Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Time

It moves.

Far.

Too.

Fast.



I don't do well with endings. Does anyone? What would "doing well with endings" even look like? Not crying? Not mourning it (a little)? Not wanting it to not come? Glad to see a beautiful thing become memory alone? Perhaps I do manage endings well enough: using them to remember how I loved something that will soon not be.

Time is good and dreadful. And I cannot change a single thing.


This has and is a good school year. Two semesters that have been harder than anything I had seen before. But uncontestably some of the loveliest times I have yet walked through me. Praise God that time does not end here but that there are harder and lovelier things still to come.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

From A Lucy Barfield

Once upon a time
I pulled down the set of paper
treasures. Their covers, smooth, light,
box like figures of trees and castles and swords.
I pretended I could read,
telling the stories of the pictures
that headed each chapter.
Beavers spoke (of course!)
and children wielded swords.
The old paper backs, binding torn, pages
marked and missing.

(They smell of aged ink, of story,
when you place your nose between the pages and
breathe).

Mom and Dad read them to each other,
before I came,
when they were first married,
when the sounds of each other’s voices still seemed
new.

I sat on the couch behind Mom, head bent, weight
pressed into her back.
She didn’t like it when I leant over her shoulder so--
but I could hear the pictures better
when I could see the words.
Fauns, snow, trees, lamposts
The Wardrobe and the Witch and The Lion,
with puddles and pictures that took you to
Other Worlds.
I prayed that God would take me there
before I was too old.

I have dusted off your book, Godfather Lewis,
and have grown old enough to be
young again.


(I began writing this after rereading the first few chapters of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to a friend. To clarify any confusion, please reference the dedication placed before the first chapter.)

Monday, April 06, 2009

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; 5
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 10
Praise him.



-Gerard Manly Hopkins


Today the rain is coming slowly, in light sheets. It feels almost warm. I can disbelieve that it will be snow tomorrow. (sigh) I love this time of year. I love the tradition of listening to "The Secret Garden" by Radio Theatre. Again. I love Yo-Yo Ma cello music. And waking up slowly, surely, tucked deep in my covers while listening for the rain on the yellowing bushes. The Mountain is hiding now, hiding deep behind the mist and rain and the red tree getting all ready to spring into green leaves, starting all over again the walk into fall and winter. Or is all of fall and winter a walk into this time now? (I've been in poetry class too long. I want to enjamb that last word!)

I am eagerly looking forward to home this next weekend! I have a long walk date set up with Gretchen, some wrestling to be done with Isaac, snuggling with Jen, a kidnapp of Hannah for window shopping and coffee, breakfast with Dad, and who knows what with Mom (I'm sure we'll come up with something!).

Saturday, April 04, 2009

April is a month of Poetry

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

-E. E. Cummings