Behind My Frosted Windows

It is impossible to wander this planet and not be humbled in the face of its abundant curiousities, wonders I can never hope to understand, beauty I cannot grasp. So many mysteries. So many questions. Why do I have the same crooked index finger that my father had? How does The Songwriter manage to play the piano so beautifully, by ear? How does Edward know to come sit by the front door a full five minutes before I pull in the driveway?

Why do some of us recognize true love early on, whilst others spend years in the searching. Why is selfishness so often justified, greed so often rewarded?

Why do the innocent suffer?

I have sat behind my frosted windows these past couple of weeks, listening and reading of the horror that is Haiti, frustrated in my impotence, heartsick at the very thought of what those people are facing. I give my money, I say my prayers. I wonder why I was born where I was, why I am comfortable and safe, surrounded by love - warm, well-fed, and hopeful.

Call me idealistic, but I have always truly believed those old sayings from the sixties, the ones that exhorted us to “bloom where we’re planted”, to “be the change we wish to see in the world”, to “think globally, act locally”. In the work that I do for my neighborhood, my community, in the smiles and the kindness I try to show to the strangers I meet every day, I like to think it is making a tiny bit of difference, warming just a corner of creation and that, perhaps, just perhaps, that wee bit of warmth might spread to other people, other places. And then I am knocked to my knees in despondency by the magnitude of suffering in a place I know so very little about, lost in my inability to help or even comprehend.

As of Thursday evening, Americans had given over $355 million to the various organizations that are attempting to alleviate the suffering in Haiti. I encourage us all to contribute where we can.

The Red Cross is accepting donations

HERE.

Also, The Songwriter has offered his song, Brand New Day, for a free download at a special site for Haiti relief sponsored by Paste Magazine.

You may access the site

HERE.

Just make a donation through one of the organizations on the Paste site, and you'll be able to download the song. Once you've made your donation, and you're ready to download, simply scroll down the song list till you see his name, Pat Terry.

Faced with the incomprehensible, we do what we can.

And we pray.

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I have had the echo of this old Stephen Foster song in my head all week.

It just won’t leave.

“Let us pause in life’s pleasures and count its many tears

While we all sup sorrow with the poor

There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;

Oh, hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay

There are frail forms fainting at the door

Though their voices are silent their pleading looks will say;

Oh, hard times come again no more.

“Tis the song, the sigh of the weary

Hard times, hard times come again no more

Many days you have lingered

Around my cabin door

Oh, hard times come again no more.

by Stephen Foster

Painting above, Winter Mood, 1957 by Nikolai Mikhailovich Romadin

Biscuits

I love to cook. Really. At night, I often curl up in bed with a cookbook, reading it like a novel. I have cooked dinners for family, dinners for friends, for old palates and young ones, for the famous and the shy, never tiring of the process nor the effort. Always, when I am happily about the business of cooking or baking, Edward and Apple are with me. Dozing on the kitchen rug, sitting by the stove, smelling the aromas, hoping for a taste. They are wonderful companions for any chef.

A couple of weeks ago, much to their surprise, all the measuring and stirring, the beating and kneading, the delicious smells floating through the air, were all exclusively for them. For you see, I made homemade dog biscuits for the very first time. So much fun to make, and so easy. The biscuits had to dry in the oven overnight, and at breakfast the next morning I must confess that I was rather amusingly nervous as I waited to see if Edward and Apple approved of my creations. Edward sniffed his. This was something new, after all. He looked at Apple. Then he grabbed his fat biscuit and dove under the table, followed immediately by Apple. They both munched away, sending satisfying crunchy sounds up to my ears. I was thrilled.

If you have dogs and love to cook, I encourage you to give these a try. The recipe is quite easy and it makes a gracious plenty of biscuits. I’ll be making more tomorrow and am considering adding a bit of grated carrot to the mixture. Edward loves carrots.

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Dog Biscuits

Ingredients:

3 1/2 cup all-purpose (or unbleached) flour

2 cup whole wheat flour

1 cup cornmeal

1/2 cup skim milk powder

1 tablespoon (or 1 package) dry yeast

3 1/2 cups lukewarm chicken or meat broth

1 egg beaten with about 2 tablespoons water (for egg wash)

Instructions:

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

Grease cookie sheets. (I baked them on parchment paper, so I skipped this messy step.)

Mix together all dry ingredients.

Dissolve the yeast in the lukewarm chicken or meat broth. Let yeast broth mixture set 10 min. Then stir in flour mixture until a soft dough is formed. If the dough is too sticky you can add more flour.

Roll resulting dough out to about 1/4" thick. Pull dough apart into biscuit sized pieces and brush them with egg wash.

Bake on greased cookie sheets at 350F for 45 min. Then turn off oven and leave in overnight to finish hardening.

NOTE: As I said, these make quite a lot of biscuits. I put some in a plastic bag in the refrigerator until the dogs finished the ones in their biscuit jar. They would also freeze well. Just let them thaw overnight.

Painting above: Winter Sunshine, 1940 by Phillis Walters

The Dog Star

The man in the moon was in hiding.

In his skeletal, sickle-shaped state, he knew all too well that his light was too meager, too thin, to compete with the one who tonight ruled the skies.

For the heavenly wolf had appeared once again to lay claim to the firmament; the celestial prism of old who has steered the hand of the sailor, commanded the Nile, and sowed bright seeds of wonder in the heart of the shepherd alone on the cold windswept hill.

Sirius, The Dog Star, had returned.

An unblinking eye hanging high in the sphere of a cloudless January night, he stared calmly into our cottage window, as incandescent as a diamond.

From his place snuggled down in his fat paisley bed, the white dog was lost in a black and white dream, a canine film noir seen only by him.

His sleep was deep, not a sound of his breathing was heard.

When suddenly, up from the depths of his soul came a sound so arcane, so immortal, it drew shivers from the humans huddled up in their bed.

A howl.

Starting softly as an idea, then building and building to a crescendo of unfathomable feeling. A song from his ancestors, a chant from the angels, lifted up to the light of his very own star.

The enigmatic melody stayed in our minds long after its notes had diminished.

Another profound reminder of all we do not yet know.

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Sirius, the brightest star in the whole of the night sky, is best seen on dark January nights. It can be found by using the constellation Orion's three-star belt and drawing an imaginary line to the lower left. Its true colour is blue-white, but it often blinks with all colours of the spectrum due to its proximity to the horizon and our constantly shifting atmosphere. I had no idea that Edward was aware of its presence, but learned better.

Painting by Theodor Severin Kittelsen

Coming Home in the Snow

Frozen fountains line the streets all over town, abstract sculptures carved out of milkglass, created by artists unseen. Caught in the frigid grip of the coldest weather in years, they seem surprised to be standing so still, the casual bubble and froth of their natures ice-paralyzed, immobile as cathedral stone.

Above me, like whole notes on the staff of a Gregorian chant, the fat doves have huddled together in twos and in threes along the power lines, heads lowered, feathers puffed, orange beaks tucked under grey wings. While to my left, looking rather perturbed at the weather now descending upon them, a sepia flock of Canada Geese crowds the rapidly whitening lawn of the courthouse, all mutters and scowls as they wonder exactly which of them is to blame for this sorry miscalculation of winter locales.

There is no colder place than a city in snow and I have stayed too long at the knit shop. Already the snowflakes are falling, tiny ermine clad fireflies pirouetting around me, cheerfully greeting a landscape they rarely, if ever, see. Already the lights are being switched on in the old houses along my way, coats being shed, supper on the stove. I watch as the people scurry home on the sidewalks, heads pulled inside hoods, hands plunged into pockets.

I take a deep breath and raise my face to the slate sky, just to feel the tiny fingers of ice touch my skin. I hug my sack of new nut-brown lambswool just a bit closer.

Oh, how I love to be out in a twilight like this.

But just as the snow begins to fall harder, and the sheepy grey of the sky turns to soft navy blue, I see the lights of the cottage burning quietly before me and suddenly long to trade my wellies and scarves for fur hugs and tea mugs. I turn the key in the lock and the old door cracks open. I feel the warmth from the fireplace, smell The Songwriter’s homemade chili, hear the chipper refrain of the kettle.

The very best of both worlds in one day.

Painting by Henri Eugene Le Sidaner

The Writing Submission

With no small amount of trepidation, I have entered the writing contest at Clarity of Night.

Instructed to create a piece of fiction of no more than 250 words in length, contestants were told to take their inspiration from this photograph.

Here is the result of my effort.

It was an enjoyable exercise.

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Feathers

Through an opening in the green curtain he could just see the garden, asleep in the wintertime sun. An unclosed curtain through which a vertical stripe of morning light occasionally touched his shoulder like a knighthood.

Don’t let them close the window, he thought.

You won’t require an open window, the voice replied.

He didn’t try to turn his head this time. He knew no one was there.

How much longer?

Not long now, I should think.

He wished he could share what he knew with those gathered around him. They all seemed so pale now, almost invisible.

As the afternoon weakened he could once again hear the paper soft flutter of wings. He closed his eyes to see them. Feathers. Feathers of white, blue-black, grey, falling and flying like snow. Coming down from the ceiling, drifting in through the windowglass. He liked the black ones best. He secretly wished for the black.

Soaring up on the wind currents, flying out over the oceans, glissading through the glen. He had coveted that casual liberty since his boyhood. To run and run, to lift away. An unspoken longing buried deep in his soul.

You can go now.

I can? Where should I go?

Anywhere that you wish.

The silhouette of a hawk casts a violet hued shadow into the dimly lit room. The bird briefly hovers outside the window, then spreads its black feathers, lifts over the bare tree tops and is gone. To glide on the winds of December.

Painting above by Sir John Everett Millais

A Shade of Pale Blue

I have the highest respect for T. S. Eliot, not only for his prodigious talent as a poet, but also for his extraordinary ability to christen cats. However, I have to disagree with him on one fine point. April is quite simply not the cruelest month. Yes, I was born in April, but that fact carries no weight in my argument.

Ask around, especially amongst creative people, and I think you shall find that January is most often the month when ideas tend to stall, the well of inspiration may develop an echo, and the spirit can take on a shade of pale blue. I have always attributed this first month malaise to the shuddering crash down of Christmas. One minute we are living inside a snow globe of lights and festivity, and the next, well, we are not. There are those who will lay blame to the inclement weather, or the mailbox brimming with holiday bills. Others swear the reason lies squarely upon the face of the bathroom scale, a numerical result of the many sweet indulgences of the just departed season. Whatever the reason, once again this January, I have heard from more than the normal number of those who feel a tad blander than usual.

I can assure you that I am not immune. If there is ever a month when I am ripe for melancholy, it is this one. After scaling the mountain of Christmas, with a grin on my face, wooden spoon in my hand, waving red ribbons aloft in the air, I suddenly find myself just a wee bit depleted. But, I know this bad fairy of old. Therefore I make certain my quiver is full of arrows designed to shoot him right out of my house.

Shall I share just a few of my secrets?

1. Head out to the theatre for some escapist movies, and don’t refuse the popcorn. Do remember that these are not the weeks for an Ingmar Bergman film festival. Lighter fare is a must. Perhaps a screening of The Fantastic Mr. Fox.

2. If it is too icy to get out, then television can help, but only if you have something like Doc Martin or Graham Norton - Jeeves and Wooster or Hamish MacBeth. Stay away from those hideous reality shows at all cost. Best idea, rent the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup.

3. Long hot baths - with bubbles galore. The scent of vanilla is highly recommended. The bad fairy hates it.

4. Fill your house with white flowers. I have used this January trick for years. Very effective, it provides such a clean winter feeling after all the riotous colour of Christmas.

5. Seed catalogs, and magazines featuring articles on spring fashions or exotic travel destinations, are by far the best choices for late night reading by the fire, at least for the next few weeks. Having something to look forward to, like peony gardens, white linen blazers, or trips to the seaside, helps to banish the bad fairy every single time.

6. Of course, last but not least, if you are fortunate enough to have two furry dogs who love to take long walks in the cold, then you are one giant step closer to regaining your happier self. There is something to be said for sweet companionship and fresh, icy air. And Edward and Apple would like me to remind you that wonderful, furry dogs can be found at any adoption shelter in any town or village all over the world!

So Feel Better, All!

A Worthy Goal

The final hours of a blustery decade were packing their bags to depart, no doubt grumbling over the poor visibility this night was providing, for an exaggerated fog had descended, to embroider the streets with swirls and swells of grey. It seemed somehow fitting that this decade of trouble should be forced to slip away in the mist, denied the grandstanding departure a clear, star-filled night would afford.

Just behind the glowing windows of our favourite neighborhood cafe, we four friends sat enjoying our final meal of the year, cozy, warm, talking, laughing, saying yes to dessert. Naturally, as round most tables on this night, the talk eventually arrived at thoughts of plans, dreams and resolutions for the baby new year right upon us. We thought at first it might be diverting to choose goals for one another. This was entertaining for a while, but when the conversation gathered up ideas of square-dancing and monster-truck rallies, we knew the plan was doomed.

Later as we walked through the fog, my friend, the painter, told me her chief goal for the year was to endeavour to find her “true voice” in her art, to discover and interpret the genuine essence of herself. As I considered this later that night, I thought, should not that be the goal of everyone, artist or writer ... butcher, baker, candlestick maker? To resolve never to have one’s sleeve tugged by what others may do, nor be ensnared by the trends of the day? To be, not a mimic nor an echo, but a clear crisp voice of authenticity in a murky world of performers, those frantic to do what the others do, to think what the others think, to look like the others look.

Each of us, I believe, has been bequeathed by the heavens our very own colour palette with which to paint the canvas of our life. How sad if we spend our time here on earth longing for the reds and browns used by someone else and never notice the magnificent blues and greens that are ours.

Authenticity.

A most worthy goal for any year.

Making a List

At the close of the twelve month, every year without fail, comes the annual round up of Lists. Every media outlet, it seems, feels compelled to share their collections of best of and worst of, of smashes and flops, most shocking, most scandalous, who is in, who is out - top ten lists that sail in like a fleet of paper ships, loaded down with a cargo of trivia and destined to disintegrate in the tide of real news stories to follow. The Songwriter is not a fan, beleaguered, I think, by the sheer unoriginality of the yearly idea. As for myself, I find them fairly entertaining, much in the same way that I like to read the Proust questionnaire at the back of Vanity Fair magazine and watch the youtube video of a cat trying to work a copy machine.

As we now find ourselves, not only at the end of an ordinary year, but also the end of a decade, I thought it might be rather fun to participate. And whilst I have no idea who’s in or who’s out, and frankly, if it were up to me to compose a list of world-wide scandalous behaviour, I would find it impossible to restrict myself to a mere ten choices, I thought a top ten of notable books and movies would be a better idea all round. Mostly, I was right on this, although I found it best not to take the process too seriously. One is bound to leave something vital off the roster and wonder if it is important enough to get up in the middle of the night to turn on the computer and rectify the situation. I decided it was not. So here are my thoughts as they came to the front of my brain, rather in the same fashion as those old magic eight balls used to provide the answers to our childish questions.

Question is uttered: “Will I marry a prince?”.....

Answer floats up: ”Reply Hazy. Try again”.

Nevertheless, I do hope you enjoy my spontaneous lists, devoid of particular order and highly personalized though they may be. They are a compilation of just some of the movies that made me want to see them twice, and but a few of the books that caused me to travel a bit deeper than the print on the page - all from these last ten years. I also hope this list prompts you to compose your own and remind me of all the ones I left out.

Books:

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke

Harry Potter -all, by JK Rowling

The Sea, by John Banville

Homegrown Democrat, by Garrison Keillor

Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

The Architecture of Happiness, by Alain De Botton

God’s Politics, by Jim Wallis

The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen

Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

Movies:

The Queen -- A near perfect movie

Doubt -- Truth on the screen

Being Julia -- Such witty, wicked fun

Harry Potter and the, well, everything -- Magic

The Lord of the Rings, all three -- Enchanting. More like history than fantasy.

Little Miss Sunshine -- l laughed till I got a stitch in my side

Ladies in Lavender -- Sublime and heartbreaking

Gosford Park -- So many movies rolled into one. Each one utter perfection.

Finding Neverland -- A beautiful portrait of artistic inspiration

Oh Brother Where Art Thou -- Brilliant

Nanny McPhee -- Even the set designs were delightful.

and yes, I realize this makes eleven instead of ten. I told you my lists were highly personalized.

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Also, try as I might I cannot remember who the kind reader was who recommended to me the gorgeous book Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels. I took your advice, however, and read it. It is truly an amazingly beautiful book, one that I purchased in hardback to keep in my library. Thank you, and do remind me if it was you!

Wings

The beating of wings is a deafening sound for those who have ears to hear.
Like a flock of wild birds, the days of the decade are flying away - rising up like a cloud from the floor of the forest, lifting away from the hot desert sand. A boiling eddy of hours encircling my thoughts, soaring high in the air to vanish forever in the winds of December, destined to land on the unwritten page of history, to light in the unsung verse of song.
What shall we make of this bevy of days, soon to be gone from our sight? A fractious brood, without question, with more than its fair share of raptors within, scattering darkness and mayhem throughout these ten years. But also amongst them were sweet swallows and doves, the everlasting wisdom of the owls, the song of the robin on a clear morning in May.
It is a bittersweet feeling that sits in my heart as I watch them mount up to leave this old earth.
But now, look! Just over the clouds I can see them!
Drifting down from the heavens through the ringing of bells comes a fledgling congregation of hours, a happy assemblage of days - flawless, clean, each and every one a sparkling second chance. As they land on our rooftops, and light on our shoulders, may we welcome them all with the wisdom and grace we have gathered together from the days gone before.
May we share the love we have been given, may we listen much more than we speak.
May we live with hope and with purpose.
May we walk in beauty.

May we show tolerance and kindness to our fellow travelers on the way.
And may we have fun!
A Happy New Year to All!

“My idea of man's chief end was to enrich the world with things of beauty,
and have a fairly good time myself while doing so.”
Robert Louis Stevenson