Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
“I’m not really interested”, was my reply each time a friend encouraged me to read one. Finally The Songwriter, who had already succumbed to Harry’s considerable charms, brought home the first book, put it into my hands and said, “Sit down. Read. Just the first chapter. I know without a doubt you’ll love it and who knows you better than I do?”.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
It was the lyrical sound of the wren that awoke him. From her spot in the deep end of the birdbath, lost in her sunrise ablutions, she could not resist a song. Her notes flooded the air like the scent of a rose - a high summer carol that seeped right through the window glass and into the big white dog’s dream of snow. It took him a moment to know where he was. Grudgingly, he opened his eyes to see the sun had once again risen before him. Already it beamed wide awake into the quiet room, scintillas of colour agleam in its rays. Already it warmed his nose. So insistent and determined, this sun of July, to lay heavy on the air and trap him inside the cool house.
Oh how he longer to re-enter his dream..... Snow, beautiful snow, drifting down on his white fur - so much falling that it was difficult to tell where he ended and a snowdrift began.
He shook his fur and snowmen appeared all around him with top hatted heads and orange carrot noses.
They followed along as he trotted unleashed through the neighborhood streets, a button-eyed battalion of cold.
He could see his breath on the air as he ran.
The trees of December shone from each house, painting the snow covered gardens with flowers of light.
And there wasn’t a cat or a squirrel to be seen.
Then drifting in from far off in the distance, he thought he heard music. Carolers? Angels? He couldn’t tell which. Stopping for a second, he cocked his head to listen, the sound growing louder with each frosted breath. Slowly, reluctantly, he began to follow the song of the wren, icy snow melting beneath his paws as he went, till, with a sigh of regret, he found himself, not racing through the bracing air of a December afternoon with a merry band of snowmen following along, but half-asleep in the sultry light of a hot July dawn.
He sighed again.
Hearing the lady stir, the big dog rose and went to her side of the bed. Leaning over, she patted his head reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Edward”, she said. “Summer is brief, you know. Just a season, then it’s gone. Even now, though you can’t tell it, the days are getting shorter and the nights just a little bit longer. It’s only about eight weeks till we’ll feel that sweet change in the wind. Besides, there’s eggs and cheese for breakfast, and honeydew for lunch, and naps all day in your favourite chair. Things could always be worse.”
The big white dog smiled.
Gosh, she could always make him feel better.
Eight weeks is not so very long after all.
Maybe his afternoon nap will once again bring snow.
And honeydew melon for lunch!
He was more than ready to meet the day.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
I rather think they represent the ultimate question for mankind.
Which will it be?
Nature or grace?
When Tree of Life was shown at Cannes in May, some in the audience jeered.
The film went on to win the Palme d’Or, the highest prize of the festival.
Obviously it is a universal question.