"Ah. That's how it is."

 I'd heard of Breaking Bread with the Dead by Alan Jacobs, and then someone returned a copy to the library today - I took it.

"I want to argue that you can't understand the place and time you're in by immersion; the opposite's true. You have to step out and away and back and forward, and you have to do it regularly. Then you come back to the here and now, and say: Ah. That's how it is."

The subtitle is: A Reader's Guide to a More Tranquil Mind. I am also reading Hard Times, and a biography of James Madison, so it seems I'm on the right track.

back again

 I really like blogging, but I was sick. I had very little inclination to be taking pictures. And now I'm out of the habit. 

So, what's new around here. My brother pulled up the plants in the big garden, and then it poured. I started washing the windows; this is wonderful, because they never got done in the spring. 

I started listening to the Close Reads podcast because they're reading A Gentleman in Moscow, and while it looks interesting, I don't think I'll get to it. But I can listen to their conversation, anyway.  

We have a new furry person in the family. I hope Annie will get used to her. Her name is Daisy, and she appeared outside my bosses house a couple of weeks ago, a kitten about four months old. Nobody claimed her, no chip. We thought Annie needed a friend, but it was tense at first. Things are better now. She is awfully sweet, a light-colored tabby. Annie looks like a big horse next to her, except horses don't growl. But it is better, and Annie seems to be going back to her previous routine. I want cats who love each other. We'll see.

small fruits

 "When we are tempted to abandon our discipleship

    because we fear our virtues are too small to serve you,

                                                        - grant us the humility to recognize
                                                        that small fruits also feed the hungry."

                                                                      - from Magnificat, September 2022

The emphasis is mine, because it struck me so.

plowing

 "Only where the plough of God has tilled our lives can sowing bear fruit. An enduring deepening of the interior life can be brought about only through the plowing of repentance. Therefore our main task is to work for that spiritual revolution and re-evaluation which leads to metanoia - the fundamental transformation of mind and heart."

                                                                - Eberhard Arnold,   from Plough magazine, Autumn 2022

September things

 Oh, this morning - the golden light, the stillness. And the insects, whatever they are, always bzzzing in that background way that you almost don't notice, except that they weren't doing it earlier in the summer. Which means it's late summer. I don't think I mind it; I am tired of hot days and too much humidity.

A bunch of blackbirds came through afterword - they can't be getting ready to go back to wherever, can they? 

Three of my co-workers yesterday presented me with a heartfelt card and statuette of an angel holding a cat. I was fine until this episode, and then got teary-eyed. How kind. 

I've been thinking of Dolly in some sort of eternity, and hoping she's met Dave Brubeck by now. And Paul Desmond. I happened upon this old post which illustrates Dolly's appreciation for jazz, if you can stand it.

a prayer before Labor Day

 "For our nation on Labor Day tomorrow: that we might grow in sanctity by offering our daily tasks to the Lord, and that all who are unemployed would soon find meaningful work."

- from Magnificat, September, 2022

waiting for the glory

 I planted morning glory seeds late, I don't recall when, but maybe in June. I didn't want to think it was too late to be starting seeds, so I just did it. So, it's in a small pot on the back step and is twining around the rail, as you can see. It hasn't had a bloom yet. Why might this be? Because I didn't start it at the proper time? Because it knows it should be in a larger pot, or in the ground by now? I have fertilized it a few times. My plan was to wait for the blooms, then transplant it - well, there are two of them - over to the bridge, to twine around the railings there. I wonder what's the matter. 

After Dolly died, I felt I really should sew something, make something. In other words, occupy my mind with figuring out something. Here's a dress I like, but it's an old pattern and nobody seems to be selling it. However, I do have a dress pattern with a very similar bodice, so I'm going to have a look at it and see what can be done - the version I like is on the far right. I will have to turn my pattern from a crossover style to a one-piece bodice front, and raise the v-neck a little. It's been a while since doing anything like this, but it's not hard. 

Lord of all kindliness, Lord of all grace,

Your hands swift to welcome,

Your arms to embrace,

Be there at our homing, and give us, we pray,

Your love in our hearts, Lord,

at the eve of the day.

 

an exceptional cat

 DOLLY

April 22, 2003  -  August 24, 2022

Memory Eternal, little Queen of Our Hearts

water

 We had rain today. The real thing, and not for just two minutes. 

the family as the root of democracy

 In an article by Madeleine Kearns in National Review magazine, she quote Archbishop Fulton Sheen on the different stages of a man and woman during their marriage:

"First is the 'body-mystery' of the marital act; second, in the arrival of the first child, a husband and wife 'see in each other' something they 'never before knew existed', motherhood and fatherhood; third, once children reach the age of reason, is the mystery of 'fathercraft' and 'mothercraft'; fourth is an appreciation of 'their contribution to the well-being of the nation.' And 'here, too, is the root of democracy,' he added. 'For it is in the family that a person is valued not for what he is worth, nor for what he can do, but primarily for what he is.'   (emphasis mine)

the blue hour

 I read something about the blue hour. Then, tonight while doing the dishes, it arrived. 

I'm not sure these are anything special, or bluish.

But I enjoyed going out with the camera at that hour.

The little asters were closing up for the night! They sprang up in a clump outside the garden fence; I would never know they go to sleep like that if I'd stayed inside with the dishes.

passing away

Dolly isn't feeling so well these days, with a UTI and poor appetite. We're much occupied in trying to help her out - to feel more comfortable, at least. I read her this poem. I'm sure it was more for my own sake than for hers. 

Passing Away, Saith the World

Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
Chances, beauty and youth, sapp'd day by day:
Thy life never continueth in one stay.
Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey
That hath won neither laurel nor bay?*
I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:
Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
On my bosom for aye.
Then I answer'd: Yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:
With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,
Hearken what the past doth witness and say:
Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,
A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.
At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day
Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:
Watch thou and pray.
Then I answer'd: Yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
Winter passeth after the long delay:
New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.
Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray.
Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,
My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
Then I answer'd: Yea.

-  Christina Rossetti 

* I would say that our Dolly has won many laurels in this household and in our hearts, so this line does not apply to her. ;-)

two kinds of splendor

 We have a lot of these.

Today was the feast of the Assumption of Mary. At Mass on this occasion the priest will bless the fruits of your garden, whatever they might be. I wanted to put some things in a basket to bring, but waking up with a headache really got in the way. My brother threw a few vegetables in a bag and that was ours, in the midst of the attractive baskets at the altar. Oh, well. 

I finished Gatsby. I had no idea how Shakespearean of a tragedy it was, but I can see why it's considered the Great American Novel. Then I went on Prime and watched half of the DiCaprio version; I will say he did very well with Gatsby, but the whole production seemed so over the top - I don't need to watch the whole thing, I know what happens. When the Robert Redford/Mia Farrow Gatsby came out I didn't go to see it but I went to Cape Cod with a co-worker for a weekend. I have a definite memory of a walk we took and how we came upon an evening cocktail party. It was dusk and we could hear the clink of glasses and murmur of voices. The area was upscale - a nearby house had a built-in swimming pool, in a room by itself, lit-up, just before dark - this was 1974. The whole vibe I got was an elegant 1920s one, or what I imagined it to be. 

Through the power of his Resurrection, Christ has adorned Mary with the robe of his own grandeur and majesty, and arrayed her with glory and splendor. These garments of salvation are the revelation and crown of the holiness with which she lived her life on earth.

-  from Magnificat, August 2022

bananas and tomatoes

 We are still in a very hot spell; there is an official heat advisory until tomorrow night - it started Thursday morning! It was originally for a couple of days but they keep extending it until the next day, and they did it again yesterday. Wednesday is supposed to be better. Meanwhile, the foil pan of water I've been putting out is not being used by anybody in any way I can tell. The apple slices were gone the first time, and my brother said the water was dirty, but the second night, only one slice was gone. Saturday night I tried slices of radish, but nobody touched it. It was windy yesterday evening, and the tin blew off under the apple tree and the water was put out. It's breezy today, so I'll skip it. I wonder where all the ground creatures get their water around here.

Yesterday while making dinner, Annie came onto the table, hoping for some food; she'd already had lunch, so I ignored her. After a while I heard her chewing - she does tend to chew on odd things - and I could see squirts of tomato seeds and juice on the tablecloth. She had eaten one of the small tomatoes on the tray!  She wasn't tempted to try another, but she seemed none the worse for it, and she didn't run away in disgust. It reminded me of the time Henry accidentally ate a blueberry. He never wanted another.

The Orphan may have a sensitive system. A story, and this has happened twice: While I was eating a banana, she came up to me, so I held it out so she could sniff. She backed away after a whiff of it, and then actually gagged. I mean, in that exaggerated way that a comic actor might employ to get the point across - picture it in your mind. No bananas for Annie!

pleasant streets in the dusk of childhood

 So I'm reading Gatsby, and I've never read Fitzgerald before. His prose is interesting in its spare, aloof matter-of-fact style. I was thinking almost too detached, but then

"For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened - then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk." 

Really. ...with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.  This evokes such impressions from childhood. I still feel like he's coolly telling the tale from a safe and unemotional distance, but that simile did impress me. He's not remote enough to lose a sense of poetry. 

all gone

 And the apple slices were gone this morning!

keeping fireflies alive

 I am still reading the Gladys Taber; it was the February chapter and she was talking about the bird bath water which had thawed. I suddenly remembered how stagnant the brook's water is, how dry and hot it is now. I went out and dragged the bird bath from the shed. 

It's kind of in a spot by itself, but it was level there and we've got no tree to put it under anymore. I don't want it in the front yard - it wouldn't look good, so it's out in the sun. I also put a tin foil dish with water on the bridge, for the ground creatures. Tonight I added some apple slices to the water - it looked untouched, but maybe a night animal will find it. I hope. A racoon, or opossum. A skunk, maybe. I'll check it in the morning. It seems to take them a while to realize the water is there.

I'm very excited to have this book about fireflies. I had the sudden idea that if I loved them so much, maybe there was a readable, but not too childish or too technical book, and this is the ticket! I've also got The Psychology of Totalitarianism by Mattias Desmet (you've either heard of him or you haven't) and Klara and the Sun, which is with an online discussion with Joy Clarkson - her annual summer selection. It's not anything I'd ever pick up, but I'm starting to get an interest. 

Yesterday someone returned a copy of The Great Gatsby, and I decided to take it. 

I tried to photograph it on the windowsill, and Annie kept passing back and forth - I gave up trying to do it well. 

Too many books at once, I think. 

wonder and possibility

 "In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert's there are few."*

                                                - from Silent Sparks: The Wondrous World of Fireflies, by Sara Lewis

*Shunryu Suzuki

in the bag(s)

 It was time to shred some zucchini - I did sixteen cups!

Well, it was the food processor who did it.

All in little two cup bags in the freezer.

a reminder

 "Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus."

                                           - Philippians 4:6-7

Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer,
That calls me from a world of care
And bids me at my Father's throne
Make all my wants and wishes known!

In seasons of distress and grief
My soul has often found relief,
And oft escaped the tempter's snare
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer.

- William W. Walford, from Magnificat, July 2022

dog, not cat days

 My intention in blogging is to say something at least on my days off, but here I am after almost two weeks absent. It seems that every now and then I get immersed in something and blogging just falls by the wayside. 

It's very hot here; there's a heat advisory in effect until tomorrow night at eight, but there is air conditioning. Noisy as ours is, I appreciate it and am sorry for what our British friends went through recently, without much in the way of air conditioning. It will still be hot after eight tomorrow, so I'm not sure how they figure it. These are the dog days of summer. I did a google search for the cat days of summer, but I didn't find anything. 

We found ourselves frequently noticing that the rabbits seemed content to feed on the clover, or whatever it is, in our lawn, but now we've seen a rabbit bolt out of the garden twice. Time will have to tell what they're up to in there. 

We're doing a lot of watering - the side garden, the larger back garden. There are things in pots and assorted containers near the driveway, and then the young trees. My brother tells me he's ordered another tree, a kousa dogwood. I really didn't want one; I'm not sure if I like them. There are several in town and they're so messy-looking. But it's really because no one shapes them properly. They end up like a scraggly bush but they can be made to look like a tree. So we've got a white crabapple, an ornamental cherry, a linden and a purple-leafed plum tree. And the assorted box, and holly. Lots of water needed in this dry season. 

It's one month since Dolly's diagnosis. I look at her and wonder if the cancer is spreading to other organs inside. Outwardly, she doesn't appear any worse. I remember Dr. P. said the average time is 347 days. So that would be minus 30 at this point, if she follows the average. One day at a time. 

A young woman came to the library to get her card updated. I noticed her address - she lives on my street. I don't even know my neighbors! Well, they don't know me, either. It's a modern disease. Meanwhile I read my Gladys Taber book, and feel nostalgia for a community where they all interact meaningfully. 

July magic

 I finished washing the dishes rather late - it was almost dark. Almost, but you could still see shapes of trees and other things. And fireflies were twinkling across the brook. In past years I've watched them out my north window, flashing along the forsythia hedge where the catbirds sleep. Or a little farther off, in front of a big clump of tall things growing there forever, whatever they are. Big weeds. They show up well in front of dark bushes. But this summer they seem to mostly appear out my east window, in the back yard across the brook. This evening I followed them.

The twinkling! It's indescribable. Either you've seen it a thousand times (which means you need to read some fairy tales before it's too late for you), or it doesn't matter how often you see it - magic is still magic. It's always new. 

"borrowed" from the internet

with Thee one

 We sang this hymn at Mass today and it came to me that if an explanation of the goal of the Christian life was wanted, this would do it.

Be Thou My Vision

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

getting back to sewing

 I'm working on a summery blouse - Butterick 6455. The fabric is a soft, light yellow gauze type, with a stripe design. I bought it on a whim, and wondered for a few years what on earth to do with it. But it seems well suited to a peasant style top. I am making view A, with the ruffle on the sleeves and the hem. 

Wouldn't you know, when I cut out the sleeves, I mis-cut one of them, so I'll have to find a way to adjust. I do this kind of thing often. But I hope it will look well in the end.

soothing

 It was still pretty light out at five to nine. I was about to close a kitchen window, but pushed up the screen instead and stuck my face out into the cool air; it was so pleasant. And I saw a firefly across the brook, visible in the not-quite-dark. I suppose they must fly around during the day. Or do they know their movements take on an enchantment after dark, and save their efforts for the night? 

I am happy to indulge my fancies after a day of struggling over a migraine. After three ineffectual doses of Exedrin, I tried garlic capsules, which I've found helpful for sinus issues. Now I'm almost giddy with relief. 

I bought this hanging plant two months ago. Is it possible the blooms that were on it then, are the ones still on it today? Because I tell you, I have had no blossoms on the front steps, nothing dried up on the plant I have to pick off. I just realized this the other day. A bloom can't last that long, can it? I must be dreaming. But this is an amazing plant, and look how full it is. I only water it. I have no idea what it is. The one I had last summer was also very pretty, but I had to remove the spent flowers; that's to be expected. 

I am back with Gladys Taber for a while, one of her Cape Cod books. It's very soothing to read her. And I picked up a Frances Mayes, about bringing a Tuscan decorating style to your American home. She's also very soothing to read. And I am finally trying the Fairacre series by Miss Read. I've got Miss Clare Remembers. It's very nice, and deeper than I expected. Not as light as the Thrush Green stories. 

All very pleasant to read when one has headaches and sinus problems.

Independence Day

 I came upon a copy of the Declaration of Independence at the thrift store. I bought it, of course! 

My brother said it hasn't got proper margins; the real one's are properly sized. He's been to Washington. I'm okay with this: it's good enough for me. The frame is nice.

It has the right signatures.

our dearest girl

 Last week Dolly's doctor told us she has a tumor on her bladder, most likely cancerous. He gave her a pain med, which is frankly doing wonders - she seems very comfortable with it. But she might not last more than a year.

So she's not immortal, after all.    I'm sure I thought she was.

a refreshing interchange

 A young woman came in the library the other day - she was maybe, junior high age. She asked my help in finding some books she wanted. One of them was in graphic novel form, and there was no one else around, so I asked her if she really liked graphic novels; I said I thought they were - honestly, I forget the word. But they don't appeal to me. She said she did like them, and thought because she's grown up with them, and I hadn't, that was maybe why. A refreshing girl! Then she said graphic novels were like "the candy of literature", and regular novels were the meat. Ah! I was relieved to hear that she understood the superiority of a full novel but could still enjoy other things. I would never disparage anything a child was longing to read - you don't want to discourage anybody, so normally I keep my thoughts to myself, but there was that something about her which led me to comment. She knew what she liked, and why.

La casa aperta

 I picked up a copy of Bringing Tuscany Home, by Frances Mayes; I don't know if I've read it before - I may have - but it feels new. She's talking about how having the openness of summer life in Cortona influenced the way she lived in her San Francisco home: 

 " A wasp zooms through my study window... A bird flies in one window of my study and out the other. A bee zooms in, drinks from the faucet, and flies out. During lavender season, yellow, orange, blue and white butterflies drift through the bedroom and light on my black shirt drying on a chair. 

 La casa aperta - the open house -  rain blows in the open windows, a visiting cat peers in the living room door...  People come and go as naturally as the butterflies that drift by the mirrors. ..

.Our Cardinali neighbors bring pickled eggplant, dried mushrooms, fruit cordials, and grappa. Chiara comes home...and surprises us with a pensiero, a thoughtful little gift of a shell necklace and straw shopping bag. Beppe brings eggs, still with tiny feathers stuck to them. Lucio leaves yellow squash on the steps, Giusi arrives with cenci, Giorgio brings wild boar. Malva, a fellow Californian drops off apricot jam and home-baked bread."

                                                  -  Frances Mayes

And then I picked up Still Cove Journal, by Gladys Taber, which I just began yesterday:

"In our town, when the geese go over, neighbors call up or drop in. I am used to having friends come in the door and dash for the binoculars without stopping to speak to me. For two days a loon perched on a last sliver of ice (the month of April in Cape Cod), flexing his wing muscles and preening, obviously getting ready for courtship. Neighbors came just to see him."

                                                   - Gladys Taber

La casa aperta, in New England as well as in Italy. It's heartwarming.

healing like a fresh stream

 The other day, after barely overcoming a migraine, I cast around for a book to dive into and there was Island Magic by Elizabeth Goudge. Her first novel, it was better than I expected it to be. 

"they taught us everything there - geometry and algebra and literature and history and -

Soeur Monique interrupted with another snort. They may have taught you but they did not educate you, she said. The function of the educator, she declaimed, is to discover in each individual child the gifts implanted in her by Almighty God and to develop and dedicate them to His service.

Then it doesn't matter if one isn't clever? she [Jacqueline] asked. 

Matter? No, of course not. Why should it? God needs you as He made you and not as He didn't make you. His purposes require us all to be differently gifted. An appalling thing it would be if we were all clever, there'd be no one left with the intelligence to boil an egg or look up a train in a time table.

All this was entirely new to Jacqueline and its healing ran like a fresh stream to all the parched sore places inside her."

                                                      - from Island Magic, by Elizabeth Goudge

"St. Francis was not a lover of nature"

 I'm enjoying this book by Chesterton, about Saint Francis.

"St. Francis was not a lover of nature....The phrase implies accepting the material universe as a vague environment, a sort of sentimental pantheism. In the romantic period of literature, in the age of Byron and Scott, it was easy enough to imagine that a hermit in the ruins of a chapel (preferably by moonlight) might find peace and a mild pleasure in the harmony of solemn forests and silent stars, while he pondered over some scroll or illuminated volume, about the liturgical nature of which the author was a little vague. In short, the hermit might love nature as a background. Now for St. Francis nothing was ever in the background. We might say that his mind had no background, except perhaps that divine darkness out of which the divine love had called up every coloured creature one by one. 

In a word, we talk about a man who cannot see the wood for the trees. St, Francis was a man who did not want to see the wood for the trees. He wanted to see each tree as a separate and almost a sacred thing, being a child of God and therefore a brother or sister of man. But he did not want to stand against a piece of stage scenery used merely as a background..."

                                                                  -   Saint Francis of Assisi, by G.K. Chesterton