Not So Wordless/Not So Wednesday

Evening Love Song for Y'all

~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fn3EEh1YLms

Happy Valentines Day !

Now touch the air softly,

Step gently; one, two...

I’ll love you till roses

Are robin’s-egg blue;

I’ll love you till gravel

Is eaten for bread,

And lemons are orange,

And lavender is red.

Now touch the air softly,

Swing gently the broom.

I’ll love you till windows

Are all of a room;

And the table is laid,

And the table is bare,

And the ceiling reposes

On bottomless air.

I’ll love you till Heaven

Rips the stars from his coat,

And the Moon rows away in

A glass-bottomed boat;

And Orion steps down

Like a diver below,

And Earth is ablaze,

And Ocean aglow.

So touch the air softly,

And swing the broom high.

We will dust the gray mountains,

And sweep the blue sky;

And I’ll love you as long

As the furrow the plow,

As However is Ever,

And Ever is Now….

~ Peter Mayer

Into the Lincoln Tunnel

The bus rolled into the Lincoln Tunnel,

and I was whispering a prayer

that it not be today, not today, please

no shenanigans, no blasts, no terrors,

just please the rocking, slightly nauseating

gray ride, stop and start, chug-a

in the dim fellowship of smaller cars,

bumper lights flickering hello and warning.

Yes, please smile upon these good

people who want to enter the city and work.

Because work is good, actually, and life is good,

despite everything, and I don't mean to sound

spoiled, but please don't think I don't know

how grateful I should be

for what I do have —

I wonder whom I'm praying to.

Maybe Honest Abe himself,

craggy and splendid in his tall chair,

better than God to a kid;

Lincoln whose birthday I shared,

in whom I took secret pride: born, thus I was,

to be truthful, and love freedom.

Now with a silent collective sigh

steaming out into the broken winter sun,

up the ramp to greet buildings, blue brick

and brown stone and steel, candy-corn pylons

and curving guardrails massively bolted and men

in hard hats leaning on resting machines

with paper cups of coffee —

a cup of coffee,

a modest thing to ask

Abe for,

dark, bitter, fresh

as an ordinary morning.

by Deborah Garrison

from The Second Child

[photo of photo; unknown source]

Wordless Wednesday

~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltEkBFZkdCw&feature=related

Attention to Detail

I think it was probably a week or so ago now that a colleague told me that handwriting has been taken out of the curriculum. When it sunk in, slowly, I began to feel more and more personally rejected by the world. The sense was growing in my chest that I wanted to cry. I called a mutual friend and left her a voice mail message, taking things to an extreme (as I usually do), I pronounced that all further communication between us would be carried on via smoke signal. Interesting that when this genteel form of communication was announced as dead, I went even more primitive.

I thought of the letters. Not letters of the alphabet, but the letters I have written in my lifetime. The letters that have gone from my hand or come to my hand. I thought of my grandmother's tiny, perfect words, and how in the long parade to the grave of people I have loved... how when they are gone, I have found scraps of their handwriting and held them dear. Tangible evidence of relationship; limited time only. I have loved, even, the fact that I could identify any scrap of paper found in all the homes or rooms I have packed up and cleaned out.

It, at the very least, felt like there is another parade going on. The parade away from my experience, my values, my treasures. Makes you want to put both your arms out in front of you and yell "STOP!!!" at oncoming traffic. Then plead, 'just wait a minute!" And finally beg "slow down...before you throw the baby out with the bathwater for the love of all things holy, consider...."

Consider what? That handwriting teaches patience. That handwriting teaches attention to detail. That handwriting is evidence of the human. No more pens? Well, for me, you might as well be saying "no more paintbrushes." Okay , fine, I'll call my friend up again. This time I will say "from now on... fingerpaints!" Again, you may note, I have gone primitive.

I start the mental leap-frogging: Primitive. Cave painting. Well, it's all the same to me. Take handwriting away and it feels like you should empty the museums and burn all the books, for nothing now could ever come to any good. It's all sacred, I think to myself, this house of cards. Take hold of one, grasp and pull, and watch it all crumble. I close my eyes, give a quick "what are ya gonna do?" nod to the universe and soldier on, but if I ever have anything to do with it.... If anyone ever asks me, I will say it has its place. And its place is in our hands.

~

[Neolithic cave paintings found in Tassil-n-Ajjer

(Plateau of the Chasms) region of the Sahara]

~

http://www.boston.com/news/education/k_12/articles/2009/01/19/cursive_foiled_again/

One Thousand Things...

I have a lot to do. I pace and reward myself with some lush segments of time to read small chunks of a book that arrived yesterday. God bless the mailman. God bless books. Quietly this line came into my consciousness as the author describes the same line coming into her own: " ...a friend's dashed-off digital line blinks up on my screen. ...She dares me... Could I write a list of a thousand things I love?"

Could you?

So Simple and So Small...

A few days ago , on my way to the grocery store, I took my camera and stuck it, facing skyward, amidst the branches of a tree that leans towards my car on the side of the driveway. I cannot find my boots and with a yard plus of snow, there's not much I can aim my camera at. So, I aimed UP. Partial to blue and snow and evergreens, my wanderlust was temporarily appeased. This morning the road was a sheet of ice. I called in sick because I really was. Approximately five hours after I usually leave for work, it was also five degrees warmer and the rain had melted enough of the ice that I could crawl my way to a main road and go see the doctor. As I reached for the car door handle, though, an unusual twittering and chattering of birds brought my attention to this tree again. Lived here most of my years. I have been turning my head toward the sound of birds for as long as I can remember. I have never, however, found what I found deep in these boughs today. Chickadees. Chickadees! HERE!!! ... in a tree slated for removal due to its extreme lean towards where I park my car. And, of course, I did not have my camera with me. And, of course, when I returned from the doctor they were nowhere to be found. But they were there. Today's gift.

~

Look at the Chickadee

I take my lesson from the chickadee
who in the storm
receives a special fire to keep him warm,
who in the dearth of a December day
can make the seed of a dead weed his stay,
so simple and so small,
and yet the hardiest hunter of them all.
The world is winter now and I who go
loving no venture half so much as snow,
in this white blinding desert have been sent
a most concise and charming argument.
...

I have this brief audacious word to say:
look at the chickadee,
that small perennial singer of the earth,
who makes the week of a December day
the pivot of his mirth.

~Jessica Powers