medial // caesura

I have had that silly song from Barney in my head all morning.  I guess because the sun is shining strong this morning--"bright and morning sun--please shine down on me." :)  A poem by Mary Oliver, a favorite, comes to mind: The Sun Have you ever seen anything in your life more wonderful than the way the sun, every evening, relaxed and easy, floats toward the horizon and into the clouds or the hills, or the rumpled sea, and is gone-- and how it slides again out of the blackness, every morning, on the other side of the world, like a red flower streaming upward on its heavenly oils[. . .] do you think there is anywhere, in any language, a word billowing enough for the pleasure that fills you, as the sun reaches out, as it warms you as you stand there, empty-handed-- or have you too turned from this world-- or have you too gone crazy for power, for things? Lovely, isn't it?  Oliver captures so well my feelings about the sun's ...

Hiking the Exclamation Point at Chimney Rock with Cousin Jameson, Ben, Knox, Mommy and Daddy Cultivation at its finest at the Biltmore--the same landscape architect who designed Central Park Our view at breakfast the last couple of mornings at Carolina Heaven

It was one of those doctor visits.  A new neurologist and I was spent from sharing the story of my son's 16 years.  After two hours at UNC-Chapel Hill, I drove to Franklin Street.  The last time we walked this street, a deliciousness wafted from the Italian Pizzeria that I would not pass up this time. I wheel D in and we are greeted by a handsome, young Italian.  With the collar of his polo flipped up, he carries himself like a soccer player--former soccer player, that is. His black hair is receding--he's probably in his early 30s. "What's your name, young man?" he speaks to D with a thick, maybe Sicilian accent.  D struggles to answer, but instead of answering for him as I often do, I wait.  The man was speaking to him, not me. "D,"  he replies thickly. "DAVE!"  was the Italian proprietor's exclamation.  I was going to correct the name, but, as I said before, I was exhausted, and just managed a smile.  He continued, "Dave? ...

Psalm 19 The heavens declare the glory of God,     and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. 2  Day to day pours out speech,      and night to night reveals knowledge.   3  There is no speech, nor are there words,      whose voice is not heard. In my yard, something is always blooming.   Just before I stop noticing the exquisiteness of one plant or the moment I become sad about its wilted bloom, another beauty announces itself.  The boys and I planted some seeds to contribute to our ongoing beauty, and as a precursor to a garden endeavor, some pepper plants to promote eating fresh.  It was fun to play in the dirt together.  It felt good to have that caked dirt on my hands, for a few days impossible to remove from my cracked fingers. And I planted phlox. It's something I've always wanted in my yard.  It's fragrant, delicate, and easy-to-grow.  Many species ...

The Caged Skylark by Gerard Manley Hopkins A s a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage   Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells—   That bird beyond the remembering his free fells; This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age. / Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage,   Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells,   Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage. / Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest— Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop down to his nest,    But his own nest, wild nest, no prison. / Man’s spirit will be flesh-bound when found at best, But uncumbered: meadow-down is not distressed   For a rainbow footing it nor he for his bónes rísen. My favorite poet:   Hopkins with his neologisms and sprung rhythm, his eye for beauty and heart for Christ.    This past coup...

Perhaps it's from watching Downton Abbey a few too many times, but when I type as of late, I have a British accent in my head, and tonight, I've even taken to assigning my sons titles.  For Family Friday Movie Night, we watched the first 2 parts of The Petite Prince--the one where he saves the Chlorophyllians from the disappearing stars.  What a fun adaptation for the 5-7 age set!  There were flying spacecrafts, a sword-wielding prince, a talking fox, a shape-changing snake, and gargantuan plants.  What more could a boy want?  And I enjoyed the colors, lines and fairytale beauty of the animated landscape as well as the underlying worldview. This was the first time movie night was paused for more than bathroom or medicine or popcorn breaks.  We paused to talk, to discuss, to engage the movie, and it was so much fun.  For instance, the green juice that the Chlorophyllians sprayed on their plants that was more efficacious and efficient than any Mirac...

Well done is how I liked my steak as a teenager.  I remember my father trying to convince me that pink juice filling the plate as I pierced a bite with my fork was good.  I ran upstairs crying and vowed vegetarianism for a while.  Then settled on well done.  Now that I'm "grown up," I like medium well.  My father approves. I went to two high school graduations last week.  Both talked of past achievement and future potential, but the second spoke of more than hope in a successful life on earth.  The ultimate goal, said the commencement speaker, is the approval of an eternal God and heavenly Father with the words:   "Well done, my good and faithful servant."  Last week, I had another episode with anxiety.  It was triggered by dwelling on summer:  the stress of caring for three boys mostly on my own.  Cleaning house and packing for a two-week trip and this entirely on my own.  Granted, I put additional pressure o...