 The calendar says 10 days more of winter but today it might be time to read the sky instead and reach for a kite.  Welcome, March Artwork: George William Russell
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Where I Come From
by Elizabeth Brewster People are made of places. They carry with them hints of jungles or mountains, a tropic grace or the cool eyes of sea gazers. Atmosphere of cities how different drops from them, like the smell of smog or the almost-not-smell of tulips in the spring, nature tidily plotted with a guidebook; or the smell of work, glue factories maybe, chromium-plated offices; smell of subways crowded at rush hours. Where I come from, people carry woods in their minds, acres of pine woods; blueberry patches in the burned-out bush; wooden farmhouses, old, in need of paint, with yards where hens and chickens circle about, clucking aimlessly; battered schoolhouses behind which violets grow. Spring and winter are the mind's chief seasons: ice and the breaking of ice. A door in the mind blows open, and there blows a frosty wind from fields of snow. Advent Two You, God, who live next door--
If at times, through the long night, I trouble you with my urgent knocking-- this is why: I hear you breathe so seldom. I know you're all alone in that room. If you should be thirsty, there's no one to get you a glass of water. I wait listening, always. Just give me a sign! I'm right here. As it happens, the wall between ius is very thin. Why couldn't a cry from one of us break it down? It would crumble easily, it would barely make a sound. I,6 by Rainer Maria Rilke translation by Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy Please Describe How You Became a Writer
by Naomi Shihab Nye Possibly I began writing as a refuge from our insulting first grade textbook. Come, Jane, come. Look, Dick, look. Were there ever duller people in the world? You had to tell them to look at things? Why weren’t they looking to begin with? What's in My Journal
by William Stafford Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean Thing, fishhooks, barbs in your hand. But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable. Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous discards. Space for knickknacks, and for Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify. Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind that takes genius. Chasms in character. Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above a new grave. Pages you know exist but you can't find them. Someone's terribly inevitable life story, maybe mine. "What's In My Journal" by William Stafford, from Crossing Unmarked Snow © Harper Collins, 1981. Shake the Dust
Anis Mojgani This is for the fat girls This is for the little brothers This is for the schoolyard wimps and the childhood bullies that tormented them For the former prom queen and for the milk crate ball players For the nighttime cereal eaters And for the retired elderly Walmart store front door greeters Shake the dust This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them For the bus drivers who drive a million broken hymns For the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children For the nighttime schoolers And for the midnight bikers who are trying to fly Shake the dust This is for the two year olds Who cannot be understood because they speak half English and half God Shake the dust For the boys with the beautiful sisters Shake the dust For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy For those gym class wallflowers and the twelve year olds afraid of taking public showers For the kid who is always late to class because he forgets the combination to his locker For the girl who loves somebody else Shake the dust This is for the hard men who want love but know that it won't come For the ones who are forgotten The ones the amendments do not stand up for For the ones who are told speak only when you are spoken to And then are never spoken to Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself Do not let one moment go by that doesn't remind you That your heart, it beats 900 times every single day And that there are enough gallons of blood to make everyone of you oceans Do not settle for letting these waves that settle And for the dust to collect in your veins This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling For the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacation alone For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers' singing lips And for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner's shaking hips For the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived This is for the tired and for the dreamers For those families that want to be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners And songs like Wally and the Beaver This is for the bigots, for the sexists, and for the killers And for the big house pin sentenced cats becoming redeemers And for the springtime that somehow seems to show up right after every single winter This is for everyone of you Make sure that by the time the fisherman returns you are gone Because just like the days I burn at both ends And every time I write, every time I open my eyes I'm cutting out parts of myself simply to hand them over to you So shake the dust And take me with you when you do for none of this has ever been for me All that pushes and pulls And pushes and pulls And pushes and pulls It pushes for you So, grab this world by its clothespins And shake it out again and again And jump on top and take it for a spin And when you hop off shake it again For this is yours, this is yours Make my words worth it Make this not just some poem that I write Not just some poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all Walk into it, breathe it in, let it crash through the halls of your arms Like the millions of years of millions poets Coursing like blood, pumping and pushing Making you live, shaking the dust So when the world knocks at your front door Clutch the knob tightly and open on up And run forward and far into its widespread, greeting arms With your hands outstretched before you Fingertips trembling, though they may be How to Recognize Grace
Marilyn Chandler McEntyre It takes you by surprise It comes in odd packages It sometimes looks like loss Or mistakes It acts like rain Or like a seed It’s both reliable and unpredictable It’s not what you were aiming at Or what you thought you deserved It supplies what you need Not necessarily what you want It grows you up And lets you be a child It reminds you you’re not in control And that not being in control is a form of freedom. “Hurry,” by Marie Howe,
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store and the gas station and the green market and Hurry up honey, I say, hurry, her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down. Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave? To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown? Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her, Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry— you walk ahead of me. You be the mother. And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says, hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands. for Advent Two November
William Cullen Bryant - 1794-1878 Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. In the bleak midwinter
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ. Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day, Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels fall before, The ox and ass and camel which adore. Angels and archangels may have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air; But His mother only, in her maiden bliss, Worshipped the beloved with a kiss. What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart. |
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"Perhaps this is one of the secrets of life--to know 'glory' when we see it."
--Charlotte Mason
Virtual Life?
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.
In Appreciation
Photos chosen are linked to their original posts in most cases because I have found something of value there and hope my readers will likewise find a helpful resource. In the case of miss-attribution or if you desire your work not be linked, please let me know.
Photos chosen are linked to their original posts in most cases because I have found something of value there and hope my readers will likewise find a helpful resource. In the case of miss-attribution or if you desire your work not be linked, please let me know.
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