Super Moon, Blood Moon, Flower Moon...wants so much attention it can even interrupt our sleep!
"...Early tribesmen credited various animals with the ability to forecast weather. The Egyptians relied on bears. Early Europeans turned to wolves for prophecies. In England they put their faith in otters and badgers. Early English colonists in America, never skilled in identification, mistook woodchucks for badgers, which often were called groundhogs in England. The badger was the Candlemas forecaster in England, so the American marmot inherited the prophet's mantle. And just to round out the tangle of identities, the name 'woodchuck' came from the Algonquin wejac, which meant fisher, a cousin of the weasel." Hal Borland
(First Week of Advent)
"Now that autumn's silence is upon the land, one can hear the big, enduring voices which seldom shout the things they have to say. One can hear the earth declare that ice, the counterpart of fire, must be reckoned with. One can hear the hills assert their stony structure which forever underlies the soothing green of leaf and shade. One can hear the wind and water discussing polar regions and the fundamental wedge of frost that can level mountains. Listen closely, and one can hear the patient throb of almost suspended life in the root, the bulb, the seed, the egg, waiting for another spring."
- Hal Borland
"A Man can muster a variety of reasons when he goes for a walk. It's a nice day. He needs the exercise. He hasn't' been out in the park, or the fields, or the woods, for quite a while. He wants a breath of fresh air, needs to stretch his legs.
Excuses, all of them, and good enough. But they aren't reasons. The reasons are both personal and complicated. How can you explain that you need to know that the trees are still there, and the hills and the sky? Anyone knows they are. How can you say it is time your pulse responded to another rhythm, the rhythm of the day and the season instead of the hour and the minute? No, you cannot explain. So you walk." Hal Borland
Introduced to my first Monkey Puzzle Tree. Astounding! I will never not know this one when we meet again.
"Above all, Mr. Gilbert White is a man of system. Naturalist, physico-theologist. He lives in inches and ounces and hours and degrees. Matter flows in upon him. New information crowds in every day. He examines the forest sand through a microscope--smooth from collision, a yellow color. Watches the weather glass closely. Supine is the man who fails to put out his thermometer.
Weather on March 20, 1780, the day I was first set loose in Selborne? Dark, moist, and mild. Fifty degrees. Southwest wind. Full moon. Crocuses in high bloom. A matter of record.
Mr. Gilbert White chronicles rain and snow and barometric pressure. As if they were baptisms and burials and marriage s in the parish register--the death of Anne Wheeler, age twenty-four, last year, or the union of William Trimming and Elizabeth Bartholomew. The burial, just a few days ago of Mary Burbey, age sixteen, of this parish, "by me, Gil White curate." Sixteen years and gone. A mayfly's life.
The human year 1751, Mr. Gilbert White records, 'was one of the wettest Years in the memory of Man.' He is able to report that the 24th of August, 1764 was 'the fourth most beautiful harvest-day that ever was seen.' Glass very high.
'Those that had the most patience will have by much the best corn,' he declares, like the parson he is.
He identifies four hundred and thirty-nine local plants. Traveler's joy, twayblade, eye-bright cow wheat, go-to-bed-at-noon. Knee-holly, or butcher's broom. Knows the common tongue for plants and the learned one too. Which birds possess a local name--the sit-ye-down. And which don't--Regulus non cristatus. " Verlyn Klinkenborg
Three large pink deer. Not seeing things - it was just the way the sunrise was hitting the ridge of the neighbor across the road...his orchard pink with blossom in front. They walked single file along the stone wall. We've seen them up there early mornings many times but this is the first time this spring.
Sonnet Written Walking Under the Mess Some Magnolia Made
By Jay Deshpande
Even with my nose up here at six foot something I know
The color brown is sweet: this putrescence
Embarrasses no one: the petals treacly vessels jangling
Overhead yesterday have taken a hint and gone down into
The real grit of things: where better than the sidewalk
To speak achingly: I could go on: I’d say love makes us
Amenable to certain minor probable disasters: but what
I mean by love is spring: overeager and almost enough
To make me wake up and like the insides of my mouth
A little more: the petals talking vivid now: they say
Finish your work and come back to us: we want to be
Nearest: we know which of our atoms were once in you: you
Who are a flower-machine: who are a blossom for meaning:
The scent of sweeter senders: the slobberiest part of the kiss:
The Green Wishes
"From now on, every sunny day is more than a break in the clouds that come swooping across the continent on winter schedule. Every day, of course, is another day toward spring: but when the sun shines it prompts greener thoughts than were possible a month ago. For one thing, it is a higher and warmer sun, but mostly it is the response of the human heart.
February zero is just as cold as zero in January, and February snow often is deeper than January snow. But the sight of the sun all through a steadily lengthening February day gives that day a dimension beyond mathematical calculation. You don't pay so much attention to the calendar or even the clock. You know the inner feeling of change, the sense of the seasons passing. - Hal Borland
A wee explanation: this website was created as a way to amplify the daily surprise of seeing glory in one small life. The notebook entries represented here are all selected from things actually lived and noted on paper in an effort to live the full life British educator Charlotte Mason so ably championed.
Book Of Centuries
Book Of Firsts