You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Thinking without words? How about being born deaf? How would you conceptualize anything?
The inner dialogue to get through a day., things like “Let’s take a shower.”
And then? “Let’s eat,” even if it’s only one plate.
~*~
What does the dog know
that I don’t?
She’s tired of talking socially
and so am I
We have calling hours
and a funeral ahead
The thought hit me while scrolling through old posts on this blog.
Does anyone you know actually maintain a tightly focused life?
You know, someone who proclaims, ”These are my goals and I’m sticking to them”?
Or is it more a matter of steering between the many things that just pop up, like they do on the merry-go-round here at the Red Barn?
Or more like a pinball machine, for those of us of a certain age?
In the end you just have to patch together whatever you can from the pieces, even while trying to fit them to the other folks around you?
The first printing press in Britain was established at Westminster in 1476 (during the reign of Edward IV, 1461-1483) by William Caxton. Modern movable type had been invented not that much earlier around 1450 by Johannes Guttenberg.
Caxton is considered a central figure in establishing Chancery English to the standard dialect used throughout England. In his haste to make translations for publication, he imported many French words into English.
Well, England did rule much of France during the century.
As a reader and writer, I’m indebted to both men and a host of those who followed.
Lately, I’ve been returning to the Baskerville typeface, which we used for our high school newspaper, though now its in honor of an earlier resident of our house. The face dates from the 1750s.
One classic I’ve long been fond of is Caslon, from the 1720s, by another English designer. It’s similar to Goudy, a 1915 American design based on historic Italian faces and one I’ve been using on my Thistle Finch publications. It really is elegant.
Sometimes the very appearance of a word in type or a well-designed page will make my heart sing.
Just so you know what happens when ink gets in your blood.
Moody, sometimes chilly or clammy …
The foghorn from Canada, with its mournful G-note pitch …
Memories of Seattle …
Unseen dripping …
Garden slugs underfoot …
A wash of gray in such contrast to the glorious sunrises I’ve witnessed and photographed … yes, everything’s muted.
Yes, I loved her
imperfectly
the night, then, unclouded
from above or below
When I first began reading contemporary poetry (for pleasure, independent of classroom assignment), I often sensed the poem existed as a single line or two, with the rest of the work as window dressing.
Now I read the Psalms much the same way, for the poem within the poem, or at least the nugget I’m to wrestle with on this occasion. Psalm 81, for instance, has both the “voice in thunder” and “honey from rock.” What exactly are those in my own experience?
What was the best year of your life and how did it look?
Pondering the possibilities for my most perfect year, I see how much even the best was tainted.
’72, I had the high of the ashram but it involved going through a lot of psychological muck and growth to get there. See Yoga Bootcamp for the parallels.
’73 was the whirlwind with my future wife, but I was laboring at subsistence pay, at best. See Nearly Canaan for the parallels.
’83 encompassed both my divorce and an exhilarating engagement with the young cellist who promised to be The One. It was also crushed in long workdays as a shirtsleeves manager in a newsroom, no matter how engaging I found the challenge professionally.
’86, I was deeply ensconced in a self-awarded sabbatical, but generally loveless. The core of my fiction was drafted in this period, and my circle of friends included Mennonites and my introduction to part-singing.
’99, the excitement of the ultimate woman in my life, as well as our frustrations in trying to find a home we could afford along with some emotional upheavals at the office.
2021, my exile to Eastport in what became a heavenly writer’s retreat, resulting in the publication of Quaking Dover the next year. It did mean being apart from my family and friends back in Dover for much of the time, but included exploring the fantastic outdoors of the waters and woodlands around me as well as the artistic stimulation of my new community.
So here I am now, with what’s turning into the home of my dreams in the sunset of this life.
My goal of having our family operating on a Quaker Meeting decision-making process.
Yes, trying to find concesus with young children in the house. We’re all on board, right?
Let’s just say I failed here. My, was a naïve when I jumped in as a stepdad in my mid-50s!
Not just because of a rebellious younger member, whom I deeply adore. But also because of the parent/adult dynamics and tensions.
No doubt, I pictured myself as the clerk, that is moderator. The mother, however, is what the one in the movie My Fat Greek Wedding Declared, the throat, ultimately rules.
Saint Paul should stand fully corrected regarding the head of the household. The mother’s is great theology.
Just how are decisions really made in families? I’d love to listen in on the discussions.
Jnana's Red Barn 