“My little dog—a heartbeat at my feet.”
– Edith Wharton
Happy All American Pet Photo Day, Dennis ❤
Month: July 2022
Dog day rhythms
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
—John Lubbock
haiku story poem
dog days of summer
triple-digit heat index
white haze cloaks the air
one can drown in it
too hot for lying in grass
even in the shade
lethargic rhythms
settle on all living things
except for insects
unrepentant sun
shimmers on dragonfly wings
iridescent darts
buzzing cicadas
in feverish frenzy sing
of love high in trees
remaining unseen
falling silent before storms
darkening the skies
as lightning’s forked tongue
snakes from the heavens to earth
(thunder, they told me
when I was a child,
is just the angels bowling;
that’s their pins, crashing)
—the heat breaks at last
like evening revival
saving weary souls
murmuring water
seeps into my dreams
ephemeral streams
summer’s lullaby
syncopated rain-fingers
tapping windowpanes
no sleep is so deep
as that borne by rhythms of
dogs days descending
summer rain. annalisa ceolin. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
*******
with thanks to Ruth Ayres for the inspirational quote at SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog
A tree for a tree
This week I read that you can tell how long it’s been since a field has been reclaimed by forest. If the forest has a lot of pines, maybe twenty years. If there are more hardwoods than pines, maybe forty years.
We own a tiny of patch woods behind our house. Beyond that is a field (not ours). Once upon a time, this was all field, and long before that, all forest.
I cannot recall what these trees looked like when our house was new, twenty years ago. I can see we have quite a few hardwoods now in our tiny bit of forest.
This week one of our pines toppled in a wind gust preceding a thunderstorm. The trunk’s resting partly on the fence (which is holding up, surprisingly). On the other side, the treetop is a shattered, mangled mess. My plant identifier app tells me it’s a loblolly pine with Crown Gall caused by bacterial infection. It must have been slowly starving for water or nutrients. The extent of its brokenness there on the grass makes me wonder how much the tree suffered and if others of its species tried to help or not (trees do this for one another).
At any rate, it’s gone. A fat sand-colored dove lands on the fence to survey the damage also. Maybe it is simply paying respects.
There is nothing I can do. The fallen tree will have to be cleaned up. I imagine the confusion of rabbits, the next time they come out to nibble clover and find this mess. I turn to go back to the house, whereupon I discover a curiously bright and fresh plant quite to itself where the pinestraw ends and grass begins.
Sweetgum. A baby hardwood. Encroaching toward the middle of the yard.
I look at back at the grown sweetgums waving their starry leaves from among the cedars and pines. I imagine the mother tossing her seeds as far she could (not very far, only a few feet; maybe birds or animals helped but the wind apparently didn’t, not much).
Still. Cannot help thinking about that reading I’ve just been doing…as in, this cheery neon-green baby being a strategic move in the decades-long hardwood takeover and that sick pine, an occupational casualty.
I wonder what the trees tell one another, what old secrets live deep in the understory.
I wonder what the dove knows, and the wind, as it blows.
Something of belonging and primeval balance, surely.
There comes a time…
when the baby finches
on my front door wreath
have flown
and I no longer hear
the cheerful cheeping
and chattering
that particular
morningsong
is gone
although an entire
avian choir
assembles in the trees
before dawn
each day
singing the darkness
away
there comes a time
when I know
the twice-used nest
is too destroyed
and the old wreath
with faded magnolias
is battered
past all hope
there comes a time
when I must take it down
from my seasonal
bird sanctuary
to ceremonially
throw it away
as I did today
thinking about
all the life
that came into being
on this circle
of grapevine
hanging from
a single nail
but I do not grieve
I imagine
dozens of finches
alive in the trees
surrounding
I imagine
they’re a big part
of the dawn choristers
sounding
and I know,
I know
a pair of them
will return
when I put up
a new wreath
next spring
there comes a time
when I finally
clean the porch
where I can sit again
and bask
in my tiny part
of sustaining
fragile feathery life
in this world
and celebrate
being able
to open
my front door
once more
After several springs, the magnolia wreath is no more
but I have a fresh clean door
and this wreath celebrating summer
Be still: Spiritual Journey
with thanks to Chris Margocs for the “Be still” invitation and to Margaret Simon for the “Presence” offering on behalf of our Spiritual Journey writer’s group on this first Thursday in July
Back in March of 2020, four days into COVID-19 lockdown, I wrote a post entitled Be still. It was based on Psalm 46:10, a verse with special significance to me since I was about thirteen, when a youth group leader gave me a little decorative plaque bearing the first line: Be still and know that I am God. The plaque hung on the wall of my bedroom throughout my tumultuous teenage years until I married and left home at twenty. I had no inkling, then, that my young husband would go into the ministry two years later or that we would eventually have two sons, the older of whom would become a pastor and the younger, a music minister and worship leader.
Throughout the decades I’ve received numerous gifts which have borne those words: Be still and know that I am God. The verse keeps returning to me. A few weeks ago my Sunday School co-teacher brought a handful of cards printed with Bible verses, held them out to the class facedown, and had each of us draw one. I drew Psalm 46:10. Be still and know that I am God.
I could write a lot about those eight words, having to do with trusting God in times of trouble and God’s unfailing faithfulness. Overcoming fear and despair. Carving out time away from the demands, vitriol, and horrors of the world. Finding peace in the rhythms of nature surrounding my home in the countryside (I have written a lot about that, actually).
But those eight words are only the opening line.
“Be still and know that I am God.
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth!”
—Psalm 46:10 (ESV)
The verse is a call to be in awe of the power of God, to be a people who carry forth the message of godly peace to the world, by which wars will cease (v. 9), and by which God will be exalted. It is a declarative, definitive statement. On the part of God: It shall be. On the part of humanity: Be awed.
Awe has been my guiding word for the past two years. It is likely to remain so as long as I live. In the context of inherent awe and Psalm 46:10, words of the song “Above All” by Michael J. Smith come to mind:
Above all powers, above all kings
Above all nature and all created things
Above all wisdom and all the ways of man
You were here before the world began
Above all kingdoms, above all thrones
Above all wonders the world has ever known
Above all wealth and treasures of the Earth
There’s no way to measure what You’re worth…
Be still and know…God is above all.
My theologian son is studying the work of Eugene Peterson (1932-2018), minister, author, poet, and Professor of Spiritual Theology, Regent College, Vancouver. We have recently been discussing The Message: The Bible in Contemporary Language, Peterson’s idiomatic paraphrase of Scriptures, apparently written out of frustration with people not reading their Bibles.
Here’s Peterson’s paraphrase of Psalm 46:10:
“Step out of the traffic! Take a long,
loving look at me, your High God,
above politics, above everything.”
I cannot think of a more timely message.
I return now to the original Be still post I wrote on March 17, 2020, during the early days of the pandemic. We thought school would be closed for two weeks. We had no idea of all that lay ahead. Extended isolation. Loss. Rampant fear. Exacerbated discord. Death, violence, rage, destruction. War. Rising inflation.
Consider the verses immediately preceding Psalm 46:10, from the ESV translation:
The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. The Lord of Hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah (6-7).
And then we are told Be still and know that I am God.
Who is above all.
I thought about linking Smith’s song here. Psalm 46 is, after all, a hymn.
I am linking another song instead, one of my longtime favorites for its plaintive beauty and quiet, meditative message—a little rest stop for the soul on the arduous spiritual journey through life in this world that God, incomprehensibly, still loves.
Be still my soul
the Lord is on your side…
Blessings of stillness, rest, and awe to you all.
Purity
a tanka
Photo: Egret by Kim Douillard
Lone snowy egret
by moonstone sea genuflects
in pious homage.
Opalescent baptism
on the wings of no regret.
*******
Thanks to Margaret Simon who shared Kim’s breathtaking photo for “This Photo Wants to Be a Poem” at Reflections on the Teche.
I love symbolism and am awed by certain images that come to mind during composition:
Egrets, snow, opals, and baptism all symbolize purity. So does the sea; it cleanses itself.
Egrets and moonstone are linked to balance. The colors on the water in this photo brought moonstone and opals to mind—they are gems of light-play. Note the posture of that bird.
Egrets also symbolize piety. They prefer solitude.
Summer evening
Sweeping summer storm
erases the sky
Evening draws
her pink silken bed curtains
with a sigh
View from my front porch last night, after the storm
Car trouble
It is deafening, the sound.
I turn to my husband: “What’s the matter with the car?”
He’s driving. He looks perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“That droning sound. It’s so loud.”
“Oh, that. It’s just the road.”
This is a man who once worked at a major auto parts store. Granted, he took the job because he needed one if we were going to get married, long, LONG ago, when he was twenty-three and I was just turning twenty…he jokes that all he knew about cars at the time is you put gas in them.
Ahem. How much has he learned since?
“It’s NOT just the road! My car doesn’t make this noise on this road! We’re not on a steel drawbridge or anything.” (Anyone who’s ever driven across a metal draw on a bridge will know what I mean. It’s a loud, hollow, wiggly sound, directly related to the sensation in one’s stomach).
This droning sound changes with acceleration and deceleration.
“I think it’s your tires.”
Eventually he checks his tires, after I say the noise is so unnerving that I won’t ride with him anywhere else until he does. I am imagining blowouts, being stranded on the roadside, swerving in traffic when anything could happen… although I looked at the tires myself and thought they had okay-looking treads (confession: I am clearly not a car-ish kinda person, either).
He gets four nice new tires.
I happily climb into the passenger side to ride with him to… I forget, actually…when:
drrrrooooOOOOOOOONNNNnne
“IT’S STILL MAKING THAT SOUND!” I exclaim (shout? holler?).
“Well, it’s not AS loud,” he says, driving right along.
“YES IT IS! Something’s not right. This sounds like go-carts I rode as a kid. Only louder.”
He then informs me his friend tells him it may be a hole in the muffler.
He still does not seem to be concerned about driving this car.
I do not understand it.
At all.
And by the way, the tire-changing establishment told him, when they loaded him up with the four nice new tires, that he needed some brake work also.
I am getting suspicious.
He gets the brake work done and mentions to the establishment that he (and in particular, his wife) still hears the droning sound.
The establishment says: It’s probably something in your transmission. We don’t do that kind of work. You will have to take it to a full-service auto repair.
But they fix up his brakes quite nicely, graciously throwing in a couple of coupons, which is akin to throwing a cup of water on a raging bonfire… moving on, however…
Of course the droning continues. I ride with my husband to the grocery store. This is when we encounter two beautiful, fly-masked horses trotting along the backroads, completely unattended, but that is another story. I’ve begun to feel like imagery of potential harm and disaster is practically screaming at me with every turn. We manage to get home (apparently the horses did, too, as we would have heard otherwise from friends…in the countryside, news travels fast, especially if it’s bad).
I look up all the possible things that could be making the droning sound.
One of them is bad wheel bearings.
“Did the tire-brake people ever say anything about your wheel bearings?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, they checked ’em. Said they were fine.”
Something is definitely NOT fine…and it better NOT be a bearing.
Today my husband takes the car to a full-service repair, local, privately-owned, folks who’ve been in the area forever. Reputable and reliable.
A few hours later, a call: It’s a bearing….
Alrighty then.
As soon as the bearing is repaired and we are allowed to get that car, I will be riding with my husband straight to the former tire-and-brake establishment to have, shall we say, a discussion.
And I better NOT hear the tiniest hint of droning along the way…
Car Trouble. Jan Tik.CC BY 2.0
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with thanks to the Two Writing Teachers community for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge. Life is full of challenges, is it not. The writing challenge, at least, is a welcome one…
Freedom
Freedom is
a curious thing
trailing feathers
of eagles’ wings
mightier than
any earthly king
who may forget
she stands to bring
from her holy nature
a healing wellspring
to human hearts
if only they cling
to wisdom, to peace
—of these, let us sing
in a state of unity
let Freedom ring.
*******
I photographed the Statue of Freedom in March 2018. She stands in the Capitol Visitor Center’s Emancipation Hall. This plaster version was the model for the bronze one atop the Capitol dome. Like a mythological warrior queen, she wears a helmet, bearing stars and the head of an eagle. While the eagle’s power and fierce majesty have led governments, empires, and regimes throughout history to adopt it as a symbol, it’s those long eagle feathers that captivate me. To Native Americans, they represent sacredness and healing. Think on that symbolism awhile.
As an American on this Independence Day, freedom to heal, not harm, is my prayer.
Bliss
a dachshund haiku
sunny patch on rug
bone bone bone bone bone bone bone
leave me to my bliss
Dennis in his bliss
lit bits and pieces 