Abundance of Little Things

I am leaving today to spend the week with my daughter and her family. She is having a baby -- what an abundant Thanksgiving we will have!

I wrote a note to my grandchildren to find out what they want on the menu, since I get to cook for them this year. They are okay with turkey and dressing, pumpkin pie if we can add whipped cream, and apple pie please, and somewhere one has seen marshmallows on sweet potatoes and wants us to try that, and one wants pineapple, and one pulled the ginger plant so we could use it somehow.

But not everyone can be with family. Or has a family. Or can find the extra funds to prepare the traditional feast. Dear Lord help us share, or to not be too proud to let others share with us.

Days are made of hours and minutes. But memories are made of moments. Let us look for them, and find them, and cherish them.

Wishing you all a Happy Thanksgiving.

Names of Things

One of my favorite places in my little house is on the sofa facing the wooded area adjacent to the property. It's where I curl my feet under me to read, watch TV, sip tea or coffee or wine, write my poetry, and jot ideas or ruminations down in one of several notebooks. But without the view, it would be just a sofa. What I see when I gaze outside makes it a revered space in my corner of the world. So this morning, when I read an excerpt from Mark Doty's The Art of Description, I knew I must do more than has been my custom. 

"...the more we can name what we're seeing, the more language we have for it, the less likely we are to destroy it. If you look at the field beside the road and you see merely the generic 'meadow,' you're less likely to care if it's bulldozed for a strip mall than you are if you know that those tall, flat-leaved spires are milkweed, upon which the monarchs have flown two thousand miles to feed, or if you can name sailor's breeches and purslane, lamb's-quarter, or the big umbels of wild carrot feeding the small multitudes. Isn't the world larger and more valuable, if you know what an umbel is? Thus, in Eden, paradise became a more intricate place, artfully arrayed, and its loss was felt all the more sharply."

When I tried to name the things I saw--oak trees, bougainvillea, bleeding heart, grass, squirrel, butterfly--I was lacking. What is that vine other than just a vine, what is that fern other than just a fern, what is the name of the tree with the large glossy dark green leaves, or the one that blesses with those magenta orchid-like flowers in February? I know the blue jays and cardinals, but which bird  has the tail with the brown and white stripes? Whose wingspan is it that swoops down at dusk, and which insects sing like a thousand violinists on high notes warming up before a concert? Is that a lizard or a chameleon or a gecko? Are they white oaks or scrub oaks or water oaks? And how could any butterfly be just a butterfly?


One of the most memorable pieces of writing which contains the naming of things comes from The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje. A woman was reading notations describing winds, written in the margins of a book:


     There is a whirlwind in southern Morocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. There is the africo, which has at times reached into the city of Rome. The alm,a fall wind out of Yugoslavia. The arifi, also christened aref or rifi, which scorches with numerous tongues. These are permanent winds that live in the present tense.
     There are other, less constant winds that change direction, that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise. The bist roz leaps into Afghanistan for 170 days -- burying villages. There is the hot, dry ghibli from Tunis, which rolls and rolls and produces a nervous condition. The haboob -- a Sudan dust storm that dresses in bright yellow walls a thousand metres high and is followed by rain. The harmattan, which blows and eventually drowns itself into the Atlantic. Imbat, a sea breeze in North Africa. Some winds that just sigh towards the sky. Night dust storms that come with the cold. The khamsin, a dust in Egypt from March to May, named after the Arabic word for "fifty," blooming for fifty days -- the ninth plague of Egypt. The datoo out of Gibraltar, which carries fragrance.
     There is also the __________, the secret wind of the desert, whose name was erased by a king after his son died within it. And the nafhat -- a blast out of Arabia. The mezzar-ifoullousen -- a violent and cold southwesterly known to Berbers as "that which plucks the fowls."  The beshabar, a black and dry northeasterly out of the Caucasus, "black wind." The samiel from Turkey, "poison and wind," the simoom, of North Africa, and the solano, whose dust plucks off rare petals, causing giddiness.
     Other, private winds. 
     Travelling along the ground like a flood. Blasting off paint, throwing down telephone poles, transporting stones and statue heads. The harmattan blows across the Sahara filled with red dust, dust as fire, as flour, entering and coagulating in the locks of rifles. Mariners called this red wind the "sea of darkness." Red sand fogs out of the Sahara were deposited as far north as Cornwall and Devon, producing showers of mud so great this was also mistaken for blood. "Blood rains were widely reported in Portugal and Spain in 1901."
     There are always millions of tons of dust in the air, just as there are millions of cubes of air in the earth and more living flesh in the soil (worms, beetles, underground creatures) than there is grazing and existing on it. Herodotus records the death of various armies engulfed in the simoom who were never seen again. One nation was "so enraged by this evil wind that they declared war on it and marched out in full battle array, only to be rapidly and completely interred."
     Dust storms in three shapes. The whirl. The column. The sheet. In the first the horizon is lost. In the second you are surround by "waltzing Ginns." The third, the sheet, is "copper-tinted. Nature seems to be on fire."


And can we ever again think of (Lord help us) just the wind? 

What Are We Doing?

The Wind, One Brilliant Day
   by Antonio Machado
      translated by Robert Bly

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses."

"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead."

"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."

The wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"

Choose Happiness

I have been taking a four-day vacation from work, and if you include the weekend, it will be six days.  I sigh twice -- first for the reason it is almost over, second with contentment because I feel so relaxed. I have accomplished only half the things I planned to do in the realm of Spring cleaning, but no matter. Half is better than nothing, and I determined not to put pressure on myself during these much anticipated days off.

Not wanting to feel pressure applies to a book I was reading. It had been recommended and given to me by a friend, whom I will see again in a couple of weeks. It was quite well written, (a national book club selection), and the characterization and sense of place were real and credible. But the protagonist led a depressing life, and as I typically identify with the main character in a book, I did not want to live in her world. I kept reading. I realized I was feeling pressure because my friend wanted me to read and like the book, and I didn't want to disappoint. Nonetheless, about halfway through, I purposed to go no further.  Any friend who is a friend will understand. For me, enough sad things come our way unbidden without living, even vicariously, more of them unnecessarily.

So I picked up a different book, and this is the page I turned to --

So Much Happiness
  by Naomi Shihab Nye

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs
or change.


But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records...


Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.

Let me savor the ripe peach and love the floor which needs to be swept. Let me never forget the clutch of  my newborn's hand around my finger, or the solid embrace of loved ones who have passed.  Let me open my eyes and ears to all things beautiful, and choose happiness whenever, wherever I can.

Can I Borrow a Cup of Sugar?

I met my daughter and her family at her grandmother's house in the country this past weekend. I took pictures of her feeding leaves to goats, of the baby eating mulberries fresh from the tree, of purple juicy hands, and of chocolate Easter bunnies on my grandsons' faces. I snapped a photo of my granddaughter walking down the lane to borrow eggs for cornbread. And I took a picture of clothes drying on a line.

It was like stepping back in time. I don't think we ever had goats, but my husband had cows and chickens. I had been a city girl, so every day in the Ozark Mountains was an adventure for me, or should have been, but I took a lot for granted. He raised a vegetable garden, and his mother taught me how to can tomatoes and corn and squash, and make jam and jelly and syrup.  It was common to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor. A couple of days later she would borrow it right back. We definitely hung our clothes out to dry -- inside-out for colors so they wouldn't fade. (Watch out for puppies. They will pull towels and sheets down every time.) At night the bed smelled like the warmth of the sun and apple-orchard air.

What is happening in our lives right now that we will be nostalgic for in a few years?  Let's appreciate green spaces and wildflowers and slow-cooked, real food. Let's turn off the TV and radio for awhile, and be treated to the conversations of  bluejays and cardinals and sparrows.  Let's knead dough and bake bread.

Who knew I would ever miss being able to hang my sheets out on the line?

Meanwhile

Banks of the Seine, Isand of La Grande Jatte, 1878

Monet

Wild Geese
   by Mary Oliver


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
     love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Missed? Not Really

Saturday night we were supposed to be able to see the full moon at its largest and most grand, because its orbit was to be closest to the earth.  Scientists referred to it as the Super Moon. If we missed it, we would have to wait many years (till 2029, I think) for it to be this close again. But I forgot about it until 11 pm.

When I stepped outside and found the round bright-white object in the sky, I didn't see much difference than on other nights when there is a full moon perched high. In the past, when I've been outside early enough on a special evening, when the moon is full and still rests close to the horizon in the east, and when I've been able to watch it rise and glow as if lit from within, its magnificence can almost take my breath away. Or at these times, if driving, I want to pull over to the side of the road and just be still, I wonder how many other drivers see what I see and want to do the same thing.  But it was higher now, and rather ordinary.

I took a step forward, still contemplating what I had missed, and the branches of a tall oak formed a frame around the moon. I saw it as a work of art. I stepped back, then forward again. I was reminded of a Chinese painting, or a scene on a kimono from Japan. I breathed in the cool air of evening, and thought about the difference taking one step forward and one step back had made.

My beautiful daughter sent me a lovely book by Ann Voskamp titled One Thousand Gifts, A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are.  The woman tells of her quest, in the middle of her daily struggles, to record one thousand things she loves:  Morning shadows across old floors, Old men looking for words just perfect, Faint aroma of cattle and straw. And one of my favorites so far is on page 62:  Suds...all color in sun...April sun pools into a dishwater sink, liquid daylight on hands. The water is hot. I wash dishes. On my arms, just below the hiked sleeves, suds leave delicate water marks. Suds glisten. And over the soaking pots, the soap bubbles stack...And I only notice because I'm looking for this and it's the rays falling, reflecting off the outer surface of a bubble...off the rim of bubble's inner skin...and where they meet, this interference of light, iridescence on the bubble's arch, violet, magenta, blue-green, yellow-gold. Like the glimmer on raven wing, the angles, the hues, the brilliant fluid, light on the waves. 


What was I thinking?  How could I have ever thought there could ever be just an ordinary moon?

The Singing Bird Will Come

Today is my first day without going to work in several weeks. It isn't always like this, but now is the "season" in our area if you are in the hospitality industry. We have learned to do more with fewer people and resources. Not all learning is good.

I didn't realize how stressed I was until Tuesday. I went to an auto repair shop because one of my headlights wasn't working. It is dark when I leave work, and for several evenings I was a little nervous during the drive home.

This was not your typical auto repair place. It was a wide open space with just a few chairs along the windows. They were of wood, not plastic, and were polished and shining. The art consisted of enlarged photographs of orchids, and there were a couple of paintings of island scenes. Live plants in lovely pots were here and there throughout the room. The only sounds came from the water feature on an unobtrusive table in the corner. No TV. No radio. No - not your typical auto repair shop.

I stood by the uncluttered counter, behind which was another fountain with running water. A plaque with the symbol for Harmony was next to it, and above were two framed sayings. One said something on the order of:  The quieter you are, the more you will hear, and the other:  If you have a green tree in your heart, the singing bird will come.


When the woman presented my bill, I told her I wished I was not in such a hurry because it was so calming in there. As I said those words, tears ran down both my cheeks. I was embarrassed. Yes -- I now realized I was obviously, definitely stressed.

I suddenly wanted to clear everything from my office, everything from my home, everything from my mind, except the necessary and the beautiful. I don't have time, I don't have time, I don't have time, I kept telling myself. And as long as I keep saying that, the more I will believe it.

Somehow we find time to do the things we really want to do. Today I could have gone through drawers and thrown away old paper, but instead I baked some banana-nut muffins. I could have boxed some clothes I no longer wear to take to the local shelter, but I sliced some strawberries and opened the curtains and lazily listened to the rain. And there are many other things I might do this afternoon, but sometimes doing nothing is the best stress reliever for me.  Even God rested on the seventh day.

Perception

This story and picture were sent to me by a dear friend. I copied and pasted the e-mail, which apparently is one that is circulating. Though I have no proof of its veracity, it somehow rings true.

THE SITUATION

 In Washington, D.C. , at a Metro Station, on a cold January morning in 2007, this man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After about 3 minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.

 About 4 minutes later:
 The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk. 

 At 6 minutes:
 A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

 At 10 minutes:
 A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent - without exception - forced their children to move on quickly.

 At 45 minutes:
 The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

 After 1 hour:
 He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.
 No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold-out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.

 This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.

 This experiment raised several questions:
 *In a common-place environment, at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty?
 *If so, do we stop to appreciate it?
 *Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

 One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:
 If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . ..
 How many other things are we missing as we rush through life?

 Enjoy life NOW .. it has an expiration date.

Stuffed Pumpkin

I heard about this stuffed pumpkin recipe on NPR as Dorie Greenspan was being interviewed about her cookbook Around My French Table.   I just finished two big servings. It is delicious!

You start with a 3 lb. pumpkin, hollow it out, and stuff it with bread, cheese, onion, bacon, thyme and nutmeg.. Then you pour heavy cream over the filling, replace the top of the pumpkin, and bake it for a couple of hours. I am looking forward to guests, for it is pretty when it comes out of the oven, and tastes great.

The cookbook is now part of my collection. It is full of interesting stories, color photographs, and adapts French recipes to the way we cook in the United States. I'm planning my entire Christmas Eve menu from this book. (Did I say Christmas? Yes, believe it. It is only 5 weeks away.)

But this week we celebrate Thanksgiving. I wish you a happy one, and hope you can be with those you love. Thank God for them, and tell them so. And you know what else to thank Him for. Go ahead. He's listening.

Boston, Black Leather, and Cobalt Blue



A few months ago I entered a contest, the theme of which was A Moment In Time. I didn't win (or even place), but my entry follows. I used only the initial "J" in keeping with the anonymity required for the contest, but his name was Joel. I choose today to share it with you because tomorrow marks the seventh year since he went on to be with God. This is my small tribute to him.

Boston, Black Leather, and Cobalt Blue

I'm so glad it's finally cold. Without hesitation I reach for the jacket that is almost ten years old. It's black and leather and lined with a subtle animal print, if cheetah can be subtle. I can't zip it comfortably any more. The belt is too long. The jacket falls below the hip, which is definitely not the right length for today's fashion. But it is the one that keeps me warm with memories.

A popular quote by Cesare Pavese says, "We do not remember days. We remember moments." And truly it is the moments I remember.

I remember when he bought it for me in the month of September. J. and I had known each other only a few months, and we were browsing in a local department store. He called to me and said, "Sweetheart, do you like this?"

"Of course. What woman wouldn't love a black leather jacket?" "Try it on," he said.

"It's too expensive," I said, as he held it for me to slip my arms into.

"But you'll need it for our trip." He winked at me and I stood taller. No wonder I was sure he was the one.

 In October we took the trip to Boston. We shared a suitcase packed with the usual jeans and shirts and sweaters. He had told me about the historic Parker House, so I had surprised him by booking a room there. Established in 1855, writers such as Longfellow, Emerson, Thoreau and Hawthorne met there regularly, and it was frequented by politicians such as Ulysses S. Grant, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy. Some of the famous people who worked in the restaurant were Ho Chi Minh as a baker, Malcom X as a busboy, and Emeril Lagasse as a chef. Every night when we returned from our jaunts in the city, we went to the Parker House lounge, sat by the fireplace, and ordered a glass of Harveys Bristol Cream. It is sherry that comes in a cobalt blue bottle, and warms the throat as you sip it slowly. Harveys Bristol Cream, a fireplace, and our black leather jackets . We felt like we could be a picture in a magazine.

He took me to Faneuil Hall and told me of its history. It was a market with stalls of food and shops and exhibits marking the city's past. The cobblestone streets were a challenge in my boots, so I changed in to my tennis shoes, and off we went to Boston Common. We watched a man in a business suit practicing Tai Chi. There were college students spread out over the lawn. Some were reading. Some played guitars. One couple was kissing while lying on a blue blanket. We took a walk by a pond where five white swans were gathered at the edge, wanting to be fed. A little girl came over and gave me bread to feed them. I tossed it piece by piece into the water, and I felt as young as she was. Her mother smiled at me, and they walked on.

J. told me about Filene's Basement, where every year there are lines of young women waiting for the annual wedding gown sale. Gowns originally priced for thousands of dollars begin at $249. When the doors open the women rush in (likened to The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona), grab as many dresses as they can, rush to a corner and start trying them on. In sixty seconds there are none left on the racks. Then it seems they trade among each other. He and I went inside and laughed as we tried to picture the mayhem the event would cause, and pitied the poor sales people on that day.

 We went to Durgin Park where the waitresses are famous for being rude and a bit outrageous, but Judy and Gina seemed to like us, and kept asking him when he was getting me a ring. It was the first time I had authentic Boston Baked Beans, and "real" clam chowder. We left there and went to a Christmas store, and he chose an ornament for our first Christmas tree. It was an open-mesh gold-colored heart, which still takes center stage on my Christmas tree each year. He might have paid for that heart, but he definitely had stolen mine.

Strolling through the city, we met a couple who were probably in their eighties, holding hands. They offered to take our picture. And we took theirs. They told us they hoped we would be as happy as they still were. And we knew that some day we, too, would be in our eighties, still holding hands, and saying those same words to others just like us.

He showed me the outdoor band shell where the Boston Pops sometimes played, and we laughed as the tourists rode by in a bright yellow Duck -- an amphibious mode of transportation known in Boston the way San Francisco is known for the cable car. We saw the pub where Cheers had been filmed, but the line to get in was long, and we passed it by. We took a walk along the Charles River and through prestigious Beacon Hill.

One day we decided to drive north to New Hampshire, and stopped on the side of the road in a particularly picturesque spot. We took a walk and discovered a stream of rushing water. He positioned me on a large rock to take my picture, and told me how beautiful I was. We came upon a covered bridge where he peeked around its edge, his eyes smiling while I told him it was his turn to have his picture taken. Leaves were amber and rust and burgundy, and crackled under foot. The sun was going down. But we were warm in our black leather jackets.

So this morning, though there are many items of newer styles and brighter colors hanging in my closet for the winter season, there is no doubt which one I'll choose. And tonight, when I get home, I'll open the cabinet and find the bottle of cobalt blue. I'll raise the glass to my dearest J., and slowly, quietly sip some of my warmest, precious memories. And I'll think of a fireplace, and bridges, and cobblestones, and swans.

And Don't Be Afraid

I read this poem a few minutes ago and I immediately wanted to share it with you.  I can't express exactly why it resonates with me so much, but poetry touches us on so many different levels, it is often hard to articulate why it accomplishes what it does.

Let Evening Come
   by Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

I wish I had taken photos of barns in years past when they were a common sight for me, or really looked at a hoe abandoned in long grass, or paid attention to the landscape dotted with bales of hay.  I especially like the poem's images of light of late afternoon shining through chinks in the barn, the fox going back to its sandy den, the wind dying down, and the shed going black inside.  Go back and look at some of the nouns in the poem:  light, cricket, yarn, dew, stars, moon, (silver) horn, bottle (in the ditch), scoop (in the oats)...  . There are so many objects I bypass every day without giving them a thought. Bypass. Pass by. I must do better.

At the moment, I'd like to be sitting in a squeaky swing on an old wooden porch surrounded by oak trees and Spanish moss at dusk, when dinner supper is over, and the only care is a sink with suds and a few dishes. I think I was there once upon a time, but I don't remember appreciating it. I am trying to do better.

At the beginning of this post, I said I couldn't explain why this poem resonates with me. I still can't. I have written and deleted sentences and paragraphs because they are simply inadequate. Let the poem speak for itself. Read it again, aloud if possible. It is a comfort poem. It will calm your spirit.

And let us take the last line with us --  "...don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come."

If Only We Knew What We Do Not Know

Oh, the things we do not know...

A few years ago I was fortunate to be able to visit Provence for 10 days. I was charmed by the sights and sounds and buildings and colors and people and colors and scents and flavors and colors and the language. And I really liked the colors. If I could, I would spend my summers languishing in the French countryside, wearing long dresses (sometimes with an apron), picking lavender and sunflowers, cooking and eating foods at their peak of freshness, sipping local wines, and practicing the music of its phrases. And the colors...

As you might imagine, I took lots of pictures, and never once thought about, much less regretted, not having photos of some white horses --  until this morning. During that trip, I was part of a 15-person tour, and all along realized our guide was lacking in providing educational information. On the way to a particular destination she said the region was known for salt, horses, and bulls. She said little else about the area.  We drove past some white horses without much ado. I don't believe anyone was taking pictures of them. I don't believe anyone knew ... But this morning I read:

...The wild horses of the Camargue form a distinct breed. Known as Camargue, it is one of the oldest breeds in the world. In fact, they are believed to have descended from the prehistoric horses, which lived during the Paleolithic period, around 17,000 years ago. The Camargue are born a dark brown or black color, but turn white around the fourth year. The breed is used to manage the bull herds of the marshland. Because of their natural environment Camargue horses thrive in Sea water. They are often called "the horse of the sea".  Here is the link to the full article:  
http://usa.loccitane.com/FO/Services/Blog/post/2010/09/24/Gazette-du-Marche-Third-Issue.aspx

How upsetting to realize I did not appreciate what I was seeing. These horses were born dark and turned white after 4 years. They were direct descendants of prehistoric horses. They thrive in sea water.  She should have told us! Or maybe even she, who had guided that same tour twice per year for several years, didn't know. It's a pity either way.

So I'm wondering this morning about all the things around us that would be more fascinating if only we knew  more about them.  Just imagine wanting to photograph bananas and fountain pens and cracks in the sidewalk. What about a close-up study of a spider web, a snail, a pinecone, old lace, tree bark, lichen, a sand dollar, an antique jar? How about the neighbor who rarely speaks, but if we knew something about her story....   (Everyone has a story.)

It is said that some things we know we know. Some things we know we don't know. And some things we don't know that we don't know.

So, where to start?
Where to start today?
So many things.
So little time.

Station

 

Station / Poem of the Day : The Poetry Foundation

Each morning I begin my day with poetry. Today when I heard the audio poem Station by Li-Young Lee,  I knew I must share it with you.  Please take three minutes to listen. If you are like me, you will listen again. And then you might have to go in search of the poem in printed form so you can take it in slowly, line by line.

Note: I am not familiar with the book pictured here, but I included it for its captivating image. If you click on the picture it will take you to Amazon.