In Search Of…

homermaple

 

A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.
~Kathleen Norris

 

treehouse1

 

I remember well the feeling of restlessness, having an itch that couldn’t be reached, feeling too rooted and uneasy staying in one place for long, especially if that place was my hometown.  I knew I must be destined for greater things, grander plans and extraordinary destinations.  There exists in most human beings an inborn compulsion to wander far beyond one’s own threshold, venturing out into unfamiliar and sometimes hostile surroundings simply because one can.   It is the prerogative of the young to explore, loosen anchor and pull up stakes and simply go.  Most cannot articulate why but simply feel something akin to a siren call.

And so at twenty I heard and I went, considerably aging my parents in the process and not much caring that I did.  To their credit, they never told me no, never questioned my judgement, and never inflicted guilt when I returned home after the adventure went sour.

I had gone on a personal quest to the other side of the world and had come home empty.  But home itself was not empty nor had it ever been and has not been since.

There is a Dorothy-esque feeling in returning home from a land of wonders and horrors, to realize there is no place like home.    There was no way to know until I went away,  searching, then coming home empty-handed, to understand home was right inside my heart the whole time.  There was no leaving after all, not really.

So I’m here to stay–there is no greater, grander or more extraordinary than right here.  Even when I board a plane for a far off place, I know I’ll be back as this is where the search ends and the lost found.

My head now rests easy on the pillow.

 

briarcroftponies

 

backsidebriarcroft

 

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The Damp Pewter Days

tonymane

 

marleeshow4

 

5.
Here, what’s made, these braids, unmakes
itself in time, and must be made
again, within and against
time. So I braid
your hair each day.
My fingers gather, measure hair,
hook, pull and twist hair and hair.
Deft, quick, they plait,
weave, articulate lock and lock, to make
and make these braids, which point
the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.
And though what’s made does not abide,
my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making
of which this making-in-time is just a part,
a making which abides
beyond the hands which rise in the combing,
the hands which fall in the braiding,
trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.

6.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year. 

autumn927148
The calm of a daily rote task,
the over under over under
following twists and turns
of moments weeks years
Return of rain
balances the dry days
we all have
I keep on plaiting lives
over under over under
to braid up something stronger~
a making which abides
wwutangle3

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The Pulsation of the Soul

wwutangle4

 

People are more themselves when joy is the fundamental thing in them,
and grief the superficial.
Melancholy should be an innocent interlude,
a tender and fugitive frame of mind;
praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul.
Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday;
joy is the uproarious labor by which all things live.

~G.K. Chesterton from Orthodoxy

 

mistyfence

 

foggymorning927174

 

How can I convince myself
sadness dwells lightly like a murky mist
over the surface of my soul some days
but cannot penetrate deep within.
It hovers but does not saturate.
It distracts but does not define.
If I just wait long enough,
again the sun will rise uproarious and outrageous,
drying up my melancholy
and pulse within me unceasingly
with joy.

 

mistyfrontyard

 

bakermorning928

 

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The Alleviation of Dawn

foggymorning927173

 

For what human ill does not dawn seem to be an alleviation?
~Thornton Wilder

 

foggymorning927171

 

Early fall mornings often begin obscured – the low fog clings to the moist ground,  creating a muted reality of muffled sound and distorted distance.

My head feels just like this when I first wake.  I struggle to shake loose of cloudiness and clear my vision so I can take on the day.

Clarity doesn’t come from within.

The dawn burns off the fog, renders and refines landscape colors, separates light from shadow.  I too must become part of the solution instead of clouded with precipitate.

 

foggymorning927175

 

sunrisesnowcap

 

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We’ve Seen Nothing Yet

sunrise94154

 

sunrise95155

 

Autumn begins to be inferred
By millinery of the cloud,
Or deeper color in the shawl
That wraps the everlasting hill.
~Emily Dickinson in “Summer Begins to Have the Look”

 

lastofsept

 

sunrise97143

 

Last week summer appeared waning and wistful;  it had the look of packing up, and moving on without bidding adieu or looking back over its shoulder.

Cooling breezes now have carried in darkening clouds with a hint of spit from the sky as I gaze upward to see and smell the change.  Rain has been long overdue yet there is now temptation to bargain for a little more time.  Though we badly needed a good drenching, there are still onions and potatoes to pull from the ground, berries to pick before they mold on the vine, tomatoes not yet ripened, corn cobs just too skinny to pick.

I’m just not ready to wave goodbye to sun-soaked clear skies.

The overhead overcast is heavily burdened with clues of what is coming: earlier dusk, the feel of moisture, the deepening graying hues, the briskness of breezes.  There is no negotiation possible.   I need to steel myself and get ready, wrapping myself in the soft shawl of inevitability.

So autumn advances with the clouds, taking up residence where summer has left off.  Though there is still clean up of the overabundance left behind, autumn will bring its own unique plans for display of a delicious palette of hues.

The truth is we’ve seen nothing yet.

 

crow

 

September’s Baccalaureate
A combination is Of Crickets — Crows — and Retrospects
And a dissembling Breeze
That hints without assuming —
An Innuendo sear
That makes the Heart put up its Fun
And turn Philosopher.
~Emily Dickinson

 

sunset917165

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Enter Autumn Cautiously

autumnleaf2

 

squirrellayers

 

Enter autumn as you would 
a closing door. Quickly, 
cautiously. Look for something inside 
that promises color, but be wary 
of its cast — a desolate reflection, 
an indelible tint.
~Pamela Steed Hill  “September Pitch”

 

morningdew95146

 

morningdew9514

 

Today is a rainy gray start to the University’s academic year:  we enter autumn cautiously with no little trepidation about what comes next.

Once we’re on the other side of the closing door, we search for what enriches and envelopes  —  that which is unforgettable and indelible.

May we find the color midst the gray.

 

redsquare

 

redleaf1

 

alittlecolor

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Telling the Bees

beeswarm5148

 

beehives

 

Here is the place; right over the hill 
   Runs the path I took; 
You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
   And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 
There is the house, with the gate red-barred, 
   And the poplars tall; 
And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard, 
   And the white horns tossing above the wall. 
There are the beehives ranged in the sun; 
   And down by the brink 
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o’errun, 
   Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 
   Heavy and slow; 
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, 
   And the same brook sings of a year ago. 
I can see it all now,—the slantwise rain 
   Of light through the leaves, 
The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane, 
   The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 
Just the same as a month before,— 
   The house and the trees, 
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door,— 
   Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 
Before them, under the garden wall, 
   Forward and back, 
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, 
   Draping each hive with a shred of black. 
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun 
   Had the chill of snow; 
For I knew she was telling the bees of one 
   Gone on the journey we all must go! 
~John Greenleaf Whittier from “Telling the Bees”
saturdaylight2
north71516
An old Celtic tradition necessitates sharing any news from the household with the local bee hives, whether cheery like a new birth or a wedding celebration or sad like a family death.  This ensures the hives’ well-being and continued connection to home and farm – the bees are kept in the loop, so to speak, so they stay at home, not swarm and move on to a more hospitable place.
Good news seems always easy to share; we tend to keep bad news to ourselves so this tradition helps remind us that what affects one of us, affects us all.
These days, with instant news at our fingertips at any moment, bad news is constantly bombarding us. Like the bees in the hives of the field, we want to flee from it and find a more hospitable home.
I do hope the Beekeeper comes personally to say:
“Here is what has happened. All will be okay. We will navigate this life together.”
O gentle bees, I have come to say
That grandfather fell to sleep to-day.
And we know by the smile on grandfather’s face.
He has found his dear one’s biding place.
So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low.
As over the honey-fields you sweep,—
To the trees a-bloom and the flowers a-blow
Sing of grandfather fast asleep;
And ever beneath these orchard trees
Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.
~Eugene Field from “Telling the Bees”
roses826171
beeswarm51410

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