Mangoes and Champagne

Abundance of Little Things

2011-11-20T09:22:00.001-05:00

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

2011-07-24T14:17:00.001-04:00

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?

2011-07-18T22:06:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-30T11:34:00.000-04:00

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?

2011-04-27T11:04:00.002-04:00

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

2011-04-10T19:51:00.000-04:00

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

2011-03-21T09:03:00.000-04:00

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

2011-03-10T13:17:00.000-05:00

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

2010-11-23T07:39:00.001-05:00

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

2010-11-21T17:46:00.000-05:00

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

2010-11-06T18:56:00.004-04:00

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

2010-10-17T15:51:00.000-04:00

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 d~~inner~~ 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

2010-09-25T11:41:00.001-04:00

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

2010-09-05T12:07:00.002-04:00

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.

Figs On Sale

2010-08-22T15:59:00.001-04:00

A few days ago I stopped at the store for a baguette and something for an easy meal. Figs - Buy One Get One Free read a sign as I entered the market. I knew immediately I would add prosciutto and goat cheese to the basket. Dinner was soon on my plate. The bread, the figs, the cheese, the ham, eaten in no particular order - a single item or the combination of any two or three or four at a time -- were all delicious and simply satisfying. Simply as in simple. There is something so satisfying about simple.

For two mornings I sliced Kadotas and Black Missions onto nutty toasted whole grain bread. Not that the figs weren't already inherently sweet, but there was something enticing about the thought of unfiltered wildflower honey, so I gave them just a drizzle. I ate slowly, enjoying the smooth fig contrasted with the crunch of its seeds and the nuts in the bread. I think I even closed my eyes a time or two. Simple again, but I felt regal.

What is it about a fig? For me it is ancient -- it goes all the way back to the Garden of Eden. It's exotic, it's indulgent, and it is sensuous. Just look at it. Study the outside. Cut one in half lenthwise. Look again.

Until a few years ago, my only experience with figs was a la newton. But while touring Sonoma Valley with my dear friend T., we spied a restaurant called The Girl and the Fig. The name was intriguing, so we went in without even reviewing the menu. We sat out in the garden, shared an appetizer and each had an entree which included (of course) figs, and we sipped a little white wine. We may or may not have looked around town or shopped after that, for all I remember about that afternoon is the restaurant and my first fresh fig. http://www.thegirlandthefig.com/

We do not remember days, we remember moments.
Cesare Pavese

This fruit is perishable. I must use the rest of them today. The obvious metaphor is to take advantage of life's joys as they are given us, for many are short-lived. So this afternoon I will try a new recipe for Fresh Fig Cake, which calls for 3 cups of the chopped fruit for the batter and the filling. The ingredients are few, the techniques are basic, and overall it seems rather simple. Simply delicious. Simply satisfying. Simply.

Two Weeks After The Fall

2010-08-17T18:55:00.003-04:00

One day you come home from work, go to bed at your usual time, wake up in the middle of the night for a restroom visit, and fall. You know you have internal bleeding. It's 2:30 AM. You hurt terribly. But, though you are usually an intelligent person, you don't call 911. You decide you will wait till daylight and drive yourself to the emergency room. You are wrong. You will be too weak to drive.

It is two weeks later. You are recovering. The surgeon (one of them) said the operation would be a case study if he would submit it. (You wonder if you could get any money if he did so.)

Random Thoughts You May Have Had

You wish you had started the dishwasher
Don't those nurses know you don't want to give them blood in the middle of the night?
Don't those nurses know all that beeping keeps you awake?
Did one of your bosses show up just to make sure you were really in the hospital?
Why do they bother giving you beef broth? They could just pour it out and keep from washing a bowl.
Some people drive a long way to see you. A looong way. They stay several days, then they take you home. They pick up your prescriptions and leave your cash buried in the bag. You are loved.
Someone whose back is hurting spends a night in your room among the beeping beeping beeping. And then comes back every single day. You are loved.
Someone else drives a loong way, and spends another couple of days with you when you go home. You are loved.
Someone else gets a ride to see you, and spends a whole week with you, and cooks for you, and keeps the flowers watered, and wants to be there just in case. You are loved.
Flowers and/or balloons arrive from (or are delivered by) people who love you.
Flowers arrive from people you didn't know even like you.
You get cards and calls (and rainbow roses) from some people you didn't know even thought of you as a friend.
You are thankful, oh so thankful to God, for skilled surgeons, a speedy recovery, and so much love.
You keep reminding youself that no day can be taken for granted. It can change with just one step.

The Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore

2010-08-01T10:19:00.001-04:00

Last weekend I met my sisters-in-law in a small town that I remembered as having quaint little shops that I wanted to revisit. I wanted to show them the antiques, the shabby chic, the artist studios, the tea shops, and the homemade fudge. We were excited, and reserved rooms at the historic inn.

It had been raining all week, but we didn't care. We met at 10 AM, and hoped we would be able to see all we wanted in two days. We smiled when we checked in to our rooms. One had a 4-poster bed. All had solid doors made for skeleton keys, and the bathtubs were footed and the sinks small. The sills were wood, and there was something pleasant in the air that transported me to my grandmother's house.

Fortunately, it seemed we were situated in the center of town, and would be able to walk everywhere. On the first corner we crossed a railroad track and went in to the Chamber of Commerce. The man gave us a detailed map. He said, "No. The train doesn't stop here anymore."

We saw handmade jewelry and impressive fused glass. We entered gift shops with the same items you find in any town. We climbed narrow stairs for the promise of a refreshing snack, but were disillusioned when the display case contained the same muffins you can buy at Sam's Club. We laughed, left, and found the little French Cafe around the corner. We laughed there, too, as we ate our crepes and croissants, and were entertained by the waiter. We told stories, and studied the map some more. "I know that shop is around here someplace," I said.

But by 4:00, we were through-- through as in Is this all there is? Have we missed something? We kept checking the guide map. I knew there were shops I had been to the last time. I knew I would recognize the one where I had bought the green and white teapot, and the one with the lace valances on its windows, and the one with all the books. But they were gone.

The three of us had a good time. It eventually rained on us, but just a little, and we jumped the puddles and ducked inside another shop. L had a knack for finding things. C and I just kept looking for something we didn't know we needed yet. We found a restaurant with a good view, good food, and live music, and stayed until the band went home.

But time changes things. Even though the past is always with us, it can slip away, and today is tomorrow's past. What is present today which, on some other day we will look for, want to revisit, and it be gone?

Who would think a handmade sign in front of a bowl of eggs would be so nostalgic?

Who would think I would want to take a picture of a shelf of old labels on old cans?

And I never knew how sad this sentence would be -- "No, the train doesn't stop here anymore."

Walk Around Feeling Like A Leaf

2010-07-14T23:32:00.002-04:00

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.
Naomi Shihab Nye

Not The Yellow Butterfly

2010-07-11T16:11:00.003-04:00

This morning there was a yellow butterfly that kept flying around yellow leaves on a tree outside. I was able to see it from the comfort of my sofa as I looked through the sliding glass doors and the lanai.

This afternoon, there it was again. I started wondering if it was only a coincidence that the leaves were yellow and the butterfly was yellow. I thought about how a baby laughs and tries to touch the baby in the mirror. I thought about how most of us are attracted to others who are like us, even if only on a subconscious level.

I went outside with my camera. I took pictures of the yellow leaves, and watched a striped butterfly dart all around. Striped and not solid yellow? Had my eyes been deceiving me from the living room? Still beautiful. I stood trying not to move, hoping the elusive would be still for a moment and cooperate with the photographer. I felt a sting. It was a mosquito. And then another one. I started imagining snakes. So I moved closer to my front door. There was the yellow butterfly -- directly in front of me. It was definitely yellow, but neither would it be still, not for a second.

What else can I photograph, now that I have the camera ready? I looked down and noticed a miniature plant with lacy leaves. I photographed it. I saw a tiny purple flower. I photographed it. Something flew past me. It landed. I think it was trying to be perfectly motionless, perhaps as a means of defense. Luckily, I was able to photograph it, but it would be impossible to capture its essence.

This beautiful dragonfly with a green head and blue tail and transparent wings almost went unnoticed. If I had not purposely been looking for an opportunity, I would have missed this stunning creature. What else am I missing because I am not paying attention?

According to http://www.dragonfly-site.com/meaning-symbolize.html : "The meaning of a dragonfly changes with each culture. The main symbolisms of the dragonfly are renewal, positive force and the power of life in general. Dragonflies can also be a symbol of the sense of self that comes with maturity. Also, as a creature of the wind, the dragonfly frequently represents change. And as a dragonfly lives a short life, it knows it must live its life to the fullest with the short time it has – which is a lesson for all of us."

Renewal
Positive Force
Power of Life
Sense of Self
Maturity
Change
It Must Live Life to the Fullest With the Short Time It Has

Yes. A lesson for us all.

This and That

2010-07-04T18:53:00.002-04:00

It has been a busy week, so this post will be a little of this and that to bring you up to date.

A few days ago, I received a call at 5 AM telling me the hotel I manage was filling with water on the first floor. A 6 inch-water line had burst, and by the time I got there, there were waves in the lobby! The water shorted out several key systems. Imagine the fun I had with a hotel full of guests who couldn't shower, flush a toilet, make coffee, watch TV, or access the internet. We are dry now, and systems are working, but things are not back to normal.

My daughter and four of my grandchildren spent the last week with me. They went to the beach a couple of times, the pool several times, and I accompanied them to the zoo. It was hot! They slept on the bed that makes into a couch, made tents and hiding places with blankets and quilts, blew bubbles in their chocolate milk, and watched Curious George and the Electric Company. We played Guess the Animal and ate ice cream cones. The youngest is crawling everywhere (and every minute) so there was very little still time. It's quiet now. I miss them.

I live next to a wooded area, and we saw a snake with red diamonds on its back in my yard. I went to Home Depot and bought snake repellent, but before I arrived home, I could smell the unopened product in my car. It is awful. It has an upleasant odor of strong mothballs. According to the instructions, I have to be careful when applying it to make sure the snakes stay out and that I don't barrier them in. I haven't even stepped outside yet. This will not be fun.

But this was! Friday afternoon, a friend asked if I had a poem about a garden for her to share in a Power Point presentation. So yesterday, I wrote the one that follows. As writers, sometimes we just need the assignment, and the inspiration will come.

I hope you can all spend some time in your own garden, real or imagined. Let the kids blow bubbles in their chocolate milk. And be sure to make some time for at least one ice cream cone!

No Wonder It All Started Here
by Carol Drummond

No wonder
it all started here.
Or not here exactly,
but in a garden.

For what could be better
than greens of moss
or bay
or cypress
to foster contemplation?

Marvel how
lime and loden
and sage and beryl
pair with rose
and iris
and lavender.

Did He stroll
with hands in soft pockets
and look from side to side,
satisfied with a job well done?

Dew drops glisten
on black-eyed Susans.
Morning glory whispers
to Queen Anne's lace.

A breeze.
A canopy of trees.
The ideal spot
for sitting with le plume,
waiting
for just the right word,
for just the right poem.
And then
There goes a butterfly.

Cherish the Ordinary

2010-06-20T15:42:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was part of a large gathering. I saw more than a hundred people (maybe close to two hundred), many of whom I haven't seen in more than a decade. It was a rich photo-taking opportunity, but I knew I would not be using a camera. I was at a place I didn't want to be.

For some people, a photograph is a picture of people, places, or things. For me, it brings back a memory. Often when I see a snapshot, I see not only the person or the place, but I recall the circumstances and the mood. I remember the event, and even sometimes those who were there but not in the picture.

I look at a faded picture of my grandmother and remember the clear gallon jar she kept the sugar in to sweeten iced tea, and how she emptied the pot of wet tea leaves around her rose bushes. My dad sits in a chair smiling for the camera, but I remember him playing the steel-guitar, or badminton, or checking my homework, and how he would let my brothers and sisters climb onto his back and take them for a ride. On a side table rests a photo of my Dear Departed fastening a necklace for me, but I remember it as the year he gave me 3 Christmas cards because he couldn't choose which was the most special.

I look at pictures of my children when they were young and remember not only their antics and the joy of the moment, but if we were living in the rented house with the red carpet, or the one with the fireplace that never kept us warm enough, or the one with the vegetable garden, or the one where we had barbecues for friends most every weekend. I have a few pictures of my brothers and sisters and extended families taken two years ago, and wonder if we will all be able to get together for a happy occasion again. Pictures representing some of the dearest people and times of my life will be the first things I grab if I have to leave home suddenly in the case of fire or flood.

And so often, as I look at these representatives of times past, I realize I would not have anticipated how important the picture would be later. How often someone says I'm so glad you took (or have) that picture. How often our days seem unremarkable, until we look back. I pray that I will cherish the ordinary days and moments I have with my children and grandchildren, and other friends and loved ones. I pray that they will cherish the ordinary days they have with each other, and with me.

So most of the time, I feel free to take candid shots of people and places, realizing that they will mean more later than they do at present. But not yesterday. We put to rest a truly great man. I don't want to remember yesterday at all.

What if ...?

2010-06-13T12:38:00.005-04:00

What if ... ?

Yesterday a friend and I watched the movie Letters to Juliet. It was predictable and enjoyable and will make most women smile. Men might not find it to be their cup of tea, or bottle of _________. But I liked it, and found myself wishing a little true romance for all women. True romance coupled with true love. I think that often one comes without the other. How fortunate for those who have both.

Claire, the main character of the film (played by Vanessa Redgrave), went back to a small town in Italy to look for her lost love of fifty years. She found many men willing to claim to be him, but she knew better. When she thought she had finally found him, she was scared and was going to run away before he saw her. Who could blame her? Imagine how crushing it would be if he didn't remember her. Imagine how devestating it would be if he remembered her and was polite, but indifferent. Imagine if his wife would be jealous (perhaps rightfully so) and cause problems for him. And, of course, there was a sub-plot of two young people who had just met and were at odds as to what was best for Claire.

This movie can make us wonder about the what if's in our own lives. There are choices that some of us wish we had made differently. There are certain irreversibles, for which bemoaning the if only's would be useless, unproductive, and sometimes depressing. But Time does not stand still. Wishing and hoping doesn't make it so. That being said, are there things we can do now to prevent us from saying, "What if..." sometime later in our lives? Doing even one thing may make all the difference. Just one thing.

Some of us know exactly what the one thing is. Some of us may have to ponder it awhile. And perhaps there are some of us for whom nothing comes to mind. But the question is important. We all should be courageous enough to ask it -- and if answered, wise enough to pray for guidance as to how to proceed. Choices we make affect others. We must ask for wisdom. We must ask for guidance. And I believe that if we ask, we shall receive.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
John Greenleaf Whittier

Still Life

2010-06-07T02:00:00.000-04:00

Still -         devoid of or abstaining from motion
                 quiet, subdued, muted, calm, tranquil

Life -        1. a principle or force that is considered to underlie               the distinctive quality of animate beings
                  2. one or more aspects of the process of living

Still Life - a picture consisting predominantly of inanimate objects

Still.    Life.     It's easy to understand the combination of the two words to mean still -- there's life. Or life that seems not to move -- such as a motionless praying mantis or sloth. But it seemed incongrous that a painting of inanimate objects should be called still life. Then I read that in ancient Egypt, it was believed food and other objects depicted in paintings adorning the tombs would become real in the afterlife.

Here is a list of titles of a few famous paintings:

Still Life with Bowl of Citrons by Giovanna Garzoni
Vase of Flowers with a Curtain by Jacques de Gheyn II
Quince, Cabbage, Melon and Cucumber by Juan Sánchez Cotán
Still Life with Pie, Silver Ewer and Crab by Willem Claeszoon Heda
Still Life with Fruit, Flowers, Glasses and Lobster by Jan Davidsz. de Heem
Still-Life with Apples and Grapes by Claude Monet
Irises by Vincent Van Gogh
Apples, Peaches, Pears and Grapes by Paul Cezanne

Such ordinary things! Perhaps objects in your home could be the subject of a still life -- a candlestick on a sideboard, a stack of books by a rocking chair, tomatoes and a bottle of olive oil. What would Cezanne or Van Gogh or Monet see if they came to our houses? What do we overlook every day?

I like the editorial review of The Magic of Things:

Of painting's enduring genres, it may be the still life that offers the most brazen opportunities for virtuoso flourish, and that most closely approximates painting itself, as an art of arrangement of color, texture and light. Glistening dew drops on flower petals, contorted reflections of light on glass goblets and silver dishes, candied sweets heaped up in Chinese porcelain, the textures of fur, cloth, metal and bone--the rendering of such objects demands of an artist not only skill but an instinct for the thingness of things.

But how often do we really see the vase of flowers or the bowl of fruit, or a cabbage or a cucumber? I would like to pay attention the way the artist must. I would like to notice how light and shadows play with color. I would like to notice the dew drops glisten. I would like to open my eyes.

For your viewing pleasure, click here for Google Images of Still Life Paintings
And may we all see as the artist sees, and all discover the magic of things.

In the Blink of an Eye

2010-05-24T22:04:00.000-04:00

My friend arrived home to find her husband in the back yard. He suffered an aneurysm while mowing the yard. They had been married 42 years.

I will wear my pretty clothes and lingerie.
I will burn my fancy candles.
I will use my china and crystal and linen napkins.
I will fill my house with fresh flowers.
I will kiss the ones I love.
I will tell them why they are special.
I will say the words...
I will say, "I love you."
I will tell them I know they love me.
I will thank God.
I will remember what can happen in the blink of an eye.

As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.
For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone...
Psalms 103:15-16

Oasis

2010-05-11T21:30:00.000-04:00

O-a-sis   1. a small fertile or green area in a desert region, usually having a spring or a well.
              2. something serving as a refuge, relief, or pleasant change from what is usual, annoying, difficult.

               Synonyms: asylum, haven, wellspring, shelter, escape, retreat, sanctum

Have you thought about the place you can claim as your oasis? It can be your home, your room, a bubblebath. It can be a garden, the woods, a pasture, the beach, a lake, a hammock, the library, a craft room, a sewing room, a place of worship. You must have one. You must have a place for you and your renewal. Maybe it's when you're sitting in a porch swing, or wrapped in your special someone's arms.

But there are times we are in a place we don't want to be. For whatever reason, we would rather be anywhere than here. These are the times we should sip on our memories and siphon from our imaginations. We can concentrate on the permanent, rather than the temporary. We can season our present with our past.

My cyber friend, Judy, wrote an article she has given me permission to share. It is an example of how she copes with living in a place she doesn't like. For her, "...the roar of traffic... becomes the sound of ocean waves crashing on a sandy shore...Sirens are ...elk and moose and deer rutting and trumpeting in the forest." She has a way of being transported to a calmer place when most of us would only hear car horns or circling helicopters. Please click here to read her article Sweet Recollections of RV Travels .

So maybe, if we can't always be exactly where we want to be, we can close our eyes and take a journey to the place we need to be. Yes. We all need our own oasis. And when we're truly fortunate--when we're especially blessed-- we will have more than only one.

Note to Subscribers of Mangoes and Champagne

2010-05-07T07:32:00.001-04:00

Dear Subscribers,

It seems that some posts are not being delivered to your e-mail boxes, the most recent being They Bow Shyly. I have re-published, re-synched, and re-pinged to no avail! I can only hope this message goes through to all of you.

To make sure you haven't missed a post, please click on Mangoes and Champagne at the top of this entry (if you are viewing this in your e-mail), and it will take you to the entire blog. If it seems you are not receiving updates, I hope you will check in to the original blog address at http://www.mangoesandchampagne.blogspot.com/ from time to time.

I am sorry for this inconvenience. When technology works, it's great. When it doesn't, we go to Plan B.

They Bow Shyly

2010-05-04T22:52:00.001-04:00

This morning I read the following poem and knew it would be included in the new notebook of daily delights. I've been typing and deleting, wording and re-wording my commentary, but I give up. Some things just can't be expressed in ordinary sentences and paragraphs. That's why we have poems. And if you are like me, you will never forget the last three lines.

A Blessing

by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass,
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

At Least One Delight Each Day

2010-05-03T23:37:00.000-04:00

I have lots of notebooks. Sometimes I write in at least one every day, and other times they are all sorely neglected. But wouldn't it be enriching to record at least one delight each day?

This evening driving home, I saw a bird trying to catch a grasshopper. I laughed as it tried to hop instead of fly across the road to follow its intended target.It finally settled on the sidewalk, in what I imagined to be a state of bewilderment. I felt sorry for the one, and cheered for the other. But those seconds were almost cartoon-like, and an unexpected delight.

A couple of days ago, I stepped to the rear of a large building as I answered my cell phone. Wildflowers of yellow and red-orange and a few purples were everywhere! It looked like someone had planted a garden but no longer tended to it. Nature was taking care just fine. Nature. Natural. Lovely. I felt as if I had found a secret place and the flowers were there just for me.

Looking for delights can only increase our altertness and fine-tune our awareness. I'm reminded of a time a few years ago when someone asked me, "What do you like?"

My approximate answer was, "Dark chocolate, a blue heron standing by a pond, the smell of fresh cut lemons, Beethoven's Third Symphony, Italian food, the color blue. What do you like?"

Later, I kept thinking of other things I could have said. "The smell of grass when it is being mowed, acoustic guitar, wine and cheese, cheese and fruit, the cry of a newborn, eating chocolate chips out of the bag, The Blue Angels, leather jackets, violins, tuxedoes, jacuzzis..."

For days, I would think I should have said this and this and this. I started a notebook of "Things I Like," and filled many pages. I believe the same will happen with a notebook of daily delights -- we'll just keep finding more. Looking for good things, delightful things, and things we like can only do good things.

Whatsovever things are lovely, think on these things.

Let Us Retain Our Sense of Wonder

2010-04-23T22:55:00.001-04:00

"A child's world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood. If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienantion from the sources of our strength."

"I sincerely believe that for the child, and for the parent seeking to guide him, it is not half so important to know as to feel. If facts are the seeds that later produce knowledge and wisdom, then the emotions and the impressions of the senses are the fertile soil in which the seeds must grow. The years of early childhood are the time to prepare the soil. Once the emotions have been aroused -- a sense of the beautiful, the excitement of the new and the unknown, a feeling of sympathy, pity, admiration or love -- then we wish for knowledge about the subject of our emotional response. Once found, it has lasting meaning. It is more important to pave the way for the child to want to know than to put him on a diet of facts he is not ready to assimilate."

Both passages are from "The Sense of Wonder," by Rachel Carson 1965.

A Marvelous Morning

2010-04-18T11:02:00.001-04:00

I'm having a marvelous morning.

It began with a rain concerto playing for me outside each window. I listened for awhile, then pulled the covers up, and listened a little more. I reached for one of the books on my nightstand -- How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love With Poetry, by Edward Hirsch. I read about things I already love to love. I marvelled at the beauty of the language. I wished everyone could feel what I was feeling. Then I realized that many already do.

A leisurely breakfast was in order. My sound senses were keen, and I heard the crunch of one of my new-found joys -- demerara cane sugar, as I ate cinammon toast and a sliced banana. I paid attention to the taste and temperature and aroma of my coffee. Oh, the joy of simple things. I read some more.

It still rains. The sky light is dim, as if in reverance. Even the birds are quiet. Perhaps they're listening, too.

And I have the pleasure of not having to do anything I don't want to do today. It can be anything. Or it can be nothing. Nothing, except what I may choose. And who knows what that will be? Because right now, the now is quite enough.

Waiting For The Rain

2010-04-11T11:06:00.002-04:00

Waiting For The Rain
by Carol Drummond

Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting for a letter
Because you know
Eventually
The rain will happen.
Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting for the phone to ring
Because you know
Eventually
The rain will happen.
Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting
For him to go
Because you know
You already know
Eventually
Already
Happened.
And the umbrella won't open.
And your raincoat is full of holes.

So I Said "Yes"

2010-04-02T00:41:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I was privileged to be included in a PoetryFest on Sanibel Island. During the reception, a woman approached me and said, "I really liked your poem. Is it true?" I hesitated, since I had read two poems, and asked her, "You mean about the geese?" She nodded. I was unsure how to answer. So I said, "Yes."

I've been thinking about this ever since.

For a writer, what is true? Do we say, "A poem reveals and conceals"? Do we say, "It is true metaphorically"? Do we describe the instant of the inspiration? Do we say this happened, but this was expanded and expounded upon, because it is a poem? Do we say "What is true is what is true for you?" Do we say, "Even fiction comes from somewhere within us, so it must somehow be us?" Do we remind the curious of the quote by Red Smith? "Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit down at the typewriter and open a vein."

So I say, "Yes!" If what we write somehow touches the writer or the reader, it is true, or truth... for at least one of us or one of them.

When I was in high school, I had one semester of Creative Writing. I only remember one thing the teacher said. "Good writing is when someone reads something and thinks, 'Yes, that's it.' "

In every man's writings, the character of the writer must lie recorded.
     Thomas Carllyle

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
     Robert Frost

The true writer has nothing to say. What counts is the way he says it.
     Alain Robbe-Grillet

I'm glad I just said, "Yes," to the woman. The philosophy of it all doesn't matter. If we can write, or if we can read, or if we can feel -- this is how we connect with one another. This is how we know we are not alone.

Eight Days In A Week

2010-03-18T20:39:00.000-04:00

What happens when you are working 8 days per week, twenty-five hours per day:

You don't get your laundry done.
You don't care.
You don't have time to research the links you volunteered to provide.
You worry about disappointing someone by not providing them soon enough.
You have only read a few pages of the 500- page book you are supposed to discuss in two weeks.
You worry about not being prepared.
You quickly learn who your allies are at work.
You are sad there are so few.
You are so tired at night you can't sleep.
You find yourself falling asleep driving home.
The most interesting food you have eaten in days is Roasted Eggplant Hummus. It was dinner. But it was good.
You don't have a chance to post on your blog.
You do care about your readers. You don't want them to think you have forgotten them.
You see you can soon take a day off.
You remember that even God rested on the 7th day.
You remember to be thankful you have a job.
You remember this, too, shall pass.
You slept well last night.
You know the worst is over.

Some Things Just Should Not Be

2010-03-07T12:06:00.001-05:00

Some things just should not be.

When opening a bottle of Italian wine the other night, I was annoyed to find a screw top instead of a cork. Nevermind that corks are seldom actually made of cork these days, but that's another topic. A couple of months ago, I had the same experience with a bottle of wine from France. I started to save the bottle with the offensive object to take its picture, but did not want to be reminded of it again. Now, two wine-countries in a row have let me down.

So imagine how I was brought to my senses the next day when my friend M. sent an e-mail about meeting a woman who had been blind since birth. Her greatest desire was to see a baby. Her greatest desire was to see a baby. Her greatest desire was to see a baby.

And I was worried about the top on a bottle of wine.

Some things just should not be.

This Is One Of Those Poems

2010-03-03T07:54:00.000-05:00

Every morning before leaving for work, my routine includes reading at least one poem, and when I'm very lucky, it will move me in such a way I know I will think about it throughout the day. This is one of those poems:

My Life
by Billy Collins

Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transcending the circle of the world

or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive,

but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder

if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.

Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,

or now that it is more than half over
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.

Like yours, it could be anything,
a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms --
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes

or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.

But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,
I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene

stirring everything it touches --
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.

Behind My House in February

2010-02-28T07:27:00.001-05:00

Each year I look forward to the blooming of a tree which grows in

a wooded area behind my house. I don't know its name, but I call it an orchid tree.

Lovely the way they hang over the fence, don't you think?

I almost did not take this photo, because the leaves

weren't perfect. But beauty does not have to mean perfection.

I like the way this image captures the light on the leaf.

It was losing its color, but not its will to hang on.

Look not down, but up!

Robert Browning

The Jar of Peaches

2010-02-20T19:51:00.001-05:00

...but over all, rocks, wood, and water, brooded the spirit of repose, and the silent energy of nature stirred the soul to its inmost depths.
Thomas Cole - Essay on American Scenery

Do you own something you really like, but you're not quite sure just why?

A few years ago I found a pale green jar at a flea market and bought it for two dollars. I'm not sure whether it was used for canning or for storage, but it has the rubber seal and the metal hinge like the jars which were used for those purposes.

Would you think it odd if I told you that something about this jar mellows my mood? When I open the cabinet and reach for it, you would think I was lifting a great treasure. I'm sure I don't actually smile, but I get a cozy feeling --not unlike the comfort of wearing soft, furry socks on a cool February night.

Some mornings I cook oatmeal -- either the "old-fashioned," which takes five minutes, or the "steel-cut oats," which take thirty. I usually add raisins during the cooking process, because I like the way they plump up in the water. When the oatmeal is ready to eat, I don't add butter or milk, but I do add about a teaspoon of brown sugar. The brown sugar is stored in the green jar.

I realized early on there was something about the jar that made me feel happy, and decided maybe it was the color. I set out for another flea market, on a quest for a pale green bowl to complete the breakfast experience. I found a pretty one with a subtle design around the edge, so I bought it for four dollars, and looked forward to breakfast the next morning.

It was disappointing. The bowl just didn't provide any extra measure of satisfaction. Maybe it was because it was not of the same era. Maybe it was because it was a contrivance instead of happenstance. Or maybe, it has to do with the person who used to own the jar.

I am not superstitious. I believe things are only things, and have the meanings we ascribe to them. I also leave room for recognition of the mysteries of energies all around us. Who hasn't had the experience of energies, such as when walking into a room and sensing that something is wrong, even without having seen or heard anything?

But what I like to imagine is the possibility that one day, a prayer was prayed that went something like "...and may whoever uses this humble jar, though it be only a glass vessel, be blessed, O Lord. Our possessions may be few, but our lives are rich. Amen."

Yes. This is the way I like to imagine it. I think of a petite, strong woman who grows a vegetable garden. Her husband raises chickens and cows and hogs. They live modestly, but happily. And they go to church on Sundays. Then one day, when she was filling her canning jar with peaches, she was inspired to say "...and may whoever uses this humble jar, though it be only a glass vessel, be blessed, O Lord..."

I can't really know why I am affected by this object of glass the way I am. But I know that I am blessed. I know my life is rich. And I am thankful. Amen.

A Love Letter

2010-02-14T08:54:00.004-05:00

Did you ever see the movie or read the book Message In A Bottle? It begins with a reporter trying to track down the person who wrote a letter which was found in a bottle that had swept to shore.

My Dearest Catherine,

I miss you, my darling, as I always do, but today is especially hard because the ocean has been singing to me, and the song is that of our life together. I can almost feel you beside me as I write this letter, and I can smell the scent of wildflowers that always reminds me of you. But at this moment, these things give me no pleasure. Your visits have been coming less often, and I feel sometimes as if the greatest part of who I am is slowly slipping away.

I am trying, though. At night when I am alone, I call for you, and whenever my ache seems to be the greatest, you still seem to find a way to return to me. Last night, in my dreams, I saw you on the pier near Wrightsville Beach. The wind was blowing through your hair, and your eyes held the fading sunlight. I am struck as I see you leaning against the rail. You are beautiful, I think as I see you, a vision that I can never find in anyone else. I slowly begin to walk toward you, and when you finally turn to me, I notice that others have been watching you as well. "Do you know her?" they ask me in jealous whispers, and as you smile at me, I simply answer with the truth. "Better than my own heart."

I stop when I reach you and take you in my arms. I long for this moment more than any other. It is what I live for, and when you return my embrace, I give myself over to this moment, at peace once again. I raise my hand and gently touch your cheek and you tilt your head and close your eyes. My hands are hard and your skin is soft, and I wonder for a moment if you'll pull back, but of course you don't. You never have, and it is at times like this that I know what my purpose is in life.

I am here to love you, to hold you in my arms, to protect you. I am here to learn from you and to receive your love in return. I am here because there is no other place to be.

But then, as always, the mist starts to form as we stand close to one another. It is a distant fog that rises from the horizon, and I find that I grow fearful as it approaches. It slowly creeps in, enveloping the world around us, fencing us in as if to prevent escape. Like a rolling cloud, it blankets everything, closing, until there is nothing left but the two of us.

I feel my throat begin to close and my eyes well up with tears because I know it is time for you to go. The look you give me at that moment haunts me. I feel your sadness and my own loneliness, and the ache in my heart that had been silent for only a short time grows stronger as you release me. And then you spread your arms and step back into the fog because it is your place and not mine. I long to go with you, but your only response is to shake your head because we both know that is impossible.

And I watch with breaking heart as you slowly fade away. I find myself straining to remember everything about this moment, everything about you. But soon, always too soon, your image vanishes and the fog rolls back to its faraway place and I am alone on the pier and I do not care what others think as I bow my head and cry and cry and cry.

Garrett

Who could blame that reporter for wanting to find that man?

Note: The above letter is the book version. The movie version may differ.
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Reflections

2010-02-13T19:10:00.000-05:00

Do you ever miss an opportunity because you are in a hurry?

Wednesday morning I didn't take time to get my camera when I was leaving home. I remember thinking it probably wouldn't matter, since often when I do have it, I don't see anything I want to take a picture of anyway. But as it would happen, as I rounded a curve I saw two birds drinking from a rain puddle. It would have been such a great image, if only I could have captured it. Of course, I would have had to stop the car, grab the camera, unbuckle the seatbelt, stretch from the driver side to the passenger window, and lean out enough to have some light. What are the chances I could do all this before the birds decided to fly away? But I'm still regretting not being prepared.

And even more I'm regretting that because I didn't have the camera, and because I was in a hurry, I didn't even stop to watch them. I wonder if they lingered awhile and played and splashed and bathed in that puddle. I wonder if the light was such that I could have seen their reflection. I wonder if they could see their own reflections, and if they would think there were four birds instead of two. I'm not even sure what kind of birds they were. I'm not even sure what colors they were. I don't know if they were chirping or singing or if they were silent. But I do know that, being birds, they had to be beautiful.

Every Life Is A Story

2010-02-07T08:32:00.001-05:00

Writers sometimes read others' work and think, "I wish I had written that," or "If only I could write like that."

Blue Iris, the title poem of a book of poetry and essays by Mary Oliver, is an example of one of those wishful moments of mine. It begins rather simply and, if it were a story, we might say it has a surprise ending. But, as I think about it a moment, poems are stories. Our lives are stories. And if every life is a story, perhaps every life can be a poem.

Blue Iris

by Mary Oliver

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, I can read books.

"What's that you're doing?"

the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

"What's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing

in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.

It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.

"Doesn't it?" says the wind, and breaks open, releasing

distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,

the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

Can't Sleep

2010-02-04T04:56:00.001-05:00

Haven't bought bananas for Saturday's banana bread.
Will new ones be ripe enough?
Way behind on the blog.
Excited about meeting JH from London.
A little anxious -- my humble abode vs. that of a world traveler.
Wish I had new carpet.
Have my acrylics dried up?
Way behind on the blog.
Need to charge battery.
Need a small camera to have with me all the time. Missing great photos for the blog.
A mistake on my contest entry?
Way behind on the blog.
Didn't send thank-you notes.
Need to balance the checkbook.
Really, really need an oil change.
Did they install the wrong brakes? Why do they squeak? Will they charge me again?
Will I ever be able to retire?
Boss coming tomorrow. Have to cut budget yet again.
Buy lottery ticket.
Maybe buy two.

Sound Thinking

2010-01-23T09:47:00.002-05:00

It's raining this morning, and I find listening to it soothing. Sometimes I don't even know I need to be soothed until it is happening, and I feel a greater sense of calm come over me. Even the sound of the word soothe is like its own ointment. It's fitting that it rhymes with smooth. Maybe there is something about the double-o in the middle of words that has this effect -- the cooing of a baby, the cooling of a breeze, the hooting of an owl, the wooing of a lover.

I can think of a few more sounds that calm my spirit -- the crashing of waves against the seashore, the crackle of fire in a fireplace, the call of birds as they fly overhead, the wind as it whispers through the trees.

And I wonder how other things would sound if only we could hear them -- a seed as it sprouts, the sun as it sets, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

These thoughts remind me of the following poem. As I read it, preparing to copy it for this post, I am overwhelmed -- particularly by the last line. How could it possibly be said any better? But then again, that is what makes a great poem, a meaningful poem, a poem that you will never forget.

What The Dog Perhaps Hears
by Lisel Mueller

If an inaudible whistle
blown between our lips
can send him home to us,
then silence is perhaps
the sound of spiders breathing
and roots mining the earth;
it may be asparagus heaving,
headfirst, into the light
and the long brown sound
of cracked cups, when it happens.
We would like to ask the dog
if there is a continuous whirr
because the child in the house
keeps growing, if the snake
really stretches full length
without a click and the sun
breaks through the clouds without
a decibel of effort;
whether in autumn, when the trees
dry up their wells, there isn't a shudder
too high for us to hear.

What is it like up there
above the shut-off level
of our simple ears?
For us there was no birth-cry,
the newborn bird is suddenly here,
the egg broken, the nest alive,
and we heard nothing when the world changed.

A River Runs Through It

2010-01-17T12:48:00.002-05:00

I seldom buy DVD's, but I realize I must make an exception and buy the 1992 film A River Runs Through It. I saw it a week ago as a rerun on TV, and I'm still thinking about the characters, the landscape, the words.  The story centers around the complicated relationships of two very different boys and their father who is a Presbyterian minister, and their common love of fly-fishing in scenic Montana.

For those like me who love the beauty of language, you will find pleasure in the off-camera narration by Robert Redford, who tells the story from the point of view of one of the sons. The narrative's rhythm matches that of the to and fro casting with fishing rods, which made me think at various times of a ballet or a waltz. The rushing of the river and the light in the sky and against the mountain tops is cinematography at its best. There is a little poetry quoted here and there. I found myself wondering where "...splendor in the grass..." came from, researched it, and read excerpts from the poem over and over again. I realized it was not only beautiful, but relevant to the story.

This Academy-Award-winning movie is sad, beautiful, thought-provoking, and one which makes me feel wiser for having seen it. Though it is based on a book, and we know books are always better, I'm wondering how, in this instance, it can be.

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind

   by William Wordsworth
     Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, 175-180

A River Runs Through It

When You Don't Feel Like Cooking

2010-01-16T21:40:00.000-05:00

Take a chunk of mild to sharp cheddar cheese, an apple (preferably organic), and some crackers (such as Rye Triscuits or Multi-Grain Wheat Thins or Table Water Crackers), and place them on a white plate. Forego a fork, but be sure to have a pretty napkin. Pour a glass of your favorite wine. Use a paring knife to slice the apple as you cut a piece of cheese. Taste them alternately. Take a sip of wine. Then try eating a piece of cheese on top of a piece of apple. Eat a cracker. Take a sip of wine. Try cheese on top of cracker. Try apple by itself. Try cheese by itself. Take a sip of wine. Try apple on top of cheese on top of cracker. Take a sip of wine. Start all over. You get the idea.

The hardest part is deciding which piece to end with. Tonight I chose cracker. Then I wished I had chosen cheese. But I took a sip of wine, and decided I could start all over again tomorrow. Oh, the joy of simple things...

Notes On A Tangerine

2010-01-09T09:52:00.001-05:00

A note to myself a few days ago, which is still on the desk, next to my computer:

I'm sitting here as if I have nothing to do -- as if I don't have to get a shower, wash my hair, get dressed, make my bed, go to work -- but there's something about the fragrance of those overripe tangerines that makes me linger. What word can I use to describe the smell, the aroma, the fragrance? It almost burns my nostrils. Pungent? Almost, but not quite, sour? Bittersweet? A little acid-y? And look at their deep orange color. Four, next to one green lime. I know it's time to toss them. But I just want to sit close to them a little longer.

Now today, I see one of them looks like it's getting soft and mushy. The lime has shriveled. I toy with the thought of taking a picture. But sometimes a picture just won't do.

Why do I dread throwing these little round pieces of fruit away? Do I regret not having savored them at their peak of freshness, so I somehow honor them by keeping them for what they are? For what they are becoming? I'm not sure if this is the reason at all; it just comes to me as I am writing this post. Maybe sometimes we don't know what we think until we try to put it into (in to?) words.

Maybe I should keep them at least one more day. Maybe then I can figure it out. Or maybe figuring it out doesn't really matter.

More Than Just A Story

2010-01-05T20:31:00.001-05:00

This morning I was looking for a book among the shelves of one of my bookcases, trying to remember if it was one I still had, or perhaps had donated to make room for more. Just the titles were enough to make me sigh with pleasure: What to Listen For in Music; Sonnet; A Convergence of Birds; The South of France - A Sketchbook; The Names of Things; The Veil of Snows; The Forests; Cry of the Panther; Unquenchable Fire; My Love Affair With England; Moonfleet; By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept; West With the Night; A Table in the Wilderness; And There Was Light.

Do your books remind you of where you were when you bought them, or of who gave them to you, or of a particular time in your life? As I look at each one, I remember these things, and more.

Blue Highways -- Several years ago, I visited a couple who first introduced me to this book by William Least Heat-Moon. It inspired them to travel the country avoiding major roads, and follow only the blue highways on the map. I told a new friend about it, who shortly thereafter sent me an email, the first sentence of which was also the first sentence of the book. "Beware thoughts that come in the night. They aren't turned properly; they come in askew, free of sense and restriction, deriving from the most remote of sources." Yes, he was afraid he was falling in love. He did. And thankfully, so did I.

The Secrets of Pistoulet -- I was so impressed the day I bought it that I passed it around the table in a restaurant where I was having dinner with friends. I found out later that two of them went out and bought one the next day! It is a beautiful book which invites the reader to participate in the story. Letters are tucked in envelopes for you to pull out and read. Vellum is stitched between some of the pages lending a subtlety to the otherwise vibrant photos. There is mystery and love, and even a recipe or two.

But of course I also have books with titles which may seem more familiar: Room With A View; Prince of Tides; Cold Mountain; The Essays of Robert Frost; All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten; Under the Tuscan Sun; Hero With a Thousand Faces. I have a few thrillers and mysteries, dozens of cookbooks, many books of poetry, and shelves full of those on writing, photography, and art. I would like to have built-in bookcases some day. You know -- the ones from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Maple or cherry, and with simple but elegant molding.

I didn't find the book I was searching for this morning. I hope I still have it -- maybe tucked behind some others in another room. But just looking for it reminded me how fortunate I am to have books, and how rich I am to appreciate them so.

(Clicking on the images below will take you to the Amazon website for further information.)

Things To Be Thankful For When You Have The Flu

2010-01-03T08:28:00.002-05:00

Things To Be Thankful For When You Have The Flu

Kleenex with Aloe -- the nose becomes sore during these bouts. I always feel sorry for children when they have a cold and we must wipe their noses. This reminds me how it must hurt them.
Hot tea -- (Dear L., During times like these I use a teabag. I know you are appalled!)
Gingerale -- No ice. I'm already cold enough.
A long, comfortable robe -- the black, velvety one with the burgundy collar and cuffs. It's at least ten years old, but sometimes we just need the familiar tried and true.
A big quilt--any will do, as long as it is heavy and I can toss and turn without getting uncovered.
Campbells Chicken Noodle Soup -- I know how to make homemade soup, but at times like these, Campbells suits me just fine. And who would feel like cooking? More of the familiar.
Nyquil -- Night-time. Even in the daytime.
The sympathetic ear of the person I called to say I had the flu. (Thank you J. )
Knowing that by tomorrow, I will be better.

Subscribe To Mangoes and Champagne!

2010-01-02T08:41:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

I have activated a service which allows you to automatically receive notification when Mangoes and Champagne is updated. This should allow you to know if there is a new post without having to keep checking the website. If you are interested, just click your choice to Subscribe Via Email or Subscribe In A Reader (on the left). The service is new to me and I don't have further information, but I do hope it will work as intended. If there has been a new post, you should know within 24 hours between 7 and 9 AM.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all so very much for your encouraging words and e-mails regarding this blog. It is rewarding (and important) to know you keep checking in to see what we shall see.

A Happy, Healthy, Prosperous 2010 To Us All!

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For a Day

2010-01-01T10:07:00.002-05:00

Today, as we begin the new year, be sure to kiss the ones you love. Think about how much you would miss them if they were not here. Then tell them so. And remember to thank God for evey moment you have together.

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day

by Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

A Woman Should Have...

2009-12-29T21:02:00.001-05:00

My dear friend, Mary Beth, forwarded a copy of this to some of us today. If you are like me, as the new year approaches, you will purpose to accomplish at least one of the things you find meaningful on this list. And then perhaps another, and another.

A Woman Should Have
A woman should have...
Enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own, even if she never wants to or needs to...
Something perfect to wear if the employer or the date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour.
A youth she's content to leave behind.
A past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.
A woman should have...
A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.
One friend who always makes her laugh...and one who lets her cry.
A good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.
Eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems,
And a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored.
A woman should have
A feeling of control over her destiny.
Every woman should know...
How to fall in love without losing herself.
How to quit a job, break up with a lover,
And confront a friend without ruining the friendship.
Every woman should know
When to try harder, and when to walk away.
Every woman should know
That she can't change the length of her calves,
The width of her hips,
Or the nature of her parents.
Every woman should know
That her childhood may not have been perfect,
But it's over.
Every woman should know
What she would and wouldn't do for love
How to live alone, even if she doesn't like it.
Every woman should know
Whom she can trust, whom she can't,
And why she shouldn't take it personally.
Every woman should know
Where to go
Be it to her best friend's kitchen table
Or a charming inn in the woods
When her soul needs soothing.
Every woman should know
What she can and can't accomplish
In a day, a month, and a year.

(Often attributed to Maya Angelou, but according to Snopes.com. this was actually written by Pamela Redmond Satran.)

I Bought Myself a Present

2009-12-26T12:44:00.002-05:00

I love to watch how the day, tired as it is, lags away reluctantly, and hates to be called yesterday so soon.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, House of the Seven Gables

Do you buy presents for yourself? Each year I find myself thinking that around Christmas time, the robes and slippers are the most luxurious, the colognes and perfumes are the most enticing, and the earrings I could never find are suddenly everywhere.

But what I buy for myself most often are books.

A couple of weeks ago, I happened upon a reference to When Wanderers Cease to Roam -- A Traveler's Journal of Staying Put by Vivian Swift. It wasn't in the library, and it had not been in the bookstore since 2008. So, sight unseen and fingers crossed, mailorder -- here I come. When the book arrived on my doorstep a few days ago, I hardly had time to open the box, much less give it a thorough review, but I knew at a glance I would not be disappointed. It is hand-lettered, beautifully illustrated with watercolor and drawings, and contains quotes, lines of poetry, and the author's observations of her daily life.

As an example, some of the entries are: Small Pleasures Worth Staying Home For; Things That Keep You Warm in January; Tea Cup Travel; Rain Book; A Walker's Lost and Found; A Memoir of Close Calls in Three Miniscule Chapters; Kinds of Snow. (The above Nathaniel Hawthorne quote is from one of the September pages.)

I wish I could keep a journal just like this one. I wish I could draw. I wish I could paint. But maybe, if I wish upon a star....

Of course, as I think about it, it's obvious! I can make my own notes of small pleasures worth staying home for, the things that keep me warm in January, and I can look for treasures as I take a walk. The painting, however, -- well, that's another story.

When Wanderers Cease to Roam: A Traveler's Journal of Staying Put

Some Things Just Can't Be Wrapped

2009-12-19T21:24:00.003-05:00

Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year. My three children and their spouses and my seven grandchildren (six of whom are boys, from 3 months to 8 yrs old) all gather in my little house. It is usually a little hectic as I'm busy cooking from morning till night, often trying several new recipes. I've learned that if a recipe says 40 minutes prep time, I can count on at least 60. And there's just so much counter space, just one oven, and just so much room in the refrigerator.

Imagine my delight when my daughter told me her son Andrew, age 7, said one of the things he likes most about Christmas Eve is the food. That might not seem so remarkable, unless you know that Christmas Eve is when the children open all their gifts.

Chase, the 4-year-old, told his mom a few days ago, "When we go to Grandma Carol's house we read stories at night, and when we wake up in the morning we can build a tent." Alex, age 8, likes it that they can "sleep in the bed that folds up into a couch." Shelby, age 15, knows her job is to roll the breadsticks in Parmesan before they're baked and wrapped with prosciutto. Last year, I was proud of her when she leaned over and whispered to her dad, reminding him to put his napkin in his lap. One of my sons said he thinks something is missing if we don't have the salad with fresh pears, bleu cheese, and pecans. ("But I won't eat bleu cheese any place else," he said.) My other son recently told me, "You always make everything so nice for us, Mom."

There won't be as many presents under the tree as in times past, but I'm realizing the things my family most remembers aren't the ones with wrapping paper and ribbon. Yes, Christmas Eve is definitely my favorite day of the year.

Whatsoever Things Are Lovely

2009-12-15T22:17:00.001-05:00

I've been in a quandary the past few days, trying to find a substitute for the word lovely.

There is certainly nothing wrong with the word. In fact, so much about it is right -- the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way it flows before and after the other words in my poem -- that I used it two times, only a few stanzas apart. Only later did I realize this redundancy, and knew that I, as a poet, must replace one of them with another ~~suitable~~ perfect word.

This week, as I have been in conversation, listened to the radio or watched TV, read some fine poetry, perused the paper and the mail, I've been on the lookout, but to no avail. A thesaurus, you say? A few literary works? The dictionary? No luck. Not yet. Oh -- the struggles of an artist! We suffer those who suppose a masterpiece could be so easy.

I used to think of lovely as a rather general term, but it has served its purpose rather well. Consider:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night
But, ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light.
Edna St. Vincent Millay

The rainbow comes and goes
And lovely is the rose.
Willliam Wordsworth

He is made one with Nature: there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.
He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely.
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely, and more temperate.
Shakespeare

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
Joyce Kilmer

Whatsover things are true, whatsover things are honest,
Whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure,
Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of a good report;
If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.
The Holy Bible

So I'll keep looking. I'll find another word. But will it (can it possibly) be as lovely?

A Woman's Journal Entry

2009-12-13T00:26:00.002-05:00

Good things about being alone:
   You can have whatever you want for supper.
   You don't have to have supper. You can just have wine.
   One side of your bed can be covered with books.
   The laundry basket only fills up half as fast.
   You can take a nap without explaining why you are tired.
   No one expects you to be home at any certain time.
   If you fall asleep on the couch while watching TV, you can stay there.

To Call A Rose Another Name

2009-12-09T07:11:00.003-05:00

While clearing out a drawer the other day, I found a copy of a publication our local writers group printed in 2002, which had some of my writing on its front page. Seems I was thinking of mangoes and champagne, or champagne and mangoes, even back then.

To Call A Rose Another Name
by Carol Drummond

If I could make my garden yours, you would breeze through time as light passes through an hourglass. The gate would creak upon its rusting hinge, and you would wish you weren't wearing your whitest shoes. You could smell honeysuckle and think of Grandma's scented handkerchiefs, and remember the child's face when hankies embroidered by Nana weren't what she wished for on her birthday. But tucked inside was a peppermint. The old remember being young.

Take another step and sweep floppy elephant ears aside. Duck to miss a low branch -- a sticky net catches your hair. Look down and to the right to see dozens of webs draping the begonias, luring the unsuspecting with their diamonds in the sun. Stoop to find the architect. No red on black. Not this time.

Recall the morning when those dozens were hundreds or thousands kissed by dew at dawn. Your new husband took you riding in the jeep. Rocky ran ahead, leaping through wheat-hued grass higher than his shoulders, his long ears rising and falling like wings of a bird taking flight. You knew then that dogs could smile. A blue heron stood by a pond. A white ibis called out for its mate. You looked from side to side and breathed the crisp air. You smiled. He took your hand and you believed. Another kind of diamond in the sun.

"What think ye marigolds?" the poet said. Or might have said, if he were here.

Note the lone periwinkle bend like your neighbor in her well-worn dress, who must have read When I Am Old I Shall Wear Purple. The stem is yellow-gray, as is her hair. You pass her on pink mornings during your wake-up mile, her must-do mile, you in your sweats and her in her earrings and Avon. She grins "Good morning," and tries to stand tall. You keep meaning to ask her name.

Peek through the trellis antiqued by weather. Ponder the stone antiqued by God. Hesitate and shut your eyes before the white chrysanthemums, and the too-young girl who stands beside a too-long box lined with shiny satin. Remember one who went not gentle into that good night. You take another step. And you move on.

Sit awhile. We'll have tea. We'll listen for the mockingbird nesting in the oak. We'll talk of champagne and mangoes and love letters in the sand. Hopscotch and initials on palm trees and castles swept away. And a sailboat. We'll ignore a destination. And try to think of roses called by other names.

Seventy-Seven Shades of Gray

2009-12-06T12:41:00.038-05:00

Have you ever heard that Van Gogh wrote to Theo he had discovered seventy-seven shades of gray when he was in Provence? I've been trying to find the passage all morning, but I did find a copy of an article "The Uncolor Solution" I had saved in 2003. It was from the online May 1st New York Times, and it suggested we look at gray as more than just a dismal color. That writer, Marco Pasanella, listed driftwood, moon rocks, mist, and Tiffany spoons as examples.

So what can we find, if we look and pay attention? When I stepped outside, it had just stopped raining. I looked around. Specks of the color were in tree bark and branches, the brick pavers we drive over each day, and certain leaves had a gray-green cast. That brown squirrel that scoots across the fence line is really brown and gray. And how about fish, and all those feathers of birds?

Then I did a little research on the many quotes of the artist. It was clear that I had missed so very much.

"...There are but three fundamental colors -- red,, yellow, and blue. Composites are orange, green, and purple. By adding black and some white, one gets the endless variety of grays -- red-gray, yellow-gray, blue-gray, green-gray, orange-gray, violet-gray.

It is impossible to say, for instance, how many green-grays there are; there is an endless variety...The colorist is the person who knows at once how to analyze a color, when it sees it in nature, and can say, for instance: that green-gray is yellow with black and blue, etc. In other words, someone who know how to find the grays of nature on their palette."
Extract from a letter from Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo written July 31, 1882

And this one:

"The very broad-fronted houses here are set among oak trees of a superb bronze. Tones in the moss of gold-green, in the ground of reddish or bluish or yellowish dark lilac-grays, tones of inexpressible purity in the green of the little cornfields, tones of black in the wet tree trunks, standing out against the golden rain of swirling, teeming, autumn leaves, which hang in loose clumps -- as if they had been blown there, loose, and with the light filtering through them -- from the poplars, the birches, the limes and the apple trees."
Extract from a letter to Theo November 2, 1883

So if I go back outside, what else can I find in the tree bark and branches and bricks and leaves? I'm sure they will look different in varied light of morning, noon, night. Let the artist within be inspired by our Master Artist of All Things.

I hope you will take a moment to click on this link: A Tribute to Vincent van Gogh . Be sure your sound is enabled.

Let us look. Let us see.

Labels: Vincent van Gogh, See, Gray. Pay Attention

December

2009-12-02T06:30:00.004-05:00

December
by Carol Drummond

We fold another year
Like the last page of a calendar
Its promises now history
Its tomorrows now yesterdays.
Time tucks it softly in a drawer
Beribboned
To join past years' moments
Some bidden
Some not.
Each carries its own scent
And casts its own hue.
We recognize the fragrance
Of hope and gratitude
The blue skies of birth
And the gray which stains our losses.
December -- a month, a history.
December speaks our past.
December promises a new page.

Labels: December, Poem

Florida Woods

2009-12-01T06:07:00.001-05:00

On a recent afternoon, I was fortunate enough to take a ride through the woods with some of my family. A few years ago this was a regular occurrence, but now it is rare, so of course, I appreciate it more than I ever did then. I hope and pray I am getting wiser about living in the moment.

I tried to pay attention.

But the more I saw, the more I knew I didn't see.

Labels: See, woods. moment

Not Just a Cup of Tea

2009-11-29T08:31:00.001-05:00

To take the first sip after a stressful day is like easing into warm slippers after an afternoon of cold, soggy shoes. It's a rose-scented bath in a private garden. It's candlelight on a pillowed evening. It's serenity in a storm. It's time for me.

An important part of my tea experience is the choice of cup and saucer. Pink lace, a mixed bouquet, a distant landscape, mourning doves, a Moorish castle. I move the spoon back and forth slowly. I enjoy the delicate balance when holding the saucer and lifting the cup to my lips. My eyes close to the aroma. I am a lady.

I make the moments last. If there's music, it is soft. If there's light, it is low. If there's friendship, it is warm. And no matter how the day has been, it is better.

Labels: Tea

Back to the Sea

2009-11-26T09:19:00.000-05:00

I decided to go out to the beach for a few minutes this morning, just before the rain. Here are a few pictures for you to enjoy. I trust they will help calm your spirit, as the visit did mine.

When I went back to the sea

it wasn't waiting.

Neither had it gone away.

All its musics were safe and sound; the circling gulls

were still a commonplace, the fluted shells

rolled on the shore

more beautiful than money --

oh, yes, more beautiful than money!

From "The Return" by Mary Oliver

Labels:

Sea

Backgrounds Using Citra Solv

2009-11-25T16:27:00.004-05:00

I decided to experiment with a technique I've been reading about that uses Citra Solv. It is a fun and simple way to create unique backgrounds for collage, altered books and journal projects.

I used a sponge-brush to apply the product to front and back of the open spread in a National Geographic magazine. According to what I have read, this is one of the few publications which will work because of its particular ink and paper. Some say it must be an issue published within the last ten years.

I was glad I was wearing gloves, because almost immediately some of the black ink began to break down, and it would have been almost impossible not to touch it and get messy.

When the pages were wet, I closed the magazine and waited for about thirty minutes. Waiting much longer may have caused the pages to stick together. After locating my pages, I used a heat gun to dry them. Some people hang them to dry, clothesline fashion.

Obviously, no two pages will ever be the same, and some results will be better than others. But many of my National Geographics will have to remain unaltered, for if they weren't special as they are, why would I have kept them? Hmmm...How to choose? How to choose?

Citra Solv is an all natural cleaner and degreaser made from essential oils. It smells like oranges and leaves a pleasant (but strong) fragrance in your house, and can be purchased from natural food stores. Although you can buy it ready-to-use, this technique only works if you use the product in the concentrated form.

Citra Solv Technique
Backgrounds

Pop-up Book and Music

2009-11-23T06:38:00.000-05:00

This link is to a song by Lisa Hannigan, accompanied by an amazing pop-up book.

Or perhaps it is an amazing pop-up book, accompanied by a song by Lisa Harrigan.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyXmp-FiPJo

labels: Lisa Hannigan, Pop-up Book
Lisa Hannigan
Pop-up Book

...that should not be indulged in lightly

2009-11-22T11:20:00.007-05:00

Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.

MFK Fisher

There is something about sharing food and tradition that nourishes more than just our bodies. I'll be one of those 41 million Americans who travels more than 50 miles from home to celebrate Thanksgiving Day. According to AAA, the average trip by car is 214 miles, and it is a fact that the airline industry counts it as the most traveled holiday season of the year, every year.

But how many of us will be truly thankful for what this year is, and be aware that next year may not be the same?

My daughter called yesterday to discuss her potatoes au gratin and caramel apple cheesecake. But her grandfather, for the first time in her life, won't be with us at our table.

I'll be taking the holiday sweet potatoes, a spinach or broccoli salad, and another dish I haven't yet decided on. And of course, we'll have the turkey and cornbread dressing and gravy and fresh greens and pumpkin pie and chocolate pie and pecan pie and fresh cranberry sauce and a corn casserole and....and....and...

But one of my sons will have to work, and won't be with us at our table.

And the beloved aunt and uncle and cousin will be somewhere else for the first year in all the years I can remember.

Even though we protest if one of the traditional recipes is altered, or even worse, doesn't make an appearance at all, we know it is not about the food. It's about family and tradition. So let us not enter into this special day without deliberate consciousness and mindfulness. Let's make it "...an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly."

We must remember we do not know what next year will bring. We must take nothing for granted. Let's be thankful for our families and friends, and for each individual who shares the day. Let's remember our soldiers, and the homeless, and the unemployed. Let's pray for those who don't have a place to go.

And when we pray, let's make it an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.

Labels: Thanksgiving, MFK Fisher

Thanksgiving
MFK Fisher

Opening Our Own Door

2009-11-15T08:56:00.006-05:00

I once read a book whose author, living in New York, had one objective -- getting to Denver. Life would be different, and surely better. I forget what better meant, but I think most of us can relate. Many chapters were devoted to his efforts and experiences in reaching this destination. Almost there, he met a young woman in a coffee shop who had never left her home state of Colorado. All she dreamed about was getting to New York.

This irony was not lost on me when today I wistfully read Ode to the Smell of Wood by Pablo Neruda. I live in a tropical paradise, the envy of many who must chop wood and shovel snow, and long for blue sky and green grass, and a colorful landscape each winter. Yet my neighbors and I can bask in the sunshine alongside the warm waters of the Gulf, have our air conditioners on for most months of the year, and we lament there are so few days we can comfortably wear a turtleneck sweater.

Late, with the stars
open in the cold
I open the door.
The sea galloped
in the night.
Like a hand from the dark house
came the intense aroma of firewood in the pile.
The aroma was visible as if the tree were alive
As if it still breathed
Visible like a garment.
Visible like a broken branch.
I walked into the house surrounded
by that balsam-flavored darkness.
Outside the points sparkled in the sky
like magnetic stones
and the smell of the wood
touched my heart like some fingers,
like jasmine,
like certain memories.
It wasn't the sharp smell of the pines, no it wasn't
The break in the skin of the eucalyptus, neither was it
the green perfumes
of the grapevine stalk, but
something more secret, because that fragrance
only one
only one
time existed
and there, of all I have seen in the world
in my own house at night, next to the winter sea
was waiting for me the smell
of the deepest rose.
the heart cut from the earth,
something that invaded me like a wave
breaking loose
from time and it lost itself in me
when I opened the door
in the night.

I can imagine myself somewhere late at night opening the door to the cold, hearing the galloping sea, and smelling the intense aroma of firewood as if the tree were alive. I remember a balsam-flavored darkness I once breathed when in Yosemite Valley, but never did I think to call it such. And how brilliant for the poet to tell us the wood touched his heart like certain memories, but not this, nor that, neither the other, but something more secret. Because that fragrance only one, only one time existed. (Notice how he repeats on separate lines "only one.") Then, of all he has seen in the world, right in his own house, he found the smell of the deepest rose, the heart cut from the earth, something that invaded like a wave breaking loose from time.

All of this -- when he opened the door, in his own house, in the night.

labels:
Opening Our Own Door
Ode to the Smell of Wood
Pablo Neruda

To Mask, Or Not To Mask?

2009-11-11T05:49:00.000-05:00

After the prior post, A Gift For No Reason, some wanted to see the sunflowers after I brought them home. This is the view I have when I sit at my computer. It has been 4 days now, and I am still uplifted each time I see them.

If you have two loaves of bread, sell one and buy flowers, for although the bread will nourish your body, the flowers will nourish your soul.

In Photoshop Elements, I played with the image on the right by:

*Making a copy of the original photo

*Applying a mask to the portions I wanted to retain color

*Creating a New Adjustment Layer (Hue Saturation)

*Moving the Saturation slider all the way to the left to remove the color

I like each of these images for different reasons, and I would like to get your thoughts about them. Do you prefer one over the other? If you care to elaborate, please tell why.

Labels: Sunflowers, Mask, Photoshop Elements

sunflowers
mask
Photoshop Elements

A Gift For No Reason

2009-11-07T18:33:00.007-05:00

Early this morning I ventured out to the new Farmers Market open on Saturdays from 8 till Noon. A few vendors had booths in a sectioned-off area of a parking lot of The Galleria -- a center of shops and cafes and a bank or two. I didn't plan to purchase anything, for I was to meet a friend elsewhere in a little while, but I wanted to see what was there so I could plan a little for next Saturday.

There were locally grown tomatoes and corn and bell peppers, stalls of onions and brussel sprouts, radishes and dandelion greens, kale and organic coffee, dried pasta in colors and shapes, plants of basil and others I couldn't name, handmade soaps and handmade jewelry. A well-coifed woman walked a well-coifed dog. An elderly couple held hands as they strolled past. Two women were in serious conversation about the merits of raw honey. All, I thought, deserved some more attention. But next week would have to do.

And then I saw the sunflowers.

I knew I would have to go back home to put them in water. I knew this might make me late. I knew I had to have them anyway.

"Seven dollars per bunch, or two for ten."

"Just one, please."

As I walked back through the lot towards my car, I knew I was smiling. I felt nourished, content, and like a mademoiselle in a French countryside with ~~a basket of~~ an apron filled with rare truffles. What is it about that sudden something that catches us unaware--that simple thing that makes us glow with pleasure? It's a gift for no reason, a blessing undeserved. It's like when your Love winks at you from across the room, or God winks from across the Universe. I wished someone were with me so I could say, "Hey, take my picture with these!" I imagine the flowers would be beautiful in that photo. And, just maybe, so would I.

Labels:

A Gift For No Reason
sunflowers
farmers market

Little Red Bird

2009-11-04T04:45:00.027-05:00

Little Red Bird
by Carol Drummond

Did you think you found your Love again
When you kissed that mirror
Just before you flew away
Little Pretty Red Bird?

Or did you fly
(The only thing you could do)
Because you knew it wasn't him
And never, ever could be?

Little Red Bird
Poem

Digital Photo Art

2009-11-01T05:22:00.002-05:00

I'd like to share the results of an easy technique that you may like to incorporate into your visual journal, altered book, photo album, greeting cards, or collage project. Digital Photo Art by Theresa Airey explains how to convert a photo to a sketch, and then blend the black-and-white and color images using Photoshop or Photoshop Elements. The basics are these:

Begin with a duplicate layer

Select Mode/Grayscale/Filter/Stylize/Find Edges

Go back to Mode and change to RGB Color instead of Grayscale

Use the Move Tool to drag the sketch onto the color file

In the Layers (Toolbar) under Normal you can access the blending modes

Grayscale and Find Edges:

Blending Mode Exclusion:

Blending Mode Luminosity:

Original Photo taken in St. Remy in the South of France:

There are many other modes to choose from other than Luminosity and Exclusion, so you may want to have fun playing and experimenting. These modes can also be used without first converting your photo to a sketch, but with very different results.

Digital Photo Art
altered books
visual journal

Somewhere On Time

2009-10-30T20:02:00.002-04:00

This morning, a layer of early morning fog promised serenity and calm as I rounded the corner from home. Silhouettes of tall pines against the mist spoke mystery, and the sky was still salmon and coral, tinged with violet and a color I can't name. Oh, how I wanted to park the car, put on my sneakers, and traipse through those woods to find a well-worn path. Or maybe one not so worn.

But I had to be somewhere. On time. And somewhere was somewhere else.

I purposed to wake early tomorrow, pray for the same weather conditions, and round that corner again. Will I? Can I? Or was that a moment to be appreciated for just the moment it already was?

Somewhere On Time
silhouettes
appreciate
time
serenity
calm
fog
somewhere

Light and Shadow

2009-10-27T21:51:00.025-04:00

tags:

light, shadows

light shadows

Looking For Autumn in the Tropics

2009-10-27T07:43:00.005-04:00

It seems that this year, once again, I won't make it to Vermont or New Hampshire, or even the Carolinas to see the leaves change color before they blanket the ground. There won't be the smell of woodsmoke in the air. And no apple-picking or fresh cider-tasting, either.

Having recently seen the movie "Bright Star" about the poet John Keats, I was a bit melancholy dreaming of russets and golds and crisp air as I read his lovely poem:

       To Autumn
       Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
       Close bosom friend of the maturing sun
       Click here

But on my drive to work, I noticed a tree which is blooming a rust-colored flower, so I purposed to look for other autumn colors among our South Florida tropicalia. My forty-five minute drive was pleasant enough, but everywhere I looked I saw green, green, green.

And then, over there, a deep purple-brown -- definitely this color would qualify. I walked over to snap it's photo. I peered low, and underneath was persimmon. There was poppy. And there was gold.

...Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor...

It just was a matter of taking a closer look.

Or seeking.

Or wanting to find.

To Autumn

John Keats

Stepping Over Stones

2009-10-25T16:05:00.000-04:00

Step gently.
Go slowly.
Look up and down.
Look right and left.
Listen.
Then tell me what you hear.

A Journey Begins

2009-10-24T14:56:00.000-04:00

I invite you to join me on a journey, even though we may not be quite sure of our destination. We'll use our looking glass, our senses, our imagination. There will be photographs and imagery, poems and prose, artwork, recipes, and musings which make up the poetry of our daily lives. I hope you will visit often. Let's take this journey together.

Carol

Tags:
journey
poetry of our daily lives
destination
senses
looking glass