Category Archives: poetry

Winter Weblog Gleanings

books, buildings, church, food and cooking, housework, Lent, poetry, quotes

The Broken Computer has prolonged the interruption of my blogging, following hard as it did on the Expedition Without Camera Cable. I’ve been back from wandering for several days, but as I have a dear house guest it’s just as well that I have the machinery problem as my excuse for not blogging. When I get the computer back I’ll have even more things to tell about.

While I’m being otherwise occupied I’ve still found some time to read blogs, on son P’s computer. Posts that have been stimulating include one on Spring Cleaning, with a day-by-day plan carrying the author from one end of Lent to the other. This is a new concept for me, and truly inspiring. We are remodeling during the upcoming months at this house, though, so I will have to try her tidy method some other year, and concentrate on packing up many of my books and all of my kitchen things starting yesterday.

Is it easier to keep a small house clean? That depends. When our family of seven moved from a small house to a big one, suddenly our home seemed cleaner and neater just because there was more space. But the blog This Tiny House is delightful to dream over, the treehouses and little dwellings of various kinds. A recent post is about a tiny vehicle, actually, but might be a fine introduction if you’ve never visited there.

Many people, I’ve noticed, give up TV for Lent. I myself agree with Groucho Marx, who said he found TV very educational: “When someone turns on the TV, I go in the other room and read a book.” Whether you watch or not, you might agree with me that this verse by Roald Dahl is amusing.

A woman I know is trying to find a lot of cooking blogs, as she’s reveling in the idea and trend of Slow Food and recipes. It made me happy to point her to this blogger who opens up a full 60 other cooks’ worlds. Take note, all you snowed-in people (and that includes 3/5 of my own children!) that the theme of his recent group of links is Warming Dishes. Comfort food!

Last and most pertinent to this weekend, I’m sure, is a musing on Forgiveness Sunday.

I hope you enjoy one or more of my finds.

New Year’s Gifts

housework, poetry,

“I don’t like my life!” This surprising phrase repeatedly ran through my mind before Christmas. Egads, how could I be thinking something so discontented?

Was it just a variation on “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!”? Maybe. Or, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” And along more housewifely lines, “I can’t concentrate on anything productive because the house is so messy!” and even more specifically, realities like, “I want to write, but I can’t find my notebook.”

This new year has started off with a broken computer–an inconvenience that brings gifts: I am forced out of my routine, or rut, and get a boost toward a possibly more likeable life. The other gift is a son with a computer, newly arrived here, so that if I really need to I can use his machine. We and the computer repairman can all relax over a long weekend.

Do the following fall within the definition of resolutions? My feelings don’t appear strong enough to be called resolve, but I do have general good intentions to improve on some things. A lot of the same old things, in fact, though the outward shapes of the projects are revised.

1. Finish making a bedroom into a sewing room.

2. Take the time to sort and organize notes about reading and writing in such a way that I can make use of them; this will require some purging!

3. Be very careful about accumulating any more possessions, because they will just take more of my time for maintenance, and then before I know it, more for sorting and purging.

The new year is a gift of hope. We commemorate the Circumcision of Christ today, which reminds us of God’s covenant with us–and there is no greater Hope! We can be assured that God will be with us, full of grace for every moment and every day we are given. It’s true, we can’t get it beforehand, but we can surely anticipate it.

This poem expressing the confusing natures of time and humankind is also a gift for today.

NEW YEAR’S

Let other mornings honor the miraculous.
Eternity has festivals enough.
This is the feast of our mortality,
The most mundane and human holiday.
On other days we misinterpret time,
Pretending that we live the present moment.
But can this blur, this smudgy in-between,
This tiny fissure where the future drips
Into the past, this fly-speck we call now
Be our true habitat? The present is
The leaky palm of water that we skim
From the swift, silent river slipping by.
The new year always brings us what we want
Simply by bringing us along–to see
A calendar with every day uncrossed,
A field of snow without a single footprint.

-Dana Gioia

Homesick in Our Homes

church, history, home, poetry
Christmas Poem by G.K. Chesterton

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost—how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wife’s tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

Thanks to semicolon where I found this poem today, a good reminder of important truths of the season.  This Advent period is when we remember how we are “homesick in our homes.” The reality of that estrangement and fallenness and longing is a good bit of why we get physically sick, or sick and tired of various features of our earthly life.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!

Silence and Music

books, Christmas, poetry, quotes, , , , , , ,

My last post remembering Saint Herman prompted Pom Pom to ask me if I had read The Music of Silence, book she had just received in the mail. I haven’t read such a book, so I googled it and immediately have several tangents to run along now. I don’t know if she meant this memoir of Andrea Bocelli, or this one about singing the Hours or services of the church through the day in Gregorian Chant.

One reviewer wrote of the latter book:

“Nothing is as ordinary, or as sacred, as time. Far from being an infinitesimally small unit of measurement or a means of separating one event from another, time provides the means by which the still, small, silent voice of God may be heard.”

Silence….hmmm….I know so little of it.

When I read about music, silence, solitude, it can be an inspiration and a reminder, but my readings and thinkings are typically like so many rabbit trails, to use a term that hints at the fun of scurrying from one author or thought to another. A rabbit is doing what he was made to do, and glorifies God by it. I was made to live by the Holy Spirit in communion with my Creator.

So I need to STOP on the trail and pray–and maybe even get off the trail sometimes! It wasn’t books and ideas that made it possible for Father Herman to sing with the angels. It was prayer. The kind of prayer St Isaac of Syria is talking about when he says:

“The wisdom of the Holy Spirit is much greater than the wisdom of the entire world. Within the wisdom of the Holy Spirit, silence prevails; the wisdom of the world, however, goes astray into idle talk.”

My mind is given to talking idly with itself. So much of my remembering of my Savior is like the awareness I might have of an earthly friend when she is in the room with me, but I am not paying close attention. I might hear her talking without really listening, I might even speak with her–but not make eye contact.

Don’t we all have this weakness in our human condition, worsened by modern life, that we can’t settle our minds down firmly even when in prayer? Abba Dorotheus of Gaza says:

“Just as it is easier to sin in thought than in deed, correspondingly, it is more difficult to struggle with thoughts than with deeds.”

But C.S. Lewis encourages us:

“Virtue–even attempted virtue [I hope this includes attempted prayer]–brings light; indulgence brings fog.”

So I will keep struggling in prayer, to push past the distractions, to listen for the Silence that is God’s music.

It’s not the wonderful blog posts and the writers of them that are my problem. Nor my own writing, because just the discipline of organizing the chaos at least gets me on the road to taking every thought captive to Christ, though my readers might legitimately question how often I get to my destination. With God’s help, I know His presence and see His working in the world by the goings-on of the blogosphere and the piles of books throughout my house. Glory to God for all things! Lord, have mercy!

One more rabbit trail, leading quickly to the spot where all those paths ought eventually to end up, was brought to my attention this month, a poem by George Herbert:

Christmas

The shepherds sing;
and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for Thee?
My soul’s a shepherd too;
a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is Thy word:
the streams, Thy grace,
Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and flock shall sing,
and all my powers
Outsing the daylight hours.
Then will we chide the sun for letting night
Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord;
wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.

I will go searching, till I find a sun
Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-nipped suns look sadly.
Then will we sing, and shine all our own day,
And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev’n His beams sing, and my music shine.

-George Herbert