Who made the pattern for a climbing rose,
Or set the rules by which a pine tree grows,
Who traced the first lines in a maple leaf,
To make it beautiful beyond belief.
Who made the chalk-white peppers on a shore,
The tiny seedlings in an apple core,
And who -- in some mysterious lovely realm
Fashioned the framework of a stately elm?
Who set the stars to shine above the Deep,
And gave the sea its mystery to keep,
Or made a pattern intricate as lace
That grub uses for his hiding place?
Who taught a wood-thrush all he seems to know,
Or a small brook, the way all waters flow,
Who taught a busy squirrel his bag of tricks,
A mother hen the way to feed her chicks?
Who told my heart to worship on bent knees
when I behold the mystery of these?
~Edna Jacques, Who?
The Hills of Home, 1952
I can still remember the time I cut an apple in half crosswise and saw the star in the middle. I remember being astonished. Had this always looked like that? How could I have missed that secret held within the heart of an apple for all of those years gone before that moment?
Our world is full of things and mysteries too beautiful to be able to explain how they came into existence. And we can try, hard as we can to set them to science and happenstance, but deep in my heart I know and have always know. When my children were born and lay in my arms for the first time I was overwhelmed with the beauty and intricacy of their coming into being . . . fresh from God and handed over into my care. Their tiny fingers, curling with instinct around my own. So helpless and so amazingly intricate at the same time. Their fingers may have wrapped around my own, but truth be told, I was wrapped around their little finger from the moment I knew they were there, growing . . .
and I still am.
The leaves were dancing yesterday. We had quite a windy day and Eileen and I enjoyed watching them dance across the pavement from across the street onto our front porch and off again. We watched the dancing on the rooftops across the way, dashing down the street and then back up again. Breathtaking . . .
I am reminded of that scene in the Disney film Fantasia with the dancing leaves. I used to love that film when I was a child. The music and all of the different scenarios, all set in nature. I think my favorite one was the dancing toadstools, but I loved it all. Movie night tonight in our house, perhaps . . . we will watch Fantasia and I can be a child again, if only for a moment or two . . .
I have always been a voracious reader. Ever since I learned how to read I have found myself immersed in magical other worlds. I could never imagine not being able to read. I have my favorite books and characters, books that I will read again and again, revisiting them like old long lost friends from time to time, and they never fail to delight me.
What if you could spend a full day with one of your favorite characters in a favorite book of yours? Who would you most like to do that with?
I am such an indecisive person. When we go out to supper, Eileen and I, I will change my mind at least three or four times on the way as to where I want to go, and then, when the menu is in front of me, I am sure I change my mind at least half a dozen times about what I want to order.
It is the same with fictional characters. How can I pick just one . . .
Jo March, from Little Women. I'd love to go on a long walk with her and talk about the things she has written, and ask her what it was like trying to become a published female author in a male-dominated field.
Then there is Anne Shirley, from Anne of Green Gables . . . I imagine us sitting together on a picnic blanket, sharing something delicious as we look out over the grasses and white sands of Cavendish. Talking about kindred spirit friends and raspberry cordial . . .
Don't get me started on Nancy Drew or Trixie Beldon. To be a teenage sleuth . . .
Oh, there are so many I would love to spend a day with. How about you?
Wrapped in warmth . . . there is something about flannel that just makes me feel all cozy and warm, welcome, at home. And it can be a blanket, or an old shirt that I have loved for a long, long time . . . fabric worn, yet somehow very comforting in it's old age. Memories are woven into it's threads . . . nights curled up on a sofa with it wrapped around me, watching my favorite movie in candlelight, or walks in the woods with that old shirt caressing my arms and keeping me warm out in the biting autumn air that I'm not quite used to yet, or arms tied around my waist on a day when I have miscalculated the waning warmth of the sun. Old friends. Flannel, it becomes an old and favorite friend. One we can never give up.
Frost, and sunshine after had reddened the hawthorn sprays, and already they could see through the upper branches -- red with haws -- for the grass was strewn with the leaves from the exposed tops of the bushes. On the orange maples there were bunches of rosy-winged keys. There was a gloss on the holly leaf, and catkins at the tips of the leafless birch. As the leaves fell from the horse-chestnut boughs the varnished sheaths of the buds for next year appeared, so there were green buds on the willows, black tips to the ash saplings, green buds on the sycamores . . .
Thin threads of gossamer gleamed, the light ran along their oops as they were lifted by the breeze, and the sky was blue over the buff oaks. Jays screeched in the oaks, looking for acorns, and there came the muffled tinkle of a sheep-bell.
~Richard Jefferies, from Bevis, 1882
Don't you wish you could write like that. I do . . . I wish I could untangle all the words that rush to my mind and memory when I see things like this. Always an adventurer as a child, I was climbing trees out in the woods, all on my lonesome . . . and noticing . . . rosy-winged keys, and fallen acorns, toadstools and fairy circles. I was surrounded by a world of beauty and didn't know how to put it into words. When I read words like these I am back there in the woods of my childhood and seeing these things all over again. I can smell the leaves, damp and rotting on the ground, hear the cry of the wild geese flying over head, and feel the impending arrival of something deeper and colder . . .
One of my favorite things has always been the button box. Even as a child. Our mother did not have a box as such. She had small round metal tins . . . probably something our father had gotten from work. There was masking tape on each tin, labeling what was inside in her very proper handwriting. I used to love to dip my fingers into the buttons. It was as if they were a pirate's gold. I would imagine where each one had come from. In those days when before a garment was discarded to be used for a rag, the buttons would have been carefully clipped off and placed in the tin. Most were very plain to the eye, but every so often you would come across one that glittered. Like magic.
Eileen is doing very well. I helped her in the shower again last night. Her whole bottom is bruised. It must be very painful. My heart breaks to think of her hurting. She is so brave. She never complains. She has been brave through all of this. Tears come to my eyes when I think about it. I am so grateful that this is now looking like it is behind us . . . now all we have to do is to heal. I am so thankful that I am here for this and not several thousand miles away, and I give praise to the God who knows the beginnings of our stories from the ends . . . and for Him putting me here for just such a moment.
A thought to carry with you . . .
☾ ° ★° * 。
• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
*In Autumn if the leaves still hold,
The Winter will be wet and cold.
~an old wives' tale.
In The English Kitchen today . . .
Caramelized Apple Cornbread. Oh my goodness. This was so delicious served warm with a drizzle of honey over top. Another small-batch recipe.
I hope you have a lovely weekend. To all my Canadian friends and readers, Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you have plenty to be thankful for. I know I have. Whatever you get up to, don't forget . . .
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And I do too!
