Is My Voice Yet Heard In the Great Unknown?
Time has taken me swiftly on his wing and and the moments and places have blended and passed on their way.
At last I pick up this raveling and try to re-organize, re-create something of value and beauty . . .
SPRING is struggling toward us, loathe as we are for the heat of her, yet we love the miracle of her beauty, and the gentle calls that come on the soft breath of spring . . .
Sacrament Meeting Poem
Frustrated by inane lyrics of a folksy song about Jesus sung in Sacrament Meeting, I sat down and composed these on the spot. They come close . . .
In the quiet woodland,
Green beneath the trees,
Jesus walked.
And by the sweeping shore
Where long white waves
Curled singing at our feet,
The Savior walked.
He touched us with his hands,
Warm as the sun
That spilled her golden light,
Soft as the gray dove's wing.
And in his eyes
Were all the harvests,
All the gardens sweet,
All the pure smiles of children
Throughout time.
And Love.
Oh, in his gaze
That Love poured forth
Like honeyed light,
Like all the stars of heaven.
When His voice spoke
The wind spoke, and the thunder,
And the sea,
And every lullaby that mothers sing:
When Jesus spoke.
When Jesus walked with man.
NICK'S ART SHOW
Before Katie and Dylan left we three went to see Nick's Art Exhibit at BYU Library, down near Special Collections.
It was outstanding, and some of the pieces very thought-provoking. He showed up at the last minute and kindly explained the why and wherefore of many of the portraits: the mediums, how and why he used them, and the various effects they created.
We were grateful and pleased.
CHRISTMASTIDE
Yet, still, the beauty of the Birth of the Son of God touches all with the last rays of golden wonder . . . and we are loathe to go on with the common and ordinary again . . .
Margaret Murray:
God bless the little things this Christmastide,
All the little wild things that live outside;
Little cold robins and rabbits in the snow,
Give them good faring and a warm place to go;
All little young things for His sake Who died . . .
Who was a Little Thing at Christmastide . . .
LO, IN THE SILENT NIGHT
Fifteenth Century Poem
LO, in the silent night a child to God is born,
And all is brought again that ere was lost or lorn.
Could but thy soul, O man, become a silent night,
God would be born in thee . . . and set all things aright . . .
IN THE BLEAK DECEMBER . . . MAGIC the NORTH WIND BLOWS IN . . .
December was a month of beauty and fulfillment with a magical night at the NUTCRACKER with my sisters, Laura and Dianne. . . MORAG and TILLIE coming to visit . . . the Family Christmas Party at Jared and April's . . . then Christmas Day! As well as many opportunities to partake of the spiritual meaning of the season . . . and the printing of my mormontimes column in the newspaper Deseret News: "The Love of God--the Most Desirable Above All Other Things."
TAKE HEAVEN . . . TAKE PEACE . . . TAKE JOY
quotes from letter written by Fra Giovanni, 1513:
"No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take heaven!
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace!
The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. Take joy!
Life is so generous a giver, but we, judging its gifts by the covering, cast them away as ugly, or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power.
Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty--that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.
Courage, then, to claim it . . . courage you have, and the knowledge that we are all pilgrims together, wending through unknown country, home . . .
And so at this time, I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you--now and forever--the day breaks . . . and the shadows flee away!
Of the Father's love begotten,
E'er the worlds began to be,
HE is Alpha and Omega,
He the Source . . . the Ending He . .
Of all things that are, and have been,
And that future years may see . . .
EVERMORE and EVERMORE . . .
THE TREMBLING MAIDEN ALL SILVER AND PALE . . .
I could not find anything about "ALL HALLOW'S EVE" . . .
so I wrote my own thoughts & impressions, and here they are:
All Hallow's Eve:
The gray night descends,
And the rooks rise up, and an errant breeze
Blows into a cold wind that shatters the sky,
And I can hear dozens of spirits cry,
Shadows that linger like dust in the air,
Or mist in the hollows. And over the moon
An old ghost whistles a gypsy tune --
Or is it a cloud cut the golden orb
Into shards of black ink that stain and spread?
And what is the moaning inside my head?
And what this fear, like a chill sick wave?
And the wind never still, and a new-dug grave,
And a trembling maiden all silver and pale . . .
All Hallow's Eve:
Where the ancient pain
Settles more sure than the stone-dark gloom,
And the voices that call through a thousand years,
And the sightless eyes that still weep their tears.
Why do you haunt me?
And why do I feel
A kinship with all that troubles me here?
What do I long for, just out of reach?
Bleak is the crow's voice along my skin,
So why do I raise my face to the rain?
And let the wind tatter my soul with its breath?
Oh, what kind of Life persists here beside death?
THE CROWS and I KEEP VIGIL HERE
Mairi saw a hooded crow on the Isle of Lewis. I have QUOTH, ragged and ill-used as he is, and chicadees at my autumn feeder, and leaves slowly, oh, too slowly, coming down . . .
ALL HALLOW'S EVE fast approaching. We need wind and gray skies, and a few wild noises to . . . and memories . . . most of all memories, from as far back as we can glean them, enticing them into the reality of This Day . . . .
My Autumn Experience, real and truly lived . . . LEAVES
I can see the shadows of the big leaves
From the plane tree
Before they fall:
Like birds floating over my head --
But they do not fall --
They tumble and careen
On their short ride,
Then skid to the ground,
Trembling still with the
Glorious motion.
Do they look at the sky,
So suddenly far above them?
Feel the tickle of grass,
And miss the rough caress
Of the winds that sway the trees?
They had to let go --
And change --
And relinquish --
And what is left of them now,
Curled and brittle,
And mottled with autumn shades?
Oh, now! Now another magic
Rustles their spines,
And the wind sweeps them up,
Sweeps them up like the litter of fairies,
And in their high, shifting piles
The children of wonder
Wrestle and jump and roll,
And cover their heads with the bright leaves,
And bury their arms and their legs
In the tingling aroma,
And burrow like little moles
Until even their eyes are hidden,
To come sputtering up
New creatures, trailing secrets . . .
And on the paths,
Where the leves lie thick and trodden,
Young women walk,
And push the leaves with their toes,
As they push their dreams,
Laden with an ache and a longing
They cannot explain,
As they hug the glory to them,
And wonder why
They cannot soar with their longings . . .
I see the leaves,
They come one by one,
As we do:
As all things born
For the sake of Beauty
Must.
Let Fall No Burning Leaf . . . Let No Bird Call . . .
Nothing captures the feeling of autumn as well as Edna St. Vincent's poem: O WORLD
O World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide gray skies,
Thy mists, that roll and rise,
Thy woods, this autumn day,
That ache and sag, and all but cry with color:
That gaunt crag to crush,
To lift the lean of that black bluff--
World, world! I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
Yet never knew I this,
Here such a passion is as stretcheth me apart:
Lord, I do fear thous't made the world
Too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me:
Let fall no burning leaf, prithee,
Let no bird call . . .
THE OLD GHOST by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Over the water an old ghost strode
To a churchyard on the shore,
And over him the waters had flowed
A thousand years or more,
And pale and wan and weary
Looked never a sprite as he;
For it's lonely and it's dreary
The ghost of a body to be
That has mouldered away in the sea.
Over the billows the old ghost stepped,
And the winds in mockery sung;
For the bodiless ghost would fain have wept
Over the maiden that lay so young
'Mong the thistles and toadstools so hoary,
And he begged of the waves a tear,
But they shook upwards their moonlight glory,
And the shark looked on with a sneer
At his yearning desire and agony.
FARRER SCHOOL -- Transformed, Renewed, Restored--thanks to Stephen!
This posting is mainly for Mairi's benefit, since she has not been able to see the real thing. But I think the details will be of great interest to everyone: the beauty and spirit reach out, and the symmetry and care are lovely to behold!
LONG HAVE I KNOWN A GLORY IN IT ALL . . .
Hastening September on her way, I peer into the coming October days, anxious for the glory, color and sense of LIFE which comes with autumn . . .
Hence, in anticipation . . .
"Where there is no imagination, there is no horror"
Arthur Conan Doyle
"A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man awoke in the night . . . "
JM BARRIE
"If a man harbors any sort of fear, it makes him landlord to a ghost." --Lloyd Douglas
O World, I Cannot Get Thee Close Enough
September 14th was the first show of color on the high mountains -- nearly three weeks later than usual. Red: deep, vibrant spots and splashes, with gray trees marching up the skyline and blue, cloudless sky above. Now the color has spread, red still, but the trailing arms of my Weeping Birch are showing yellow, and the stillness of autumn is creeping slowly in. How has autumn this power to slow time . . . to mute sounds . . . to stop hearts . . .
Solstice Walk
Driving through a wonderland of frost and the early shades of a cold sunset, Mairi and I headed to Kilmartin Glen, not minding that we followed a slow truck, for the scenery, with mist and cloud and colors staining the gray lochs we passed by needed more time for reflection than a fast passing through.
COLD. We arrived at last, could not find our B&B, asked directions, were led to the steep entrance into parking behind the old Manse. We were the only inmates, and the landlord was kindly (or jolly, as Mairi would say) and we bundled up again to walk down to the inn to eat salmon salad and venison pie.
Up at out of doors by eight in the morning, gathering with a group of about twenty other enthusiasts to walk to Solstice Path of ancient times: Standing Stones, rare, because of the markings upon them, dating back to neolithic times; Chambering Cairns, neolithic, smaller ones of bronze age. Much walking in several inches of snow over rough hummocks of grass, with black-faced Scottish sheep to keep us company. Amazingly warm, though slipping and sliding a bit, with tempt. in the teens. Privy to a full, rich history, more strong in this area than any other in Scotland. The memories kindly made room for us, but the frozen stones were indifferent in their beauty and sturdiness, and kept all their knowledge securely sealed, unapproachable.
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| One of the first standing stones, so self-contained, is it not? Does it see, or feel, the sunrise seeping into the sky? |
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| Mairi outside low cist burial. |
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| Fifteenth century grave slabs, wondrous, yes? |
It sounds magical, and other-worldly. I'm so glad you both were there. What a unique experience! Where did Mairi get that hat???
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