Source: Presentation
Sunday, December 03, 2006
December's Quote
From "In the Bleak Midwinter:
"What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,--
Yet what I can give Him,
Give my heart."
~Christina Rossetti
"What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,--
Yet what I can give Him,
Give my heart."
~Christina Rossetti
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Sunrise
Red and pink and gold and blue,
Purple and cream and peach;
Such abandoned careless glory--
Does my heart still beat?
March 23, 2006
Purple and cream and peach;
Such abandoned careless glory--
Does my heart still beat?
March 23, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Tea and Thanksgiving
After reading THIS lovely post of Lanier's, I found myself inspired to take a moment for tea today. I'm glad I did. I have tea almost every morning--it is my pick me up since I hate coffee--but there is something about tea time which is very special. I am a college student living in a dorm and I don't have a tea pot or nice china, but I did what I could. Rather than hurrying through my tea I savored it. Today I had Celestial Seasonings' Lemon Zinger, a tea I like better without sugar than with. I ate a bit of left-over pad thai and a oatmeal chocolate chip cookie with it. A strange combination, but it worked somehow or other.
And soon it will be Thanksgiving. I like Thanksgiving not so much for the turkey and the cranberry sauce but because I need to be reminded to thank God daily for what he has given me. I am a worry-wort by nature and I tend to get caught up in the troubles of the day and forget about the good things. It is surprising sometimes, when you stop to think, how many things there are to be thankful for in any given day. Even those that may seem like a burden--the rain for example. I actually enjoy rain but sometimes I allow myself to get caught up in a complaining spirit and grouse bitterly about it. But when I stop to think I can see that I really do enjoy it.
Finally, one of my favorite poems, which somehow seems Thanksgiving-y at the moment.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
~Gerald Manley Hopkins
And soon it will be Thanksgiving. I like Thanksgiving not so much for the turkey and the cranberry sauce but because I need to be reminded to thank God daily for what he has given me. I am a worry-wort by nature and I tend to get caught up in the troubles of the day and forget about the good things. It is surprising sometimes, when you stop to think, how many things there are to be thankful for in any given day. Even those that may seem like a burden--the rain for example. I actually enjoy rain but sometimes I allow myself to get caught up in a complaining spirit and grouse bitterly about it. But when I stop to think I can see that I really do enjoy it.
Finally, one of my favorite poems, which somehow seems Thanksgiving-y at the moment.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
~Gerald Manley Hopkins
St. Martin of Tours
St. Martin of Tours--Nov. 11/24
Many people know the story of St. Martin--the dashing young Roman officer who cut half of his cloak off for a beggar and then saw a vision of Christ. But do you know the whole story? The rest of St. Martin's life is widely unkown.
St. Martin was Roman, the son of a tribune in the Imperial Horse Guard. He became interested in Christianity at a young age and began attending church at age ten although he was not baptized. When he was fifteen he himself became a cavalry officer. He was stationed in France where the famous event with the beggar took place. After his vision he was baptized and two years later left the army. He became a disciple of St. Hilary of Poitiers in Tours. However, St. Hilary was exiled because he opposed Arianism and St. Martin returned to Italy. He too suffered at the hands of the Arians and left to become a hermit. When St. Hilary returned to France St. Martin rejoined him, eventually founding a monastery. He traveled throughout what was then called Gaul, preaching. Finally, in 371 A.D. he was consecrated bishop of Tours. He preferred to live in his monastery, Marmoutier, but he was a diligent father to the church in Tours. He died in 391.
Sources:
Icon of St. Martin
Life of St. Martin
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Russian Teacakes
1 1/2 c margarine, softened
1 c powdered sugar
1/2 tsp. vanilla
3 1/3 c flour
3/4 tsp salt
1 c nuts (chopped walnuts work best)
powdered sugar
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix margarine, one cup powdered sugar and vanilla. Mix in flour, salt, and nuts until dough holds together.
Shape dough into 1-inch balls. Place about 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 15-20 minutes.
Roll in powdered sugar while warm. Cool. Roll in powdered sugar again.
1 c powdered sugar
1/2 tsp. vanilla
3 1/3 c flour
3/4 tsp salt
1 c nuts (chopped walnuts work best)
powdered sugar
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix margarine, one cup powdered sugar and vanilla. Mix in flour, salt, and nuts until dough holds together.
Shape dough into 1-inch balls. Place about 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 15-20 minutes.
Roll in powdered sugar while warm. Cool. Roll in powdered sugar again.
NaNo Excerpt
What could be more appropriate for a prose piece during the month of November? You will see a chapter of my novel in all its....um....glory.
Chapter 7
Christopher Visits Again and Reveals His Secret, Also a Foggy Day and What Happened in it, Also a Visit From the Solicitor
Jeanne was washing the plates after dinner and singing along to the Verdi which was playing on the radio when she heard a knock on the kitchen door. She dried her hands and opened it. Christopher Sheldon stood there with a bunch of radishes in his hands. “I thought…I thought perhaps you would like these. I can’t possibly eat all of them and you were the only people I could think of. Old Timothy hates the things.” She smiled.
“Of course. Thank you so much. Won’t you come in?”
He hesitated and then nodded and came in.
“I was just washing up. Sit down, I’ll be done in a moment.” She turned the radio down as she walked past. She was horribly embarrassed at the thought that he had heard her singing but there was nothing she could do about it now.
“This is a very large kitchen,” he said.
“Yes. The whole house is very large for only two people and even larger for one. I don’t know how Aunt Jean did it all these years. She took wonderful care of the house considering she’s sixty and all by herself. Although she is remarkably strong except for being a little confused about time once in awhile. But she let the garden go all to seed. I’ve been working in it and it is starting to look presentable again.”
“It looked very lovely this morning. I’m sorry, this is strange, but I was under the impression that you are French.”
“Yes, half-French. And I was born and grew up there.”
“But you have no accent at all.”
“Well, Maman and Papa always spoke both languages to us. Maman used French and Papa English and so we learned both.”
“Which did they use when they spoke to each other? And who is we?”
“Oh, they used both. It usually depended on who was starting the conversation. And we are my brother Nicolas and I. Nicolas is in school in Paris, studying to be an architect. Maman was a teacher until she married Papa and now she takes care of us all. Papa is a greengrocer.”
Christopher looked at the book lying on the table. “Who’s been reading Christina Rossetti?”
“I have. It’s sad, the number of books I have never read.”
“Do you enjoy her?”
“Immensely. Not all of them of course, but there are so many that are very beautiful. And you?”
“Well, I suppose so, yes. There are times when she is very much a woman’s writer but there are times when she is very universal.”
“I suppose I can see that. There, I’m done. Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
“Oh no, I just had supper before I came. And I wouldn’t want to make more dishes for you to wash.” He smiled and she noticed the way the corner of his eyes crinkled up. It was in that moment that she realized that she was in a fair way to having an infatuation with him. She was not sure if this delighted or worried her. After all three meetings does not tell you overmuch about a person’s character.
Whatever either one of them might have said after that was forever left unsaid because both of them distinctly heard a bump in the next room. Christopher motioned to her to be quiet and very carefully picked up the kitchen poker. They tiptoed quietly to the door and saw a light underneath. Christopher gently turned the handle and the door swung to reveal Jean sitting in front of the big stone fireplace. She looked up at them and smiled. “Come in my dears. I have just been sitting here in front of the fire and dreaming and then I went to put another log on and tripped over the dogs. Have you made the acquaintance of the dogs yet? My father had them cast when he was quite a young man. He was very particular of them and we were never allowed to play with them. My dear Jeanne, I am afraid I have been very bad company and a worse hostess these past few days. There are times when I am afraid my mind wanders back into the past and the recent events sent me back there. I beg your pardon.” Jeanne bent over her and kissed her.
“Dear aunt, you needn’t worry.” She sat down on the chair next to her.
“Christopher is that you?” Jean asked.
“Yes. I brought radishes.”
“Oh good, we can have them in a salad with the lettuce. We may have to give you lettuce. It seems there is a good deal out there.”
“Mountains,” Jeanne groaned.
Jean sighed and stood up. “Well, I am off to bed. I am very tired and tomorrow I want to start cleaning the attic out a bit. It is quite ridiculous the way we have let things accumulate up there. I am afraid we Hargraves have always been thrifty and have never ever thrown anything that could possibly be used away.”
She walked out of the room; somehow a more dignified figure than she ever had been before. Christopher and Jeanne sat together in silence.
“I wonder why on earth whoever came in and wrecked the library did it. P.C. Andrews seemed to think that it was some random and senseless thing but it seemed so…thorough. And I would have thought that a village rascal would have left dirty messages scribbled somewhere. It’s almost as though they were looking for something. But what on earth could it have been?”
Christopher shook his head. “I don’t know. Has your aunt ever told you any stories about a treasure in the family or anything of that sort?”
“No. I know we were quite wealthy at one time but I don’t know when it was exactly or what happened to change that. As far as I know it was some quite normal thing like bankruptcy or having to bribe someone or blackmail or five years of bad crops in a row. Nothing that would lead to a hidden treasure.”
“Well, that rules that out then. Unless it’s something quite obvious that is hidden under all of our noses—something that didn’t have a particular value when it was first bought or made but now does.”
“But who would know to look for something like that?”
There was a long moment of awkward silence.
“Christopher?”
He sighed. “Rosamonde Delacroix. She’s an art collector specializing in obscure and valuable antiques. She also happens to be quite unscrupulous.”
“I knew there was something about her. But how do you know all this?”
“At one time I knew her quite well. In fact, we were engaged for a bit but when I found out about her I broke it off. If she was capable of doing anything to get an antique she was just as capable of doing anything to get whatever else she might want and I did not want to pay that price.”
“She is very beautiful,” Jeanne said quietly.
“Yes. And she has many good qualities. But I am afraid they are being swallowed up by her urge to have whatever she desires and her ruthlessness in getting it. She came to see me after she arrived here. She wanted to know all about your house and family. I told her that I knew absolutely nothing about you all. She didn’t believe me but she spent the better part of an hour trying to vamp me. Again.”
“But now you do know us,” Jeanne said in a tight voice. He stared at her.
“Jeanne! You don’t think that I would do something like that do you?”
“Not consciously or willingly, no. But you said yourself she is ruthless. And if she is ruthless then she could quite easily find a way to use you.” Jeanne rubbed her forehead as she spoke. She was very tired and felt more than ever that she was about to cry.
“I promise you on my honor that I am not trying to lay the ground for whatever unscrupulous ideas Rosamonde has in her head. And I also promise on my honor that I will not tell her anything about you at any time. She has absolutely nothing to blackmail me with besides the fact that I once wore yellow socks.”
“Really and truly? Yellow?”
“Yellow. Do you believe me?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t, but I have so few people to talk to or trust that I can’t rule out one of them. And I believe you will keep your promise.”
“I will.”
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten.
“Well,” he said, getting up, “it’s time for me to head along. If you ever need help you know you have only to call on me.”
“I know.”
“And I’m glad your aunt is feeling better.”
“I am too. Good night.”
“Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow…”
She looked confused.
“Surely you know that! Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet.” She shook her head. “Ah, you’ve killed me! Romeo and Juliet is not, in my opinion, that wonderful, but you must read it because it’s Shakespeare. And Hamlet is incredible.”
“I will make a note of it. Good night Christopher.”
“Good night. Sleep well.”
Her thoughts as she climbed the many stairs to her attic lair were confused. On the one hand she implicitly trusted Christopher but on the other she was afraid of Rosamonde Delacroix and what she might do. And, looking into her heart of hearts, she had to admit that she was jealous of her as well, jealous that Christopher had once loved her, jealous of her power over him.
“Oh dear, I’m setting myself up for a fall I’m afraid,” she sighed. Her sheets were refreshingly cool as she slid under them and outside the stars winked coldly. She could see Orion. Something in his remoteness comforted her and she turned over and fell asleep.
The next morning was cool and grey. From the top of the Hill they could not se the village except for the church spire. This was not a day to work in the garden or to go hither and thither. It was not even a day to go down into the village. Rather it was a day for books and tea and blankets in the library, for good music on the radio and for warm soup in the evening. Jean agreed and they spent the day in silence broken only by the turning of pages, the Mozart on the radio and the crackling of the apple wood fire. Jeanne fixed a good lunch and brought it into the library on trays. After supper she played the piano for awhile. She had not played in a long time and at first she was very rusty but as she kept playing some of her old skill returned. She reminded herself to start practicing every day. Her days would now be even fuller. She realized again that judging a life by its outward hustle and bustle is false and even wrong. Only the products of the heart can really be the basis for a judging a life and some of these are never manifested. For the first time she really understood why it is considered a sin to judge another person. No one can ever really see into another’s heart and therefore judging them truly right or wrong is impossible.
It is strange how much can happen inside a person in a short time. The time of the heart does not move as regulated time does. It is more elastic, stretching and retracting. Jeanne had been putting away the piano books while she was thinking. It had only taken her a few minutes but she felt as though her heart had grown several months in that time. She had experienced the same thing when she was reading or painting.
The kitchen was, as always, dark and lonely but she turned on the light and sang Pachelbel’s Canon while she did the dishes and suddenly the darkness did not seem so dark. Sometimes it is small silly gestures like these that sway the balance between light and dark—bandaging a child’s bleeding knee, planting geraniums by the side of a house, or singing in a lonely kitchen. Jeanne was not conscious that she was swaying anything at all, but she did not hate the kitchen as she always had before and her heart was light as she went up to bed.
The next morning was foggy again but they were running low on supplies and Jeanne decided that she had to go to Scardale and restock. She did not trust the bicycle and she was afraid of getting lost in the fog so she decided to walk down with a big market basket. The road was unfamiliar in the mist and Jeanne stumbled several times and almost lost her way several other times. Eventually she reached the store which after the cold clamminess of the fog was wonderfully bright and warm. Mrs. Ackley welcomed her kindly and she was able to find almost everything she needed. Mrs. Ackley was adding up her purchases when someone else came into the store. She turned to see who it was. Rosamonde Delacroix in the flesh. Jeanne couldn’t imagine what had brought her there. Rosamonde cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled a little contemptuously.
“I hope your aunt is in good health,” she said.
“She is quite well, thank you,” Jeanne replied. She did not know what Rosamonde was hoping to gain by this but she was resolved not to tell her anything at all.
“I am glad to hear it. I had heard that she sometimes suffers from confusion, but perhaps I was wrong. Chris said he enjoyed his visits with you.”
Jeanne smiled and turned away. This conversation had given her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She would go to Old Timothy and he would give her tea and then everything would be all right. Mrs. Ackley gave her the things she had bought and she turned blindly towards the door almost stumbling as she walked out. It was almost as if a black hole had opened before her suddenly. All her worries had returned and her lovely happiness of the last few days was completely gone. When she reached Old Timothy’s everything was dark and her knocks echoed in the room. He was not there. This finished her completely and she broke down and cried right there. She cried long and hard. She was so engrossed in her cry that she did not hear the footsteps behind her and when someone put their hand on her shoulder she was startled and swung around with a gasp. Christopher stood there.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
She laughed a rather watery laugh. “No, I don’t think I am. I was at the store and suddenly I was just so disheartened and cold. So I thought I would come see Old Timothy but he isn’t here and now I think I’ll just sit down and cry.” She sniffed again. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said and blew her nose noisily. He slipped his hand under her elbow and took her along with him. She wondered vaguely where they were going but realized that it was probably his house or lodgings. He stopped before a door and unlocked it, whistling vaguely. Inside he turned on the light and sat her down in a chair. Then he went over to the stove and put a kettle on. She looked around. It was small and full of things but it was, in some strange way, not untidy and it was certainly comfortable. She almost preferred its small dark warmth to the large austere darkness of much of Scardale House.
“Tea?”
“Please.” She realized that his vague whistling had solidified into Chopin’s Nocturne. He noticed her look and laughed a little.
“I can’t sing worth anything but I whistle most tunefully.”
“Most dexterously?” she asked.
“That’s Twelfth Night. I told you Romeo and Juliet.”
“Yes, but I thought I should start with a comedy.” Christopher handed her a cup.
“A black comedy. Poor Malvolio, they certainly aren’t very kind to him are they? Pretending he’s mad and shutting him up in a dark place.”
“Well I get the feeling that he deserved it. He didn’t seem like a very kind person. We don’t see that side of the story.”
“All too true. I am bested!” He fell back in his chair dramatically but sat up again quickly. “What made you unhappy at the store?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. What was it Jeanne?”
She looked at the floor rather miserably. “Well, I was there and I had just finished buying everything and Rosamonde Delacroix came in and asked me a few questions and all of a sudden everything was just terrible.” She looked up at him. “Isn’t that sad? I’m sure I shouldn’t have felt that way, but she apparently has that effect on me.”
Christopher did not reply but he did not look pleased. Jeanne felt cold in spite of the tea and suddenly sneezed twice.
“God bless you,” he said solemnly.
“Thank you. I think it’s time for me to go. Thank you.” He shook his head.
“What else would I have done? Left you to weep on Old Timothy’s doorstep? Pas de tout.”
Jeanne laughed. “I didn’t know you knew French.”
“Mais seulement un peu mademoiselle! And I have a horrible accent.”
“It’s not too bad.”
“You flatter me.” He helped her on with her coat. “Will you be able to find your way back?”
“Yes. I think the fog is clearing a little. Thank you anyway. Good bye.”
“Good bye. Say hello to your aunt from me.” She nodded.
Jeanne sat before her mirror that night for a long while, brushing her hair. Contrary to current fashion she wore it long and did it up in a knot at the nape of her neck. It suited her bone structure and enhanced her naturally timeless appearance. She was not one to follow every trend of fashion. Her style, appearance, and outlook could quite easily be called old-fashioned but she preferred classic herself.
At any rate, that night she brushed her hair for a long time until it shone brightly. She was indeed very lovely although she did not think of herself as lovely. Her features were clear and delicate and her coloring was unusual. When she was excited or happy or embarrassed she flushed but when she was sad or tired (she was both that night) she was pale and her eyes and hair stood out starkly. When she was none of these she was a delicate rose. With her hair down and shining she looked like Danae must have. She was tired and cold and puzzled and she felt that the calm had ended and the storm had arrived. She was not sure what it would bring or where it would come from and therefore she could not make ready. This worried her immensely. She could not be called a worrywart exactly but she liked to be prepared and her inability to do so was quite frightening for her. She also felt the need to protect her aunt no matter what happened. This also would be easier to do if she knew what was coming. The very air seemed charged, waiting. She did not want to wait alone in her tower in the dark so she sat and read until she fell asleep. The next morning she could not remember what she had read but it had been better than lying awake in the dark and listening to the wind swirl around her.
The first move was not long in coming. The next afternoon Jean and Jeanne were sitting in the small parlor dusting a number of items they had found all over the house when they heard a knock at the door. Jeanne went to answer it and found a grey-haired man in a suit who she had most certainly never seen in her entire life. “Mr. Entwhistle,” he said. “Your aunt’s solicitor. You must be Miss Jeanne. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Won’t you come in?” Jeanne led the way to the parlor. Her aunt stood when Mr. Entwhistle entered the room.
“Mr. Entwhistle. What on earth brings you here?”
“I must tell you madam that reports of a rather, hem, alarming nature have reached our office and I came down myself to, hem, investigate discreetly.”
“What are these reports?”
“To be honest Miss Hargrave—that is, the elder Miss Hargrave—we were told that you are losing your faculties. That your mind wanders and that you are not able to live on your own anymore.”
Jeanne’s eyes blazed with fury and her cheeks flushed with battle-joy but before she could say anything her aunt cut in, speaking in the iciest voice Jeanne had ever heard.
“I am surprised at you George Entwhistle. In the first place you can see perfectly well that I am not living on my own. My niece Jeanne is here with me and if she ever wishes or finds it necessary to leave I will employ a young woman as a companion. In the second place, while I quite freely admit that I have times when I am confused as to time, this does not mean that my mind wanders or that I am an unfit keeper of this estate. The estate is, in any case, mine to give and you know perfectly well how I have left it. I shall not alter my will or if I decide to, it will be a small alteration in no way changing the main portion of the will. Whoever it was that came to you must be disappointed. You have handled my affairs for many years and you know that I am not foolish or incautious. I refuse to be bullied into anything.”
“I must protest Miss Hargrave that it is not my attention to offend you. I do indeed know that you show none of those undesirable traits. But it is my duty to investigate any such claims, no matter how outlandish or how repellent it may be to my own feelings. I am a busy man Miss Hargrave and the fact that I and not a representative is here speaks to my feelings on the matter. This silly accusation must be kept quiet. I trust you and your niece will agree with me on the matter.”
“Quite.”
“Indeed.”
“Well then, I will trouble you no more. Good day to you ladies. Is there a reputable inn here?”
“Do not be sillier than you can help, I beg of you. You will stay here tonight and we will feed you ham and broccoli au gratin. You will enjoy yourself.” Jeanne spoke with a great deal of force and Mr. Entwhistle gave in as gracefully as he could. Over the broccoli and ham he leaned across the table and whispered to Jeanne, “I should have been miserable in the inn.”
“Indeed you would have sir,” Jean replied. “Yes, I know you were speaking to my niece, but your whispers leave much to be desired. If my sixty year old ears can hear you, you are not whispering. And the inn is quite good to visit but a bad place to stay.”
“I wonder how that woman stomachs it,” Jeanne said, not thinking about the possible effect that this might have on their visitor. He dropped his fork and stared at her.
“Woman?” he asked.
“Rosamonde Delacroix is her name. She is staying at the Red Dragon.”
Mr. Entwhistle turned pale. “Oh, how interesting.”
“Mr. Entwhistle, are you all right?” Jeanne asked.
“Yes, yes, quite all right my dear young lady. A momentary twinge. I am subject to them at times.”
He went to bed early and did not sleep well. Jean and Jeanne sat awhile together in front of the fire in the library as they liked to do.
“How odd Mr. Entwhistle was at dinner. Do you know anything about it aunt?”
Jean sat silent for a moment, almost as if turned to stone. “Know anything about what my dear?”
“About Rosamonde Delacroix.”
“I do know something of it but I cannot tell you now. Some day soon I will make everything clear, I promise.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely. Now I am going to bed. I am an old lady and I need my rest. Good night Jeanne.”
“Good night Aunt Jean.”
As usual, the fire held no answers for Jeanne. “I am not Lizzie Hexam,” she murmured to herself as she lit her candle to light her ascent to her tower.
Chapter 7
Christopher Visits Again and Reveals His Secret, Also a Foggy Day and What Happened in it, Also a Visit From the Solicitor
Jeanne was washing the plates after dinner and singing along to the Verdi which was playing on the radio when she heard a knock on the kitchen door. She dried her hands and opened it. Christopher Sheldon stood there with a bunch of radishes in his hands. “I thought…I thought perhaps you would like these. I can’t possibly eat all of them and you were the only people I could think of. Old Timothy hates the things.” She smiled.
“Of course. Thank you so much. Won’t you come in?”
He hesitated and then nodded and came in.
“I was just washing up. Sit down, I’ll be done in a moment.” She turned the radio down as she walked past. She was horribly embarrassed at the thought that he had heard her singing but there was nothing she could do about it now.
“This is a very large kitchen,” he said.
“Yes. The whole house is very large for only two people and even larger for one. I don’t know how Aunt Jean did it all these years. She took wonderful care of the house considering she’s sixty and all by herself. Although she is remarkably strong except for being a little confused about time once in awhile. But she let the garden go all to seed. I’ve been working in it and it is starting to look presentable again.”
“It looked very lovely this morning. I’m sorry, this is strange, but I was under the impression that you are French.”
“Yes, half-French. And I was born and grew up there.”
“But you have no accent at all.”
“Well, Maman and Papa always spoke both languages to us. Maman used French and Papa English and so we learned both.”
“Which did they use when they spoke to each other? And who is we?”
“Oh, they used both. It usually depended on who was starting the conversation. And we are my brother Nicolas and I. Nicolas is in school in Paris, studying to be an architect. Maman was a teacher until she married Papa and now she takes care of us all. Papa is a greengrocer.”
Christopher looked at the book lying on the table. “Who’s been reading Christina Rossetti?”
“I have. It’s sad, the number of books I have never read.”
“Do you enjoy her?”
“Immensely. Not all of them of course, but there are so many that are very beautiful. And you?”
“Well, I suppose so, yes. There are times when she is very much a woman’s writer but there are times when she is very universal.”
“I suppose I can see that. There, I’m done. Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
“Oh no, I just had supper before I came. And I wouldn’t want to make more dishes for you to wash.” He smiled and she noticed the way the corner of his eyes crinkled up. It was in that moment that she realized that she was in a fair way to having an infatuation with him. She was not sure if this delighted or worried her. After all three meetings does not tell you overmuch about a person’s character.
Whatever either one of them might have said after that was forever left unsaid because both of them distinctly heard a bump in the next room. Christopher motioned to her to be quiet and very carefully picked up the kitchen poker. They tiptoed quietly to the door and saw a light underneath. Christopher gently turned the handle and the door swung to reveal Jean sitting in front of the big stone fireplace. She looked up at them and smiled. “Come in my dears. I have just been sitting here in front of the fire and dreaming and then I went to put another log on and tripped over the dogs. Have you made the acquaintance of the dogs yet? My father had them cast when he was quite a young man. He was very particular of them and we were never allowed to play with them. My dear Jeanne, I am afraid I have been very bad company and a worse hostess these past few days. There are times when I am afraid my mind wanders back into the past and the recent events sent me back there. I beg your pardon.” Jeanne bent over her and kissed her.
“Dear aunt, you needn’t worry.” She sat down on the chair next to her.
“Christopher is that you?” Jean asked.
“Yes. I brought radishes.”
“Oh good, we can have them in a salad with the lettuce. We may have to give you lettuce. It seems there is a good deal out there.”
“Mountains,” Jeanne groaned.
Jean sighed and stood up. “Well, I am off to bed. I am very tired and tomorrow I want to start cleaning the attic out a bit. It is quite ridiculous the way we have let things accumulate up there. I am afraid we Hargraves have always been thrifty and have never ever thrown anything that could possibly be used away.”
She walked out of the room; somehow a more dignified figure than she ever had been before. Christopher and Jeanne sat together in silence.
“I wonder why on earth whoever came in and wrecked the library did it. P.C. Andrews seemed to think that it was some random and senseless thing but it seemed so…thorough. And I would have thought that a village rascal would have left dirty messages scribbled somewhere. It’s almost as though they were looking for something. But what on earth could it have been?”
Christopher shook his head. “I don’t know. Has your aunt ever told you any stories about a treasure in the family or anything of that sort?”
“No. I know we were quite wealthy at one time but I don’t know when it was exactly or what happened to change that. As far as I know it was some quite normal thing like bankruptcy or having to bribe someone or blackmail or five years of bad crops in a row. Nothing that would lead to a hidden treasure.”
“Well, that rules that out then. Unless it’s something quite obvious that is hidden under all of our noses—something that didn’t have a particular value when it was first bought or made but now does.”
“But who would know to look for something like that?”
There was a long moment of awkward silence.
“Christopher?”
He sighed. “Rosamonde Delacroix. She’s an art collector specializing in obscure and valuable antiques. She also happens to be quite unscrupulous.”
“I knew there was something about her. But how do you know all this?”
“At one time I knew her quite well. In fact, we were engaged for a bit but when I found out about her I broke it off. If she was capable of doing anything to get an antique she was just as capable of doing anything to get whatever else she might want and I did not want to pay that price.”
“She is very beautiful,” Jeanne said quietly.
“Yes. And she has many good qualities. But I am afraid they are being swallowed up by her urge to have whatever she desires and her ruthlessness in getting it. She came to see me after she arrived here. She wanted to know all about your house and family. I told her that I knew absolutely nothing about you all. She didn’t believe me but she spent the better part of an hour trying to vamp me. Again.”
“But now you do know us,” Jeanne said in a tight voice. He stared at her.
“Jeanne! You don’t think that I would do something like that do you?”
“Not consciously or willingly, no. But you said yourself she is ruthless. And if she is ruthless then she could quite easily find a way to use you.” Jeanne rubbed her forehead as she spoke. She was very tired and felt more than ever that she was about to cry.
“I promise you on my honor that I am not trying to lay the ground for whatever unscrupulous ideas Rosamonde has in her head. And I also promise on my honor that I will not tell her anything about you at any time. She has absolutely nothing to blackmail me with besides the fact that I once wore yellow socks.”
“Really and truly? Yellow?”
“Yellow. Do you believe me?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t, but I have so few people to talk to or trust that I can’t rule out one of them. And I believe you will keep your promise.”
“I will.”
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten.
“Well,” he said, getting up, “it’s time for me to head along. If you ever need help you know you have only to call on me.”
“I know.”
“And I’m glad your aunt is feeling better.”
“I am too. Good night.”
“Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow…”
She looked confused.
“Surely you know that! Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet.” She shook her head. “Ah, you’ve killed me! Romeo and Juliet is not, in my opinion, that wonderful, but you must read it because it’s Shakespeare. And Hamlet is incredible.”
“I will make a note of it. Good night Christopher.”
“Good night. Sleep well.”
Her thoughts as she climbed the many stairs to her attic lair were confused. On the one hand she implicitly trusted Christopher but on the other she was afraid of Rosamonde Delacroix and what she might do. And, looking into her heart of hearts, she had to admit that she was jealous of her as well, jealous that Christopher had once loved her, jealous of her power over him.
“Oh dear, I’m setting myself up for a fall I’m afraid,” she sighed. Her sheets were refreshingly cool as she slid under them and outside the stars winked coldly. She could see Orion. Something in his remoteness comforted her and she turned over and fell asleep.
The next morning was cool and grey. From the top of the Hill they could not se the village except for the church spire. This was not a day to work in the garden or to go hither and thither. It was not even a day to go down into the village. Rather it was a day for books and tea and blankets in the library, for good music on the radio and for warm soup in the evening. Jean agreed and they spent the day in silence broken only by the turning of pages, the Mozart on the radio and the crackling of the apple wood fire. Jeanne fixed a good lunch and brought it into the library on trays. After supper she played the piano for awhile. She had not played in a long time and at first she was very rusty but as she kept playing some of her old skill returned. She reminded herself to start practicing every day. Her days would now be even fuller. She realized again that judging a life by its outward hustle and bustle is false and even wrong. Only the products of the heart can really be the basis for a judging a life and some of these are never manifested. For the first time she really understood why it is considered a sin to judge another person. No one can ever really see into another’s heart and therefore judging them truly right or wrong is impossible.
It is strange how much can happen inside a person in a short time. The time of the heart does not move as regulated time does. It is more elastic, stretching and retracting. Jeanne had been putting away the piano books while she was thinking. It had only taken her a few minutes but she felt as though her heart had grown several months in that time. She had experienced the same thing when she was reading or painting.
The kitchen was, as always, dark and lonely but she turned on the light and sang Pachelbel’s Canon while she did the dishes and suddenly the darkness did not seem so dark. Sometimes it is small silly gestures like these that sway the balance between light and dark—bandaging a child’s bleeding knee, planting geraniums by the side of a house, or singing in a lonely kitchen. Jeanne was not conscious that she was swaying anything at all, but she did not hate the kitchen as she always had before and her heart was light as she went up to bed.
The next morning was foggy again but they were running low on supplies and Jeanne decided that she had to go to Scardale and restock. She did not trust the bicycle and she was afraid of getting lost in the fog so she decided to walk down with a big market basket. The road was unfamiliar in the mist and Jeanne stumbled several times and almost lost her way several other times. Eventually she reached the store which after the cold clamminess of the fog was wonderfully bright and warm. Mrs. Ackley welcomed her kindly and she was able to find almost everything she needed. Mrs. Ackley was adding up her purchases when someone else came into the store. She turned to see who it was. Rosamonde Delacroix in the flesh. Jeanne couldn’t imagine what had brought her there. Rosamonde cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled a little contemptuously.
“I hope your aunt is in good health,” she said.
“She is quite well, thank you,” Jeanne replied. She did not know what Rosamonde was hoping to gain by this but she was resolved not to tell her anything at all.
“I am glad to hear it. I had heard that she sometimes suffers from confusion, but perhaps I was wrong. Chris said he enjoyed his visits with you.”
Jeanne smiled and turned away. This conversation had given her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She would go to Old Timothy and he would give her tea and then everything would be all right. Mrs. Ackley gave her the things she had bought and she turned blindly towards the door almost stumbling as she walked out. It was almost as if a black hole had opened before her suddenly. All her worries had returned and her lovely happiness of the last few days was completely gone. When she reached Old Timothy’s everything was dark and her knocks echoed in the room. He was not there. This finished her completely and she broke down and cried right there. She cried long and hard. She was so engrossed in her cry that she did not hear the footsteps behind her and when someone put their hand on her shoulder she was startled and swung around with a gasp. Christopher stood there.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
She laughed a rather watery laugh. “No, I don’t think I am. I was at the store and suddenly I was just so disheartened and cold. So I thought I would come see Old Timothy but he isn’t here and now I think I’ll just sit down and cry.” She sniffed again. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said and blew her nose noisily. He slipped his hand under her elbow and took her along with him. She wondered vaguely where they were going but realized that it was probably his house or lodgings. He stopped before a door and unlocked it, whistling vaguely. Inside he turned on the light and sat her down in a chair. Then he went over to the stove and put a kettle on. She looked around. It was small and full of things but it was, in some strange way, not untidy and it was certainly comfortable. She almost preferred its small dark warmth to the large austere darkness of much of Scardale House.
“Tea?”
“Please.” She realized that his vague whistling had solidified into Chopin’s Nocturne. He noticed her look and laughed a little.
“I can’t sing worth anything but I whistle most tunefully.”
“Most dexterously?” she asked.
“That’s Twelfth Night. I told you Romeo and Juliet.”
“Yes, but I thought I should start with a comedy.” Christopher handed her a cup.
“A black comedy. Poor Malvolio, they certainly aren’t very kind to him are they? Pretending he’s mad and shutting him up in a dark place.”
“Well I get the feeling that he deserved it. He didn’t seem like a very kind person. We don’t see that side of the story.”
“All too true. I am bested!” He fell back in his chair dramatically but sat up again quickly. “What made you unhappy at the store?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. What was it Jeanne?”
She looked at the floor rather miserably. “Well, I was there and I had just finished buying everything and Rosamonde Delacroix came in and asked me a few questions and all of a sudden everything was just terrible.” She looked up at him. “Isn’t that sad? I’m sure I shouldn’t have felt that way, but she apparently has that effect on me.”
Christopher did not reply but he did not look pleased. Jeanne felt cold in spite of the tea and suddenly sneezed twice.
“God bless you,” he said solemnly.
“Thank you. I think it’s time for me to go. Thank you.” He shook his head.
“What else would I have done? Left you to weep on Old Timothy’s doorstep? Pas de tout.”
Jeanne laughed. “I didn’t know you knew French.”
“Mais seulement un peu mademoiselle! And I have a horrible accent.”
“It’s not too bad.”
“You flatter me.” He helped her on with her coat. “Will you be able to find your way back?”
“Yes. I think the fog is clearing a little. Thank you anyway. Good bye.”
“Good bye. Say hello to your aunt from me.” She nodded.
Jeanne sat before her mirror that night for a long while, brushing her hair. Contrary to current fashion she wore it long and did it up in a knot at the nape of her neck. It suited her bone structure and enhanced her naturally timeless appearance. She was not one to follow every trend of fashion. Her style, appearance, and outlook could quite easily be called old-fashioned but she preferred classic herself.
At any rate, that night she brushed her hair for a long time until it shone brightly. She was indeed very lovely although she did not think of herself as lovely. Her features were clear and delicate and her coloring was unusual. When she was excited or happy or embarrassed she flushed but when she was sad or tired (she was both that night) she was pale and her eyes and hair stood out starkly. When she was none of these she was a delicate rose. With her hair down and shining she looked like Danae must have. She was tired and cold and puzzled and she felt that the calm had ended and the storm had arrived. She was not sure what it would bring or where it would come from and therefore she could not make ready. This worried her immensely. She could not be called a worrywart exactly but she liked to be prepared and her inability to do so was quite frightening for her. She also felt the need to protect her aunt no matter what happened. This also would be easier to do if she knew what was coming. The very air seemed charged, waiting. She did not want to wait alone in her tower in the dark so she sat and read until she fell asleep. The next morning she could not remember what she had read but it had been better than lying awake in the dark and listening to the wind swirl around her.
The first move was not long in coming. The next afternoon Jean and Jeanne were sitting in the small parlor dusting a number of items they had found all over the house when they heard a knock at the door. Jeanne went to answer it and found a grey-haired man in a suit who she had most certainly never seen in her entire life. “Mr. Entwhistle,” he said. “Your aunt’s solicitor. You must be Miss Jeanne. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Won’t you come in?” Jeanne led the way to the parlor. Her aunt stood when Mr. Entwhistle entered the room.
“Mr. Entwhistle. What on earth brings you here?”
“I must tell you madam that reports of a rather, hem, alarming nature have reached our office and I came down myself to, hem, investigate discreetly.”
“What are these reports?”
“To be honest Miss Hargrave—that is, the elder Miss Hargrave—we were told that you are losing your faculties. That your mind wanders and that you are not able to live on your own anymore.”
Jeanne’s eyes blazed with fury and her cheeks flushed with battle-joy but before she could say anything her aunt cut in, speaking in the iciest voice Jeanne had ever heard.
“I am surprised at you George Entwhistle. In the first place you can see perfectly well that I am not living on my own. My niece Jeanne is here with me and if she ever wishes or finds it necessary to leave I will employ a young woman as a companion. In the second place, while I quite freely admit that I have times when I am confused as to time, this does not mean that my mind wanders or that I am an unfit keeper of this estate. The estate is, in any case, mine to give and you know perfectly well how I have left it. I shall not alter my will or if I decide to, it will be a small alteration in no way changing the main portion of the will. Whoever it was that came to you must be disappointed. You have handled my affairs for many years and you know that I am not foolish or incautious. I refuse to be bullied into anything.”
“I must protest Miss Hargrave that it is not my attention to offend you. I do indeed know that you show none of those undesirable traits. But it is my duty to investigate any such claims, no matter how outlandish or how repellent it may be to my own feelings. I am a busy man Miss Hargrave and the fact that I and not a representative is here speaks to my feelings on the matter. This silly accusation must be kept quiet. I trust you and your niece will agree with me on the matter.”
“Quite.”
“Indeed.”
“Well then, I will trouble you no more. Good day to you ladies. Is there a reputable inn here?”
“Do not be sillier than you can help, I beg of you. You will stay here tonight and we will feed you ham and broccoli au gratin. You will enjoy yourself.” Jeanne spoke with a great deal of force and Mr. Entwhistle gave in as gracefully as he could. Over the broccoli and ham he leaned across the table and whispered to Jeanne, “I should have been miserable in the inn.”
“Indeed you would have sir,” Jean replied. “Yes, I know you were speaking to my niece, but your whispers leave much to be desired. If my sixty year old ears can hear you, you are not whispering. And the inn is quite good to visit but a bad place to stay.”
“I wonder how that woman stomachs it,” Jeanne said, not thinking about the possible effect that this might have on their visitor. He dropped his fork and stared at her.
“Woman?” he asked.
“Rosamonde Delacroix is her name. She is staying at the Red Dragon.”
Mr. Entwhistle turned pale. “Oh, how interesting.”
“Mr. Entwhistle, are you all right?” Jeanne asked.
“Yes, yes, quite all right my dear young lady. A momentary twinge. I am subject to them at times.”
He went to bed early and did not sleep well. Jean and Jeanne sat awhile together in front of the fire in the library as they liked to do.
“How odd Mr. Entwhistle was at dinner. Do you know anything about it aunt?”
Jean sat silent for a moment, almost as if turned to stone. “Know anything about what my dear?”
“About Rosamonde Delacroix.”
“I do know something of it but I cannot tell you now. Some day soon I will make everything clear, I promise.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely. Now I am going to bed. I am an old lady and I need my rest. Good night Jeanne.”
“Good night Aunt Jean.”
As usual, the fire held no answers for Jeanne. “I am not Lizzie Hexam,” she murmured to herself as she lit her candle to light her ascent to her tower.
St.Cybi of Wales
St. Cybi of Wales--Nov. 5/18
St. Cybi was a Cornish and Welsh bishop of the sixth century. He was the son of a king and was raised as a Christian. He was ordained a priest and then a bishop in Rome and when he returned to Cornwall he found that his father was dead and he was king. He gave up the throne and began travelling thoughout the country preaching. He worked in Cornwall, Wales, and Ireland before settling permanently in Wales. He founded an important monastery on what was then called Holy Island (it later became known as Ynys Gybi--Cybi's Island). He died and was buried near his monastery at Holyhead.
Sources: Wikipedia
St. Cybi
St. Cybi and his friend St. Seiriol
St. Cybi was a Cornish and Welsh bishop of the sixth century. He was the son of a king and was raised as a Christian. He was ordained a priest and then a bishop in Rome and when he returned to Cornwall he found that his father was dead and he was king. He gave up the throne and began travelling thoughout the country preaching. He worked in Cornwall, Wales, and Ireland before settling permanently in Wales. He founded an important monastery on what was then called Holy Island (it later became known as Ynys Gybi--Cybi's Island). He died and was buried near his monastery at Holyhead.
Sources: Wikipedia
St. Cybi
St. Cybi and his friend St. Seiriol
St. Anastasia
St. Anastasia of Rome Oct. 29/Nov. 11
She was born of noble parents but was orphaned at a young age. She was reared by an abbess named Sophia. She was unusually beautiful but decided that she would remain a virgin. During the emperor Decius' persecution of Christians she was denounced as a believer and arrested. The authorities attempted to dissuade her from her chosen path but she remained firm. She was tortured but this caused a furor in the city and the authorities executed her. Her body was thrown out of the city but pious Christians found it and buried it.
Source: St. Anastasia
She was born of noble parents but was orphaned at a young age. She was reared by an abbess named Sophia. She was unusually beautiful but decided that she would remain a virgin. During the emperor Decius' persecution of Christians she was denounced as a believer and arrested. The authorities attempted to dissuade her from her chosen path but she remained firm. She was tortured but this caused a furor in the city and the authorities executed her. Her body was thrown out of the city but pious Christians found it and buried it.
Source: St. Anastasia
Another poem
Winter
When the cold frost lies
And the ground is hard
And the chill skies
Seem empty and marred
It is hard to believe
That spring will come soon
When the last birds leave
And there's a ring round the moon.
When the cold frost lies
And the ground is hard
And the chill skies
Seem empty and marred
It is hard to believe
That spring will come soon
When the last birds leave
And there's a ring round the moon.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
It is Evening.
Well, here we are back again with another poem. Gracious me. And in the midst of November which means in the midst of (drumroll) NaNoWriMo! And yes, I am insane and joined. Anyway, your poem.
It is evening
It is evening.
Here there are five of us.
Glasses clink, silverware rattles.
There is a happy silence.
Dinner.
How many families do not/
Will not/
Cannot
Sit down and eat together?
I speak not of some microwave dinner
But of real food.
We need our families--
Dysfunctional/loving/hating/
Just plain weird.
We still need them.
Open your eyes and there is light.
This is the first day.
And now your eyes see shapes.
This is the second day.
Someone has picked flowers. They wait--
All wait for you.
This is the third day.
Do you see the light in your mother' s eyes?
They are twin suns/twin moons.
This is the fourth day.
Cat comes and lookks at you. He sniffs you
Carefully.
This is the fifth day..
I am. I am me. This is the sixth day.
Rest on the seventh day and all the seventh days to come.
One baby: All the world.
One family: All the universe.
It is morning.
Here there is one
Waiting, walking, running.
This is the beginning.
Life.
It is evening
It is evening.
Here there are five of us.
Glasses clink, silverware rattles.
There is a happy silence.
Dinner.
How many families do not/
Will not/
Cannot
Sit down and eat together?
I speak not of some microwave dinner
But of real food.
We need our families--
Dysfunctional/loving/hating/
Just plain weird.
We still need them.
Open your eyes and there is light.
This is the first day.
And now your eyes see shapes.
This is the second day.
Someone has picked flowers. They wait--
All wait for you.
This is the third day.
Do you see the light in your mother' s eyes?
They are twin suns/twin moons.
This is the fourth day.
Cat comes and lookks at you. He sniffs you
Carefully.
This is the fifth day..
I am. I am me. This is the sixth day.
Rest on the seventh day and all the seventh days to come.
One baby: All the world.
One family: All the universe.
It is morning.
Here there is one
Waiting, walking, running.
This is the beginning.
Life.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Pride and Prejudice 2005 Review
It may be very nice, but it’s not Jane Austen
A review of the 2005 Pride and Prejudice
While I have not yet personally seen the new Pride and Prejudice starring Kiera Knightley and Matthew McFadyen, I have seen the previews released before the movie several times and read many reviews by people whose opinions I trust. I have also read the book many times and watched the 1995 movies starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle as much as possible. Therefore, although I have not seen the movie, I do feel somewhat qualified to make a judgement of it based on these factors.
I have read some reviews which said essentially (I am not quoting from any one in particular) “Well, it’s not like the book, or even like the old movie, but I could forgive it for a lot of things because of the beautiful cinematography.” However, I personally take exception to the style of cinematography. With its dramatic swooping shots, and beautiful but wild landscapes it is better suited to Charlotte Brontë than Jane Austen. Austen is, above all, controlled and contained. I do not believe that she would have enjoyed Brontë’s melodramatic style any more than Brontë enjoyed Austen’s “middle class” books, and it is certainly a pity that this style of cinematography has been adapted to an Austen work. (By the way, why a cliff exactly? As a friend of mine pointed out, the rocks in the 1995 P&P are just plain more interesting. Cliffs are rather overdone.)
Let us compare this for a moment to the 1995 Pride and Prejudice. Here the cinematography, while beautiful, is restrained and controlled, just as Lizzy is. Jennifer Ehle’s Lizzy, or for that matter, Jane Austen’s, would never go into a hissy fit when her parent (we’ll get back to that later) wants her to marry Mr. Collins. Instead she holds her ground while maintaining her dignity. She refuses to marry Mr. Collins, but she retains our respect while doing so. When Kiera Knightley goes into her temper tantrum I want to throw cold water on her.
One of the aspects that annoys me the most about the 2005 P&P is the lack of respect for the book. It seems that the screen writers for this movie somehow did not understand that people have been in love with this book for 200 years. In particular, those who love it have either memorized it or nearly memorized it. There are certain lines which anyone who loves the book will look for in a movie version. When they are not there the Jane Austen lover is deeply disappointed. And this movie lacks many of those lines. For instance, in the book one exchange between Lizzy and Mr. Darcy goes like this:
‘“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practising…”
Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”’
It appears like this in the 1995 P&P:
Darcy: "I have not that talent, which some possess, of conversing easily with strangers."
Lizzie: "Why, I do not play this instrument as well as I should wish, but I have always considered that to be my own fault, because I would not take the trouble to practice."
Darcy: "You are quite right. You have employed your time much better. We neither of us perform to strangers."
And like this in the 2005 P&P:
LIZZIE: (cont'd) Prepare yourself for something very dreadful. (stops playing) The first time I saw him, at the Assembly, he danced with nobody at all - even though gentlemen were scarce and there was more than one young lady who was sitting down without a partner.
DARCY: (colouring) I knew nobody beyond my own party.
LIZZIE: (smiles sweetly) True, and nobody can be introduced in a ballroom.
LADY CATHERINE: Fitzwilliam! I need you!
Fitzwilliam moves away. Darcy and Lizzie are alone. Darcy's struggling with his pride which suddenly gives way.
DARCY: I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before.
LIZZIE: Perhaps you should take your aunt's advice and practice.
Darcy flinches. Lizzie turns away from him and carries on playing. Darcy gazes at the curve of her neck.
The difference is startlingly apparent. In both the text of the novel and the 1995 screenplay, Lizzy certainly teases Darcy, yet she is not cruel. In the 2005 screenplay she is almost mean. But for the reader there is a more serious accusation. I hope that I am understood when I say that the beauty and felicity of the language of Miss Austen has been stripped away in the 2005 screenplay. Compare “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before,” or even “I have not that talent which some possess of conversing easily with strangers” to “I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before.” Even though in this specific example most of the line is the same through all three, the 2005 screenplay is much the worse—why “people I have never met before” instead of “strangers”? Did the writer imagine that the ignorant movie-going audience wouldn’t know the word “stranger”? And so we miss the exquisite underlying meaning of Miss Austen: to Darcy Lizzy is a stranger even though he is fascinated by her.
One more of these examples. When Mrs. Bennet tries to use her husband to force Lizzy to marry Mr. Collins, Mr. Bennet comes back with one of the greatest comedic lines in Pride and Prejudice. “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.—Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.” What a wonderful line, with its unexpected catch phrase! And Benjamin Whitrow delivers it with just the right amount of dry humour in the 1995 P&P, while Alison Steadman reacts perfectly as Mrs. Bennet, nodding along until the last phrase when she sinks crying into a chair. Unfortunately, the screenwriters of P&P 2005 once again felt that it was not right, and so changed it to “”
But really this issue of changing the lines in some respect is a rather serious one. How can you claim (I am not referring to any statement put forth by the actors, writers, or producers of P&P 2005 other than the use of Miss Austen’s name and that of Pride and Prejudice) to be faithfully representing the work of Jane Austen when you constantly change what she said? If you believe that you are a better writer than Jane Austen you have some serious ego-issues. Sadly, this appears to be the belief of the 2005 screenwriters.
Now we pass on to another problem I have, namely the amount of sensuality in the 2005 movie. I am not one to deny that there is a sensual side to Jane Austen. There is. There is great passion in her novels and in the 1995 movie. But, once again, it is restrained. The passion is not expressed by steamy scenes, but by the way Darcy and Lizzy look at each other, the way their shoulders move closer when they walk. It is present when Lizzy accidentally walks into a room where Darcy is shooting pool, even though that scene lasts only a few seconds and they are never within two feet of each other. The romantics among us (I plead guilty) must wait until after they are married for them to kiss. Even when they are engaged, they merely walk next to each other. They don’t need to do anything else. The quiet smiles that they share are all that is needed. The 2005 movie goes for the exact opposite effect. During the first proposal scene, when Lizzy declares that Darcy is the last man in the world she would ever marry, they are standing on top of each other and then move closer. To all appearances, they are about to kiss. That they do not is somehow a mistake, an oops, don’t worry, that comes later. Naturally this then removes much of the central tension of the plot as well as drastically changing it by changing the real feelings of Elizabeth toward Darcy. How are we supposed to believe that her feelings have changed after that scene? No, instead we are supposed to believe that she has simply uncovered her “true” feelings—that they were there all along and she just denied him. All right, quite plausible. But it’s not the way Jane Austen set it up.
Also, the ending in the United States was considered notoriously sensual by many. (This even leaving aside the question of why it was considered necessary to have separate endings for the US and the UK.) Have Darcy and Lizzy turned into high schoolers? We can hope not, but I am afraid that the evidence is against us. Instead of a meeting of mind and character we have, well, a meeting of bodies primarily. I am afraid that is rather frank, but then so is the movie.
In the end, after examination of the text of the novel and the text of the two screenplays, I am forced to conclude that the screenwriters of the 2005 Pride and Prejudice unfortunately chose the easy road—the road of cheap thrills and art shots, of high school romance versus the real thing. They also, again unfortunately, seem to have considered their audience dumb enough to require a watered-down Jane Austen as if we couldn’t take the real thing. I am also forced to conclude that Andrew Davies and the team that produced the 1995 miniseries did none of those things. Certainly there is beautiful cinematography (think Pemberley rising from the pond) and certainly there are romantic moments (think The Look) but it is faithful to Jane Austen—not word by word or line by line, but faithful to her spirit and to the spirit of Pride and Prejudice, to the book which has been loved by so many people for so long. Charlotte Brontë not withstanding. Perhaps much of this may be attributed to the fact that they did not try to squeeze the story into two hours. I understand the restraints of commercial movie making, but it is well-nigh impossible to get everything in, with the result that Wickham and Lydia have largely been left out, again to the detriment of the plot. Perhaps some day I will see the 2005 Pride and Prejudice but I’m afraid it won’t be with high hopes. After all, I’ve read the screenplay.
A review of the 2005 Pride and Prejudice
While I have not yet personally seen the new Pride and Prejudice starring Kiera Knightley and Matthew McFadyen, I have seen the previews released before the movie several times and read many reviews by people whose opinions I trust. I have also read the book many times and watched the 1995 movies starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle as much as possible. Therefore, although I have not seen the movie, I do feel somewhat qualified to make a judgement of it based on these factors.
I have read some reviews which said essentially (I am not quoting from any one in particular) “Well, it’s not like the book, or even like the old movie, but I could forgive it for a lot of things because of the beautiful cinematography.” However, I personally take exception to the style of cinematography. With its dramatic swooping shots, and beautiful but wild landscapes it is better suited to Charlotte Brontë than Jane Austen. Austen is, above all, controlled and contained. I do not believe that she would have enjoyed Brontë’s melodramatic style any more than Brontë enjoyed Austen’s “middle class” books, and it is certainly a pity that this style of cinematography has been adapted to an Austen work. (By the way, why a cliff exactly? As a friend of mine pointed out, the rocks in the 1995 P&P are just plain more interesting. Cliffs are rather overdone.)
Let us compare this for a moment to the 1995 Pride and Prejudice. Here the cinematography, while beautiful, is restrained and controlled, just as Lizzy is. Jennifer Ehle’s Lizzy, or for that matter, Jane Austen’s, would never go into a hissy fit when her parent (we’ll get back to that later) wants her to marry Mr. Collins. Instead she holds her ground while maintaining her dignity. She refuses to marry Mr. Collins, but she retains our respect while doing so. When Kiera Knightley goes into her temper tantrum I want to throw cold water on her.
One of the aspects that annoys me the most about the 2005 P&P is the lack of respect for the book. It seems that the screen writers for this movie somehow did not understand that people have been in love with this book for 200 years. In particular, those who love it have either memorized it or nearly memorized it. There are certain lines which anyone who loves the book will look for in a movie version. When they are not there the Jane Austen lover is deeply disappointed. And this movie lacks many of those lines. For instance, in the book one exchange between Lizzy and Mr. Darcy goes like this:
‘“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practising…”
Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”’
It appears like this in the 1995 P&P:
Darcy: "I have not that talent, which some possess, of conversing easily with strangers."
Lizzie: "Why, I do not play this instrument as well as I should wish, but I have always considered that to be my own fault, because I would not take the trouble to practice."
Darcy: "You are quite right. You have employed your time much better. We neither of us perform to strangers."
And like this in the 2005 P&P:
LIZZIE: (cont'd) Prepare yourself for something very dreadful. (stops playing) The first time I saw him, at the Assembly, he danced with nobody at all - even though gentlemen were scarce and there was more than one young lady who was sitting down without a partner.
DARCY: (colouring) I knew nobody beyond my own party.
LIZZIE: (smiles sweetly) True, and nobody can be introduced in a ballroom.
LADY CATHERINE: Fitzwilliam! I need you!
Fitzwilliam moves away. Darcy and Lizzie are alone. Darcy's struggling with his pride which suddenly gives way.
DARCY: I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before.
LIZZIE: Perhaps you should take your aunt's advice and practice.
Darcy flinches. Lizzie turns away from him and carries on playing. Darcy gazes at the curve of her neck.
The difference is startlingly apparent. In both the text of the novel and the 1995 screenplay, Lizzy certainly teases Darcy, yet she is not cruel. In the 2005 screenplay she is almost mean. But for the reader there is a more serious accusation. I hope that I am understood when I say that the beauty and felicity of the language of Miss Austen has been stripped away in the 2005 screenplay. Compare “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before,” or even “I have not that talent which some possess of conversing easily with strangers” to “I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before.” Even though in this specific example most of the line is the same through all three, the 2005 screenplay is much the worse—why “people I have never met before” instead of “strangers”? Did the writer imagine that the ignorant movie-going audience wouldn’t know the word “stranger”? And so we miss the exquisite underlying meaning of Miss Austen: to Darcy Lizzy is a stranger even though he is fascinated by her.
One more of these examples. When Mrs. Bennet tries to use her husband to force Lizzy to marry Mr. Collins, Mr. Bennet comes back with one of the greatest comedic lines in Pride and Prejudice. “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.—Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.” What a wonderful line, with its unexpected catch phrase! And Benjamin Whitrow delivers it with just the right amount of dry humour in the 1995 P&P, while Alison Steadman reacts perfectly as Mrs. Bennet, nodding along until the last phrase when she sinks crying into a chair. Unfortunately, the screenwriters of P&P 2005 once again felt that it was not right, and so changed it to “”
But really this issue of changing the lines in some respect is a rather serious one. How can you claim (I am not referring to any statement put forth by the actors, writers, or producers of P&P 2005 other than the use of Miss Austen’s name and that of Pride and Prejudice) to be faithfully representing the work of Jane Austen when you constantly change what she said? If you believe that you are a better writer than Jane Austen you have some serious ego-issues. Sadly, this appears to be the belief of the 2005 screenwriters.
Now we pass on to another problem I have, namely the amount of sensuality in the 2005 movie. I am not one to deny that there is a sensual side to Jane Austen. There is. There is great passion in her novels and in the 1995 movie. But, once again, it is restrained. The passion is not expressed by steamy scenes, but by the way Darcy and Lizzy look at each other, the way their shoulders move closer when they walk. It is present when Lizzy accidentally walks into a room where Darcy is shooting pool, even though that scene lasts only a few seconds and they are never within two feet of each other. The romantics among us (I plead guilty) must wait until after they are married for them to kiss. Even when they are engaged, they merely walk next to each other. They don’t need to do anything else. The quiet smiles that they share are all that is needed. The 2005 movie goes for the exact opposite effect. During the first proposal scene, when Lizzy declares that Darcy is the last man in the world she would ever marry, they are standing on top of each other and then move closer. To all appearances, they are about to kiss. That they do not is somehow a mistake, an oops, don’t worry, that comes later. Naturally this then removes much of the central tension of the plot as well as drastically changing it by changing the real feelings of Elizabeth toward Darcy. How are we supposed to believe that her feelings have changed after that scene? No, instead we are supposed to believe that she has simply uncovered her “true” feelings—that they were there all along and she just denied him. All right, quite plausible. But it’s not the way Jane Austen set it up.
Also, the ending in the United States was considered notoriously sensual by many. (This even leaving aside the question of why it was considered necessary to have separate endings for the US and the UK.) Have Darcy and Lizzy turned into high schoolers? We can hope not, but I am afraid that the evidence is against us. Instead of a meeting of mind and character we have, well, a meeting of bodies primarily. I am afraid that is rather frank, but then so is the movie.
In the end, after examination of the text of the novel and the text of the two screenplays, I am forced to conclude that the screenwriters of the 2005 Pride and Prejudice unfortunately chose the easy road—the road of cheap thrills and art shots, of high school romance versus the real thing. They also, again unfortunately, seem to have considered their audience dumb enough to require a watered-down Jane Austen as if we couldn’t take the real thing. I am also forced to conclude that Andrew Davies and the team that produced the 1995 miniseries did none of those things. Certainly there is beautiful cinematography (think Pemberley rising from the pond) and certainly there are romantic moments (think The Look) but it is faithful to Jane Austen—not word by word or line by line, but faithful to her spirit and to the spirit of Pride and Prejudice, to the book which has been loved by so many people for so long. Charlotte Brontë not withstanding. Perhaps much of this may be attributed to the fact that they did not try to squeeze the story into two hours. I understand the restraints of commercial movie making, but it is well-nigh impossible to get everything in, with the result that Wickham and Lydia have largely been left out, again to the detriment of the plot. Perhaps some day I will see the 2005 Pride and Prejudice but I’m afraid it won’t be with high hopes. After all, I’ve read the screenplay.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Untitled
Poem for the week.
When I dip into these words
Written in times long gone
And see theat they are real
I see truth goes on and on.
Truth dos not change
Though men believe her wrong.
Some few hold fast
And exalt her still in song.
April 16, 2005
When I dip into these words
Written in times long gone
And see theat they are real
I see truth goes on and on.
Truth dos not change
Though men believe her wrong.
Some few hold fast
And exalt her still in song.
April 16, 2005
November's Quote
I didn't do terribly well with my entries last month. I beg your pardon--I'll try to do better this month. Anyway, here's November's quote.
"Treat a man as he appears to be, and you make him worse. But treat a man as if he were what he potentially could be, and you make him what he should be."
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
"Treat a man as he appears to be, and you make him worse. But treat a man as if he were what he potentially could be, and you make him what he should be."
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Thursday, October 26, 2006
St. Theodore Ushakov
St. Theodore Ushakov, Oct 2/15
St. Theodore Ushakov was one of the greatest Russian naval commanders of the 18th and 19th centuries. Despite his impressive record, the unpopularity of his naval reforms forced him to retire in 1807. He settled near the Sanaxar monastery. He often attended services there and spent Great Lent at the monastery. He was a generous man, donating money to help the monastery as well as helping the poor in the area. He died in 1817 and was buried at Sanaxar monastery. He was canonized in 1994.
Sources: St. Theodore
St. Theodore Ushakov was one of the greatest Russian naval commanders of the 18th and 19th centuries. Despite his impressive record, the unpopularity of his naval reforms forced him to retire in 1807. He settled near the Sanaxar monastery. He often attended services there and spent Great Lent at the monastery. He was a generous man, donating money to help the monastery as well as helping the poor in the area. He died in 1817 and was buried at Sanaxar monastery. He was canonized in 1994.
Sources: St. Theodore
Grey Days
So....anyone guess the hidden meaning for the last poem? If you really want to know, leave a comment and I'll tell you.
Grey Days
These grey days have a loveliness
Of their own entirely.
A time for rest; a time for life to
Pause and hearts to breathe.
These quiet shades of grey and white
Are not the sun, its true.
Yet they cover the old earth with a cloak
Before the world turns new.
Grey Days
These grey days have a loveliness
Of their own entirely.
A time for rest; a time for life to
Pause and hearts to breathe.
These quiet shades of grey and white
Are not the sun, its true.
Yet they cover the old earth with a cloak
Before the world turns new.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Dancing
Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago. There's a double meaning to the poem--see if you can figure it out. I'll tell you what it is next time I post.
Dancing
When the trees all are bare,
And the winter of the world is dun
And there is a grey chill in the grey air
And the earth is hard and stone,
Then come to the woods that will never die,
To the space deep in the heart,
Warm below the grey chill sky--
That ever enchanted elven glade.
There we see the elven people, people of the light;
Tall they are and kind and fair,
They brighten the dark night--
Their flying feet across the moss and flying shining hair.
Then watch them flitting to and fro;
Dancing in the graceful glade
Until the air comes all a-glow
And fills with the light of their robes and their hair.
Steal softly, steal away,
Back into the dun winter world.
And though the air and sky are grey,
Your heart is in the elven glade.
Dancing
When the trees all are bare,
And the winter of the world is dun
And there is a grey chill in the grey air
And the earth is hard and stone,
Then come to the woods that will never die,
To the space deep in the heart,
Warm below the grey chill sky--
That ever enchanted elven glade.
There we see the elven people, people of the light;
Tall they are and kind and fair,
They brighten the dark night--
Their flying feet across the moss and flying shining hair.
Then watch them flitting to and fro;
Dancing in the graceful glade
Until the air comes all a-glow
And fills with the light of their robes and their hair.
Steal softly, steal away,
Back into the dun winter world.
And though the air and sky are grey,
Your heart is in the elven glade.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Betsy
This is just a short snippet of a character sketch that I did some years ago. I personally enjoy Betsy.
Betsy Malo was evidently what Susie would have called 'countrified.' She wore a straw bonnet on top of her gold hair, green eyes, and a snub nose. She wore a green and blue striped dress obviously washed and mended many times and a red and white checked shawl which contrasted oddly with the dress. She carried a somewhat dilapidated basket with a white napkin carefully covering the top.
Betsy Malo was evidently what Susie would have called 'countrified.' She wore a straw bonnet on top of her gold hair, green eyes, and a snub nose. She wore a green and blue striped dress obviously washed and mended many times and a red and white checked shawl which contrasted oddly with the dress. She carried a somewhat dilapidated basket with a white napkin carefully covering the top.
The Protection of the Theotokos
I apologize for not posting this on time.
The Protection of the Theotokos--1/14 Oct
Around 936 A.D. a vigil was being held in the Church of Blachernae, Constantinople. A group of people saw the Mother of God, St. John the Baptist, and several other saints in the church. The Theotokos went to the center of the church where she knelt and prayed with tears. She then removed her veil and held it over the people. This was taken as a sign of protection and indeed the city was spared several times.
Source: Orthodox Wiki
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Poem
Time for a new poem!
Untitled
I saw a girl was sitting there
And her face was sad and her face was fair.
The unheeded tears streamed down her cheek
And she did sigh and would not speak.
The silent girl just there did sit
And her sad fair face was brightly sunlit.
Why she was crying I do not know;
What the cause of her private woe.
I shall never see her evermore,
Yet I know if I should I'd her adore
And the memory of those quiet tears
Will never fade through all the years.
October 29, 2004
Untitled
I saw a girl was sitting there
And her face was sad and her face was fair.
The unheeded tears streamed down her cheek
And she did sigh and would not speak.
The silent girl just there did sit
And her sad fair face was brightly sunlit.
Why she was crying I do not know;
What the cause of her private woe.
I shall never see her evermore,
Yet I know if I should I'd her adore
And the memory of those quiet tears
Will never fade through all the years.
October 29, 2004
Monday, October 02, 2006
St. Eustathius and his family
St. Eustathius Placidus, St. Theopiste, St. Agapius, and St. Theopistus Sept. 20/Oct. 3
St. Eustathius (Eustace) was a famous early Roman general. He was married and had two sons. One day he was out hunting when he saw a stag in the distance. He chased it for a long time and finally caught up with it only to see a cross glowing between the stags antlers. After this he and his family became Christians. They left Rome but along the way all three were separated. Eustathius's wife was captured by pirates and his two sons were stolen by wild animals. Eustathius mourned them as dead.
Eventually the emperor discovered him and as he was in the midst of a war called on his old general to help him. Eustathius agreed. While in his army two young men met and discovered that they were Eustathius's long lost sons although they did not know who he was or that he was their commander. Eventually they all discovered each other but Eustathius and his sons still believed his wife to be dead. One day Eustathius had occasion to go into the garden of the house next to them where he met a woman about his age. She recognized her husband by one of his scars and the family was finally reunited.
Eustathius won the victory for Rome and he and his family departed in triumph for the capital. During the victory celebrations they were required to sacrifice to the idols and refused. The emperor was very angry and ordered them to be fed to lions. These animals refused to eat the saints which only enraged the emperor further. He ordered a metal bull made and heated it until it was red hot. Then he threw the holy family into it.
Holy saints, pray to God for us!
Image from http://www.byzantines.net/byzcathculture/icons/steustacewifesons.jpg
St. Eustathius (Eustace) was a famous early Roman general. He was married and had two sons. One day he was out hunting when he saw a stag in the distance. He chased it for a long time and finally caught up with it only to see a cross glowing between the stags antlers. After this he and his family became Christians. They left Rome but along the way all three were separated. Eustathius's wife was captured by pirates and his two sons were stolen by wild animals. Eustathius mourned them as dead.
Eventually the emperor discovered him and as he was in the midst of a war called on his old general to help him. Eustathius agreed. While in his army two young men met and discovered that they were Eustathius's long lost sons although they did not know who he was or that he was their commander. Eventually they all discovered each other but Eustathius and his sons still believed his wife to be dead. One day Eustathius had occasion to go into the garden of the house next to them where he met a woman about his age. She recognized her husband by one of his scars and the family was finally reunited.
Eustathius won the victory for Rome and he and his family departed in triumph for the capital. During the victory celebrations they were required to sacrifice to the idols and refused. The emperor was very angry and ordered them to be fed to lions. These animals refused to eat the saints which only enraged the emperor further. He ordered a metal bull made and heated it until it was red hot. Then he threw the holy family into it.
Holy saints, pray to God for us!
Image from http://www.byzantines.net/byzcathculture/icons/steustacewifesons.jpg
Sunday, October 01, 2006
October's quote
Time for the next quote of the month!
October's Quote of the Month
“A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways—by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.”
~Plato
October's Quote of the Month
“A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways—by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul.”
~Plato
Friday, September 29, 2006
Last new feature--book report
This is the last new feature I'm introducing. Each month I'll review one book. This month, King of Shadows.
King of Shadows
By Susan Cooper
I had read this book years ago and decided that my good memory of it was worth going back and trying it again. I was right. This is one extremely well researched, thought out, and written book.
Nat Field is a young actor recruited by a somewhat mysterious man named Arby to play Puck in Arby's version of "A Midsummer Night's Dream". The company of actors are all boys aged 11-18. They will play in the brand-new reproduction of Shakespeare's Globe. Just before the play opens Nat falls ill. He is taken to the hospital where he is diagnosed with bubonic plague.
Meanwhile Nat wakes up in 1599, four hundred years before his own time. Everyone believes him to be Nat Field from St. Paul's school, loaned to Shakespeare's company to play Puck to Shakespeare's Oberon in a very important performance of the "Dream." Shakespeare and Nat quickly connect, forming a strong personal bond. Nat, who has suffered much loss in his life, is a kindred spirit to Shakespeare, who recently lost his son Hamnet. Their relationship is one of the most believable and warm parts of the book. Cooper's Shakespeare is one you want to be the real Shakespeare.
The company is nervous as it is believed that Queen Elizabeth I herself may come to see the play. But the big day arrives and all goes well. Nat, a boy from 1999, meets Queen Elizabeth.
After the play Nat realizes that his current situation cannot stay the way it is. Nat Field will be returning to St. Paul's where Nat will instantly be rejected. He promises Shakespeare to come back when he is grown and act with him again.
I am a weepy person. And I cried at the end of this book. It was beautiful. And you know, I believed it, the possiblity of it. I can't really say anything else because I'll completely spoil the book, but the characterizations were such that it felt right to me. Bravo Susan Cooper!
King of Shadows
By Susan Cooper
I had read this book years ago and decided that my good memory of it was worth going back and trying it again. I was right. This is one extremely well researched, thought out, and written book.
Nat Field is a young actor recruited by a somewhat mysterious man named Arby to play Puck in Arby's version of "A Midsummer Night's Dream". The company of actors are all boys aged 11-18. They will play in the brand-new reproduction of Shakespeare's Globe. Just before the play opens Nat falls ill. He is taken to the hospital where he is diagnosed with bubonic plague.
Meanwhile Nat wakes up in 1599, four hundred years before his own time. Everyone believes him to be Nat Field from St. Paul's school, loaned to Shakespeare's company to play Puck to Shakespeare's Oberon in a very important performance of the "Dream." Shakespeare and Nat quickly connect, forming a strong personal bond. Nat, who has suffered much loss in his life, is a kindred spirit to Shakespeare, who recently lost his son Hamnet. Their relationship is one of the most believable and warm parts of the book. Cooper's Shakespeare is one you want to be the real Shakespeare.
The company is nervous as it is believed that Queen Elizabeth I herself may come to see the play. But the big day arrives and all goes well. Nat, a boy from 1999, meets Queen Elizabeth.
After the play Nat realizes that his current situation cannot stay the way it is. Nat Field will be returning to St. Paul's where Nat will instantly be rejected. He promises Shakespeare to come back when he is grown and act with him again.
I am a weepy person. And I cried at the end of this book. It was beautiful. And you know, I believed it, the possiblity of it. I can't really say anything else because I'll completely spoil the book, but the characterizations were such that it felt right to me. Bravo Susan Cooper!
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
How to...
This is one of the last new features I'm introducing. Once a month I'll post a how-to. Some of them will be serious, a few might be a bit funny.
How to make a recepie notebook
1. Buy or obtain in another legal method a sturdy three ring notebook, paper (lined or unlined), dividers or construction paper, and plastic sheet protectors.
2. Decorate the outside of your notebook as desired. If there is any possibility of confusion I suggest putting "Recepie Notebook" somewhere on the outside.
3. Decide how many and what catagories you will be placing your recepies in. Set aside this many dividers or pieces of construction paper and decorate them as you want, writing the title of each catagory somewhere. If you are using construction paper fashion tabs and glue them to the sides so you can tell where to flip.
4. Divide up the plastic sheet protectors. You can do this in two ways. One is to divide them evenly among the catagories while the other is to put more in a catagory where you have more recepies.
5. Copy your recepies onto the pieces of paper and place them within the plastic sheet protectors. This will keep the recepies from getting food on them while cooking.
Have fun!
How to make a recepie notebook
1. Buy or obtain in another legal method a sturdy three ring notebook, paper (lined or unlined), dividers or construction paper, and plastic sheet protectors.
2. Decorate the outside of your notebook as desired. If there is any possibility of confusion I suggest putting "Recepie Notebook" somewhere on the outside.
3. Decide how many and what catagories you will be placing your recepies in. Set aside this many dividers or pieces of construction paper and decorate them as you want, writing the title of each catagory somewhere. If you are using construction paper fashion tabs and glue them to the sides so you can tell where to flip.
4. Divide up the plastic sheet protectors. You can do this in two ways. One is to divide them evenly among the catagories while the other is to put more in a catagory where you have more recepies.
5. Copy your recepies onto the pieces of paper and place them within the plastic sheet protectors. This will keep the recepies from getting food on them while cooking.
Have fun!
Poem # 4
Another older poem I thought I'd post.
A Welshman's Lament
There is tired I am of hills and vales-
There is tired I am of sighs and wails-
There is tired I am of wandering on-
There is tired I am of seeing each dawn-
There is tired I am of peddling wares-
There is tired I am of living off hares.
There are dreams I am having of owning a house-
There are dreams I am having of a a fire to douse-
There are dreams I am having of a fine estate-
There are dreams I am having of opening my gate-
There are dreams I am having of a small table-
There are dreams I am having of horse and stable.
September 2003
A Welshman's Lament
There is tired I am of hills and vales-
There is tired I am of sighs and wails-
There is tired I am of wandering on-
There is tired I am of seeing each dawn-
There is tired I am of peddling wares-
There is tired I am of living off hares.
There are dreams I am having of owning a house-
There are dreams I am having of a a fire to douse-
There are dreams I am having of a fine estate-
There are dreams I am having of opening my gate-
There are dreams I am having of a small table-
There are dreams I am having of horse and stable.
September 2003
Monday, September 25, 2006
St. Sophia and daughters
Sts. Sophia, Faith, Hope, and Charity Sept. 17/30
St. Sophia was a widow in the 2nd century who raised her three daughters as Christians. When the Emperor Hadrian began persecuting Christians they were arrested and brought before the emperor. The emperor entreated the three young girls to renounce Christ and their mother and live in comfort. They refused and were tortured and killed one by one, first Faith, then Hope, and then Charity. St. Sophia was allowed to bury their bodies, which she did. She died herself a few days later.
Source: St. Irene Chrysovalantou
St. Sophia was a widow in the 2nd century who raised her three daughters as Christians. When the Emperor Hadrian began persecuting Christians they were arrested and brought before the emperor. The emperor entreated the three young girls to renounce Christ and their mother and live in comfort. They refused and were tortured and killed one by one, first Faith, then Hope, and then Charity. St. Sophia was allowed to bury their bodies, which she did. She died herself a few days later.
Source: St. Irene Chrysovalantou
Thursday, September 21, 2006
New Feature #5--Recepie of the month
Here's the next new feature. Each month I'll be posting a new recepie.
Sour Cherry and Vanilla (Cranberry and Almond) Scones*
*All ingredients in parenthises will be for the Cranberry and Almond Scones
3 c unbleached all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. sugar
3/4 c. very cold unsalted butter, cut into small chunks
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 t. vanilla (1 t. almond)
3/4 c. buttermilk or orange juice
1 c. sour cherries (dried cranberries or "craisins")
2 T. melted margarine, or milk
sugar
In a large bowl, mix flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and sugar. Cut in butter until you have a grainy, coarse mixture.
Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and stir in egg, vanilla (almond), and buttermilk. Using a fork, lightly bring the mixture in toward the center to combine the wet and dry. When slightly combined, fold in cherries (cranberries). Blend to form a soft shaggy mass. Turn out onto lightly floured work surface and knead very gently to make a soft dough. pat or shape the doubh into a 10 in. circle. Cut into 4 equal portions. Cut each portion into thirds, making a total of 12 wedges. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Place the scones on the sheet. Brush the tops with melted butter and sprinkle with a little sugar. Bake at 425 degrees until golden, 12-15 minutes.
Original recepie from the Grandview Library Cookbook, Cranberry Almond version by my family
Sour Cherry and Vanilla (Cranberry and Almond) Scones*
*All ingredients in parenthises will be for the Cranberry and Almond Scones
3 c unbleached all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. sugar
3/4 c. very cold unsalted butter, cut into small chunks
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 t. vanilla (1 t. almond)
3/4 c. buttermilk or orange juice
1 c. sour cherries (dried cranberries or "craisins")
2 T. melted margarine, or milk
sugar
In a large bowl, mix flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and sugar. Cut in butter until you have a grainy, coarse mixture.
Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and stir in egg, vanilla (almond), and buttermilk. Using a fork, lightly bring the mixture in toward the center to combine the wet and dry. When slightly combined, fold in cherries (cranberries). Blend to form a soft shaggy mass. Turn out onto lightly floured work surface and knead very gently to make a soft dough. pat or shape the doubh into a 10 in. circle. Cut into 4 equal portions. Cut each portion into thirds, making a total of 12 wedges. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Place the scones on the sheet. Brush the tops with melted butter and sprinkle with a little sugar. Bake at 425 degrees until golden, 12-15 minutes.
Original recepie from the Grandview Library Cookbook, Cranberry Almond version by my family
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Chicory Fields
Chicory Fields
The blue of the sky is reflected, deeper
In you below. Your color is God's.
It heals my soul. Like water
Soothing my tired body
Your blue surrounds my heart
And gives it ease.
If I could stay here and gaze
Always at this blue,
My heart would ever sing for joy.
8-12-2003
The blue of the sky is reflected, deeper
In you below. Your color is God's.
It heals my soul. Like water
Soothing my tired body
Your blue surrounds my heart
And gives it ease.
If I could stay here and gaze
Always at this blue,
My heart would ever sing for joy.
8-12-2003
Monday, September 18, 2006
Sts. Joachim and Anna
Sts. Joachim and Anna, Sept 9/22
Sts. Joachim and Anna were the parents of the Mother of God. They had been married for fifty years and Anna was considered barren which was a shameful thing in Jewish culture of the times. They prayed earnestly to God who sent them an angel to proclaim the birth of the Theotokos (God-bearer). St. Joachim lived to his 80th year and St. Anna to her 79th year.
Source: OrthodoxWiki
Sts. Joachim and Anna were the parents of the Mother of God. They had been married for fifty years and Anna was considered barren which was a shameful thing in Jewish culture of the times. They prayed earnestly to God who sent them an angel to proclaim the birth of the Theotokos (God-bearer). St. Joachim lived to his 80th year and St. Anna to her 79th year.
Source: OrthodoxWiki
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Poem #2
Here's my next poem in the "poem of the week" series.
Weeds
They come from here and there-
Making an attack upon my orderly beds-
I root them out diligently-
Then find how lovely they are.
Weeds
They come from here and there-
Making an attack upon my orderly beds-
I root them out diligently-
Then find how lovely they are.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
New Feature # 4--Story of the Month
I called this feature "
Story of the Month" basically because I couldn't think of anything else to call it. It's not necessarily going to be a story, but it will be some prose piece; short story or just random blurb. This first one is part of a short story I started.
The Prodigal
Shores are almost always lovely, even if in a strange and wild way. This one was no exception. Above a tall grey cliff the seagulls wheeled, mewling, while below it the waves broke against the rocks. The cliff sloped down on the left to a stony beach where a man was just beaching a small boat. He straightened wearily and gazed around him. Then he began the steep walk to the top of the path leading over the cliff.
He was tall and well-built although bent at the mmoment under a large pack. he had an air of having traveled far and suffered much. Though he was born and raised here his old friends would not have recognized him had the met him. His clothes were old and stained but carefully patched.
He followed the shore path for some time until he came upon a stand of trees; tall elms and stately poplars mixed with dark pines and slim white birches. Here he turned inland, striking a path that led him away from the sound of the waves. The trees ended and the man came out into rolling hills and snug, prosperous farmhouses. In this secluded place it was hard to imagine that the roar of the sea was so near.
Down in a sunny hollow lay a small yellow house with white shutters. Morning glories trailed over the front porch while fruit trees grew behind the house. A neat dirt path led from the road to the house. The man turned down it, as he had so many times before. Up the few steps and he stood, at the last awkward and unsure, before the door. Finally he lifted his hand and knocked.
There was a long silence while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then the door opened, revealing a small woman in a blue housedress with an untidy bun of grey hair. She stared at the man for a moment, then gasped. "Christopher! Well, you've come back. Come along inside dear. I'll go and get your father."
Inside the cool hall he stopped her. "Mother, would that be wise? Wouldn't he--I don't want to trouble you. I'll just..."
"You left fifteen years ago dear. He's not been angry with you the last twelve. You always did think him worse than he is."
Left alone in the hall Christopher put his pack down by a small table. Nothing had changed, and yet somehow it was different. What had seemed new and fresh when he was young now was old and worn. Or perhaps it was he that had changed. Or perhaps it was both...
He was deep in his thoughts when his father came in, an aging giant with a great shock of hair going everywhere. He had to take Christopher by the shoulder to get his attention. They stood looking at each other for a long moment. "I am glad to see you back. There was a time when I would have thrown you out if you had set foot in this house, but that is long gone now. Come into the kitchen; your mother will want to feed you I am sure."
Later that night Christopher wandered through the house, implanting it in his memory, as if it was not already there. Here still were the bits of china and silk that had been his mother's dowry. Here were the books that his father read sometimes when the work was done. Here was the picture of the Pyramids that had awakened such longing in him when he was young. There were no traces of him. Even in the room that had been his, still preserved carefully, there were no echoes of the boy that he had been. He could not stay there.
Outside he thought he would go to the barn. The animals would be different, a Suky instead of Bess, a Prince instead of Cyrus, but they would be comforting as their ancestors had been. The barn had always been his refuge and consolation.
He did not expect to find anyone there, but his father had lingered after the chores were over; waiting for something. Christopher did not dare think what. They stood together, silent again, for some time. "You'll be off then," his father said. It was not a question.
"Yes."
"When I was young I wanted to escape. To go somewhere else. I could never do it somehow. Lacked the backbone, I suppose. When you did what I could not I was angry at you. The only outlet left me was books. I chose my fate I suppose."
Christopher was silent for a moment. He had never known that about his father; had never bothered to find out. "I am sorry," he said. It seemed to be all he could say.
"Yes, well it's all right now. God bless you Kit. Come and see us sometime." He turned and left. Christopher stayed there a moment longer and then followed.
In the kitchen his mother was putting up some food in a knapsack. "I've mended your clothes dear, and here is something to take with you. No, don't say anything. I knew you would go. It's the way you are. We will miss you, you know. And I for one would take it kindly if you would write us once in awhile."
"Yes mother. I am sorry." He did not know exactly why he said that, nor what he was apologizing for, but it was said. In the morning he would be gone.
"Go to bed now. I'll wake you early." She kissed him and pushed him gently towards the stairs.
Kit could not deny that it was a relief to be once more on the road, once more walking along the shore. He did not know where he was going now. Perhaps to Lizbeth. She had said she would wait. And she would come wherever he decided to go. Yes, to Lizbeth.
Story of the Month" basically because I couldn't think of anything else to call it. It's not necessarily going to be a story, but it will be some prose piece; short story or just random blurb. This first one is part of a short story I started.
The Prodigal
Shores are almost always lovely, even if in a strange and wild way. This one was no exception. Above a tall grey cliff the seagulls wheeled, mewling, while below it the waves broke against the rocks. The cliff sloped down on the left to a stony beach where a man was just beaching a small boat. He straightened wearily and gazed around him. Then he began the steep walk to the top of the path leading over the cliff.
He was tall and well-built although bent at the mmoment under a large pack. he had an air of having traveled far and suffered much. Though he was born and raised here his old friends would not have recognized him had the met him. His clothes were old and stained but carefully patched.
He followed the shore path for some time until he came upon a stand of trees; tall elms and stately poplars mixed with dark pines and slim white birches. Here he turned inland, striking a path that led him away from the sound of the waves. The trees ended and the man came out into rolling hills and snug, prosperous farmhouses. In this secluded place it was hard to imagine that the roar of the sea was so near.
Down in a sunny hollow lay a small yellow house with white shutters. Morning glories trailed over the front porch while fruit trees grew behind the house. A neat dirt path led from the road to the house. The man turned down it, as he had so many times before. Up the few steps and he stood, at the last awkward and unsure, before the door. Finally he lifted his hand and knocked.
There was a long silence while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then the door opened, revealing a small woman in a blue housedress with an untidy bun of grey hair. She stared at the man for a moment, then gasped. "Christopher! Well, you've come back. Come along inside dear. I'll go and get your father."
Inside the cool hall he stopped her. "Mother, would that be wise? Wouldn't he--I don't want to trouble you. I'll just..."
"You left fifteen years ago dear. He's not been angry with you the last twelve. You always did think him worse than he is."
Left alone in the hall Christopher put his pack down by a small table. Nothing had changed, and yet somehow it was different. What had seemed new and fresh when he was young now was old and worn. Or perhaps it was he that had changed. Or perhaps it was both...
He was deep in his thoughts when his father came in, an aging giant with a great shock of hair going everywhere. He had to take Christopher by the shoulder to get his attention. They stood looking at each other for a long moment. "I am glad to see you back. There was a time when I would have thrown you out if you had set foot in this house, but that is long gone now. Come into the kitchen; your mother will want to feed you I am sure."
Later that night Christopher wandered through the house, implanting it in his memory, as if it was not already there. Here still were the bits of china and silk that had been his mother's dowry. Here were the books that his father read sometimes when the work was done. Here was the picture of the Pyramids that had awakened such longing in him when he was young. There were no traces of him. Even in the room that had been his, still preserved carefully, there were no echoes of the boy that he had been. He could not stay there.
Outside he thought he would go to the barn. The animals would be different, a Suky instead of Bess, a Prince instead of Cyrus, but they would be comforting as their ancestors had been. The barn had always been his refuge and consolation.
He did not expect to find anyone there, but his father had lingered after the chores were over; waiting for something. Christopher did not dare think what. They stood together, silent again, for some time. "You'll be off then," his father said. It was not a question.
"Yes."
"When I was young I wanted to escape. To go somewhere else. I could never do it somehow. Lacked the backbone, I suppose. When you did what I could not I was angry at you. The only outlet left me was books. I chose my fate I suppose."
Christopher was silent for a moment. He had never known that about his father; had never bothered to find out. "I am sorry," he said. It seemed to be all he could say.
"Yes, well it's all right now. God bless you Kit. Come and see us sometime." He turned and left. Christopher stayed there a moment longer and then followed.
In the kitchen his mother was putting up some food in a knapsack. "I've mended your clothes dear, and here is something to take with you. No, don't say anything. I knew you would go. It's the way you are. We will miss you, you know. And I for one would take it kindly if you would write us once in awhile."
"Yes mother. I am sorry." He did not know exactly why he said that, nor what he was apologizing for, but it was said. In the morning he would be gone.
"Go to bed now. I'll wake you early." She kissed him and pushed him gently towards the stairs.
Kit could not deny that it was a relief to be once more on the road, once more walking along the shore. He did not know where he was going now. Perhaps to Lizbeth. She had said she would wait. And she would come wherever he decided to go. Yes, to Lizbeth.
Monday, September 11, 2006
St. Aidan of Lindisfarne
St. Aidan of Lindisfarne, Aug. 31/Sept. 13
St. Aidan was Irish, a monk at Iona. After St. Oswald gained the crown of Northumbria St. Aidan went there as a missionary to restore the people to Christianity. He became bishop of Lindisfarne and began preaching the faith of Christ. When St. Oswald died in 642, St. Oswin, King of Deira, supported St. Aidan in his works.
St. Aidan was a great missionary because he was polite, kind, and humble. He did not force Christianity on those he visited but rather slowly interested them in it. Through his tireless efforts Northumbria was returned to Christianity.
St. Aidan was also sucessful because he expressed his faith in a way that suited the people he was converting. That is, he used his Celtic heritage to appeal to the Celtic people he worked with rather than appearing as a Roman conqueror.
St. Aidan died in 651 after a short illness, while leaning against the wall of a local church. His feast is celebrated on August 31 Old Calendar.
Source: http://www2.orthodoxwiki.org/index.php?title=Aidan_of_Lindisfarne&oldid=14234
St. Aidan was Irish, a monk at Iona. After St. Oswald gained the crown of Northumbria St. Aidan went there as a missionary to restore the people to Christianity. He became bishop of Lindisfarne and began preaching the faith of Christ. When St. Oswald died in 642, St. Oswin, King of Deira, supported St. Aidan in his works.
St. Aidan was a great missionary because he was polite, kind, and humble. He did not force Christianity on those he visited but rather slowly interested them in it. Through his tireless efforts Northumbria was returned to Christianity.
St. Aidan was also sucessful because he expressed his faith in a way that suited the people he was converting. That is, he used his Celtic heritage to appeal to the Celtic people he worked with rather than appearing as a Roman conqueror.
St. Aidan died in 651 after a short illness, while leaning against the wall of a local church. His feast is celebrated on August 31 Old Calendar.
Source: http://www2.orthodoxwiki.org/index.php?title=Aidan_of_Lindisfarne&oldid=14234
Sunday, September 10, 2006
"The Marshes of Glynn"
I usually don't post on a Sunday, but I was reading a bit of one of my many notebooks and came across a bit of "The Marshes of Glynn" by Sidney Lanier that I can't resist posting.
From "The Marshes of Glynn"
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-witholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightiliy won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies.
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
~Sidney Lanier
From "The Marshes of Glynn"
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-witholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightiliy won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies.
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
~Sidney Lanier
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
New Feature #3: Poem of the week
Each week I'll be posting an original poem by moi. (Which means I need to start writing again.) Here's the first.
Joy
The sun filtered through the trees-
The rain drumming upon the eaves-
The song of the birds-
The sweet scent of the flowers-
These things give me Joy.
The singing of a choir-
The end of a tale well told-
The swoop of a swing-
The laughter of friends-
These things give me Joy.
(Be kind, it's a very old poem.)
Joy
The sun filtered through the trees-
The rain drumming upon the eaves-
The song of the birds-
The sweet scent of the flowers-
These things give me Joy.
The singing of a choir-
The end of a tale well told-
The swoop of a swing-
The laughter of friends-
These things give me Joy.
(Be kind, it's a very old poem.)
Monday, September 04, 2006
New Feature #2: Saint of the Week
Second new feature: Every Monday I will post the life of an Orthodox Saint celebrated around this time. I am starting with Fr. Seraphim Rose. This will necessarily be a condensed biography. For a mich more rich study of Fr. Seraphim's life, works, and teachings see the biography written by Fr. Damascene Christensen, Fr. Seraphim Rose: His Life and Works.
Fr. Seraphim Rose, commemorated Sept. 2/August 21
Fr. Seraphim Rose, commemorated Sept. 2/August 21
Fr. Seraphim is not a canonized saint, but many Orthodox consider him one, particularly in Russia and Serbia. He is widely known as "Blessed" Seraphim Rose, but I prefer to call him Fr. Seraphim. I do consider him a modern-day saint.
Fr. Seraphim was born Eugene Rose in San Diego, California. His parents were Protestant and as a young man Eugene had little real contact with the church. As a college student he studied Buddhism and other eastern philosophies. He was a brilliant scholar, excelling in the study of Chinese. Eugene's friend, Jon Gregerson, introduced him to the Russian Orthodox church at a time when Eugene was beginning to move towards Christianity. He was chrismated in 1962.
Eugene and his friend Gleb Podmoshenky opened a bookstore next to the Russian cathedral in San Francisco. With the blessing and encouragement of St. (then Archbishop) John Maximovitch they began the labor of publishing a magazine which they called the "Orthodox Word". Gradually a brotherhood of like-minded young men grew up around the bookstore and in 1968 Eugene, Gleb, and others left the city to go to the wilderness of northern California. They bought land in Platina and began to develop a monastic life as the St. Herman of Alaska Brotherhood. St. Herman is one of the earliest American Orthodox Saints. Two years later Eugene and Gleb were tonsured monks. Eugene became Fr. Seraphim and Gleb became Fr. Herman after St. Herman of Alaska.
The monastery continued to publish the Orthodox Word as well as books and pamphlets written by Fr. Seraphim and translations of texts. One of the most important books they published was Russia's Catacomb Saints which documented the struggles of Orthodox Christians within Communist Russia. The book was edited by Fr. Seraphim from a manuscript given to them by I.M. Andreyev. After Fr. Seraphim's death in 1982, more of his writings were published and today practically every Christian bookstore and church library has his writings in translation.
Fr. Seraphim died on Sept. 2, 1982 at 48. His body did not experience rigor mortis and some say that they smelled roses when they were by him.
Fr. Seraphim is a witness to the fact that an American brought up in a normal household can attain the heights of Orthodoxy and indeed can be a major contributor to its preservation. Fr. Seraphim Rose is one of the most important figures in the rebirth of Russian Orthodoxy. But beyond that he is an inspiration for each and every one of us. We must study his writings and keep his sayings alive in our hearts. "Today in Russia, tomorrow in America." "It is later than you think; hasten then to do the will of God."
Holy Fr. Seraphim, pray to God for us!
Sources:
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Changes to the sidebar
I've been making a few changes to my sidebar, so I'll just go through them quickly.
Links
Mrs. Wilt--I've been visiting Mrs. Wilt's blog for about two months and have found it absolutely enchanting. She posts on a wide variety of subjects, from helpful tips to thought-provoking discussions.
My Chain Reading Profile--Chain Reading is a very interesting site where you can review and reccomend books, suggest a book to a friend, and in general keep track of reading. Visiting my profile will tell you what books I reccomend, what I'm reading, and what I'm planning to read
Lanier--While visiting Krista's blog I discovered her list of links. Lanier was one of them and I've enjoyed reading her blog very much over the past week or so.
Dropdowns
As I begin adding new features I will also add dropdown boxes to help visitors navigate mroe easily. I stole the idea from Mrs. Wilt because it works very well on her site.
Links
Mrs. Wilt--I've been visiting Mrs. Wilt's blog for about two months and have found it absolutely enchanting. She posts on a wide variety of subjects, from helpful tips to thought-provoking discussions.
My Chain Reading Profile--Chain Reading is a very interesting site where you can review and reccomend books, suggest a book to a friend, and in general keep track of reading. Visiting my profile will tell you what books I reccomend, what I'm reading, and what I'm planning to read
Lanier--While visiting Krista's blog I discovered her list of links. Lanier was one of them and I've enjoyed reading her blog very much over the past week or so.
Dropdowns
As I begin adding new features I will also add dropdown boxes to help visitors navigate mroe easily. I stole the idea from Mrs. Wilt because it works very well on her site.
Friday, September 01, 2006
New feature #1: Quote of the Month
Here's the first of the new features I announced: A different quote for every month, which will be posted the first day of the month.
September's Quote
"I should lose some of the best recollections, best encouragements, and best objects, that I carry through my daily life. I should lose my belief that had I been his equal, and had he loved me, I should have tried with all my might to make him better and happier, as he would have made me...I should lose a kind of picture of him--or what he might have been, if I had been a lady, and he had loved me--which is always with me and which I somehow feel that I could not do a mean or a wrong thing before."
Our Mutual Friend--Charles Dickens
September's Quote
"I should lose some of the best recollections, best encouragements, and best objects, that I carry through my daily life. I should lose my belief that had I been his equal, and had he loved me, I should have tried with all my might to make him better and happier, as he would have made me...I should lose a kind of picture of him--or what he might have been, if I had been a lady, and he had loved me--which is always with me and which I somehow feel that I could not do a mean or a wrong thing before."
Our Mutual Friend--Charles Dickens
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Rain
It was just raining. Granted this will soon become routine and even annoying here in the Pacific
Northwest, but this is the first rain, a quiet misty affair that has now stopped.
And I like rain anyway. It brings with it such a wonderful clean smell that is like nothing else on earth. I think it cleans me as well.
Anyway, here is a poem by Sara Teasdale that I was reminded of.
There Will Come Soft Rains
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Picture from http://7art-screensavers.com/screenshots/wet-flowers/wet-violet-flower.jpg
Northwest, but this is the first rain, a quiet misty affair that has now stopped.
And I like rain anyway. It brings with it such a wonderful clean smell that is like nothing else on earth. I think it cleans me as well.
Anyway, here is a poem by Sara Teasdale that I was reminded of.
There Will Come Soft Rains
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Picture from http://7art-screensavers.com/screenshots/wet-flowers/wet-violet-flower.jpg
Monday, August 28, 2006
Stupid eBay
Many of you have probably heard about this, but I'd like to raise awareness, so here goes anyway. Please read this article.
Then react as you feel moved to do. Personally, if I used eBay, which I don't, I would immediately register a complaint and then stop using the site. Honestly, this is ridiculous. Parents have a right to choose how and where and when their children are educated. Period. End of story. If I have children you bet they'll be homeschooled. Not their whole school career probably, but they will be homeschooled or I'll move somewhere where I can homeschool them. And every homeschooling parent has the right to any resource available to helpt their child learn. In the end, eBay's policy only hurts the children because it denies them their fundamental right to learn. I think someone should sue.
Then react as you feel moved to do. Personally, if I used eBay, which I don't, I would immediately register a complaint and then stop using the site. Honestly, this is ridiculous. Parents have a right to choose how and where and when their children are educated. Period. End of story. If I have children you bet they'll be homeschooled. Not their whole school career probably, but they will be homeschooled or I'll move somewhere where I can homeschool them. And every homeschooling parent has the right to any resource available to helpt their child learn. In the end, eBay's policy only hurts the children because it denies them their fundamental right to learn. I think someone should sue.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Hello again!
I am happy to tell you that I am moved, but without full internet access yet. I am planning some new features for this blog--hope that you will enjoy them. I'll be announcing them as the first of each feature occurs. I hope to be back with you full time soon.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Parting and an announcement
I'm sorry I've been so quiet recently. Truth to tell, I haven't done much writing recently because we've been packing up to move across the country. So I'm also announcing a (hopefully) short hiatus until I can get real internet access again.
Also, I am told that Donald Hall is now the Poet Laureate of the United States. He wrote Ox Cart Man. If you don't know that book, I'm sorry for you because you had a deprived childhood. :)
Here's a poem I wrote for a friend of mine a couple of years ago when I thought we were moving.
Parted
If, when looking into the dim future
Your heart is saddened by our parting,
Think not on the grey years
That will separate us one from the other.
Oh no dear friend! Think instead
Upon those happy passing days
When we side by side would sit
Telling the secrets of our hearts.
Then forget the long sorrow to be
And remember only our laughter
And then shall your heart be renewed.
Also, I am told that Donald Hall is now the Poet Laureate of the United States. He wrote Ox Cart Man. If you don't know that book, I'm sorry for you because you had a deprived childhood. :)
Here's a poem I wrote for a friend of mine a couple of years ago when I thought we were moving.
Parted
If, when looking into the dim future
Your heart is saddened by our parting,
Think not on the grey years
That will separate us one from the other.
Oh no dear friend! Think instead
Upon those happy passing days
When we side by side would sit
Telling the secrets of our hearts.
Then forget the long sorrow to be
And remember only our laughter
And then shall your heart be renewed.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Other Side--poem
I'm sorry that I haven't posted in a while. I've been very busy with school and such. But I have several poems from my English final. Here is one:
The Other Side
There is always
Another side to see.
The sun is hot and burning but
It ripens the pears in June.
The sand is hard and gritty but
It forms pearls in oysters.
Bubblegum is chewy and fun but
It sticks on everything, especially when stepped on.
A candle gives light but
It burns.
There is always
Another side to see.
The Other Side
There is always
Another side to see.
The sun is hot and burning but
It ripens the pears in June.
The sand is hard and gritty but
It forms pearls in oysters.
Bubblegum is chewy and fun but
It sticks on everything, especially when stepped on.
A candle gives light but
It burns.
There is always
Another side to see.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Youthful follies
And the rain, rain, rain came down, down, down in rushing, rising rivulets.
It's been raining for the past four days. (No, I do not live in Mass, nor are we threatened with flooding.) Which naturally makes me think of this song, and therefore of Winnie the Pooh and the flood, and therefore of the umbrella.
when I was about 6 I had an umbrella. This umbrella was everything that could be desired: bright red with a duck on the handle. And I loved it. But I also loved Winnie the Pooh, and was fascinated by the part of the book when Christopher Robin and friends traveled happily down the stream on his umbrella. So one day, when it was raining very hard, and our side yard (the low spot of the neighborhood) was pretty puddly, I decided to emulate C.R. So I piled all my stuffed animals on the umbrella. Fortunately at that point I realized that I would not fit on the umbrella. But still, the weight of the animals was enough to cause the umbrella to break. A sad fate.
Actually, this makes me think of further follies of my youth. So, while I'm thinking about it, let's talk about the lamb.
I had a wonderful stuffed lamb. It had black feet and a black head, and a woolly white body. Well, I had read a story about either shearing sheep, or a boy who sheared his stuffed or pet sheep, I don't remember which. In any event, the point is that I was inspired to shear MY sheep. The first time I tried, it didn't seem that serious and I could have sworn that its wool grew back. So I sheared it again. And again, I could have sworn that its wool grew back. So I sheared it again. And this time after I was done, I looked at it and said, "OH NO!! It's bare!" And alas, the wool did not grow back. But I still kept the lamb for years and loved it.
It's been raining for the past four days. (No, I do not live in Mass, nor are we threatened with flooding.) Which naturally makes me think of this song, and therefore of Winnie the Pooh and the flood, and therefore of the umbrella.
when I was about 6 I had an umbrella. This umbrella was everything that could be desired: bright red with a duck on the handle. And I loved it. But I also loved Winnie the Pooh, and was fascinated by the part of the book when Christopher Robin and friends traveled happily down the stream on his umbrella. So one day, when it was raining very hard, and our side yard (the low spot of the neighborhood) was pretty puddly, I decided to emulate C.R. So I piled all my stuffed animals on the umbrella. Fortunately at that point I realized that I would not fit on the umbrella. But still, the weight of the animals was enough to cause the umbrella to break. A sad fate.
Actually, this makes me think of further follies of my youth. So, while I'm thinking about it, let's talk about the lamb.
I had a wonderful stuffed lamb. It had black feet and a black head, and a woolly white body. Well, I had read a story about either shearing sheep, or a boy who sheared his stuffed or pet sheep, I don't remember which. In any event, the point is that I was inspired to shear MY sheep. The first time I tried, it didn't seem that serious and I could have sworn that its wool grew back. So I sheared it again. And again, I could have sworn that its wool grew back. So I sheared it again. And this time after I was done, I looked at it and said, "OH NO!! It's bare!" And alas, the wool did not grow back. But I still kept the lamb for years and loved it.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The Doe and The Other Side
Two more poems--sorry, I've been writing quite a few for English class.
The Doe
This solitary and single doe
By the highway; startled turns her head.
I wonder,
Is she afraid of the immutable metal monsters
So heedless of her life and ours?
Or is she immured to them by
Long contact and aware of the dangers of the strip of black road?
And I wonder,
How many going by will
See her, feeding by the interstate
And how many more will rush on
Only seeing their lives, their cars;
And so miss this moment, this tangent
Of our world and hers
The Other Side
There is always
Another side to see.
The sun is hot and burning but
It ripens the pears in June.
The sand is hard and gritty but
It forms pearls in oysters.
Bubblegum is chewy and fun but
It sticks on everything, especially when stepped on.
A candle gives light but
It burns.
There is always
Another side to see.
The Doe
This solitary and single doe
By the highway; startled turns her head.
I wonder,
Is she afraid of the immutable metal monsters
So heedless of her life and ours?
Or is she immured to them by
Long contact and aware of the dangers of the strip of black road?
And I wonder,
How many going by will
See her, feeding by the interstate
And how many more will rush on
Only seeing their lives, their cars;
And so miss this moment, this tangent
Of our world and hers
The Other Side
There is always
Another side to see.
The sun is hot and burning but
It ripens the pears in June.
The sand is hard and gritty but
It forms pearls in oysters.
Bubblegum is chewy and fun but
It sticks on everything, especially when stepped on.
A candle gives light but
It burns.
There is always
Another side to see.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
More Poems
Violets
Violets
purple in a small vase—
King’s color,
yet mocked and scourged
and hung like a thief on a cross.
Villanelle
My life goes on and on towards its end,
Though what this is I cannot see,
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
In time old wounds will mend
The venom from them will flee.
My life goes on and on towards its end.
Forgive me, I have done much to offend;
I can only beg you to listen to my plea
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
If only my past I could amend
And learn, and learn to be free—
My life goes on and on towards its end.
Regret like a knife does rend,
Never again can you be carefree.
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
I have been too ready to spend
The years of our lives with glee,
My life goes on and on towards its end,
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
Sestina
I cannot think, my mind is numb with pain,
What joy do I gain from this flower,
Where it grows by the side of the pond?
From the pond comes a grey gentle mist
Like a veil falling over my love.
Must I always feel this despair?
It is easy to give way to despair
When a life is full of pain,
When there is a new absence of love
There is searing sorrow in a flower.
And a kindly veil is the mist
Rising from the edge of the pond.
Yes, there is the pond,
And when I am thick in despair
I might cast myself into the mist
And seek release from pain
Beside the white flower.
No longer alive to love.
But you must be alive to love
Look at the still waters of the pond
And that small white flower.
It is swayed by wind but does not despair.
It too knows long pain
And the friendliness of the mist.
But the sun will melt the mist
As times has melted my love
And leave us with pain
Beside the still and quiet pond,
The quietness of despair,
I and the white flower.
Yet you will tend the flower
And someday you will find the mist
On the other side of despair,
On the other side of love.
There are lessons in the pond;
There are lessons in pain.
Then we will feel pain, I and the flower
And beside the pond we will await the mist
Seeking the veil for love and for despair.
Inspired by “Novena on Vectors and Pathways” by Christopher Burawa
A seed, what is a seed?
New life, I suppose. Be
gentle with it. Touch it tenderly;
it is young and not strong.
Hold it in the palm of your hand.
Can you feel the life waiting
to burst out into the world?
Reverence the newness of it.
It is not dry and done with,
like last year’s stalks left
to wither. Yet you learned
from the old plants—heed their lessons.
Then make a soft and warm bed
for the seed, its own hole and water
and sun. And plant the seed—this is
an act of faith, be awed.
Now wait. Perhaps it will come to
nothing, all your planning. Or perhaps
the plant will grow and burst
into strong and lovely flower.
Violets
purple in a small vase—
King’s color,
yet mocked and scourged
and hung like a thief on a cross.
Villanelle
My life goes on and on towards its end,
Though what this is I cannot see,
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
In time old wounds will mend
The venom from them will flee.
My life goes on and on towards its end.
Forgive me, I have done much to offend;
I can only beg you to listen to my plea
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
If only my past I could amend
And learn, and learn to be free—
My life goes on and on towards its end.
Regret like a knife does rend,
Never again can you be carefree.
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
I have been too ready to spend
The years of our lives with glee,
My life goes on and on towards its end,
And I cannot see the road ahead for its bend.
Sestina
I cannot think, my mind is numb with pain,
What joy do I gain from this flower,
Where it grows by the side of the pond?
From the pond comes a grey gentle mist
Like a veil falling over my love.
Must I always feel this despair?
It is easy to give way to despair
When a life is full of pain,
When there is a new absence of love
There is searing sorrow in a flower.
And a kindly veil is the mist
Rising from the edge of the pond.
Yes, there is the pond,
And when I am thick in despair
I might cast myself into the mist
And seek release from pain
Beside the white flower.
No longer alive to love.
But you must be alive to love
Look at the still waters of the pond
And that small white flower.
It is swayed by wind but does not despair.
It too knows long pain
And the friendliness of the mist.
But the sun will melt the mist
As times has melted my love
And leave us with pain
Beside the still and quiet pond,
The quietness of despair,
I and the white flower.
Yet you will tend the flower
And someday you will find the mist
On the other side of despair,
On the other side of love.
There are lessons in the pond;
There are lessons in pain.
Then we will feel pain, I and the flower
And beside the pond we will await the mist
Seeking the veil for love and for despair.
Inspired by “Novena on Vectors and Pathways” by Christopher Burawa
A seed, what is a seed?
New life, I suppose. Be
gentle with it. Touch it tenderly;
it is young and not strong.
Hold it in the palm of your hand.
Can you feel the life waiting
to burst out into the world?
Reverence the newness of it.
It is not dry and done with,
like last year’s stalks left
to wither. Yet you learned
from the old plants—heed their lessons.
Then make a soft and warm bed
for the seed, its own hole and water
and sun. And plant the seed—this is
an act of faith, be awed.
Now wait. Perhaps it will come to
nothing, all your planning. Or perhaps
the plant will grow and burst
into strong and lovely flower.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
My first post--a poem
Untitled
Praise God for small lovely things;
The delicate tracery of trees
Against the morning sky-
A woman’s flushed cheek
Fading into blue.
Praise God for small lovely things;
The crisp spears of grass
Growing from the rich brown earth
With the blue sky above,
Clear in the morning light.
Praise God for small lovely things;
The butter-colored roses,
The deep green of firs
Against the dark red bricks,
The flaming orange autumn trees.
Praise God for small lovely things.
Praise God for small lovely things;
The delicate tracery of trees
Against the morning sky-
A woman’s flushed cheek
Fading into blue.
Praise God for small lovely things;
The crisp spears of grass
Growing from the rich brown earth
With the blue sky above,
Clear in the morning light.
Praise God for small lovely things;
The butter-colored roses,
The deep green of firs
Against the dark red bricks,
The flaming orange autumn trees.
Praise God for small lovely things.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
