All posts by GretchenJoanna

Unknown's avatar

About GretchenJoanna

Orthodox Christian, widowed in 2015; mother, grandmother. Love to read, garden, cook, write letters and a hundred other home-making activities.

The sun shines on triads of blue.

my garden, weather, , , , , , , ,
This evening’s view through my kitchen window.

It seemed like most of May was overcast and cold… Oh, I know there were a few sunny hours in there, but I had to turn on the furnace again, and I felt my mood sink. Many days, in the evening just before dusk the clouds would open up and let a few rays through, as the damp marine breeze was blowing in. But at the very end of the month: the sun! the sun! I guess I am a central California girl in my bones.

The penstemon bloomed while the weather was still gray; as soon as there was enough sunlight, I took its picture, from north, south, east and west. Things are really crowded right now by the patio, and the blue-eyed grass is barely peeking out from under that penstemon. I guess the Santa Barbara daisies (erigeron) are not exactly blue, but their lavender tone made me think of this group as layers of blue blossoms:

On the other side of the garden, nigella, salvia and borage definitely make a blue bouquet:

The plum trees got some kind of icky leaf curl on their new growth, from the wet spring I guess. Also, because of the constant rain, we were able to apply a dormant spray only once during the winter. Alejandro came today and cut off all those branches, which were going to get lopped anyway in a couple of weeks, at the solstice.

While he was working, I wandered about like an enchanted queen considering her domain, picking flowers here and there. Though the blues definitely make a splash in the garden right now, they didn’t steal the show from the sweet peas and yarrow in my bouquet. Any day that ends with fresh flowers in the house I count as a success. Garden happiness!

He thirsted, and drank deeply.

church, feasts, saints, , , ,

When I arrived on the church property this morning on St. Justin’s day, I saw three trees in pots sitting by the front porch, waiting to go in and become part of the decoration for Pentecost Sunday. I walked around and took pictures of the landscape with its ever changing color display. Throughout the morning people were coming and going, for the service and for other activities connected to the upcoming feast. A crew was cooking in the kitchen, and out on the patio women arranged flowers.

Four of us were in the temple ironing green altar cloths and replacing the white ones that have been the theme since Pascha, almost fifty days ago. A few of the icons are so heavy, it takes two of us to lift the big box frame from its stand, while the third set of hands slides off the white satin hanging and arranges the fresh green cloth as straight as possible; then the saint’s image is laid down to rest again.

Before any of that, the Liturgy in honor of St. Justin was served in our little church; one of our group who bears the name of Justin was directing the minimal choir. It may be that I never before attended a Divine Liturgy for St. Justin, though I have mentioned him on my blog. In any case, I didn’t remember the hymns of the feast, which draw attention to his title as Philosopher, and his ability to defend the faith in words, and to witness to it by his death. I was moved by their poetry.

You emptied the cup of the wisdom of the Greeks,
but you thirsted again,
until you came to the well where you found
water springing unto eternal life.
And having drunk deeply,
you also drank from the cup
which Christ gave to His disciples.
Therefore, O Justin,
we praise you as a Philosopher
and Martyr of Christ.

O Justin, teacher of divine knowledge,
you shone with the radiance of true philosophy.
You were wisely armed against the Enemy.
Confessing the truth, you contested with the Martyrs,
with them, O Justin, always entreat Christ to save our souls.

On this page, you can read the life of the saint: St. Justin the Philosopher.

He lived in the second century, and wrote his second Apology, addressed to the Roman Senate, in 161, soon after Marcus Aurelius became emperor. He had been able to persuade the previous emperor, Antoninus Pius, to stop persecuting Christians, at least for a time. The Cynic philosopher Crescentius, who reportedly always lost debates against Justin, had a part in his death, as out of envy he denounced him to the Roman court, after which Justin and six friends were imprisoned, tried and beheaded. The following is considered to be the court record of the trial (Wikipedia):

The Prefect Rusticus says: Approach and sacrifice, all of you, to the gods. Justin says: No one in his right mind gives up piety for impiety. The Prefect Rusticus says: If you do not obey, you will be tortured without mercy. Justin replies: That is our desire, to be tortured for Our Lord, Jesus Christ, and so to be saved, for that will give us salvationand firm confidence at the more terrible universal tribunal of Our Lord and Saviour. And all the martyrs said: Do as you wish; for we are Christians, and we do not sacrifice to idols. The Prefect Rusticus read the sentence: Those who do not wish to sacrifice to the gods and to obey the emperor will be scourged and beheaded according to the laws. The holy martyrs glorifying God betook themselves to the customary place, where they were beheaded and consummated their martyrdom confessing their Saviour.

I admire this saint’s search for the truth, and am glad that it didn’t take his whole life to try out, in turn, the Stoics, the Peripatetics, the Pythagoreans and the Platonists, until he at last found Christ. Even more inspiring is his resolve, once he knew the Truth —  the way he clung firmly to Christ who is the true Logos, the Word of God. I want to follow St. Justin’s example in drinking deeply of True Philosophy.

As a breath from Paradise,
the dew descending upon Hermon,
Christ the Power and the Peace and Wisdom of God the Father,
came upon your thirsting spirit, O Martyr Justin,
making you a Fount of Knowledge for all the faithful,
when with true valor you endured death as a Martyr,
to live forever in Christ.

Revisiting my Valley Oak.

family, history, trees, ,

Last week I took a little hike with my friend Lucy in a nearby park, up and down the green hills among the oaks and wildflowers, and past the sheep who were grazing one area of the park. Lucy and I talked about how we don’t know the names of very many oaks. I told her about the great oak of my childhood, and I will tell about it here again, too, because it’s been about twelve years since I did:

My father bought 30 acres of land with oranges and lemons growing on it, and no house. There was a large oak tree looming above a spot where a house might have stood in the past. And he thought that the tree was pretty much grown up, so he planted a house nearby.

This is the oak under which I lived after we moved in, until I went away to college about twelve years later. Only twelve years? Those formative years have an impact far beyond their numerical value, and that tree has to be my favorite tree, because there hasn’t been a particular beloved tree between then and now that I can bring to mind.  I realized that this week when Elizabeth was telling about her favorite trees and I wondered if I had one.

In these first pictures, taken decades after I had married, the tree had recently been trimmed with great care and patience by a tree man who was in love with it. I was amazed at its beauty and took a lot of pictures.

At that point the oak had grown mightier than my father ever expected, and its limbs were leaning dangerously over the house. My father said that if he had known how big it would get, he wouldn’t have built the house so close to it. At least one large limb had to be cut off to protect the house, and the whole tree was refreshed and lightened by being pruned all over.

When I was growing up I only knew that it was an oak tree. If someone told me it was a Valley Oak I didn’t remember. People in our family rarely talked about the birds and trees in those days. I didn’t know those were mourning doves I used to hear every evening as I was lying in my bunk. But one year a flock of bright orioles lived in our tree for a few weeks and we heard some talk then.When I used to play under the tree, this is the way I mostly saw it, as a thick trunk. There was no reason to look up into the branches, excepting the times when orioles visited, and it was usually so messy up there that some twigs or dirt or even tree frogs might fall in your face.

Yes, more than once we had veritable plagues of tiny tree frogs swarming in the branches, on the trunk, hopping all over the ground under the leaves. When we walked under the tree they jumped onto our legs as though they were little trunks.

And our tree suffered many times from all varieties of galls, the most common of which we just called “oak balls.”

Always Daddy had stacks of firewood under the canopy of branches, usually fruit wood that he’d gleaned from neighboring orchards that were being replaced. But here we see it is logs cut from our tree’s own pruned limbs.

One year my grandma gave me a little tent for my birthday and I set it up under the tree to lie in the summer long, reading comics and books and sucking on cubical cinnamon suckers.

Doghouses were common at the base of the trunk, and one year we had a banty chicken coop there. The basketball hoop that my father built for me was shaded by this tree friend. And as I think more about the shade it provided, I wonder if it helped out the swamp cooler by giving us a partial shield from the burning Central Valley sun.

In his last years my father would walk out under the tree to the edge of the orange grove and scatter grain for a family of wild pheasants that visited. You can tell that this picture was taken pre-trim. One pheasant can barely be seen between the rows of trees.

One view of our tree that we didn’t have as children was from above. But some time after we were all grown up an aerial photographer took the photo below and came to the door after the fact to present his wares. Of course Daddy couldn’t say no. As he studied the picture he could see his spray rig in the driveway and him bending over it. And soon each of us kids received a gift of a framed picture of our childhood home — and my favorite tree.

Notable birthdays of May 29th.

culture, history, poetry, , , , , , ,

I frequently look in on Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac, but rarely do I find every item from his column interesting, as I did today. Today is a reprint of what was in the column in 2017. Of course, it being the birthday of G.K. Chesterton, I wanted to read what Keillor might say about that favorite writer of mine. But Bob Hope and Oswald Spengler were also born on the 29th of May. Spengler studied the history of civilizations, and published the book The Decline of the West in 1918.

A quote from Christopher Hitchens is included in this piece, which I found quite a contrast to the legacies of the other three men; it made me feel sorry for him.

Keillor leads off with the poem, “A Dream of the Future,” by Joyce Sutphen, which I think ties in nicely with the subject of Spengler’s thesis about the “blossoming and withering” of cultures over time.

If any of this piques your interest, check out The Writer’s Almanac.