All I Can Read

The only thing I can read right now is poetry. Actually, even poetry is hard because it makes me feel, and see, and think. But it is better than the alternative.
Er ist gestorben, und mit ihm mein Herz. With what friend is it worthwhile to exchange thoughts?
Vielleicht wird es leichter werden, aber . . .

Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Unexpected

What was it that Maida's friend Billy called her? Petronella? I can't remember. But I do know that somewhere in that same paragraph or page was something about the Princesses of Serendip finding unexpected happiness. That's what I thought of this afternoon when, happily, Alice came by the library. It was a lovely, unexpected joy that just came into my life. It must be a good thing if only that I am writing the first blog entry in a whole year! Inspiration comes from so many sources: most of them for me, from regular folk saying something that triggers a thought that persists until I do something about it. But, the whole purpose of this blog was not to selfconsciously write but to unselfconsciously report on the way I see things. Missive? Memoir? Rumination? Maybe a little of all of those.

During the past year I read a book called Six-Word Memoirs. I wrote one at the time that still is very appropriate now. Here is my tiny memoir:

No mistakes,
Only treasure
In disguise.

I think I felt the licking of inspiration, like tongues of flame engulfing a hardwood log in the fireplace. So look for more entries in here. A year of silence is a long, long time.

Well, Not Exactly Everywhere

Actually, I suppose it takes better eyes than I have right now. I left my glasses at the folks' house when I went down for Grandpa's funeral. I just can't see all the treasures these days. Maybe the folks will bring the glasses when they come to visit this weekend, or maybe I just need to adjust my eyesight. I think it might be the latter. Only time will help in that case. At least we can go to Sea World.

Knitting my heart back together

Sometimes it's hard to find treasures everywhere. I've been knitting a lot lately---maybe knitting together a broken heart. It takes time. But the treasure therein is that serenity comes back during the repetitive knitting and purling. What else is more important than serenity? At this point, it seems like the ideal.

Book Wagon Options

Shall I knit or write a letter tomorrow! Last weekend I was able to do both while I was out with the Book Wagon. And there were even a few hardy souls who braved the weather and checked out some books. I really must write to the Otter of the Northwest before he thinks I've fallen---down or out of love. The moss stitch scarf I want to make for the orange-haired sister-in-law is clamoring also. And of course there is that whole stack of books I want to read . . . Where to find the time?

The "Curse" of True Love Never Did Run Smooth

LYSANDER Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But either it was different in blood,--

HERMIA O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low!

LYSANDER Or else misgraffed in respect of years;--

HERMIA O spite! too old to be engag'd to young!

LYSANDER Or else it stood upon the choice of friends:

HERMIA O hell! to choose love by another's eye!

LYSANDER Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say, Behold! The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.

HERMIA If then true lovers have ever cross'd, It stands as an edict in destiny: Then let us teach our trial patience, Because it is a customary cross; As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.

Was Tom Sawyer in the Gifted and Talented Class?

Well, the glowing has stopped. At least I can't see it anymore in this light. However, last night as I finished reading Tom Sawyer to the boys I could see a flash from my fingers every so often as I would turn the page. It was misguided of me to think I could actually read from the light because I hold the book in my lap and it would not have been ergonomically feasible for me to hold my hand akimbo and thus have the light shine down on the page. The boys really enjoyed Tom Sawyer, though, and we're all a bit sad to see it end. I had forgotten myself how much I liked Tom. For many years now I've been able to recall the opening lines: "Tom!" No answer. "Tom!" Still no answer. "You, Tom . . . "
We laughed when Tom figured out how to get the fence whitewashed, shivered when he and Huck saw Injun Joe kill old Hoss, and chuckled when the judge asked Tom if he had company in the graveyard that night. "Only a dead cat," was his reply. And everpresent was Mark Twain himself, reminiscing about boyhood, reliving his own childhood, and making quiet comments that only the parent reader would pick up. I think it must have been at least 30 years since I read Tom Sawyer last, so I never caught on before to his asides.
Now what shall we read? We're kind of in the middle of the Whangdoodle book, for the third time, so I guess we'll finish that. But then what? Maybe we'll start Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett or have an interlude with Joan Aiken's Arabel and Mortimer---a perpetual favorite. I'd like to find a real winner, something that engages each boy. Thankfully my position as Children's Librarian gives me access to a multitude of intruiging stories. But I still wonder if the books appeal to each child. I'm a little afraid my youngest is given short shrift sometimes. He did choose the Whangdoodle book, though.
What is the treasure for today? I think I can count our finishing Tom Sawyer, as I mentioned above, and the wonderful conversation we had before the boys fell asleep. My oldest talked about how his experience in a regular classroom has given him much more courtesy and discipline than his classmates who have only been in the gifted and talented classroom have had. We talked about how talent and ability do not mean a person should have privilege over another, but how those things give more responsibility. He is turning into a fine young man who feels strongly about justice and kindness and appropriate conduct. In fact, we have laughed a lot at his stories of the boy who starts to cry when he can't tag people at recess, or the boy who talks so much in class that the teacher gave the kids at his table permission to shush him when he jabbers on and on. My children and our experiences together are the finest treasures in my life right now.