Missed? Not Really

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

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

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

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


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

More Than Just A Story

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.)                         

I Bought Myself a Present

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