It's hard to believe that Thanksgiving break is here once again! After a weekend away on a youth retreat, home seems very, very quiet with just Mama, Ladybird and Little Gavin (Daddy being gone on a business trip until tomorrow afternoon). But there hovers a cosy, festive spirit in the fire-lit house on the hill that keeps the four of us warm until more of the family returns on Thanksgiving Day. We have only listened to a little bit of Christmas music so far, in order to enjoy it all the more tomorrow while doing Thanksgiving preparations, and my appetite for holiday music and lyrics has been thoroughly wetted. Our little Willamette valley seems quite ready for winter, with huge rain ponds covering former harvest fields, trees shedding vibrant coats and the sound of sleepy rain or blustery wind lulling each evening into night.

Then Came the Rain

Fall has settled into a wonderful rhythm--not too hard, but not too easy either. Monday through Thursday is very full of school, school and... not much else! Oh, yes, there are Monday night push-ups with Dad, shopping and a piano lesson on Tuesday, Awana on Wednesday and swimming too (so I guess I lied; there really is more going on than school). Friday is a nice sort of mixed-up day, because it is half school and half weekend (mostly weekend, if I have anything to say about it) with another piano lesson and lots of free afternoon time. Saturday and Sunday are all the way weekend, which includes sleeping in on Saturday morning, Church on Sunday and, this week, the annual Thanksgiving dinner at our Church on Sunday afternoon. So you see, my days are very good and pleasant in spite of the occasional wish for more time. But doesn't everybody wish for more time? If I did have several extra hours each day, what would I do with them?
For each day this week there has been something lovely and memorable (memorable as in "I won't forget it for at least one more week, because by that time there will be some other memorable thing  to occupy my mind). Here are a few of the best parts of the week:
1)Sunday--Family afternoon and harvest party for youth group in the evening.
2) Monday--baking Apple Oat Bread (I make bread every week and it was fun to experiment with a new kind).
3) Tuesday--getting up at 5:20, instead of 6:00, in order to exercise before riding down into the valley to help out at some friends' alpaca farm.
4) Wednesday--going shopping with Mama (I go shopping with her every week, and it's always one of my favourite things).
5) Thursday--Learning how to make newsletter by way of Publisher, which was especially wonderful because I have always been terrified to try doing anything besides blog using the computer.
6) Friday (today)--I had chocolate muffins for breakfast, went to the dentist (yes, I like to have my teeth cleaned) had a great piano lesson, went on a run in the rain and went out to a great pizza place with part of my family.
7)Tomorrow--Obviously, I can't divulge this information just yet, but you can just assume that something nice will happen.
But besides all of these nice things, there are a few especially nice things that happen ever single day! One of them is talking to God each morning, another is the possibility of writing a poem in my little notebook, and the third is laying down to sleep each night and listening to the rain fall. I love summer warmth and crickets chirping, but something always thrills deep inside me every year in that first moment when I hear rain droplets crackling on the roof. What a blessing to snuggle deep in blankets and feel warm while hearing the rain sing and the wind whisper. Life is very, very good.

Late in October

Mist rises from the green, green firs.

Down in the valley, a dozen farms

Nestle in harvested fields, wicking warmth

From burnished maples and red cherry boughs.

The air is frigid, defying candle-bright leaves

And the golden-glow sunset.

Waves of pale, dry, feather-light grass

Are snow on the hillside.

Dew caught on spider-silk is cold, cold rain;

There are icicle-clouds clinging to a frosty

Sky up there.

Something beyond the apple-spice

And gypsy drumming in goose wing-beats

Says "Winter."

A Golden Day

In  the poem "October Paint" by Carl Sandburg, someone with an October paint pot runs wild with vivid hues of red and orange and purple; that seems to be the case with this October day. The paint pot spilled bright blue and frosty white all over the sky, splashed gold on the maple trees clustered in the wood and brushed the mountains with purple and grey. When school was over, I took my always-packed nature bag, my poor, breaking rubber boots and a very old purple sweater and walked down to a favourite trail to write about the paint pot. Later today, the five us--being Mama, Daddy, Ladybird and Baby Gavin (he doesn't have a nickname yet)--will go into Dallas for Awana. When we come back, there will  be "deep, dark chocolate cake" (with cherries and whipped cream, of coarse) and I get to see what's inside the mysterious, very alluring packages wrapped nicely and waiting on the entry table :-) ! Because only part of the family  can come tonight, we are having my birthday dinner (Zuppa Tuscana and O' Charley Rolls) on Sunday, with everyone, except for Autumn Rain :-(. But I still look forward to all these fun celebrations and I can't wait to see Autumn Rain at Christmas time!

Birthdays and Babies and All the Good Things...

Every year there unfolds an ebb and flow of events--some of which are good, and some of which are bad. But I'm only going to write about all the good, wonderful things, because, to be honest, that's all I can think of right now! First, babies. Little G was finally born, although I'm nearly a month late in recording it (you can see that I've been  far too caught up with snuggling and bouncing my little brother to do much blogging) and he's getting more cuddly and adventurous every day! Second, there are so many birthdays in the summer that we are constantly whispering, disappearing when we see certain people, or sneaking off into our rooms with mailed packages that look suspiciously birthday-ish. Today is Ladybird's birthday, and the two of us celebrated early with a five-thirty-in-the-morning cup of hot chocolate, and some reading aloud of favorite Psalms and a chapter of L.M. Montgomery's Emily of New Moon. It was the very best way to wake up, and I topped off the lovely morning by going on my favorite run (I made it all the way up the incredibly steep hill  without stopping this time)! So, with all of these great beginnings, I have high hopes for a wonderful day:-)

Waiting for Baby

We are all here (well, not quite all, but nearly) waiting for Gavin to be born. What day, and what hour? Will it be tonight, or perhaps on Lavender Girl's birthday? My summer is winding down, but there is still plenty of leisurely time which I can fill with all my favorite activities, and that's good, but I'm beginning to think that there is a little bit too much time. However, that's what the school year is for, isn't it?
When Gavin is born, we will have a few more days to relax in summer freedom and lazy afternoons, and then I will settle back into my school year schedule, quite gladly, I think. But when will this little guy come? I sure hope it's soon!!!

The one less traveled by

This month I decided that I like blackberries best--regardless of a ridiculous number of small, hard seeds, and  the occasional too sour or too ripe berry, they are definitely my favorite. I can't quite imagine living an entire August without eating at least a handful or so of blackberries, especially as an Oregonian living in an area where blackberry brambles are prevalent. This morning Mama and I went on  a lovely walk down along the vineyard path, watching carefully for hidden poison oak among  the dry, bristly grasses that shoot up in odd yellow tufts where the brush hog failed to clip them to trail-standard. We turned onto a little path stretching away into the trees, definitely less used than the other and holding a certain woodsy charm that never fails to draw me along down the country lane. There were clusters of blackberry bushes, the sweet dark berries ripened by sun-dapples and perfuming the air by way of cool summer breezes, and fir trees thrusting straight up into the silvery sky, and near a bend in the trail, a graceful young apple tree arched out over the grass. It was bursting with leathery green leaves and small, round apples, still green as if they were too attached to spring to let her go completely.
I look forward to venturing down that way again, especially in the autumn, when the apples will be ripe.I will pick one (possibly the biggest, most colorful one that I can find) and munch on it as I stroll along the vineyard path, or up the hill toward home. But I think I'll miss the blackberries too, because there are few things as nostalgic as picking blackberries in August.

Family Reunion

Tonight I spent about an hour finding things, folding them neatly, and stowing them in my little blue suitcase-friend. It's funny that one can be such good friends with a suitcase, but me and my suitcase are very good friends. I found my amazing sleeping bag that rolls up until it is impossibly small, and I set my alarm for 5:30, and now I can't imagine going to sleep. I know that in the morning I will want to sleep longer, but I also know that I can sleep in the car, and that is what keeps me from going to bed yet.
Our annual  family reunion is an extremely grand occasion for those relatives on Mama's side of the family. Everyone who can possibly make it ends up at our grandparent's summer home up in the woods by St. Mary's river, and we spend a few days in the sunshiny bliss of being close to those we are closest to and basking in fresh river water and the sunlight that bounces off the Big Rock (which we also sometimes jump off of). There are hidden places of huckleberries and wild blueberries, a "haunted" cabin that causes us to run with chills of terror crawling up our spines as we go to and from the river, and plenty of random, spur-of-the-moment forts and hide-outs scattered about the fir woods.
But between me and this once-a-year fantasy of a vacation lies a ten-hour drive that may seem like an eternity. I also happen to hate car-sick medicine, which makes matters even worse. I've spent the last few days planning my movement for tomorrow morning over and over again. I will take a walk, eat half my breakfast, drink some water, quickly swallow the pill, and then eat more food to cover up the horrible taste. Hopefully I can carry through with this, seeing as ten hours in the car is likely to be very bad without a little bit of medicine (for me at least). But the medicine is only a small part of tomorrow, and the rest of it will be quite nice, including lots of nice music in the car, interesting scenery at least part of the way, and a lunchtime stop at a nostalgic restaurant made so because we go there every year. It will be good!
Maube I should actually try to go to sleep now... :-)

The last golden sunset light sifted away into the shadows a few minutes ago, and now there is left a sort of  stillness, grey but cloaked in dusky shades of blue and rose, haunting the hilltop. Inside, lights are sparking on, and the last words of Chris Rice's album What a Heart is Beating For have died away--I guess it's time to turn on something else now. The dishwasher is humming steadily away, furniture is being moved around upstairs, an occasional footfall sounds along the hallway, and a solitary baker remains in the kitchen, stirring a passion fruit filling till it is something more substantial than its current watery state. I hear a murmur of friendly voices and soak in the light laughter of my family as I sit coiled up on the couch.
The greater portion of today was spent at Costco, heaving large quantities of various food items from shelves into shopping carts, from shopping carts to counters, from counters to carts, and finally from carts to car. Oh, and then there is always from the car to the garage fridge. I had no idea that a wedding could require so much food, but apparently it does, and it will be a beautiful wedding! All of the clothes are here, complete with several sets of darling, lace-covered ballet flats, the food is here, programs have been created, a place is  acquired, and all is in preparation for my sister and brother-in-law-to-be's wedding. I haven't the slightest idea how I will feel when I see that cloud of short, dark hair wreathed by a gauzy veil, or what I'll be thinking when I walk down the grassy hill (hopefully with sunshine on my shoulders) but I feel that whatever my emotions are, they will be extremely profound. Maybe not, though. Maybe I'll just be hoping that I'm smiling the right way and that my hair is still in order. For now, I'm content in the knowledge that it will be a superb wedding ceremony, followed by a lovely reception.
How will I ever wait for Sunday to arrive?

The list goes on

There are too many favorite things to compile into a list of fourty, so just remember, as you read, that the list extends far, far longer than I could probably ever write down. My closest friends are:

 

1. A green, purple and white field at sunset

2. The music halls at WOU

3. My family laughing around the dinner table

4. Remembering family reunions

5. Walking in the rain with my Dad

6. Climbing to the top of a maple tree

7. Picnics with chocolate, sparkling cider and cucumber cream cheese sandwiches

8. L.M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, Edwin Way Teale, Elizabeth Goudge, God (authors of all my favorite books)

9. Realizing that my family is a choir 

10. Swimming in St. Mary's River

11. Playing piano by lamplight

12. Folding laundry

13. Slicing watermelon

14. Asking Mama questions about cooking

15. Talking to my little brother

16. Reading aloud

17. Writing and receiving letters

18. Touching soft cloth

19. The moon

20. Talking to my sister till midnight

21. Candlelight dinners

23. Beautiful dessert

24. Worship in music

25. A small cabin in the woods

26. Maple leaves with  afternoon light shining through them.

27. Embroidering

28. Going on adventures with Chesterton

29. Roses and daffodils

30. Reading the Bible while drinking a cup of tea and watching the sunrise

31.Family conversations

32. Kindred spirits

33. Fir trees

34. Planting a garden

35. Running

36. Writing poems

37. Mud boots

38. French bread and cheese at the beach

39. Watching the sunset from my hill

40. Quiet moments to think about how good life is

How I could I ever survive without just a little bit of beauty?

Memory

It's sunny again; the hills are glowing and green, salted with daisies and touched by purple wild flowers. Some small, singing creature is buzzing and chirping among the tall grasses, and the nostalgic humming unfolds layers of June memories in the warm air. The pluming mauve frond at the head of each meadow grass stem is like a long sunset cloud, rippling with the wind and glistening under the light of a golden sun--how many sunsets have I watched out here again? The giant bushes of scotch broom are a lacework of clustered yellow blossoms and dark green threads weaving webs. They foreshadow each year's firework display over the river, and the tiny, bright dandelions close to the ground are their reflections. We look out the big front window in the morning to see how the dew-drenched scotch broom profusion has grown, but we watch the fireworks bloom and  fade  in a single hour of summertime wonder. The fir trees are bending and blowing with each gust of cool spring wind, almost exactly the way they did on that first afternoon when we came here to look at the property, but a big house has sprung up at the top of the hill, and the road is no longer a strip of gravel, but a real paved driveway. Still, though, there are lots of things that haven't changed, and maybe they never will. Things like the shiny green oak leaves, the moss crusting the path back through the woods, and the small scars we gave the  Climbing Tree when we were building forts with the lowest branches. I look at these, and listen to the crickets and the robins, and feel that the sunshine is back again.

Garden Time

The deer have finally realized that my garden is not entirely worthless to them, and thus it has become even more important to me. They have scored one flower head and are probably going to try for the others soon, but I'm still contemplating how to carry out my defense. Deer repellent? Attempt to build a very tall wire fence? I'm very  much at a loss...
I'm hoping that sometime soon an answer will just pop into my head (the kind of answer that I could easily put into practice) and I'll be able to fix the deer problem and secure safety for my little plants. But in the meantime, I guess I should just enjoy watching most of my garden grow up and try to protect it as best I can. There are now eight of my ten gladiolas up, all three of my dahlias,both of my lilies (though they are decapitated at the moment) and a lot of nasturtiums and bachelor's buttons. I also bought and planted two osteospermum plants, three gorgeous marigolds, two geraniums, and a little tea rose. I even have a tiny bench composed of two  stumps from the forest and a few planks of wood stretched between them, and on this I will sit and watch my garden in the mornings while I journal and read; it's very handy, and the more time I spend out there the less opportunity the deer have to enter and conquer (though I expect most of  their schemes take place in the dead of night, while they know that I can't fight  back). So I sit and think and hope that my dear little garden will survive, especially the flowers  that I have named, and sometimes I think up little spurts of poetry to write down later. This is one I composed a few days ago on my way home from a picnic with my sister:

Casting Rainbows

 Sweet moment of noon in the blossoming May,

Glad hour of time's blessed rest.

Peace with the sun on the hills where I lie,

Among grasses the wind has caressed.

The iris is raising her chorus of praise,

So satin and purple and dear.

She's touching the sky, though miles away,

Which in dreams may be ever so near.

Wind of the fairies in maple and fir,

Blow silk of the spider about.

Cast rainbows of cobweb in glistening air--

Cast a line for the salmon and trout.

Puffs of white float lazily by

Amid the clatter of branches in dance.

The shadows that leap are nymphs of spring;

Sunshine is their drink spilled by chance.

Travel

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow; -

Where below another sky

Parrot islands anchored lie,

And, watched by cockatoos and goats,

Lonely Crusoes building boats;-

Where in sunshine reaching out

Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar;-

Where the great wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with bell and voice and drum,

Cities on the other hum;-

Where are forests, hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as spire,

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts;-

Where the knotty crocodile

Lies and blinks in the nile,

And the red flaming flamingo flies

Hunting fish before his eyes;-

Where in jungles, near and far,

Man-devouring tigers are,

Lying close and giving ear

Lest the hunt be drawing near,

Or a comer-by be seen

Swinging in a palanquin;-

Where among the desert sands

Some deserted city stands,

All its children, sweep and prince,

Grown to manhood ages since,

Not a foot in street or house,

Not a stir of child or mouse,

And when kindly falls the night,

In all the town no spark of light.

There I’ll go when I’m a man

With a camel caravan;

Light a fire in the gloom

Of some dusty dining room;

See the pictures on the walls,

Heroes, fights and festivals;

And in the corner find the toys

Of the olds Egyptian boys.

~Robert Louis Stevenson

Daffodil Gully

It was a very balmy trickle of air that was blowing faintly over the green-tinted fields, and a very cloudy sky that billowed out over the blue and green mountains in the distance. Some of it, the shawl of moisture hanging just above the peaks, was brushed a lovely, pale rose color, fading to light daffodil yellow around the edges. A yellow that really did match the clumped mounds of bright gold flowers decorating the area. Dusting the hills, clinging to the little glades between the oak trees, were butter-yellow lilies, and daffodils graced the lower gully by the wet, wet gurgle at Brook Monday's base. The girl, sitting near a clump of sunny blooms at the bottom of the hill, was a very close friend to Brook Monday. She often wandered along the little banks as she composed short verses of poetry or drew a small sketch, kneeling down occasionally to get a closer look at a sprightly flower-nymph or a budding leaf - there is a certain attitude of fresh uprightness in a new leaf that the girl found very difficult to capture (especially since she wan't much of an artist). But just then she was content to sit by the daffodils, draw one, stare down the road at the cherry tree simply over-flowing with lacy pink loveliness, and write about spring.

To Celebrate Easter

 

 Four little chicks have arrived...

  Our Easter eggs are painted...

My clematis is finally in bloom!

Happy Easter (one day early)!

Little Brother G

Autumnal shirt, navy blue sweater-vest, and light brown shorts make up the outfit. It's very small, but really, a six-month-old baby won't need a very big set of clothes. Of course, we couldn't help but buy tons of adorable little boy things (yes, we finally found out that I will have a little brother, Gavin Curtis, this summer!) and this little fall outfit is my favourite. Probably because autumn is my most cherished season and I practically need the subtle oranges and purples and vibrant shades of apple-red and sunset glow that make an autumn for me. Maybe my little brother Gavin will grow up to love the colours too!

I'm not sure I'm completely content with the fact that there are still several long, long months between me and holding little Gavin, but at least this gives me time to make lots of nice things. You see, there are numerous hats and blankets and such floating around in my head (figuratively) and I am glad that I will have time to knit or sew them up before my brother arrives, even though the time might seem to go slowly. That's okay, the more busy I keep myself the less time I will have to wish it would move along faster, and before I know it, August will be here!

So this post is to celebrate my little brother, Gavin Curtis, and the hope that time won't go too slowly for his overly-excited older sister :-) 

Saturday (there is no other word to describe it)...

There's something about a twilight walk that just makes me tingle (in a good way, to be sure). This evening I couldn't see any stars in the cloudy blackness, but there were one or two smudged glow-lights behind the clouds which at least suggested something akin to stars, and that delicious, balmy wind blowing out over the fields made up for the lack of sparkle. How can I expect many cloudless days in an Oregon March anyway? I can't.
But today wasn't all grey rain and cold air - it was actually very nice outside. I slept in late after an evening out, had a nice morning with my family, went into town with my big sister whose birthday we are celebrating today, and went on a gorgeous walk to my hilltop. There I sat on an old green gate, had a picnic lunch with myself, and read a book ( The Story Girl, by L.M. Montgomery) while curled up behind the shelter of a big row of blackberry bushes. I know, brambles don't seem like a perfectly relaxing spot to rest, but they weren't so bad, and were a nice barrier between me and the wind. I also wrote a letter to myself  ( which I will read again and laugh at sometime in the faraway future) and almost fell asleep in the sweet gold sunshine of the lazy afternoon. But I didn't quite; instead I came home and had another lovely evening with almost all of my family together, here at the house on the hill.

The Snow Garden

You see that small, rock-bordered area a little bit away from the house? I know, you can't see the ground (or the rocks, for that matter) because of all the slick whiteness that is still covering it, but it is there. Under our shrinking layer of snow is a covering of cut hay and dry leaves, and beneath that is a creeping growth of greenery which shouldn't be there, but has stealthily shot up anyway. That's alright, though, I'm okay with a few  weeds until it is time to plant. A myriad of ideas are popping into my head this week as I dream about my little flower garden, and the top items on my list are sorbet peonies, marigolds, primroses, daffodils (next year) and my little potted rose bush. It seems like such a long time until I can help all those bright, colorful blooms into existence, but the time will come - eventually... I can't wait!

Not Long Now, Moonchild

Just a few more minutes, said my little heart, which was pitter-pattering with a vengeance as the car rounded what seemed like the millionth corner on the road. It had been a good week spent with wonderful friends while Mama and Daddy searched for the "new house" which we would eventually live in and call home, but I was so ready to hug them and go back to all the normal things (our house, our family all together, Mama's meals, and even our yard, which was very important to me). So, as our friends drove me and my big sister to the home of some more friends, where we would have a potluck and meet up with Mama and Daddy, I was having a hard time living in the present of never-ending streets and stop signs. I don't actually remember very much about the potluck and the reunion, except for noticing the enormous pile of shoes in the entry (my family and our group of friends consisted of a lot of people, and thus a lot of discarded shoes at our doors) and liking the pasta salad because of all the cheese in it. So the only memories I have of that week are alternate afternoons of sunshine and rain, times for the playhouse and times for the woods, going to a long church service on Sunday morning (which I very irreverently fell asleep during) and having grilled cheese sandwiches with oranges for lunch when we came home from church. And, of course, the seemingly long drive to the potluck while my heart pumped in anticipation of seeing my parents (my best friends) again. That was a good week, and it had a very good ending to it as well.

This week has been good too, and I'm definitely looking forward to its ending; not because it has been bad, but, once again, I find myself almost dancing with excitement to see almost all of my family together again. When brother D comes home from AIT, and we can all be here together for a while, it will be an even better time. But for now I will be content to welcome home my two closest friends and hope that they don't mind this cold Oregon after a sunny, relaxing week with Grandma and Grandpa in Mexico! I can't wait to see you tonight, Mama and Daddy!!! 

Snow, sunset, and spring...

Somewhere in the countryside, perched on the cold top rung of an old green fence, was a young girl who loved to study the sunset. On a day like this, when the air was tingling with snow-charm and the wind blew crisp breaths of sunset air around her hair, she felt particularly inclined to sit there for a while and simply let the subtle colours and misted hills soak into her spirit and calm her.
"March 1st," she wrote in her notebook "on my old Gate of Dreams at the bottom of Sunset Hill". She smiled sheepishly as she read the fancy titles she had given these two things, but then, she knew that the rest of her writing would be ridiculously full of adjectives (especially colours) and descriptive sentences as well, so the names didn't really matter. "The melting snow has almost vanished now;" she continued to scribble on with her stubby pencil, "there is just a scattering of that coldly glinting white now. But those few cups of crystalline winter that are left now are incredible!They are clusters of frozen diamonds, clinging to one another and melting even as they reflect the silver-blue of the evening sky." Here she paused, deciding whether or not to form a new paragraph. She did it.
"Up there, where the north-flying geese create traceries of momentary grace, are the stories whispered by the snow. Each cloud, having released its burden of dry, feathered rain, has drifted off to the golden-rose horizon, and the half moon, not wanting to repeat the snow-starred earth, is coloured a honey-sweet cream..."
She looked up at the sky, knowing that it was an almost hopeless endeavour, attempting to capture that timeless shade of deep coolness in words, but if she couldn't do it then at least she could look. So for the next few minutes she just stared up, gazing at the disappearing light, the climbing moon, and those dark grey clouds  looming closer as they blew swiftly across the sky. They were very big, ominous clouds, and just as she was about to get up and start the walk home, the first cold, heavy drop splashed down across her cheek. The rain followed her all the way to her doorstep, but somehow it couldn't get inside, so it stayed out above the hill, pattering down against the yellowed grass of last summer.
The girl sighed as she heard the dancing of those wet drops against the windowpanes, remembering that it wasn't quite spring yet. Later that evening, as she warmed herself before the fire, she wrote once more in her journal: "I'm learning that the turning of the calendar page to March doesn't necessarily mean spring has arrived, but that it is a symbol of that season's coming in a while. There were geese flying north today (I wrote about them during my walk a few hours ago) and as I walked home the crocuses looked so fresh and green and alive as they poked up through the cold snow in the garden, but no, it isn't spring yet. That's all right though, I can live huddled next to the stove for another few weeks while I wait!"

Thoughts of Spring

Yes, it is still winter, but there are a few small token blossoms - the prelude to spring. The slender green spears of crocus and daffodil are reaching tentatively through the rich, dark soil and peering at the sky. In town, tiny red and yellow flowers are popping up all over the place, but here on the hilltop they are still waiting. They are motionless on the outside, but somewhere in that thread-like shoot of green there is beauty growing; a beauty which will slowly, gracefully emerge into petals of pale lavender and yellow.
Inside the house, thriving on the fragments of sunshine that stream through the window, is my little potted rose bush. There are several flowers blooming into complete (if miniature) crimson roses. They would be perfect, except for one factor: the never-ending parade of aphids which reappear every morning. But I very unceremoniously blow them out the door every time I water the bush, in  the hope that one day I will get rid of them forever. And the satin softness of each flushed rose leaf when they are aphid-free is enough to make up for the little pests.
Flowers, of course, aren't the only signs leading up to spring's flurry of growth and color. There are so many subtle messages on the topic, beginning as early as mid-January, and even before that I know that there is a pulse of life under that hard, frozen ground, and a stirring to future wakefulness along the veins of the wintering trees. There is never a time of year when the world is entirely silent, it seems. From one spring to the next, including in the dead of winter, there is always quiet, and often invisible, living going on. But now I can finally see it, and in just a few months there will be a full, vibrant, rich splendor of music dancing through the garden and woods.

More From the Poetry Corner

The Dapple-cat

Two dainty paws on the pine tree bark,

Two on the pine-needle floor,

And one white-tipped tail held high in the air.

Smoke-grey and sleek, as swift as a lark,

Creamy pale splotches like foam on the shore –

One little dapple-cat prowling there.

Sharp, bright green eyes, hunting for mice,

Scanning the dew-speckled grass

While pointed, silk ears hear each tiny squeak.

Sometimes, the dapple-cat is actually nice,

Curled as still as a figure of glass

Or lapping up milk looking ever so meek.

But the wild dapple-cat is nearly all free,

Strolling a walk with his tiger-perfect grace.

Haughty, and lazy, and completely alone;

The emerald eyes seem to hold every key,

All knowledge is seen in that face,

And music is heard in that sly purring tone.

The dapple-cat, all on his own…

~Faerynn M.

Walking

It is a moody sort of day. One minute the rain is pouring down - a spirited cascade of silver fireworks splashing against the window panes - and the next the sky, empty of rain, is a tumult of grey and blue, while the wind is tossing the tree boughs with reckless haste. A myriad of clustering raindrops will twinkle in the momentary sunlight, and then it is gone, leaving a grey, misted calm to take its place. That is the way it is now. There is a ring of clouds spreading upward from the horizon, but the center of the sky is a clear evening blue (broken every so often by an intricate design of lacy grey). 

On my walk this afternoon everything was clear, damp and spring-like. The moss carpeting the forest floor was such a vibrant green that it looked almost unreal, and each fresh burst of sunlight revealed tiny green buds lining thin branches; branches which cleverly hid the little singers of the forest. The birds were very good at remaining unseen, though I did notice one tiny creature hopping along in the underbrush, and I could hear them. Once, rounding a bend in the woodland path I often use, I listened to an incredible, sweet bird melody that I can't remember hearing before (but I easily could have, as I don't generally remember very well). And then, just as the bird ended its song, I heard a very different sound: the crack of a branch under a firm hoof. There were three deer, blending into the foliage on my right, walking ever so softly along their own well-used trails. It never ceases to amaze me how graceful deer are, how very gentle their footsteps are as long as they aren't frightened. They were startled to see me, though  they probably noticed me before I did them. But after the initial surprise we just stood there, staring curiously at each other. I took note of their sleek brown grace, and their ears which were so attuned to every bird call, snapping twig, and squirrel barking in the distance. I wonder what they thought of me...

Valentine's Day on the Hilltop

There are always a lot of traditions attached to a holiday; whole strings of special food, special events, special gatherings and special people are remembered as the appointed day unfolds. For Christmas it's turkey and pine trees and fuzzy socks, on New Year's Eve there is a midnight sip of sparkling cider. The dawn of Easter smells like cinnamon bread, new spring dresses and curled hair, and the Fourth of July is a day for parades and and watermelon and hot sun and the U.S. And then, in the middle of a cold, rainy winter, is today: a time for warm hearts, red tissue paper and gifts of flowers. Usually we celebrate in the morning with Valentine cards, and in the evening with chocolate milkshakes and hamburgers around the table. This year is different. Not everyone is here today, and so we will save our Valentine dinner for the weekend, though we still passed around cards this morning. It is a little sad to postpone it, but there is that deeper meaning for a holiday (and every day) that miles can't ruin. The essence of Valentine's Day is love, and in our family there is love and celebration between us even when we're not within sight of one another. There are little notes and red paper hearts travelling from post office to post office as they find their way to brighten the day of a beloved friend or relative, there are Emails and messages of "Happy Valentine's Day, I love you!" all over the place, and occasionally five bouquets of beautiful flowers show up at the doorstep from the best Daddy in the world (that was my very first bouquet, by the way)!

And with all the flurry, there is still a bit of time to think, and to ponder the meaning of love. Because love is from God and he wants us to enjoy all of the lovely things in this world that he made, and he wants us to love the salvation he gave, because he loved us. It's a ring of love, and today is the day to celebrate that. Happy Valentine's Day!

P.S. Yes, there is chocolate in that bag sitting on the counter!

Good Things

"Great are the works of the Lord; they are pondered by all who delight in them. Glorious and majestic are his deeds, and his righteousness endures forever"(Psalm 111: 2-3). I definitely fall into the "pondering and delighting" category today. There are so many things to be thankful for!

It's not an incredibly sunny day, as it was last week, but I can see dainty streaks of blue sky amid the clouds, and Mt. Jefferson is literally glowing, blanketed as it is by a robe of sun-reflecting snow. There is even a dark, far-away hawk circling above the treetops. It's cold outside, but the fire is so toasty and bright, and the house is warm  because there is a whole, happy family inside of it (except for brother D, at AIT for a few months). I fell asleep last night to the lull of three bright stars winking at me through the window, and woke up early enough to have a very nice quiet time, eat my bagel slowly and get ready for church without hurrying. I enjoyed church a lot too, especially singing time and choir practice (I can't get enough of singing, especially praise and worship type songs). 

I want to make the most of my Sunday afternoon, which means that I need to decide what I want to do, and what I need to do. Mostly I want to walk, because a weekend isn't a real weekend to me if I don't go on at least one long walk. Yesterday I did that in the evening, and by the time I came back it was dark  and cool, and all traces of the yellow-gold sunset were gone, but the stars hadn't made their appearance yet. Maybe this time my walk will be an afternoon ramble through the woods or to that dear little haunt I call "Sunset Hill". Or maybe I'll walk along the vineyard fence or just along the road, or I could hold tryst with the silent, friendly trees in the chestnut grove. There are so many places I would like to wander through today, but I know that I can't see them all! Well, eventually I'll decide, and for now I'll be content to know that all my old favorite places will still be there by the time I come around to them. 

What is poetry?

There are so many various outlooks on life; so many different ways of "writing out" all the thoughts and hopes and dreams of any individual, or several individuals, or a nation. Today, meandering through rows of shelves, each one containing a dizzying array of books, I tasted a sample of bewilderment as I tried to find something that I liked. There was fiction, art, history, fantasy, science, gardening and cooking each in its own segment; the colored picture books and the encyclopedias had their corner of the library. Then there was the poetry section, which I generally lean towards, filled with thick volumes of Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, Lowell, and a great many other composers whose beloved names I can't seem to recall. There is so much diversity (and a few similarities) between each author's style, that it's hard to find the thread that connects them. Why do they all call themselves poets? Is it because the lines are centered on the page, or because  they have the freedom to cut out letters and capitals or add them in? It can't be that they write of the same things, that there is a set topic for poetry; because there isn't. Some people write about sand and wind and ocean tides, some people focus on character, some on whatever debate they are interested in, and some on the reflections of street lights on rain-washed pavement. So what is poetry then?
I very honestly don't know. It is some deep, inner urge to put into lyrical words a feeling or a thought. A hunger for the ideas to straighten and form into something readable, if not logical, and beautiful even when they're confusing. But to write the meaning of poetry in complete, unbroken detail would be very, very difficult.
I finally checked out a book of collected poems written by James Lowell, and took it home to enjoy throughout the week. When I had settled down to read  some of it, I found a poem describing poetry, which I thought I could insert right at the end of this post. Unfortunately, looking through the book to find it again, I haven't seen it at all. So I'll just have to do without my neat conclusion and end the post here. But I can slide in some other poetry by Lowell (I've really been enjoying this rather old-fashioned set of sonnets). This is the first stanza in The Token, written by Lowell in 1842:

It is a mere wild rosebud,

Quite sallow now, and dry,

Yet there's something wondrous in it,-

Some gleams of days gone by,-

Dear sights and sounds that are to me

The very moons of memory,

And stir my heart's blood far below

It's short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Sometime I'll write down the rest of it, but not right now. Right now I want to sleep.

Twilight

She watched with rapturous delight as the sunset unfolded before her; it was a creamy affair of ivory, primrose and butter yellow tapering off into pristine blue. A flush of dusky crimson painted the sky behind the mountains, and above them plumed a mass of thick purple-grey clouds. They were collecting twilit stories and vivid melodies to whisper in the ears of those who listen and wait for them. Smells of tangy wood smoke and breathing evergreens flavored the air and were carried about by the evening breeze that was haunting the woodland (it always did at that uncanny in between hour). The only sounds were the silvery notes of a thrush singing among the firs, and a chorus of frogs down by the mill pond. And, weaving through the trees, a solitary wind sang whimsically about the filigree wings of dusk.

A Corner of Poetry

Recently, I received a letter from a friend, in which was the beautiful poem "The Snow Arrives After Long Silence". It isn't snowing right now, of course, but the poem speaks so eloquently to the snow-lovers in the world that I just have to write it down here. So here it is, along with a poem that I wrote sometime last year:

The Snow Arrives After Long Silence 
The snow arrives after long silence
from its high home where nothing leaves
tracks or stains or keeps time.
The sky it fell from, pale as oatmeal,
bears up like sheep before shearing.


The cat at my window watches
amazed. So many feathers and no bird!
All day the snow sets its table
with clean linen, putting its house
in order. The hungry deer walk


on the risen loaves of snow.
You can follow the broken hearts
their hooves punch in its crust.
Night after night the big plows rumble
and bale it like dirty laundry


and haul it to the Hudson.
Now I can scan the sky for snow,
and the cool cheek it offers me,
and its body, thinned into petals,
and the still caves where it sleeps.
~Nancy Willard


Dawn Twilight
Mist, draping gracefully
from each quivering bough,
is stirred to life by
the twilight breeze awakening
in a pale opalescent sky.


One distant star,
hovering near the edge
of a crimson horizon,
disappears, melting into
the lightening sky.


Dew, blanketing the hilltops
with cold, sweet drops,
is reflecting the light
and glowing like tiny,
sparkling red orbs.


A robin, joining the stream
in a whimsical melody,
breaks the stillness
of the pristine twilight,


and a ray of sunlight,
dropping through the 
curtain of rising mist,
lets the whole world know
that it is dawn.

It's All Good...

Last week was marvelous, particularly when Daddy came home from his business trip on Friday, and our visit with friends on Saturday. School went very well, and I finished early enough most days to go on long walks admiring all of God's amazing creation among the fir, maple, oak and hazel trees that populate our area. On Friday, there was even a bit of sweet sunshine pouring down out of a clear blue sky, and my afternoon walk was warm! Everything seemed to sparkle with life and clarity after the days of rain and clouds. As we left home for church this morning, I saw a bright double rainbow, layered with a myriad of subtle colors, stretching across the sky in the west; and from the east a mellow golden sunrise-light was spreading across our hilltop and sliding down into the valley. All this light! It seems to promise goodness in this week too, and I pray that it does. Even if  the week isn't as nice as I wish for it to be, I hope that I still cherish the good things in each day: the half-hour of quiet prayer and reading that I enjoy before I begin my routine of school and exercise, the joy of learning new things and gaining little parcels of knowledge in the different subjects I study, the time with my family and friends, and getting excited while I wait for August, and my little brother or sister, to arrive in the summer. Each of these things, and many, many more, are wonderful parts of my life right now... things to be thankful for.
Now it is raining again, but I won't forget the five minutes of sunshine this morning, the rainbow, and the clear sky on Friday. I want to keep walking in the light that gratitude and happiness bring!

Moonlit Reflections

It is dark outside; not dark like midnight is dark, but the shady liquid blackness of a day just ended, and a world sighing as it nestles down into its blanket of cool sleep. There is a small star pulsating just above the tip of a fir tree that is there but invisible in the blackness, and an opalescent moon, slowly waning as the days wear on. Inside, the fire is sparking to life under the hand of the expert hearth-tender, Mama, and little red-gold sprites are dancing about inside the stove, their laughter popping and crackling among the seasoned logs. The light plays across Christmas paper garlands that are draped across the kitchen and family room windows, and the white snowflakes hanging from them are tossing shadow and glow to each other as the fire-sprites leap to and fro...

Another Week Begun

That was a very exciting weekend. My cousin is married! There was snow! No power! Time with family! A long drive there and back again! And then - CRASH! Suddenly it's all over, and I'm back to a normal school routine and an extremely quiet house. I'm tired (even though I slept a little bit late this morning) and getting school done was a stretch.  But I did it, and I know that tomorrow will be easier since I started the clock ticking today. I will probably be able to get myself up on time and feel a lot more awake during school. And guess what? As soon as tomorrow, the day after, the day after, and the day after that are over, I can sleep in again because it will be Saturday!
But doing school again isn't bad, now that I have pulled through the first day and have learned the rhythm of it once again. I think I'll enjoy tomorrow much more, and Awana on Wednesday will be fun too. I'm looking forward to the rest of the week!

Puddles... Ponds... Lakes

The valley, which has forever been a tapestry of farmland, woods, and faraway barns and houses, has become a series of puddles, or ponds, or maybe they're closer to lakes. For a while today, during a short-lived moment of sunshine, the lakes shimmered blindingly in the light, but now they  just gleam palely beneath that very dark sky. However, the world is still an extremely beautiful place. I rediscover that fact every time I decide to have a little ramble in the woods behind our house, or along the grassy path past a half-finished vineyard, or just on the wet black road stretching for a mile before it turns into gravel. Today I was a woodland explorer, and I had a great time meandering over little streams that have appeared magically throughout the past few days. I heard birds singing, chirping, or repeating funny little ditties consisting of only one or two notes. I found  a mossy bird nest cupped up in the branches of a hazel tree, listened to the groans of a very old-sounding tree, and admired an orange salamander that I probably scared to death. The salamander handled the "life and death" situation very well; it sat very still and watched me with a remotely interested expression in its solemn black eyes (I'm not really sure if it had an expression, but if I were a salamander I would feel remotely interested)!
These little events are my proof of the world's beauty, these and coming home to a warm, fire-lit house, snowflake wreaths decorating our windows, and a few hours of free afternoon to fill up. Oh yes, and the lakes in the valley:)

Mirror Water

A peerless, gleaming light

Painted on miles of water,

Stretched from field

To rain-drenched field

Under a mist-blown sky.

Trees linger in flickering

Reflections, suffused in

Tiny, scudding wavelets

That ripple like the air

Vibrating with a bird's cry.

Each rainbow drop,

Falling from tangled

Grey clouds up above,

Is a mirror of sunlight

As it slides down to the earth.

Word of the Forest

 Mystic allure in the faraway blue,

Hidden 'neath forests of mist,

Gold under snow in haunts of the dew:

Those chambers of mountain and sky.

The call of the woods under

Shadow of tree,

In winter with frost and in

Summer of bee,

It breathes a tale of truth to the world,

It sighs a word of

Grace to me.

The wind is a song in the reticent firs,

Dipping their boughs

In the light of the moon.

Tossing black needles o'er glittering stars,

Whisp'ring bright hopes through

That translucent old rune.

Seven Sisters

It is 7:30 P.M. Two letters, sealed, stamped and addressed, are waiting patiently on the family room table. They are not in a hurry to sit for long, cold hours in the big black mailbox at the top of the hill. But they are, however, excited to be picked up and settled in the pockets of a bright orange hoodie that is their temporary vehicle to the said  black mailbox.
It is only a half mile walk, but there are so many stars to look at and so much gossiping  for the letters to do that the time passes far too quickly. The letters delight in that few minutes. They alternately  watch the sky and whisper letter-like secrets to each other, finding  that their information, once shared, is depressingly similar: a bit of news, some poetry, and random musings and responses which will probably make sense to whoever receives each letter, but makes none whatsoever for the sheets of pencil-marked stationary. The stars, on the other hand... this is something that the letters know a bit about. Their kind has gone on so many moonlit walks and listened to so many human exclamations over the night sky that they could recognize at least a few constellations. Orion, for instance, looks fabulous tonight (his belt in particular seems to glitter with unusual intensity). Cassiopeia, the crown of the sky, is located at the end of a translucent thread, on the other side of which is the handle of the big dipper. The pendant for this invisible chain is the North Star, so small, but bright and twinkling against it's cushion of smooth blackness. But by unanimous agreement of all the letters that ever traveled between the house on the hill and the big black mailbox, the Seven Sisters is the general favorite.
"It's so illusive", they say in hushed voices from within the orange sweater pocket.
"All those pale, starry-eyed daughters of the sky... and yes, that was a pun," says one voice defensively inside it's envelope.
"You should make a poem on them; part of it could be the sentence you just used. But you didn't have to tell me about the pun, I would have known without an explanation." This last was said haughtily, but not enough so to annoy the first letter too much.
"Ahhh, here we are at the transportation box! I can't wait to see where I'm going," declared one of them.
"You mean to say that you can't feel her handwriting and decipher it's meaning? Why, I'm quite efficient at that particular art. But of course, you are sooo much younger than me that you can't be expected to have learned such things yet." The letter smiled condescendingly, gloating over those ten minutes of existence that the other letter hadn't partaken of. He heard a sniff of disdain from the other pocket and began to sulk; he had hoped for a more dramatic response.
Then the letters were placed in the mailbox, or "transportation box" as they would call it, and their voices faded away, still discussing the Seven Sisters and boasting about their various limited abilities. High above them, floating in a distant universe, the said "pale, starry-eyed daughters of the sky" laughed whimsically together over the foolish notions of the two earthling letters. That is, they laughed for the next several hours,  until they melted with the coming of dawn.

Home Again - School Again

Yesterday the family (all except for our soldier in AIT) came home from a great weekend at our favorite little cabin in the woods. It was cold, but we were well-equipped with slippers and blankets and mugs of hot chocolate, plus a log fire, to keep us toasty and happy. The traditional games that we always bring (Settlers of Catan, Carcassonne, and Dutch Blitz) were accidentally forgotten at the house, so we did not have quite as many activities to do, but there was a lot of walking, eating, talking, and tons of reading to make up for it. We enjoyed our time together, and we enjoyed the beautiful mountain scenery if not the mountain chill.
But I am still very happy to be back to my regular school routine after three weeks of break. It's nice to get up at a reasonable time every morning, to think and exercise, and to feel my days once more filling with things to learn and do and study. So far, though I've only gone through most of the first day, I've definitely been liking it. I'm pretty certain that the rest of the week will be great too!

A Month of Beginnings

The year 2011 was rounded off by the perfect visit with dear cousins doing all of our favorite things. The stroke of midnight found us standing around the kitchen counter, clinking together glasses of apple juice mixed with seltzer to create the tingle that we would otherwise have found in sparkling cider. During the next few minutes I slipped out to the front porch, where I watched stars fade in and out of view as clouds drifted across an ebony sky, and viewed the tiny splashes of color from firework displays down in the valley. And I thought over the past year, and dreamed for the coming one, and whispered out into the crisp, cold air of an early January morning the prayer that I pray every year at that moment: a prayer for a good year, and a growing heart, and a blessing on all of my family and friends. And if the first four days had a voice, I'm sure they would agree with me that, so far, this January has been a wonderful month of beginnings.

Logs

This tree, by April wreathed in flowers,

That sheened with leaves the summer hours,

In dappling shine and shade,

Now all that then was lovely lacks,

Is vanquished by the saw and axe,

And into firewood made.

How happy and gentle a daybreak song

Whispered its solemn boughs among,

At sigh of morning stirred;

It braved the dangerous lightning; rose

In splendor crowned with winter's snows;

And sheltered every bird

That perched with slender claw and wing

to preen, to rest, to roost, to sing,

Unseen, but not unheard.

But came the woodman with his axe

Into the sun-sweet glade;

And what was once all beauty and grace

Is into firewood made.

~Walter de la Mare