Thursday, March 26, 2015

best email subject

in my box today:

Who Needs Spring Cleaning When You Can Read Instead?

making me dizzy

The girl and the guy never make it to the Eiffel Tower!
Makes me dizzy and also makes me smile every time
I look at that funny still life video below.

Spring Break is here. 

I keep thinking about beauty and possessing it.
The trees are so beautiful in white blooms. 
Doesn't it make you want to freeze Spring like the
girl and guy driving towards the Eiffel Tower?

Rereading The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge.
A good fairytale is good for the heart.
( which reminds me to go see the new Cinderella, have you?)

The Little White Horse

It was under the white moon that I saw him,
The little white horse, with neck arched high in pride.
Lovely his pride, delicate, no taint of self
Staining the unconscious innocence denied
Knowledge of good and evil, burden of days
Of shame crouched beneath the flail of memory.
No past for you, little white horse, no regret,
No future of fear in this silver forest---
Only the perfect now in the white moon-dappled ride.

A flower-like body fashioned all of light,
For the speed of light, yet momently at rest,
Balanced on the sheer knife-edge of perfection;
Perfection of grass silver upon the crest
Of the hill, before the scythe falls, snow in sun,
Of the shaken human spirit when God speaks
In His still small voice and for a breath of time
All is hushed; gone in a sigh, that perfection,
Leaving the sharp knife-edge turning slowly in the breast.

The raised hoof, the proud poised head, the flowing mane,
The supreme moment of stillness before the flight,
The moment of farewell, of wordless pleading
For remembrance of things lost to earthly sight---
Then the half-turn under the trees, a motion
Fluid as the movement of light on water . . .
Stay, oh stay in the forest, little white horse! . . .
He is lost and gone and now I do not know
If it was a little white horse that I saw,
Or only a moonbeam astray in the silver night.

Here is a map of Moonacre:


Tuesday, March 24, 2015

just saw this

the wind blows

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.” 


( very good to think upon and to dig deep into the words)

revolution tumblr

Friday, March 20, 2015

been thinking upon joy

A friend picked her word for the year: Joy.

When a friend or you have a WORD for the year and it 
pops up, you send whatever the sentence or page or 
book to her. 

Is it a hope that JOY will arrive this year? 
In what ways?  

In this post on The Rabbit Room by Lanier Ivester,
she writes, 

“Joy cannot be domesticated,”

This means joy cannot be tamed or made fit for cultivation
or to overcome the wildness. 

She continues, 

Joy isn’t a spiritual discipline. Thanksgiving, praise, a cultivated gratitude, yes, absolutely—but joy is a gift, a fruit of the Spirit. We can’t summon, capture or tame it.


 But we can’t make joy, or find it.
Joy finds us—in the way of faith, and even when, benumbed with grief or fear or shame or weariness, we stumble out of it.

Today is the first day of Spring. 
May joy find you because as CS Lewis said beauty compels us to possess it.  

                                            a very young daughter , up in her favorite tree
                                                                 10 years ago

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

wearing green

What a fine St. Patrick's day!
The afternoon warmed up to the 80's.

My students wrote limericks today. 
They thought they couldn't do it .
They started and burst into laughter.
Belly laughter.
Then they wrote another.

My favorite Irish poet: Seamus Heaney

Monday, March 16, 2015

is there such a thing

Too many books in a stack?
Or maybe the question is time?
I have too many I want to read.

Spring arrived. 
Two loads of laundry dried outside on the line.

The last  two lines of this poem rise up in my mind
as I think of today: 

Sabbaths 1998

The woods and pastures are joyous
in their abundance now
in a season of warmth and much rain.
We walk amidst foliage, amidst
song. The sheep and cattle graze
like souls in bliss (except for flies)
and lie down satisfied. Who now 
can believe in winter? In winter
who could have hoped for this? 

 ( from Given, 2005)
Wendell Berry