What We See... A List For Summer

What We See....

 a List for Summer

The wonderful British writer, John Lubbock, once said that “what we see depends mainly on what we look for”.  A brilliant observation and one that, if taken to heart, can ease someone's journey through life by illuminating all that is splendid and good along the way.  It is indeed my experience that if I set out each morning expecting to discover beauty, navigating each bend in the road with my eye out for the delightful, well, that’s generally what I find.  Indeed, these expected surprises are, as is the title of one of Mr. Lubbock’s more well-known works, The Pleasures of Life.  

This particular summer is proving to be a glowing example of this approach to life for it seems that everywhere I turn lately, I am finding serendipitous joy.  The flowers in my garden have never been so lush, the vegetables are growing as though bewitched.  There are bluebirds that dip and dive in front of me as I stroll through each morning making me feel a bit like Snow White.  The normally hot humid summer of the South has ceded control to a much more temperate cousin who is blessing us with breezy, gardenia-scented afternoons perfect for open windows and the occasional nap.  The sunlight slides through the windows like honey.  Even Edward, generally a melancholy critic of summer weather, is blissful. 

So, it is time for a list of summer things.  

Seven small delights that have captured my imagination lately.

  I hope you enjoy them.

As usual, there are links included for your further exploration.  Have fun!

1. Wings

Artist Susan Hannon creates the feathers for these magnificent wing sculptures

 from the pages of old abandoned Bibles.

  They take my breath away.

See more HERE

2. Tents

Confession:  I’m not much of a camper.

  Maybe I’ve never given it a chance,

 or maybe I’m too addicted to hot baths and too leery of bugs.

  But this tent could, just possibly, change my mind. 

Isn’t it amazing?

Find it HERE 

 3. Pillows

Even though these days, I only lazily wade through the shallow end of design, I do still take on a client or two and therefore I occasionally come across incredibly beautiful things - things I cannot resist, things I like to share.  Recently I discovered a new source for perfectly exquisite pillows made from antique rugs and, no, I could not pass them up.  I even picked up a few to make available in my etsy shoppe.  They have wonderful colour, delicious texture and are blessed with a reasonable price point as well.  

Come take a look.

There are only a few available now, but maybe more later.
(Update:... Only two left!)

Find them HERE

4. Goats

In spite of the hurly burly, speedster pace of modern life... or perhaps because of it... a delightful change seems to be taking place.  More and more people, in unexpected corners of unexpected cities, are returning to a handmade life.  More families are cooking and baking.  More people are growing their own food.  Knitting classes are overflowing.  I have several friends who keep their own chickens and, as a grateful recipient of just laid eggs, I can tell you this is a very good thing indeed.

  One of my more irresistible neighbours has just added to her urban farm by four.

  Four miniature goats by the name of Oscar, Otis, Elmer and Gwynnie Dulcinea.

  They arrived looking eerily similar to tiny, hooved puppies and have now grown into the cutest creatures one could possibly imagine and will soon be helping out in the cheese and soap department of the farm.  

I spent an afternoon with them recently and fell utterly in love.  

Sadly, after a talk with Edward and Apple,

 my idea of adding them to our own household was firmly voted down.

But you can read more about getting some of your own HERE.

5. Bracelets

The Victoria and Albert Museum is a must see whenever one is in London. 

 This in inarguable.  

But I’ll let you in on a little secret.  The gift shop there is to die for.

  The jewelry alone is swoon-worthy. 

 This last trip saw me leaving with three new bracelets in my bag. 

 I have a difficult time resisting bracelets.  I love them. 

I love the way they feel on my arm, the noise they make when they bump into each other.  

This is the one I’ve been wearing most this summer.
I found it at Anthropologie and

 no one can believe how inexpensive it was, so I decided to show you all and prove it.  

I’ve got the white one, but the blue or the yellow look equally tempting.

Find it HERE.

6. Paper Criminals

Patty Grazini creates whimsical, achingly imaginative, art out of paper.

Her creativity is inspiring.

The lady shown here is one in her series of New York Criminals,

 featured in the New York Times between the years of 1885 and 1915.  

This happens to be Mary Largo, Queen of the Beggar’s Society who was arrested for graft.  

Fascinating.

I thought you might enjoy this video of Ms. Grazini speaking about her marvelous work...HERE

7. Photographs

Large and unwieldy, it had always sat in my parent’s closet.  

We’d occasionally take it down and look through it, but hadn’t done so in years.

The big box of family photographs was legend in our family and naturally, it was the first thing 

I removed from the house in preparation for the estate sale last month.  

When I finally saw my way clear to go through it all, what treasures I found.

  Ancient pictures, wrinkled and creased, that we managed to restore to original luster

(like the one of my Father and me above).

Old negatives, never before seen, that, through the magic of a scanner, were released from their spell of silence. 

 Unable to once again imprison these back in the box where they’d lain for so many decades, I decided to create a new gallery of sorts in the hallway leading to our bedroom.  We set about finding equally memorable photos from The Songwriter’s family and framed them all.  It’s such a treat for us both to see these lovely faces smiling up at us each day, reminding us, sweetly, of the arc of life.

Surely there are some old photos you’d like to frame for your own gallery.

I encourage you to do so!

That’s all for now, but stay tuned for a Summer Reading List

as well as The Best of London.

So much fun!

The Lure of British Books

The Lure of British Books

Barring one rather over-enthusiastic pat down at Boston’s Logan airport last year, I have never had an incident going through the security line before flying.  I take off my shoes.  I open my laptop. I make certain not to wear any jewelry that will anger the bells and whistles and, usually, everything is fine.  But leaving Heathrow a couple of weeks ago proved a mark on my previously unblemished record.  The problem?  Books.  My suitcase, which I always carry on to avoid those irritating lines at baggage claim, was incredibly heavier than it looked.  The security fellow lifted it up and his expression changed from helpful to suspicious in a twinkling.

“It’s books”, I admitted, feeling unpleasantly conspicuous.
“Really?  A walking book mobile, are you?”, he replied, narrowing his eyes.

  In an instant I was being moved to one side where I watched in abject horror as he opened my case and began the hideous process of going through every item inside. Incredibly relieved that I’d patronized bookshops instead of Agent Provoctateur, I stared as he lifted the contents of my case up in the air, one by one, till he reached the double layer of hardbacks, neatly arranged beneath the pajamas and pashminas.  He looked up in amazement and I swallowed a strong urge to say I told you so.  He opened each book, rifling the pages.  People were staring.  The Songwriter was shaking his head.  An elderly lady standing next to me exploded in outrage on my behalf shouting, “Look at her!  Do you honestly think this is necessary?  Fascism!  That’s what this is!  Fascism!”  I smiled weakly and quickly sidled away from her so as not to make matters worse for myself by association.

But really, what is one to do?  Is there any city in the whole of the world with more enticing bookshops than London?  John Sandoe’s.  Hatchard’s.  Daunt.  Persephone.  Not to mention the literary treasures to be found in every single National Trust Gift Shop and art gallery in the land.  For anyone to expect a reader to leave Heathrow airport after ten days in the UK without books in their suitcase is ludicrous.  Of course, I did have fifteen in there.  But, well... you know.

Here are some of my recent finds.
 Resist them if you can.
(Just click on the photos to see more.)

Plus, from the wonderland known as Persephone Books,
I picked up this one and couldn't say no to this one.
Or this one.
Or this one.  Or this.
Sigh.

Caught in the act in Kent.

Keep Always

Keep Always

It wasn’t until about ten years ago that I realized my parents weren’t going to be around forever.  Oh, I’d been aware of that fact intellectually, of course.  But emotionally?  Practically?  I don’t think I’d given it a great deal of thought on those levels.  But around ten years ago it seemed doctor’s appointments were becoming more of a regular activity for them both and it slowly dawned on me that there was going to be a day, not long off, when I would be presented with decisions and responsibilities unique to the only child, not the least of which was what to do with their large, furniture filled home.

Daddy went first, five years ago. Afterwards, it was clear Mother had no intention of changing anything, or moving anywhere, so when we buried her on New Year’s Eve of last year, the house was as full as ever.  After the funeral, I locked the door with the intention of letting those decisions wait for a good long while.  It had been a difficult year and I thought the luxury of procrastination was one I both needed and deserved.  But each time I visited to check on the house, it seemed to look sadder than the time before and I soon realized this was not something I could put off for too long.  Knowing we were heading on holiday to the UK in May, I wanted to get this emotional chore behind me before we left as I didn’t want it looming up on the horizon as the plane touched down on my return.  The estate sale experts I enlisted told me to just to take the things I wanted and leave the rest to them so the week before leaving town, I tackled the task of gathering together the items that meant the most to me from our family’s house.  

My parents built this house, we are the only ones to ever live here.  My Mother hated change, of any kind, and when they decided to leave our home in the city and build this one further out, she was anxious about it.  So my Father took to sharing his excitement over the building process with me.  Each afternoon I’d wait till he got home from work and together we’d drive the seven or so miles to the site of the new house to check on the progress made that day.  Every nook and cranny was inspected and I could sense Daddy’s pride and joy in watching his new home take shape.  He’d never been much of a gardener before, but soon after we moved in, he became obsessed.  He found he had a knack for garden design and would frequently disappear into the woods behind out house, only to return a few hours later carrying a large poplar or sweet gum seeding over his shoulder.  He’d find the perfect place and proceed to plant these baby trees.  They are towering specimens now.  I would take them with me if I could.

I didn’t go trick or treating in this neighbourhood.  By the time I moved here, I no longer believed in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny.  This was not the house of my childhood.  No, this was the house of my teenage years.  Dates picked me up at this front door. I left for my wedding from here.  The memories are sweet ones and they came flooding back as I walked from room to room trying to decide which items to take and which to leave behind.  Opening one cabinet in the sitting room, I found all the cranberry scented candles my Mother used at Christmas and suddenly I could clearly see her baking fruit cookies on Christmas Eve.  I found my baby clothes.  A lock of my own hair.  Inside a box of old photographs was an envelope with the words, “Keep Always” written across the front in my Mother’s hand.  Inside were the love letters my Father wrote to her before I was born.  He’d made them rhyme.  They are treasures richer than veins of diamonds to me. 

In the end I kept the lamp I was always warned not to knock over every time I ran through the house.  I kept the fine china. I’ll set my Thanksgiving table with it from now on and see their faces sitting there.  I kept the mantle clock that chimed every fifteen minutes of my childhood.  It rings outs from my library now.  In a favourite photograph of my Father and me we are visiting my great aunt at her home in the country and Daddy is sitting in her goose neck rocking chair, with one arm around me, smiling.  The photograph has sat in my bedroom for years.  And now the chair does as well; a continuance, a comfort.

In performing this task I only recently realized would one day be mine,  I discovered it is impossible to predict which items from lives gone will be imbued with memory for those who are left behind.  My Mother’s rolling pin.  My Father’s hats.  Two tiny bells that hung on the Christmas tree.  These are more valuable than paintings or silver.  These are the precious and the prized.  These are the talismans held close as I handed the key over and walked away.

The Tour

On Tour

The Songwriter, brave soul that he is, takes on the duty of driving our rental car whenever we are in Britain.  This is no small feat, I assure you, for as we all know, the British insist upon driving on the left side of the road.  This means that in addition to driving on what we Americans consider to be the “wrong” side of the road, one must adjust to the driver’s side of the car being switched to the passenger side.  This also means the driver is shifting gears with his left hand. To us, any of these situations is disconcerting at best, all of them together can occasionally be a nightmare.  Through the years we have worked out a system of sharing this uncomfortable experience.  While The  Songwriter grips the steering wheel, unblinking, and negotiates the narrow lanes and roundabouts, it is my job to scream “CURB”, or “HEDGE” or “WALL” whenever he occasionally veers too close to the side of the road.  I have also perfected a siren call of “LOOK RIGHT!” upon the approach of any intersection.  I perform these duties very well, without fail, all the while offering encouraging and complimentary comments about his efforts.  (I also frequently dig my fingernails into my seat cushion but have no illusions that this activity either adds or detracts from our motoring successes.)  Happily our system seems to work, for we have had no incidents in our travels, although a morning rush hour foray into the center of Bath once bore a strong resemblance to two unhinged individuals in a clown car, that city being much larger and entirely more populated than we’d counted on.

We endure these little adventures in mobility not because we have a low threshold for excitement, but because we are ill-suited for group activity, a fact that was lit in neon for us on this most recent holiday.   Having been in Sussex and Kent for awhile, we traveled up to London for the latter part of our trip.  Now of course, Mr. Johnson was correct when he uttered those famous words, “When one is tired of London, one is tired of life”.  There is so much to do and see in the old city that one never needs to consider any sort of “side trip”.  But we were seduced by the words, “Lunch in the Cotswolds” and as our adventurous spirits are not capacious enough to encompass the possibility of driving in London proper, we decided to do something we’d never done before.  We decided to take a tour.

So, freshly scrubbed and sharply dressed, we boarded a large tour bus with a large group of other people.  Wedging ourselves into our bright blue velveteen seats, we immediately noticed our knees were now positioned roughly in the vicinity of our chests and a frisson of worry ran up our spines.  Not wanting to point this uncomfortably obvious fact out to each other, The Songwriter made a weak joke about the Magical Mystery Tour while I did the same about Agatha Christie... “Wonder which one of them will commit the murder?”, I giggled feebly.  

It was about this moment that we noticed our tour guide climbing aboard.  A tall man, sporting a straw hat, he looked harmless enough.  Appearances can be deceiving, however, and despite an overwhelming lack of encouragement from his captive audience he began an incessant stream of verbiage consisting primarily of bad jokes, gripes and self-serving stories that increased in obnoxiousness with every bend in the road.  We were not out of London before I decided it was going to be me who committed the upcoming murder, for I wanted to kill this man.  

Staring forward as though drugged, our fellow passengers sat stock still in utter silence as our guide droned on through hill and dale.  The villages we were scheduled to stop in were obviously welcoming of large tour buses which meant nearly every building was dedicated to the tourist trade and chockablock with souvenir shops of every shape and size.  We were allowed to disembark at these places only after being given the precise time we were expected to return along with a stern warning as to what would happen if we were late.  I am afraid it was shortly after the first stop that my rebellious spirit took hold.  As we were expected to follow our straw-hatted Moses through the town like a brood of newly hatched ducklings, I naturally positioned myself at the end of the line in an effort to better enable my escape.  One town saw me heading to the train station at a clip with The Songwriter fast on my heels.

“We can’t just get on a train!”

“Well, why not?  What are they going to do?  Arrest us?

“They’ll wait for us.  We’ll hold up the whole tour! 
 We can’t do that to those other poor people.”

Realizing he was right, knowing I’d been beaten, I limped back to the bus where I endured the praise of our leader for my prompt return.  As I swallowed an urge to laugh maniacally, I silently vowed a return visit to see the Cotswold region properly and slept the rest of the way back to London with my knees tucked up under my chin like a bat.  We both laugh now when we seen the photos of me taken on that day.  The look in my eye escalates from amusement to irritation, from irritation to mutinous animosity at an alarming rate.   

A wasted day?  Not in any sense.  Sometimes it is beneficial to be reminded of something one already knows.  While neither of us is in anyway shy, we both delight in each other’s company and crave the freedom that traveling alone offers. Tour buses are not for us.  We know that now.  Sure, driving presents a few unique challenges.  There are Highland cattle that sleep in the middle of the road on the Isle of Skye.  We frequently get stuck behind a flock of sheep, lazily strolling en masse down a one track road.  And of course, we get lost occasionally.  But that’s all part of the fun. And anyway, how lost can one get in England and Scotland?  One is on an island, after all.

Every Now and Then, the Bluebells Wait for You

Every Now and Then, the Bluebells Wait for You

Like most people of romantic bent, I fell headlong in love with the Merchant Ivory film interpretation of E. M. Forster’s wonderful novel, Howards End, the first time I saw it.  Every frame, whether verdant or urban, enchanted me. Vanessa Redgrave’s long white gown trailing through the evening dew in the opening scene.  The charming rooms of the Schlegel sisters' home in Wickham Place.  Poor Leonard Bast, influenced by George Meredith’s Richard Peverel, walking all night through a Spring carpet of bluebells stretched out on a forest floor, a forest that “drooped glimmeringly”.  As a child of the American South, my Springtime carpets have always been green.  The limes of new moss; the emeralds of clover.  Seeing a shady forest blanketed in blue was something straight out of fairy tale to my mind.  Could it be real? I could not empirically say.  

Though prevalent in an English spring, bluebells are early bloomers and as my plane followed the moon across the Atlantic in the middle of May, I had no hope of seeing them.  They would have already flamed and gone, remaining but one more of those memories of imagination not unlike Scrooge’s door knocker or the celestial pathway to Neverland, just a wonderful snippet that sits in one’s mind and often seems more tangible that fact.  

But my journey by plane, tube, train and car led me to a magical place.  Through a diamond shaped window in my charming bedroom, I could see an Elizabethan tower presiding over a legendary garden, a garden in which the footsteps of literary giants once pressed the grasses and climbed the tower to a room full of books and ideas.  The wind beat the windows as I slept that night, blowing any remnant of the commonplace away like the ashes of a cooled fire.  I awoke to the beckoning call of the garden, dressed quickly and headed out under a sky full of rolling clouds..

All morning long I wandered through rooms of green, along great swathes of yellow and lime.  I entered a walled garden of bridal gown white, emperor tulips nodding in the wind.  I was lost in daydream when, out of the corner of my eye, just beyond the garden wall, I spied a pathway.  Prone as I am to drift apart from the others, to duck under fences and wander away, naturally I followed it.  A grey farm dog ran past me, looking over his shoulder as he went as if to say, 
“This way.  Come this way.”  
The birds sang a lyrical welcome as I went.  Crossing meadows and rounding past ponds, I followed magpies over wooden bridges that lay like cupped hands cross rippling streams.  I strolled past the lambs of a new season and ducked under willows only recently dressed in ball gowns of green till, suddenly, tall trees closed in around me and everywhere, everywhere, I looked was blue.  It was just as I imagined, just as I dreamed.  Bluebells.  In every corner of the forest, waving in the wind a greeting of memory, imaginary and real, ancient and new.  I stood, transfixed, and laughed.

“It’s been a late Spring here”, my innkeeper told me later.  “We thought they’d never bloom.  It’s lucky for you that you came when you did.  Any earlier and I’m afraid you would’ve been disappointed”.

Sometimes the sights we dream of seeing are just outside our reach.  On the banks of a country river, we look round for Ratty and Mole, but find they’ve sailed round the bend just before we arrived.  If indeed Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane exists in a London borough, I have no confidence we’d find Mary Poppins minding the children inside if we knocked on the door, even if the wind was blowing in from the East.  But I’ve found it best not to give up hope, for every now and then the seasons and stories combine and conspire to surprise.  Every now and then, the bluebells wait for you.

I stayed here and it was wonderful!

Explore. Dream. Discover.

Explore.  Dream.  Discover.

In the upcoming days the curtains I pull back at dawn will reveal unfamiliar landscapes. 
 A tall tower standing in the middle of an ivory garden.  

A simple bedroom where the sheets are “stretched tight and the bed is narrow”  

and the lyrical language of its revered inhabitant 

still dips and swirls in the springtime light.

I shall wander through family house in the country

 in which an entire movement of art was born and nurtured.

I shall spend an evening with Peter and Alice, released now as they are from the pages of childhood.  I shall have breakfast with a Provencal princess, one who generously shares the essence of her French life with beauty and wit.  I shall wander London bookshops with a novice novelist.  

And I just might be offered a magic wand.  

This of course, I shall have to decline, for I already have one of my own.

I am off to pick up the stones on a new road,

 releasing new stories and hearing new songs.  

I shall return soon.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor .Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

Mark Twain

Through the Window

Through the Window

Except for one unfortunate and blessedly brief anomaly when I was about eight, I have had long hair all of my life.  Therefore I know the value of the six week trim and follow that schedule religiously.  Upon making my latest appointment, I put the phone back in my pocket and could almost swear I heard my Mother’s voice once again. 

“You’ve made an appointment at the salon”.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to get it styled this time?”

Sigh.

“Styled” was my Mother’s little euphemism - slightly snarky, but ever hopeful - for a haircut that would, finally, yank me from the brink of contumaciousness and plop me solidly down in the clover of risk-free respectability.  Really, who could blame her? When she was young hardly any woman over forty had long hair and, if they did, it usually came with some sort of iconoclastic t’shirt and often without the appropriate ladylike undergarments.  It is laughable to think of any of my schoolteachers with long and frequently windblown hair such as mine is now.  But then, I dare say few of us resemble our schoolteachers these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I know full well that I’m getting, ahem... older.  Everyone is, after all.  But I’m grateful that the oft unspoken, but still ironclad, rules that governed my Mother and her friends have for the most part been jettisoned along with eight-track tapes and girdles.  My sartorial choices have infinitely more to do with personal taste than any sort of age restriction and I never turn down any experience just because I think I’m too old.  Case in point... last week, upon returning to town from our little sabbatical whilst the floors of the cottage were being redone, I found myself barred from the bedroom because the hallway floors were not quite dry.  What to do?  The Songwriter took Edward and Apple out into the back garden to bunk down in the studio but somehow that just didn’t seem all that comfortable to me.  I was tired, I’d been driving for most of the day with two large dogs in the car and I knew my soft, lovely bed was just out of reach.  So, just as I would have done when I was sixteen... I carefully crawled inside the newly budded rose bush, jimmied a window and climbed up, up and in.  Never gave it a second thought.  Never once considered such an activity might be ill-advised till I told several people the next day who, upon hearing of my adventure, laughed just a little too loudly for my liking.  Let them laugh.  I slept soundly in my own bed and climbed out the window next morning fresh as a daisy.

(Of course the really funny aspect of this story happened following a midnight phone call from The Songwriter who informed me that Edward had no intention of sleeping away from me.  So... you guessed it, in a few moments I spied at my window the happy, grinning face of a big white furry dog, framed by pink rose buds, as Edward was hoisted up and into the very same portal I’d tumbled through earlier.  Edward, of course, acted as though this were an everyday occurrence, calmly hopping up on the bed, placing his head across my ankles as usual and falling immediately asleep.  Dogs keep us young as well, you know.) 

In speaking about her new book, Living the Good Long Life, the uber-active lifestyle doyenne, Martha Stewart, tells us that seventy is the new fifty.  Of course, she’s seventy-one, so she would say that, I suppose.  But I do appreciate her attitude and have no doubt she has some wisdom to impart in this latest publishing venture.  For myself, I never really thing about age.  When I do, it’s rather stunning to realize that it’s happening in spite of my long hair and climbing capabilities.  Ah well, I still left the salon yesterday without resorting to any sort of “style” and from her heavenly portal, I have no doubt my Mother was still shaking her head in frustration.

Maybe when I get to be Martha’s age, I’ll just wear it up.

Find it HERE

The Low Country

The Low Country

It isn’t the light, seeping through the tops of the trees like honey,

 gathering in golden puddles here and there amongst the shady pools of the pines.

  It isn’t even the fragrance: the tea olive, the jasmine, the sea.

  No, it is the Sound that transforms this sandy pathway through the maritime forest into a transport to myth, a passage through legend.  Heralding a storm, the wind blows in, threading through the trees in blue-grey ribbons that twist the palms and palmettos into a raspy rattling orchestra, ever increasing in volume, a deafening crescendo of forest music. 
 I close my eyes and turn to meet it face to face as a gift, a blessing.

Strains of ancient melodies are heard as it passes, 

low pitched as murmurs,  lyrical notes of the Gullah and the Owl. 

We do not hear these sounds at home.

 The big white dog, his fur ruffled, stops suddenly,

 one front paw raised as a finger to his lips. 

Hush! 

 There, through the trees, a family of deer, wide-eyed and pure,

 stands frozen in our gaze.

  Eyes meet, chasms breach, then as suddenly as age,

 they disappear into the crowd of gnarled trunks and paper leaves.  

Just under the sand, dazzling green lizards zip away on thoroughfares only they know, 

a glimpse of emerald here, and there.

We do not see these sights at home.

They call this land the Low Country, a region that sits serenely in the palm of the earth’s hand, so close to the shallows of the sea that grasses and salt water intertwine like clasped hands.  Here, ballad and rhyme rise up through the very ground one walks upon.   Mystery becomes fable; fable becomes truth.  Almost without cognition, one senses the fragrance of the air enter the body like an idea.  It winds and flows through the soul - slowing, smoothing - till peace becomes the order of the day.  

 Our walks become longer and longer. 

 We dine on fresh raspberries and cheese.

We know we shall return to the world of tension and technology before too long.  

But not now.  

Not now.

********************************

Edward, Apple and I have just returned from a week long escape while the floors of our cottage were being re-done.  A messy business and one ill-suited to life with two big furry dogs, one of whom is recuperating from knee surgery.  Apple is doing quite well and a hearty thank you to all who have inquired about her.  I took her on prescribed therapeutic walks on sandy pathways three times a day whilst we were gone; Edward, naturally, required much longer ones.  This meant, of course, that yours truly was taking six walks a day and is now in fine fettle herself!  Below is a photo of Apple the day her stitches were removed.  Very happy girl.

What Do We Do?

What Do We Do?

Thursday evening, following a long day of gardening, we decided to forego a home-cooked dinner and head over to our neighbourhood pizza parlor, an establishment whose dress code would graciously welcome our scruffier than usual appearances.  A tempting spinach salad had just been sat down in front of me when something on one of the ubiquitous televisions hanging round the room ensnared my eye.  Looking up I saw the two photographs for the first time.  Two young, very young, men in baseball caps who bore more than a passing resemblance to any one of the college students sprawled in the seats of the dining room in which I now found myself.  The expressions on the faces of these two young men in the video now playing over and over seemed calm, almost bemused, as they walked through the crowd of children and parents, lovers and friends, carrying their homemade instruments of horror as easily as lunch sacks.  

Suddenly, my tasty spinach salad lost its charm.  I let my gaze wander the room, stopping here and there to linger on the innocence of the children, the warm communication of families, the laughter of the young.  And I thought, not for the first time, sadly, what do we do about evil?

Learning more about the two young men who assembled and placed the bombs on the pavements of Boston and destroyed the lives of so many, one discovers lives not unlike those of the people we see everyday.  Their friends are shocked.  Their teachers flabbergasted.  Their uncle is on television wishing he could kneel before all the victims and beg forgiveness for his family.  The more we hear, the more stridently our questions demand to be answered.  How can we make sense of this?  What do we do about evil?

Security is a word oft spoken these days.  Here in the States, we have a governmental department devoted entirely to Homeland Security.  We gladly have our handbags checked, we obediently take off our shoes.  But as anyone who has ever made their way through the throngs at an international airport can tell you, security, though worked for and hoped for, can never be guaranteed.   Indeed, these days it so often seems we reel from tragedy to tragedy like drunken men with nary a clue what to do. Though it seems to me we should have evolved far above and beyond the Wild West days, there are still those who say we would all be safer if we were all armed.  At the other end of the spectrum there are those who simply refuse to go anywhere outside of their comfort zone at all, missing out of so much of what this marvelous world has to offer them.  Either choice is unacceptable to me.  

Throughout this long, heartbreaking week I have felt the pull of despair.  In a world where young men can blithely stroll through a crowd and sit down a bomb beside little children without pause, how is it possible to hold back the darkness?  We look, I suppose, to those who ran not from but towards the bomb’s concussion to help the wounded.  We take heart by our President’s words ... “We also know this — the American people refuse to be terrorized.  Because what the world saw yesterday in the aftermath of the explosions were stories of heroism and kindness, and generosity and love:  Exhausted runners who kept running to the nearest hospital to give blood, and those who stayed to tend to the wounded, some tearing off their own clothes to make tourniquets.  The first responders who ran into the chaos to save lives.  The men and women who are still treating the wounded at some of the best hospitals in the world, and the medical students who hurried to help, saying “When we heard, we all came in.”  The priests who opened their churches and ministered to the hurt and the fearful.  And the good people of Boston who opened their homes to the victims of this attack and those shaken by it.  So if you want to know who we are, what America is, how we respond to evil — that’s it.  Selflessly.  Compassionately.  Unafraid.”

The human heart is not designed to comprehend evil. When we see it rise up before us as we did this week in Boston, in such a malignant, unholy fashion, we recoil, as well we should.  But no credit, no good, can come to us if we stay in that horrible place of fear and disheartenment.  We must look for, and fight for, the good and the beautiful, the joyful, the sweet.  And we must bring those qualities with us into those places where they are hardest to find.  Even in the smallest decisions, we must choose light over darkness.  If we are to have any hope, we must choose love over hate.  Every time.

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always.”  

Mahatma Gandhi

Sainthood?

Sainthood?

When one considers the fraternity of Saints, it is rather astonishing to realize the roles that have been played by animals.  I turn your attention to Saint Jerome.  It took many, many exalted accomplishments for him to achieve his august status.  His voluminous writings included a translation of the Bible and earned him recognition as the patron saint of librarians, a notable distinction indeed.  Still, in paintings, he most often shares the canvas with a lion, for famously, Saint Jerome was said to have helped an injured lion by removing a thorn from its paw.  From then on, perhaps understandably, the lion refused to leave his side.   Paintings and sculptures of Saint Francis invariably include an animal or two, and rightfully so.  He is said to have convinced a wolf not to eat some villagers by successfully negotiating a deal under which the imperiled villagers would feed the starving fellow on a regular basis.  He even preached to the birds.  And they listened.
Dear Saint Brigid was followed everywhere by an adoring cow, 

and Saint Francis of Paola resurrected his pet trout, 

a feat which raises quite a few unrelated questions.

Now, as we were best friends for seven years before we married and have been married long enough to make lying about my age a tricky thing, I can truthfully tell you The Songwriter, though the best person I know, is no saint.  However, after the experiences of the past few weeks, I fear the animals may be conspiring to nominate him.

There was the incident with the wren’s nest which I related here.  (There is also a rather infamous story involving an opossum which I included in From The House of Edward here.)  Then there was the morning last week when, taking a break from a busy afternoon, he ventured down to the mailbox only to be met by an obviously lost, obviously scared, white chihuahua.  Back in he came, for a piece of chicken and Edward’s lead, hoping to entice and capture the little fellow.  No such luck, but he continued to follow the tiny dog up street and down for quite a long time until he managed to locate the much-relieved owner for a very happy ending.

All these incidents pale in comparison, however, to yesterday’s event.

  See if you don’t agree....

The day dawned sunny and crisp, the very definition of Spring.  The Songwriter opened the back door for Edward to venture out on his first morning foray into the garden and had barely closed it behind him before a commotion of theatrical sonorousness reached his ears.  Edward was sounding the alarm from far back under the trees, at vociferous decibels that threatened to waken the dead.  Hurriedly finding his shoes, The Songwriter ran out to investigate.  He found Edward staring up into a walnut tree, a look on his furry face of triumph and horror combined.  Following his gaze, up, up, The Songwriter easily located the problem.  The neighbour’s black cat. In the crook of a limb, impossibly high.  Satisfied that he’d done all he was supposed to, Edward trotted back into the house at my call, leaving The Songwriter to deal with the problem.

It didn’t take long to see that no amount of coaxing was going to convince the cat to budge.
It was obviously glued to the spot by the sheer terror of the altitude.
  Leaving it alone for an hour or two did not work.  He found it just as he’d left it. 
 It was clear other measures were needed.  But what?

Busy with my own chores, I glanced out to see him standing at the base of the walnut tree, clearly befuddled.  Next thing I knew, thumps and rumbles were coming from the hall closet and he soon emerged carrying a voluminous tote bag and a rope.  I didn’t dare ask. A few moments later I peered out a window to see the thirty foot ladder resting against the walnut tree, but again, I simply couldn’t bear to investigate further.

A while later, when The Songwriter was serenely eating his lunch,
 I peeked out once more to see a rope dangling from the limb just below the cat’s perch.
Attached to the rope was the open tote bag.
  The idea was ridiculously clear, ridiculous being the operative word.

Or, so I thought.

An hour later, I passed the window again and peeked out.  

The cat was gone.

I went to tell The Songwriter who calmly strolled outside.  

He made his way back to the base of the tree,

 took hold of the dangling rope

 and proceeded to slowly lower the tote bag. 

 Surely not, I thought.

  But about nine feet from the ground, up out of the bag popped the sleek black head of the cat.  It looked around in an amazement that matched my own.  The bag sat down gently on the ground.  The cat jumped out.  With a tip of its hat to The Songwriter, it sailed over the fence to safety.

Sainthood?  Probably not.

But prize-worthy, one must admit.

**************************

Thanks so much for all the sweet inquiries about Apple and her knee.

I am happy to report she is doing very well.  The pain from the surgery has subsided, she’s moving much easier now and is back to her usual happy, optimistic self.  She will be wearing her injury collar for one more week when the stitches are scheduled to be removed, but she doesn’t mind that so much.  We chose to use an inflatable collar instead of the dreaded plastic one.  I highly recommend it if you have an injured dog.  You can find one here.  All in all, the surgery could not have gone better and we can clearly see she will be her old self in a few months.  But, NO jumping till then!

xo

Painting above:

Saint Jerome and the Lion by P.J. Crook