Upon Stars

All through the dusty, deckle-cut pages of time, the stars have fascinated those who wander over the earth. Man stares at them in wonderment, pondering his own insignificance. Stars light the great stag’s pathway, are reflected in the eyes of the snowy owl - they kindly acknowledge the wishes of children. Whether shooting or falling or hanging suspended up far, far above us in a sky of dark velvet, they are effortless and unknowable, belonging to the beautiful realm of grand mystery. But theirs is a circumspect beauty; they do not impose themselves where man has declared them irrelevant, rarely competing with the false glow of his cities. I found this out for myself one cold, still night on a hillside in England.

Having flown all the long night before, locked inside the musty air of a plane, we were bone tired, with muddled brains and eyes that were stinging from the lack of sleep. The bed we were snuggled inside ranked at the tiptop on our list of pure comfort - a fat, old four-poster, draped to perfection, it was a sublime confection of linen, feathers and down and we were sleeping the deep sleep of the grateful.
But, the moon woke me up.
Draping his light across my face like a grin, he obviously had a sight his wished to share, so insistent was he that I rise to greet him. How could I possibly refuse? Sliding out from my cocoon, padding across the patterned floor, I climbed up in the old window seat, wrenched open the casement window, and popped my sleepy head out into the chilly night air. In doing so, I entered a fairy-land I had supposed existed only within books.
Stars. Upon stars. Upon stars.
The midnight blue sky was totally covered in stars, as if the snowflakes had decided to defy the age old commandments of gravity itself and had defiantly blanketed the firmament. I held my breath, wondering if this indeed was but a dream. My soul, I could see the Milky Way! Crawling back inside momentarily, I whispered to The Songwriter to join me at the window, but he understandably muttered something about being more comfortable than he had ever been in his entire life and slipped back inside the soft arms of sleep. But, I remained at the window for ages and my imagination continues to happily feast upon that magical image, drawing the most delicious nourishment from the sight. I suppose it will do so forever.

It is a thing that my friends in the country know well, but I realized that night just but a taste of what man has obscured with his cities. As I sit in my garden and gaze up at the dark autumn sky, I now know what remains hidden, what wonder lies out there just beyond the artificial light of man.
It makes me smile.

Costumes

Edward refuses to wear a costume on Halloween. He has witnessed, what he feels to be, the appalling menagerie that prances down his street once a year on the last night of October - that traveling band of his own kind, canines of every shape and stripe, dressed in the most ridiculous getups he could ever imagine. A spaniel Darth Vader, a beagle Harry Potter, a poodle masquerading as pink fairy princess. What could their people be thinking? He sees them, he shakes his furry head, he sighs. His dignity is so manifest I would never dream of asking him to participate and really, I think I understand his feelings. No doubt his thoughts are akin to my own when I happen to spy some poor chap dressed as the Statue of Liberty in front of a tax office in April. Human stature slips a rung.

Costumes are tricky. If you have ever found yourself clad an ensemble that caused you to feel dreadfully out of place - a walking oxymoron of sorts - then you will know what I mean. I well remember the one time I was seduced by a jacket in the Anthropologie store. I generally shop there for unusual bits of kitchenware, perhaps a bar of soap that smells like mimosa, or a candlestick the colour of dawn. But I give the clothes a wide berth, knowing they are meant for others. So perhaps I had a fever that day, or maybe my inner compass momentarily slid from its moorings, but I spotted a colourfully embroidered jacket and I was intrigued. I decided to try it on. Once in the dressing room I held the garment out in front of me trying to decipher exactly who it reminded me of. (I now think it was Heidi, but that name didn’t come to me then. It should have.) I slipped on the jacket with my back to the mirror, turning around to assess my reflection. I stood there, shocked into silence. And then I began to laugh. Long and hard. The kind of laughter that can make your eyes water. Imagine if you will, spotting Jackie Onassis in a drill team uniform, or perhaps The Queen in a pair of skinny jeans. I looked that silly, in an article of clothing so unlike myself I seemed to be in costume.

So yes, I know how Edward feels, and once again, he shall not be participating in the Halloween festivities like some of his counterparts, no matter how cute I happen to think they are. He will however, be assisting me with my duties at the front door - handing out candy and homemade cupcakes, making everyone welcome - tasks much more suited to both his noble temperament and exalted station.
I applaud him for remaining true blue to his well-honed sense of self.



Painting above by Thierry Poncelet

Sincerely, L. Cohen

Stars waltz beneath my feet and twinkle in an enchanted sky as I sit inside the Moorish cathedral of song. Owl-feather clouds float lazily above. With my hand to my heart I listen as the fedora clad prophet tosses peerless gemstones out into the crowd, lyrical words that brush past our faces like angel wings, words at once enigmatic and revelatory, blessed with a wizardry that can bare the innermost workings of the soul. With a kindly air, he gazes out over the sea of faces gathered at his feet, as if bemused at the power of his own thoughts. We are entranced. And when the warm spotlight hits him - hat cocked to one side, time weathered and wise - as he stands alone on the wooden stage of history beneath that enchanted sky, we feel the recipients of a rare and most wondrous gift.
His like shall not pass this way again.

“Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”


Leonard Cohen is currently on tour after a long absence.
If he visits your town, take it from me, he is not to be missed.
This was the third time I have seen him. He does not disappoint.

Sightings

Her image cannot be captured on the glossy surface of a photograph. It will only appear as a pale, shifting shadow and within the blink of an eye, all the blacks and blue greys simply slide off the paper and float away on the air. Some intrepid souls have enjoyed a modicum of success with a sketch, hiding within dark thickets of pine with their thumbs pricking, charcoal poised over tablet, squinting in the mist, waiting....waiting..... but the majority only find themselves so stunned at her sighting that they are unable to breathe, let alone to attempt a rendering of her countenance upon paper. Abhorring crowds, she will only appear to the solitary witness, therefore making the paltry accounts of her presence unsupported and suspect, and altering that witness till the end of his days. Mercurial and wayward, she is thought to show herself only in the last two weeks of October, sailing along through a chilled moonlit night, but as mentioned, few have owned the certain type of bravery required to wait all alone for her appearance as she soars past, high above, on the mane of the wind.
The sound of her laughter, high-pitched and hair-raising, has been said to raise from the dead those bent on mischief and mayhem in the cities of men, and her visage, admittedly extreme, has long been thought malevolent, but who can say for certain. Her antipathy for canines is well documented, but she does seem to be charmed by the felines amongst us, making them comfortable in her uncharted stone castle, hidden deep inside the thunderclouds.
The time is nigh for her sightings to occur.
Watch for her if you must, but far better I think, to sit by the fire and read of her exploits, words written by others no longer able to write, their thoughts forever doomed to wander one lone memory of a cold autumn night.

Gratitude

It is difficult to imagine a more sublime collection of hours than the twenty-four that constitute a Saturday in autumn. I wait for them all week, all year - and they never disappoint.
Those maple-syrup mornings, when we throw open the windows to a crisp and cheerful greeting from the wind. Those pumpkin-orange afternoons spent planting red chrysanthemums and purple cabbages, pink pansies and lemon thyme, while the dogs chase each other through the garden, surprised once again by October. Those warm and cozy nights when the only place on earth I want to be is in my kitchen, stirring a cauldron of homemade soup, peeking in on an oven full of rising bread, with Edward and Apple dozing on the floor.

On these delicious Saturday evenings I am always joined by the sounds of A Prairie Home Companion on National Public Radio. A long time staple in our house, Prairie Home Companion is a wonderfully entertaining two hour variety show created and hosted by writer, Garrison Keillor. The show is funny and smart, with marvelous stories and eclectic music - everything from Jean Redpath to Randy Newman, Emmylou Harris to Yo-Yo Ma. We love it. I am convinced if Edward met Mr. Keillor, he would know him instantly, so well acquainted is he with the man’s voice.

The Songwriter and I were fortunate to talk with Mr. Keillor ourselves the other evening after he spoke at a local college here in town. A charming man, affable and witty, with just a soupcon of crankiness - just as I knew he would be. I was especially struck by the words he spoke on the subject of gratitude. In response to a question from the audience about God, he replied that the only way he knew to live, and the only way he knew to relate to God, was in gratitude. I sighed a happy sigh of recognition, for I so agree. Indeed, I have long felt that if we spent our hours feeling thankful for the gifts we’ve been given, gifts that are never more evident than in the month of October, what contentment we would find.
Glowing stars in a velvet sky.... a blue-green Cinderella pumpkin resting solemnly under the leaves of a foxglove.... a perfect Honeycrisp apple.... a dog’s cold nose and smiling face.... drifting off to sleep under goose down while an autumn rain peppers the fallen leaves outside.
Once you begin to notice, the simple beauty, the grand mystery, that lies just waiting to be found in the natural world this time of year is endless. So much to be grateful for. I was warmed to the bones to hear Mr. Keillor express the importance of gratitude so clearly. He is a wise man. And his radio show makes the best autumnal Saturday even better.

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

Welcome Morning

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

~ Anne Sexton ~

Window Shopping

A most unwelcome fact came crashing into my consciousness on a sunny afternoon last week. Engrossed in my twice yearly chore of packing away my summer garments and replacing them with winter ones, I was happily rediscovering pieces I had forgotten over the past six months and modeling them all for Edward, who seemed to be having a grand old time in his role as audience. All of a sudden, somewhere between a black cashmere sweater and a green tartan jacket, it hit me. I had enough. There was not one single article of clothing I needed. I was completely, totally, without question, sartorially well-suited for any endeavour. From a luncheon with a bearded duke in a ivy- covered gazebo, to an afternoon spent mucking out a stable. A trip to the zoo in the rain or an cold afternoon walk to the library. A matinee, a dinner date, a business meeting or a carnival. Christmas shopping in London, a snowy wedding in Maine, a hike in Glencoe in the most frigid of weather.
I was well prepared for anything.
Now, this thought certainly should have pleased me no end. But to be painfully honest, I was just a bit disappointed. After all, shopping for winter clothes and all their associated accoutrements is one of the more enjoyable of shopping excursions for me. But, like so many thinking people in this particular season, I am attempting to follow the time-honoured philosophy of “make do and mend”, so welcoming more garments into my already crowded closet is not high on my list of priorities. I shall be window shopping instead.


But.... if I were to be on the hunt for new clothes just now, here is a bit of what catches my eye.....



I would love to step out in some of the beautiful choices offered up by Sonia Rykiel for fall....

And I adore this particular
shade of red at Ferragamo....

Or, perhaps these delicious outfits in winter white
by Ralph Lauren.....

.... this coat by Alexander McQueen would have to come home with me...

And this Prada boot would be a must....
Ah, well.
I must confess that I did succumb to this one lone pair of shoes.
I know. It was a moment of weakness.
But in my defense, they were on sale!

The Help

Growing up the South is not for the faint of heart. An enigmatic place at the best of times, it is paradoxical to its core. Finding your way through the varied switchbacks and roundabouts than make up the overgrown maze of its personality can be a bewildering experience, and one that often takes a lifetime, at least. Just when you think you have it solidly in your sights, it slips around a corner leaving only the faint fragrance of a fading magnolia hanging in the muggy air. At the very moment you feel confident with its definition, it can, without warning, fashion itself into a creature of myth, sending you back to huddle over your history books and crystal balls, once again in search of the truth about this place you call home. It is a land where heart-stopping beauty and heart-rending ugliness flourish in tandem - a land of kindness and hate, of ignorance and wit, of integrity, blindness, and pride.

Here in the South we often feel we are the only ones remotely qualified to comment on our strange and haunted part of the planet. Be it on film, stage or between the covers of a book, we can spot a fake Southern accent in an flash, finding it rather more humorous than offensive. For how can those who were not raised with this mystery ever hope to interpret it with an authentic voice? Indeed, those who have gotten it right, who have held the bright prism up high, reflecting the myriad of colours - all the primaries and secondaries, the darks, the lights, the shaded greys - that paint the true picture of the South, well, those few were mostly born here. They know of what they speak. Harper Lee nailed it to the wall with To Kill A Mockingbird, and there have been others. Faulkner, Capote, Welty, O’Connor, Clyde Edgerton, Pat Conroy, all writers who knew their homeland well and managed to share some of her secrets with the outside world.

I have recently finished reading a brand-new book that I am so pleased to add to my shelf of Southern writers. This author has accomplished the task of rolling back the stones and illuminating the hidden South most admirably. The author is Kathryn Stockett, and the book is entitled, The Help. Mississippi born and raised, Ms. Stockett has indeed written what she knows and her truth shines with a glowing light on every page of this marvelous first novel. Literate and heart-felt, it is warm and funny, painful and tragic, a story in which wisdom burns in the midst of ignorance, courage walks hand in hand with fear.
Much like the South itself.

We have come so far here in this part of the country, with miles, no doubt, to go. The shame of our past can never be erased, or even understood, but we cannot move forward if that past goes unacknowledged. The Help reminds us not only of where we have been and how far we have come, but also how very much we all share, how much we are alike. It is an amazing achievement, populated with unforgettable characters, and it was a pure pleasure to read.



Painting above: The Magnolia Flower by Martin Johnson Heade

The Light in the Window

There is a lamp in my window that is kept on most of the time. A wonderful antique that I found one dreary afternoon in one of those eccentric old shops that decorators just seem to always know about; tucked away on a crooked street and crammed cheek to jowl with treasure. Drawn in a straight line to this lamp like the proverbial moth to flame, I fell immediately, completely, in love. Unfortunately, not only was it wearing the dreaded “Hold” tag around its exquisite marble base, but the name upon that tag belonged to of one of the most famous decorators in the city. But no matter. It could have been Aladdin’s own, for I was undaunted - and did I mention I was in love? - so I squared my shoulders and approached the proprietor flashing was I sincerely hoped was a smile of convincing charm. Shifting his weight from one wingtip-clad foot to the other, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand, the poor man was the picture of discomfort.
But, as I said at the beginning....there is a lamp in my window.

Whenever I return home, from long journey or mere errand, pulling up my drive, I see it standing sentry, its lovely golden glow washing out over the little fir trees in the windowbox - a silent greeting of the warmest kind.
It plays an important role in the stage I endeavour to set each time I leave my house. In preparation for a comforting welcome home, the beds are always made, the dishes put away, rugs are vacuumed, soft music left playing. When the Songwriter returns from a trip out of town, there is usually something delicious sitting atop the kitchen counter, candles are burning and that marvelous lamp is always aglow.

Home provides us with such comfort, be it cottage or castle. It is our sanctuary - our cozy nest in winter, our cool oasis from the heat of the summer. Like a beloved member of the family, it keeps our secrets close, knows our sorrows, is witness to our joys. We care for it and it, in turn, cares for us. Like that light in the window, it welcomes us back each time we leave.
But of course, the most extravagant welcome always comes from Edward!

October

Ever so carefully, he works his paw in around the edge of the old wooden door and, ever so slowly, pulls it open. With a long, low creak, it moves aside to reveal the midnight landscape. The big white dog peers out with no small amount of trepidation. He sniffs the air, looks up to see an ebony shadow pass over the low-hanging moon. The owls are out tonight. He listens. Yes, he hears them now, calling to each other out there in the mist in that ethereal language he cannot understand, ancient words that make him shiver. They are celebrating tonight, he knows, for this is the dawn of their favourite month.
For in just a few moments it will be October.
The big dog has heard the stories. Of ghosts that drift through the woods, barely seen - of witches on broomsticks in a sky with no stars. He has heard of the voices that ride on the gust of a wind, conveying their warnings with a shriek or a sigh. Of spectres that wait behind oak trees in shadow, singing strange songs in a minor key, reaching out bony fingers to touch his fur as he passes by.
Vigorously, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts, white fur dancing in the moonlit night. He should not let his mind run away with him. After all, he thinks, he has never actually seen a ghost, and October is really quite nice in his house.
There are always delicious smells that come from the kitchen, he loves to nap there when the lady is cooking. The windows are always open, letting in lots of cool fresh air...perfect for his naps. There are fires in the fireplace at night and he just loves fires in the fireplace; he can nap on the lady’s feet as she knits. There is always music playing, always laughter, always long afternoon walks in the brisk windy weather followed by extra long afternoon naps in his favourite red chair. Always hugs. And more naps. Yes it’s true, he loves October.
There is nothing whatsoever to fear.
He cocks his head. Was that the owl again?
In a flash, the big white dog disappears back inside.

A Lovely Dream

There are nights when my dreams become crowded. A fairly extravagant dreamer in quiet times, when I am under too much stress, or a bit overworked, my dreams can resemble a painting by Breugel, one in which all his tiny characters not only have dramatic back stories but a multitude of voices with which to share them. Clamouring to be heard, they chatter away in a myriad of accents, each story as imperative as the next, a rowdy, chaotic cacophony. They scurry and scatter, up trees and down avenues, working, cleaning, cooking, running, walking - never sleeping.
I wake up exhausted.
On the other hand, when my days are placid and my mind is calm, my dreams are a serene reflection. They are airier, breezier, more like a Monet. I lazily float on a glassy pond with my fingers brushing past water lilies. I drift like a rose petal along a sweetly scented garden pathway. I wander Westminster in a soft London rain.
I wake up refreshed.
I used to have a recurring dream. It was during a period of time when I was extremely busy, working with several clients at once, all in addition to a variety of other extracurricular activities, time-eaters all. In this dream I was dozing in a bower bed draped with white flowers. Warm zephyrs gently blew the curtains and sounds of the sea could be heard through the open windows. In another part of the house I heard a knock on the door. The door was then answered by director, Steven Spielberg. Outside there was a line of people stretching down the drive and off into the distance; clients, friends, family, neighbors....as far as the eye could see, all wishing to speak with me. Mr. Spielberg (who for some reason was wearing a heather grey fisherman’s sweater) simply said to them all, “I am very sorry, but Mrs. Terry is seeing no one at present.”. Then he closed the door.
Ah, now that was a lovely dream.

Following Lucy

I realize it would be understandable to accuse me of prejudice, but Edward is a most intelligent dog. When he is dozing by my chair, he never fails to snap to attention when an animal comes on the television. (Grizzly bears seem to be his favourites.) When we watch the Westminster Dog Show he sits right in front of the screen like a child from the fifties watching the Lone Ranger in his footy pajamas. I am convinced that he knows when the UPS man is coming to the house long before the man even knows himself. And if I point at something, he looks where I point. Now that one is a rare talent for a dog - try it, you’ll see what I mean. I do have to admit however, that as an only child who grew up with very close dog companions all my life, I tend to credit them most highly in pretty much every area...intelligence, kindness, wisdom.
But to be fair, this has only once caused me any problem.
Only once.....

Years ago, the Songwriter and I were staying at a lovely little inn in a particularly bucolic setting. Tucked away high in the mountains, far removed from the hoi polloi, this was a charming place with verdant mountain trails singing out for exploration. The inn had, as all good inns do, a resident dog. A large, elderly girl named Lucy, she was usually to be found lounging on the front porch, ears half-cocked, keeping a drowsy eye on things. Her one well publicized occupation was that of trail guide. Whenever anyone would start out on a hike, the innkeeper would encourage them to, “Take Lucy along! You’ll have no need of a map, she knows the way perfectly, and she loves nothing better”. This sincere admonition was even included in the inn’s brochure and of course the idea naturally appealed to me. And sure enough, when we headed out, Lucy jumped up, eager to lead the way.

We hit a gorgeous trail, following her at a brisk pace until the inn was out of sight and we were beginning to wonder exactly which route she had selected for us. Having been told that each trail formed a long, wide loop that would eventually lead us back to the inn, we were a wee bit disconcerted to see that we seemed to be travelling, not in a loop exactly, but rather in sort of a hexagon. (At one point we found ourselves in the back garden of singer Perry Como’s holiday cabin. Yes, really. Seems this particular property featured a small, and fairly fetid, duck pond which was an irresistible feature for our exalted four-footed leader who wasted no time in diving in and retrieving a duck who was, sadly, in one of the latter stages of malodorous decomposition.) I kept faith with old Lucy, up hill and down valley, continuing on for another hour or so. But soon, it became painfully apparent that the skills of the dear girl had waned a bit over the years. Either that, or her sense of humour was more highly developed than her owners had ever realized. We were lost. Well, two of us were. I was still reluctant to give up on Lucy’s heralded abilities completely, so when she suddenly turned and headed straight up a densely wooded hill almost as if she was thinking...”Oh yes, by Jove, I have it now!”.... I turned to follow.
The Songwriter, who to be honest, had voiced sincere misgivings about the head of our hiking party all along, could finally stand it no longer. “You are not going to follow that dog into the wilderness! You are not! There is a road here somewhere and we are going to get on it and find our way back!”...
“What about Lucy??”, I wailed.
Suffice it to say, I was informed, in so many colourful words, that Lucy was, well, on her own.

So. After a winding, and fairly arduous, trek up a mountain highway, we eventually made it back to our inn. Tired, filthy, and seriously bramble scratched, with muddy boots and cloudy moods, we climbed the steps to find our dear Lucy sound asleep in her comfortable spot on the porch.
I swear I heard a chuckle as we passed.

The Older Sister

Spring is a girl clad in pink flounces. She skips, she flirts - shares secrets, tells lies. Her thoughts are like air and with barefoot steps she treads on the wildflowers. She misplaces her warm hours and never wonders where they’ve gone. She sings herself to sleep.

Autumn is her older sister, wearing heathered tweed. Her colours, like her dreams, are richer, more intense, and although she knows they will fade to ice and silver in the season yet to come, she serenely paints her masterpiece in furbelows of orange, burnt by the September sun, with an arabesque of scarlet, and a bagatelle of forest green.
She gathers her joys round her like the handsome woolen shawls her own two hands have made. With memory in the warp and hope in the weft, they feel soft against her skin, they gift her with a secret smile. She pulls her chair up hearthside and reads tall tales by the flickering flame - tales of legend and of myth, of ancient pathways through the mountains, of castles floating on the sea.
She drinks in delicious perfumes that are hers, and hers alone - the scent of apples, of cinnamon, of rain. Her hours are set aglow with a celebratory fire made from all the many sunny days now past; it is a fire stoked with gratitude and tended with anticipation, for she knows it provides all the warmth she will need for the colder days to come.

How sad a year would be without her visit - how colourless, how pale.
In a gust of wind, amid swirling leaves, she will arrive at my gate this afternoon.
My door is open to welcome her.

"No Spring nor Summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face."
John Donne

The Ignominious Coach

Here in the States it has been a rather cringe-worthy couple of weeks. Stunning outbursts of petulance and ego have spewed from several different corners; vitriol hurled forth from individuals in the public eye who apparently possess neither the spirit nor the capacity for civility and respect. In one arena after the other, like a bumper crop of fruit from a poisonous plant, rudeness has abounded, and shockingly so. From the music awards stage to the tennis court, and sadly, even to the floor of the United States Senate, where a congressman had the unprecedented audacity to yell out a boorish rebuke to his own President during a joint session of congress. Yes, there were apologies, and I will not doubt the sincerity of those here. But I will say, although I do not hold with the spanking of children, tanning the backside of a few adults seems like an excellent notion to me.

When I was younger, it was a belief widely held that this type of conduct was contemptible. It certainly lent no weight to a person’s opinions, nor to his arguments, indeed it rendered them dubious at best. However, in our current talk radio era, it seems that some feel entitled to express themselves whenever, and in whatever form, they choose. Forget about dignity or consideration; those were jettisoned a while ago. We are now on to abuse and denigration as the favoured methods of debate.

Years ago, upon landing in London for the very first time, I was soon on an early morning train into the city from Gatwick airport. Wide-eyed, and clutching my train ticket tightly, I was astonished to witness an argument between a rather wildly bohemian young woman who happened to be sharing my compartment and the gentlemen who was taking tickets enroute. Seems the lady was, quite knowingly, in the wrong train car. What followed was the most delightful example of a witty debate that I had ever heard. Although the lady had no leg whatsoever on which to stand, both people made their points with respect, civility and a good bit of humour. After she trundled off to the appropriate seating and I was left alone gazing out the window at the unfamiliar countryside, I could not help but think that this was the best first impression of a new country I could possibly have had.
My heart goes out to the tourists who landed here in the States for the first time last week, and I am ashamed of the introduction they received.

It is well past time for us as Americans to grab the reins of the ignominious coach of rudeness in which some of us have been traveling - shaking our fists out the windows, heedless of those in our path. I fear it is dangerously close to a precipice of shuddering depth, from which our words, spoken with such graceless arrogance, shall not just go unheard, but shall become ridiculous.

"Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength"
Eric Hoffer

Here In My Cottage

The top of Edward’s head smells just like the sea. I have no idea why that is, but as there is often a tiny plum-coloured smudge of lipstick there, resulting from the kisses I cannot resist bestowing upon him, I speak empirically. I stoop to plant a kiss atop that furry head and suddenly...... sea winds, sand beneath my toes, the sun glowing pink behind my closed eyelids.
Apple’s head, on the other hand, smells like clover. A sunny meadow picnic, honeybees, butterflies, breezes. Again, don’t ask me why.

These are but two of the small pleasures that, for me, make life here in my cottage extraordinary. If one takes the time to notice, slows down but a fraction, these pleasures are everywhere and it seems they are especially abundant this time of year.....

The lavender scent of clean laundry - the feel of freshly starched sheets when I slip between them on a cool night.......

A house full of open windows that welcome in the caramel light of September, curtains blowing in and out with the winds that race through the summer weary rooms....

Tomato soup and cheese toast.......

Rolling out the dough for the first apple pie of the season, while Vivaldi tickles the kitchen walls with melody........

Donning that first snuggly sweater. The green one. Pulling on the first pair of newly polished boots. The brown ones.......

Drinking in the elixir of clean, crisp air on long afternoon walks with Edward when the sunlight sets the trees aglow.....

Fat orange pumpkins waiting to be carved into scary, spooky Jack o’Lanterns.....

The woodsy smell of firewood......

An old chintzware pitcher filled with newly sharpened pencils.....

That tiny, enticing crack of a new book when you open it for the very first time. And the delicious fragrance of the new, unread pages........

The painterly colours of cabbages ........

The morning crossword puzzle......

The warm feel of cool fur when the dogs come in from a early morning romp. And the way that fur smells faintly of wood smoke when they have been outside on a night when a fire blazes in the fireplace.......

Watching The Wizard of Oz on television on a dark windy night. This is especially pleasurable when I realize that Billie Burke, who played the Good Witch, was fifty-three years old when she did so!!

Sleeping Poets

My mother still talks of the time we saw John Wayne. Perched like royalty atop a block-long convertible rolling slowly down the street under a hot July sky. He was the Grand Marshall of our city’s Independence Day parade. And he was shockingly three-dimensional. Having him close enough to touch was a bit unnerving for a little girl who had only seen the man on the movie screen. So, these people are real, I thought. Hmmm. Another mystery to decipher.

They are the names as familiar as those of our own family. Names like Elizabeth and Mary - Shakespeare, Bronte, Keats. We know them only through their writings and their deeds, and rarely do we see them as corporeal beings. And honestly, how could we, ensnared as they are in the two-dimensional world of the painting and the page?

But recently, a good friend sent me a remarkable image. By using digital techniques, Edinburgh photographer, Joanna Kane, has created a series of enigmatic portraits from a famous collection of phrenological heads. She has published a book of this work entitled The Somnambulists. Through her artistry, Kane has managed to bring to “life” the faces behind the famous words of Blake, Wordsworth, and Keats in a work that is both beautiful and revelatory. We seem to see sleeping poets.

I read a good bit of the poetry of John Keats on my recent trip to the beach. Here is one of my favourites. It seems even more lyrical now as I gaze upon the face of the man himself.


On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap’d up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
’Tis not content so soon to be alone.

Painting above: Keats' Grave in the Old Protestant Cemetery in Rome, 1873
by William Bell Scott

Far Too Clear

There are pumpkins in the fields awaiting faces. Patient, sedentary, they sit in their orangeness neath a low hanging moon.....

The acorns have begun to fall. Tiny and green, in tophats, they patter the roof like buckshot, giggling as they hurtle down - rolling, rolling, to a final stop under the purple cabbage leaves.....

Equal in size to the paw prints of wolfhounds, the horrid spiders traipse across their webs of silver lace, while overnight, a neighborhood of downy white toadstools has appeared under the magnolia tree - ample seating for any future prince who ventures up from the stream at the bottom of the hill in search of a life-altering kiss....

Late in the cool afternoon we hear the geese approaching. A feathered boomerang offering up baroque chants, in its unknown tongue of the season....

And the mezzo-soprano of the old silver teakettle sings much more frequently now....

Man’s calendar wants to wait for one more week but we know better.
The signs are far too clear.

Summer has at last departed and Autumn is now here.

Watercolour by Charles Russell Loomis

The Arrangement of Words

In English class, when I was young, I learned to diagram sentences. A rudimentary activity, and not one known to coax magic out from the fibers of the page. More akin to the study of skeletons, for one sees how the bones connect all the while acutely aware that no breath of feeling is present. But just as the fibia gives us what we need to run through a meadow, and the humerus provides us the strength required to paint the Mona Lisa or to lift a giggling baby in the air, the arrangement of letters and words, sentence and verse, gives us the ability to see beneath the surface of our lives - to uncover, and communicate, truth.

How wondrous is language. And how wonderful to encounter those who use it well. Who among us has not read a passage in a book so beautifully written, so compelling, that we read it over and over, perhaps even copying it down to squirrel away for future reference? Who has not heard a speech from an orator so inspiring, so enlightening, that we have been moved to take a stand for something in which we truly believe, rather than remain encased in our timidity? Or conversely, who among us has not read a book, or heard a speech, so dreadfully written, with words galumphing along to such a calamitous finish that they invite groans of frustration.
Yes, the arrangement of words is a powerful thing.

The older I get, the more I love poetry. True poets communicate in feelings. Their well-arranged words allow me to actually feel what is on the page; all my senses are in play. Their verse can brush my face with a warm sea breeze, or sting me with an icy needled blast. I can see the pathway through the forest, smell the damp blackness of the mysterious earth, hear the papered leaves crackle under my feet as I walk.
I touch the mane of a lion, I hear the call of a loon. I taste the bright red plum.
A poet’s words may enter through the brain, but they speak to the soul, invoking a recognition of one’s true self that is often impossible to articulate. “What does that poem mean?”, we are asked. How does one explain what the heart understands.

Today is the birthday of my favourite poet, Mary Oliver. Her poems speak to me like no others. The words she employs are simple ones, but in her hands, their arrangement is profound. I wish her a most happy day.

Painting above by Alan Banks

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A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.

Who ever made music of a mild day?

by Mary Oliver
born September 10th, 1935
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The Perfect Nap

We all know the benefits of a good night’s sleep. Sleep is necessary, not only for robust health and comely countenance, but for a pleasant mood as well. Most grouchy people don’t get enough sleep. But too few of us, I fear, just don’t appreciate the many salubrious effects of a nap. Too often considered a characteristic of sloth, the nap is unfairly burdened with comparisons to losers, bums, and those afflicted with a particularly unpleasant quality of apathetic inertia.
Au Contraire, I say! Done correctly, a nap is a beautiful thing - sort of a cosmic rebooting - that refreshes the outlook, invigorates the mind and uncorks a bit of extra energy to rejuvenate the remaining hours of the day. For those who perhaps look upon the nap as merely a symptom of laziness, let me offer some hopefully helpful guidelines, for I have been a champion of the nourishing effects of a nap for years.

1. Naps should be fairly short. Anything from twenty minutes to one hour is preferable. A shorter nap will make you disoriented, a longer one will make you sluggish.

2. Never take a nap in bed. One should only go to bed in the middle of the day when one has a bad cold, or the flu. Or a tummy ache. Taking a nap in bed is simply, “going back to bed” and that is only desirable on a stormy day when one feels rather blue, and only permissible before noon. Going back to bed in the afternoon is just not recommended, for even if you are not sick, you will feel as if you should be. It is, however, quite permissible to lie atop the bed, under a quilt or throw. Just do not get back in it. Look for a large chair that is capacious enough to curl up inside, or a chaise lounge with a perfectly placed neck pillow. These are better choices by far.

3. Pay close attention to the weather. This is very important. Do not even attempt a nap on a beautiful cloudless day in autumn. Your mother was right, you should be outside on a day like that. A stormy afternoon is ideal however, and a straight-down winter rain is sublime. If possible, nap with the windows open, and it goes without saying, if you have a ceiling fan, by all means turn it on. A soft breeze blowing, and you’re half way there. Also, listening to the faint outside sounds of nature only adds to the beauty of the nap. A chirp here, the sparkle of a wind-chime there, a blustery wind rustling the leaves in the trees? Perfect.
Of course, this will not work if you live in the city. Car horns and slamming doors do not a good nap make.

4. If you are fortunate enough to share your life with a large furry dog - or two - as I am, then you are incredibly well-suited for a successful nap experience. Large furry dogs love to nap. It is one of their favourite things and they are experts at it. They will study you closely to determine if you are comfortable then they will lie down next to you, sigh a heavy sigh of contentment and begin to doze. The ideal companionship. I am fairly certain smaller dogs and cats would behave the same way, so feel free to include them as well.

5. Some people like to listen to music when they nap, though personally I prefer the quiet natural sounds from outside. Music tends to keep me awake and effect my mood in various ways that are not condusive to the consummate nap. If this is not the case with you and you would prefer musical accompaniment, then I would suggest you chose your selections most carefully. Chopin over Springsteen, Debussy over Bjork.

6. Now this may be controversial, but I speak from experience. It is best to nap when your house is clean, there are fresh flowers in the vases and dinner is cooking. This is the ideal time. Otherwise, I fear one is prone to simply lie there and fret about what needs to be done and that is just no fun at all. It totally undermines the whole thing.

7. Do not worry that you might miss something. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait an hour. Trust me on this.

So fill your vases with flowers, find a big chair, and take a nap!!

You can thank me later.

The Little Stranger

The mind can play dastardly tricks on the unsuspecting soul who lies wide awake in the middle of a dark night. Given just a few minutes deep within the silence that lurks after the clock strikes midnight, it can easily turn the most innocuous molehill into quite the unscaleable mountain, change a simple sore throat into a lethal case of lockjaw; a pin-sized mosquito bite into an exotic fever rarely seen outside the realm of voodoo. With a modicum of encouragement it can bewitch the coat rack into a knife-wielding fiend, the squirrel on the roof to Beelzebub, or the friendly shadow of the oak tree into the Wicked Witch of the West.
It can even make a woman firmly in the grasp of adulthood lean over the side of the bed and attempt to awaken her sleeping dog for company. And yes, I speak from experience, for last week, on the first dark night of September, I was scared silly. And I blame Sarah Waters.

It was well past midnight and I was up way too late with my nose in a book, an occurrence which is hardly unusual. The book was The Little Stranger by the aforementioned Ms. Waters, and I was about halfway along. Having heard from several quarters that this was a delightfully ghostly story - comparisons to Henry James and Poe were being bandied about - I naturally saved it for a night just like this one....chilly enough for blankets, the black sky enshrouded with clouds, without the faintest twinkle of starlight able to pierce the inky gloom. “Ooh, perfect”, I thought as I snuggled down and began to read. Like the slow winding of a clock, the story kept tightening. I did not even notice it at first. A few strange happenings here, a bit of foreboding there. I kept turning the pages, faster and faster, until all of a sudden I found myself as spooked as the child who is certain something unspeakable dwells in his closet, something that whispers his name in the dark. I closed the book with a snap. I listened. No sound but the sleep of the innocent.

I tried to wake Edward, asleep down below me. I called to him softly and he lifted his head to stare at me - a little unfocused, the white fur on his head mussed and shaggy from sleep. I patted the bed - in what I hoped was a most inviting and nonchalant way - silently praying he would jump up and lie on my feet as he does on the cold nights of winter. But no such luck tonight for he simply nodded at me and fell back asleep as I watched. So I lay there, with the covers up under my chin, wide-eyed and listening and most determined in future to only open this book on the sunniest part of the cheeriest day.

I do highly recommend it however. For the old-fashioned chills one rarely gets from a book these days. Just be careful when and where you read it. And remember, you have been warned.

Painting by Gustave Dore


September 9th Update.... The Little Stranger as been shortlisted for the Booker Prize!!

Godspeed

I said goodbye to an old friend this past week. He had fought illness for many years, always with great humour and unflagging bravery. But finally his strength simply dwindled and he left us. He was the jester who gifted The Songwriter and myself with an indelible wedding day memory as he hid inside our car when we left our reception, honeymoon bound. His intention was to accompany us on the journey, but his giggles gave him away and he found himself rather unceremoniously deposited in the middle of the road, not far from the church.
He is forever cemented in our wedding day memories, and happily so.

As human beings, I suppose we are hardwired for life. We fight on, even when retreat has been sounded. But I often wonder what our perspective is from the other side of the veil. Once we land upon those storied shores and survey our surroundings, do we shake our heads in bafflement at our previous struggle to remain stuck to the earth? Is the life to come so superior we shall marvel at our ignorance? I rather think that might be the case.
As we are now... gravity-glued humans, blinkered by our boundaries... we can really only suppose what awaits us. Our faith gives us clues for which there are many interpretations. Though we all hold tickets for our passage, none of us has yet taken that journey so none can say for certain what it holds. But I have always felt that the opposite of faith has never been doubt, but certainty.
And I am content with the mystery.
I think I shall see my friend again in a different land and I hope, from his new found dwelling place, he occasionally peers down and laughs at the limits of my knowledge of wonderment.
I wish him Godspeed.

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

by Christina Rossetti

Painting by Sir John Everett Millais

Whispers From the Tartan

I wear a lot of linen in the summertime. Yes, it wrinkles, but that is just part of its charm in my eyes. Linen seems to possess a personality of sorts, a certain devil may care quality, that feels perfectly in sync with summer days. A white linen shirt with a strand of pearls and my hair worn up is pure midsummer comfort for me. When I don that first pair of linen trousers on the first day of June....for here in the Old South it is practically a sin to do so earlier....they feel as though the essence of summer is woven into the very fabric itself. The walks on the beach - the picnics, the rose gardens - all are best experienced in linen.
But now things have changed, for no self-respecting linen wishes to be worn past the last day of August. For several days now I have noticed that my favourite linen shirt appears almost a bit embarrassed if I reach for it in the morning. The white linen blazer positively hides from my view in the closet, no doubt fervently hoping my hand will reach for a garment more in tune with the calendar. And it may just be my imagination of course, but lately I could swear I have heard strange sounds coming from the wardrobe where all the winter clothing is stored. Whispers from the tartan, laughter from the wool. Could it be that the gloves are flexing their long fingers at the thought of forming snowballs or gripping Edward’s lead? The shawls, the hats, the boots....they all seem to have awoken en masse, already anticipating their outings... the walks in brisk air, the dinners by the fireside.
It is now September and I have to admit...the crisp white linen does look a bit tired.
Strange how that happens.