A Music Poem

I read this poem today while catching up on a weekend's worth of emails. It arrived in a newsletter from Friday, May Day. Reading it tonight, in the quiet dark of my living room, lit only by the glow from my laptop, made me re-long for the connection that I have always had with music, for the very reasons this poet espouses. But I have lacked such connection of late. I just haven't been listening to music as much. I have no commute, so no consistent car time to soak in music. I like tunes while I work, but as background, not as distractions that may transfix me. So, here is, in print, my renewed committment to music, my goal to spend those unspent iTunes giftcards this next week, and maybe find something transcendent.


Music

by Anne Porter

When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother's piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold

And when I was asked
Why I was crying
I had no words for it
I only shook my head
And went on crying

Why is it that music
At its most beautiful
Opens a wound in us
An ache a desolation
Deep as a homesickness
For some far-off
And half-forgotten country

I've never understood
Why this is so

Bur there's an ancient legend
From the other side of the world
That gives away the secret
Of this mysterious sorrow

For centuries on centuries
We have been wandering
But we were made for Paradise
As deer for the forest

And when music comes to us
With its heavenly beauty
It brings us desolation
For when we hear it
We half remember
That lost native country

We dimly remember the fields
Their fragrant windswept clover
The birdsongs in the orchards
The wild white violets in the moss
By the transparent streams

And shining at the heart of it
Is the longed-for beauty
Of the One who waits for us
Who will always wait for us
In those radiant meadows

Yet also came to live with us
And wanders where we wander.

"Music" by Anne Porter from Living Things: Collected Poems. © Steerforth Press, 2006.
Reprinted from "The Writer's Almanac" produced by Prairie Home Productions and presented by American Public Media.

Holy Week

It's hard to believe that the Lenten season is almost over. We gave up some food-related stuff for the season, and for this Holy Week, the days as we journey toward Easter, I raised the stakes and signed off Facebook. Now, lest you think this was purely as ascetical exercise, it also had to to with knowing my week was rather full with work, church and some social obligations. To not have the temptation of putzing around on FB when instead I should be clocking paid hours, is a good thing.

But there are "holy" reasons too. On this Maundy Thursday, I've reflected on much, now here are a few of my observations from being Facebook free:

• My propensity to meddle in everybody else's news is quelled and that's probably a good thing.


• I'm glad to not have to consolidate my life into 150 character snippets. The pressure to somehow say something humorous, clever, profound or provocative every 13 or so hours can be a mounting burden.


• My imagined connectedness with people has been cut off for a few days, whereby to find out how they are doing, and what is going on, I must CALL them. I've made many more phone calls and e-mails this week.


• I wrote a letter today. A real-live letter. In part inspired because I received one a few days ago, and in part ABLE because I'm not frittering away precious minutes that turn to hours in an imagined community of 350 or so of my closest friends.

Lest you readers feel the heavy-handed weight of judgment if you're an avid FB-er. Because let's face it, after all this illumination, I'll likely be back in the game once Christ has risen.

Oh, and did I mention that my laying aside of the Facebook burden ALSO happens to coincide with Jeff's and my purchase of a brand new HDTV! :-) So, those hours that would have been wasted on Facebook have been instead spent watching anything and everything I can in High Definition. woohoo!

Peace to you this Holy Week. Joy to you this Easter morning.

My Blog Personality

While you may think I'm shy or introverted due to the infrequency with which I update this dang thing, Typealizer thinks otherwise. In a mere few nanoseconds, this nifty little program scanned the contents of my blog and labeled me ESFP - The Performers.

(my favorite part of this exercise is the saucy little cartoon character the Typealizer used to emulate me. Mini-skirt, sexy boots, plunging neckline and drink in hand. Woohoo. Never knew my musings were such a party.) Anyway, here's what this analysis said of me.

ESFP - The Performers

The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don´t like to plan ahead - they are always in risk of exhausting themselves.

The enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation - qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

So, in past personality tests, this isn't far from where I've landed (ENFP is the only one I remember, from ages ago.). Yay for soft fabrics! And here's the handy graph that represents my thought patters when writing.



Tip of the hat to Andrew H

Small and Big Mercies

I feel it necessary to not let time languish too long following my last few posts which were, well, downers. True, we still have frustrations, sadness...2 mortgages...but mercies abound as well.

Like Virginia in the fall. We took a trip up to the Shenandoah area last week for about 5 days. Jeff's mom and her husband have a time-share at the Massanutten ski resort. So, Jeff's brother and sister both came down and the group of us had a wonderful time together amidst the brilliant colors of fall. Those same reds and yellows that thus-far have reminded me more of death became a salve. The mountains surrounding the resort area were bursting with color and Skyline drive was an absolutely treat to drive along. We laughed a lot, wrestled, joked, played games, hiked ate great home-cooked meals, lounged around and of course, watched the Phillies together. So yes, mercy = Wilbur buds, fall leaves, laughter, snow flurries in October, a Phillies world series win (which, sadly, we had to see the conclusion of once we were home in Atl., would've been nice to be with the fam). Everything is not all gone bad with the world, eh?


-->Ridge Trail view at Massanutten


-->Jeff's Mom turns 60 this week. We got her an early (Phillies) Birthday cake :-)

We returned to the "real world" refreshed and more thankful that we have been in a while. Time is a healer, so is quality time with people you love. Upon our return, I found another way find laughter and mindless fun: Halloween! We dressed up, ate candy, and partied with friends at Sara's house. Pictures abound of the revelry, here are a few. (I was a pig in a blanket, Jeff was Dr McCreepy. )

So, in just a few weeks, a vacation and a halloween party have dulled the pain of the last few months, even if just temporarily. It's nice, and I'm thankful for fall leaves, family, costumes, sweet-tea flavored vodka (i know, sounds gross, but is really good w/ Sprite) ;-), good friends AND that these blasted political ads and circulars will find a welcome end come tomorrow. (I'll end here and spare any further political musing...I couldn't possibly express well all the dialog in my head). I can only say that I WILL vote tomorrow, I will NOT succumb to fear, I WILL hope in bigger things than the results of an election, and try my darndest to avoid finger-pointing, back-biting, judging and any other yuck that elections tend to incite in people. And maybe I'll even wear my pig w/ cigar mask to the polling place tomorrow ;-).


--> Delivery System for said Tea-vodka. Sara the Bier-frau helps set me up.


-->McCreepy in full effect

I So Love the Fall...Just Not This One

I can't lie...the last 5 months have been pretty crappy for us. (hence the seldom-blogging...we've been mostly exhausted or out of town when possible). Anyway, its just seemed that around every corner some unwanted emotion or event lies in wait. I struggle to hope amidst all of it, but I do, in some small part. But before I get to that, here's a poem I penned while working this afternoon at Starbucks, listening to Elliott Smith (that was probably my first problem...) ;-)

Torrent of bad news.
One more thing taken
A hailstorm of negative.
A maelstrom.

Where have they gone
The memories of such good?
The bliss of sweet May
It was all okay

Now we face the torrent
The unrelenting
Death seems to loom
Who weaves on this loom?

What story is wrought
From such hurt?
Such a downpour of rain
I want spring again.

Things die in fall
With nary a chance to wave
They start to fall
The leaves in droves.


I really do love the fall. I've found momentary solace, lying on my back in our backyard watching the yellowing trees sway against the bright blue backdrop. And we have found solace in fresh cookies from friends, kind words, invites for dinner, mindless television - yes, sport has been even more my friend, especially these last few weeks. When I think God may be absent, I get a call from a friend, or a kind email, and I realize every once in a while that He is more present than ever.

So, I'll hope in that. I'll hope that our vacant house sells, despite the horrid market. I'll hope for peace for loved ones, who seem at war with others, or with themselves. I'll hope that the Phillies win the World Series. :-)*

*I am still a loyal Braves fan.... I have not forgotten those NLCS losses... It's just my husband is from PA, so we pull for the Phillies in the absence of my Bravos. It makes us happy when they win.

To Autumn

The light is starting to change. A few more gray days have crept into the daily routine. I sat outside the other night and wish'd for another layer. The tips of tree leaves are starting their beautiful dying process. In this season where death and disintegration is a rainbow of beautiful, I also watch things disintegrate in my life, big and small. I do not see the beauty yet, but perhaps it is apt that fall should join me in this journey and teach me how to glory in slow, beautiful death. Because, after all, the sacrifice these leaves are making is only so the glory of spring's life will be that much greater. I don't want to rush past fall and winter for that glory just yet, I will sit in the sad, crisp reality of the 'ber months. I will heed the dying process, but also heed the life that sneaks between, like apples, firepits, soup and the yellow light. Here's Keat's Ode to this beloved season.

To Autumn - by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skie

No Umbrellas Needed (except once)

I read this poem tonight, and I liked it because it's about Seattle. We just went to Seattle, Jeff and me. The only difference between this poem and our trip is that we didn't really seep too long in the gray rainy-ness. But before I say some words about our adventure, soak in these words for a few...

Black Umbrellas
by Rick Agran

On a rainy day in Seattle stumble into any coffee shop
and look wounded by the rain.

Say Last time I was in I left my black umbrella here.
A waitress in a blue beret will pull a black umbrella

from behind the counter and surrender it to you
like a sword at your knighting.

Unlike New Englanders, she'll never ask you
to describe it, never ask what day you came in,

she's intimate with rain and its appointments.
Look positively reunited with this black umbrella

and proceed to Belltown and Pike Place.
Sip cappuccino at the Cowgirl Luncheonette on First Ave.

Visit Buster selling tin salmon silhouettes
undulant in the wind, nosing ever into the oncoming,

meandering watery worlds, like you and the black umbrella,
the one you will lose on purpose at the day's end

so you can go the way you came
into the world, wet looking.

"Black Umbrellas" by Rick Agran from Crow Milk. © Oyster River Press, 1997. Reprinted from the Writer's Almanac

Our Seattle was a little less dreary, though not entirely shiny, but just as friendly. Coffeeshops felt warm and communal, restaurants seemed full of folks who enjoy good food. I loved the local ethic there, where practically every menu from the corner sandwich shop to Tom Douglas' latest joint was choc-full of local produce, meats and cheeses. If I were a restauranteur in the summer in Washington, I wouldn't know where to start with all the tasty gifts of the earth!

We tasted some wonderful things that came from a variety of sources: Blueberries from my uncle's yard were perfectly ripe, deep blue and delicious. Hundreds of blackberries weighed the boughs of some wild bush in a local park. We past it once on a sunny-day stroll, then I returned (for the lovely park sits right across the street from my uncle and aunt's house!) to grab for myself some of those midnight purple berries, gently loosening them from their stems, picking, then eating, picking then eating.

While wandering through Pike Place market in the heart of Seattle, we passed a vendor selling peaches. He sliced us a sample, selling his wares, doing well to convince me that being a Georgian doesn't give me the lock on fine, juicy peaches. I couldn't stop thinking about that peach, so the next morning, after a surprisingly authentic Pain au Chocolat at a local french bakery (a delight in of itself), I found the purveyor of peaches and $2 (yep...a pricey peach) later I had big sticky orange drops running down my chin. The price was steep, but that peach was bigger than any I've seen from Georgia or South Carolina, and of course it was organic and hand-picked and all that jazz.

Then there were those local wines we found in a small tasting parlour right off the ferry stop on San Juan Island. In truth, the grapes for the San Juan Cellars wines are taken from all over the state so they have a wide variety. I'm not sure if it was the kind sommeliers or the gorgeous afternoon, but we rightly enjoyed all those tastings and walked off with a few bottles (after all, you can't watch someone pour you tastes of 7 varietals and walk out empty-handed.)

If travel is a narrative, food memories always seem to be underlined for me.
In the meantime, feast your eyes on this basket of wonder from Ivar's on the waterfront.



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