“When your son asks you in time to come, ‘What is the meaning of the
testimonies and the statutes and the rules that the Lord our God has
commanded you?’ then you shall say to your son, ‘We were Pharaoh's
slaves in Egypt. And the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty
hand. And the Lord showed signs and wonders, great and grievous, against
Egypt and against Pharaoh and all his household, before our eyes. And
he brought us out from there, that he might bring us in and give us the
land that he swore to give to our fathers. And the Lord commanded us to
do all these statutes, to fear the Lord our God, for our good always, that he might preserve us alive, as we are this day. And it will be righteousness for us, if we are careful to do all this commandment before the Lord our God, as he has commanded us.’
[Deuteronomy 6:20-25]
Monday, February 20, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
postcard beauty
[Augustus Saint-Gaudens (1848-1907)
Adams Memorial, modeled 1886-1891]
I have this sculpture on a postcard, and it's so beautiful I can't bear to send it to anyone.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
point me at the sea
[Tired Pony, "Point Me at Lost Islands"]
This song reminds me that I'm in Alaska. It's an arctic song.
This song reminds me that I'm in Alaska. It's an arctic song.
Sunday, January 08, 2012
blame it on the satellite that beams me home
[Gillian Welch covering Radiohead, "Black Star"]
blame it on a black star
blame it on the falling sky
blame it on the satellite that beams me home
blame it on a black star
blame it on the falling sky
blame it on the satellite that beams me home
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Lydia's Threads
Monday, December 12, 2011
when your heart is hemorrhaging
"You have to have no answers and also be in joy. You have to be ready to dance when your heart is hemorrhaging; and you have to be ready to sing a dirge when things -- for ONCE! -- are going okay for you, and every last one of your friends is in crisis. To hold the tension between the light and the darkness; pain and joy; life that we love so much and the fact that we all must die is the intersection of the cross."
[Heather King, "Spirituality: 'We played the flute for you, and you did not dance...."]
[Heather King, "Spirituality: 'We played the flute for you, and you did not dance...."]
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large, with an intent to make order, matters.
Every year we call it down upon ourselves,
the chaos of the day before the occasion,
the morning before the meal. Outdoors,
the men cut wood, fueling appetite
in the gray air, as Nana, Arlene, Mary,
Robin—whatever women we amount to—
turn loose from their wrappers the raw,
unmade ingredients. A flour sack leaks,
potatoes wobble down counter tops
tracking dirt like kids, blue hubbard erupts
into shards and sticky pulp when it's whacked
with the big knife, cranberries leap away
rather than be halved. And the bird, poor
blue thing—only we see it in its dead skin—
gives up for good the long, obscene neck, the gizzard,
the liver quivering in my hand, the heart.
So what? What of it? Besides the laughter,
I mean, or the steam that shades the windows
so that the youngest sons must come inside
to see how the smells look. Besides
the piled wood closing over the porch windows,
the pipes the men fill, the beers
they crack, waiting in front of the game.
Any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large,
with an intent to make order, matters. That's what.
A whole day has passed between the first apple
cored for pie, and the last glass polished
and set down. This is a feast we know how to make,
a Day of Feast, a day of thanksgiving
for all we have and all we are and whatever
we've learned to do with it: Dear God, we thank you
for your gifts in this kitchen, the fire,
the food, the wine. That we are together here.
Bless the world that swirls outside these windows—
a room full of gifts seeming raw and disordered,
a great room in which the stoves are cold,
the food scattered, the children locked forever
outside dark windows. Dear God, grant
to the makers and keepers power to save it all.
["Thanksgiving" by Linda McCarriston]
[Hat Tip: The Writer's Almanac]
the chaos of the day before the occasion,
the morning before the meal. Outdoors,
the men cut wood, fueling appetite
in the gray air, as Nana, Arlene, Mary,
Robin—whatever women we amount to—
turn loose from their wrappers the raw,
unmade ingredients. A flour sack leaks,
potatoes wobble down counter tops
tracking dirt like kids, blue hubbard erupts
into shards and sticky pulp when it's whacked
with the big knife, cranberries leap away
rather than be halved. And the bird, poor
blue thing—only we see it in its dead skin—
gives up for good the long, obscene neck, the gizzard,
the liver quivering in my hand, the heart.
So what? What of it? Besides the laughter,
I mean, or the steam that shades the windows
so that the youngest sons must come inside
to see how the smells look. Besides
the piled wood closing over the porch windows,
the pipes the men fill, the beers
they crack, waiting in front of the game.
Any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large,
with an intent to make order, matters. That's what.
A whole day has passed between the first apple
cored for pie, and the last glass polished
and set down. This is a feast we know how to make,
a Day of Feast, a day of thanksgiving
for all we have and all we are and whatever
we've learned to do with it: Dear God, we thank you
for your gifts in this kitchen, the fire,
the food, the wine. That we are together here.
Bless the world that swirls outside these windows—
a room full of gifts seeming raw and disordered,
a great room in which the stoves are cold,
the food scattered, the children locked forever
outside dark windows. Dear God, grant
to the makers and keepers power to save it all.
["Thanksgiving" by Linda McCarriston]
[Hat Tip: The Writer's Almanac]
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints (Ps. 116:15)
Nanny being baptized at the age of 98.
On the day of her baptism, Nanny wouldn't let us get up from our seats to let her sit down, so she sat down on the steps. She always put others before herself.
Nanny playing with my kitten a few years ago. Nanny herself had a poodle named Tom and a Havanese dog named Harvey.
Me, Carrie, and Nanny in January.
I will miss Nanny so much. She is an amazing person, and she is more alive now than ever.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
beyond my wants, beyond my fears
Shepherd me, O God,
beyond my wants
beyond my fears
from death into life.
beyond my wants
beyond my fears
from death into life.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
danch with me
I nanny for a family. The other day the two-year-old and I were listening to this song, and then he looked up at me and said, "Danch with me."
So we danced to this in the kitchen.
So we danced to this in the kitchen.
Sunday, November 06, 2011
tired of things that break
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
- e. e. cummings
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
- e. e. cummings
Sunday, October 23, 2011
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