Tuesday, December 4, 2018

December...opalescent days and lapis lazuli nights


December offers us opalescent days and lapis lazuli nights. Two beautiful gemstones sum up the final month of the year, for me. Opal–glowing white, shot through with fireworks of flaming crimson, orange and yellow, electric blue and green. Lapis lazuli–deep night-sky blue, often sprinkled with starry sprays of golden pyrite.
"Winter Sun" via pixabay.com

December days, bright with new winter sunlight, all fire and ice and eye-watering clarity, glittering the frosted morning with tiny sparkling jewels. Our twelfth-month sun glows with anticipation and promise–Hanukkah’s most enduring candle flame, Christmas’s gleaming day star. The beauty of a December sun is all the more precious for its shortening span. Dusk arrives earlier each day, dawn sleeps in a bit longer.

December nights, deep velvet blue, swirling with distant stars that, for a time, look near enough to touch. So many wishes, so many prayers, floating up to that star-spangled sky. Gazing into those heavens, I can feel
"Starry Night" via pixabay.com
the human longing for peace and purpose, love and wisdom, comfort and joy. December ushers in the longest nights of the year, bidding us to ease into the darkness, resting our busy day-working bodies and minds, inviting us to light the home fires sooner, to gaze longer into the hearth and candle flame.

December is a month of magic, miracles, and mystery–threads connecting these two stones. The iridescent opal, flashing with its rainbow hues, looks as though it must have been brought into the world by pure
"Opal" via pixabay.com
magic. Such enchantment touches some deep chord within me, triggering visions of infinite possibilities and dreams of things unseen. The cosmic blue of the lapis lazuli draws me inward, to sink into its depths and float among its gilded stars, a color so divine, Renaissance artists reserved its ultramarine powdered pigment for the Virgin Mary’s gown.  
"Lapis Lazuli" via Pixabay.com

I invite you to pause in the midst of your busy holiday preparations and celebrations, to brighten your spirit with December’s opalescent days and dream deep into its lapis lazuli nights.


Thanks for stopping by! Y'all come back now.


Kate



Tuesday, November 20, 2018

God's Voicemail...divine humor


"Sharing a Laugh" photo by author's mother, Oleta Wood
The qualities of good-hearted laughter have been promoted throughout the ages of mankind. And, make no mistake, I refer to humor blossoming from a good heart, not derisive laughter spewing from mean-spiritedness. As with many of us who have spent some time on this earth, there have been periods in my life when I wondered if true laughter would ever be heard in my home and heart, again. If it would ever bubble up from my spirit, or from that of a loved one, and fill the air with joy and light. Those were dark times, indeed, but thankfully temporary. I have been so fortunate to have people in my life who can be counted on to bring much-needed levity to most any situation. I count my sister-in-law, Betty, at the top of that list. She has blessed our family with her gentle humor since her marriage to my brother, decades ago. I’ve often said, she’s one person I want around in times of stress and sorrow because she can always bring a smile to my face and hope to my heart. Everyone’s family needs a Betty.
"Kate Laughs" 

We’ve all heard the wisdom of Proverbs 17:22– “A cheerful heart, is good medicine.” And I’ve just discovered a wonderful new favorite from writer, Anne Lammott– “Laughter is carbonated holiness.” But the quote to which I so often return, is from an unknown source– “Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused.”

I learned the joy of laughing at oneself– our human foibles, eccentricities, and comical misfires– from my mother and her mother before her. Many a time, I joined my mother and grandmother in belly-clutching, tear-rolling, breath-catching laughter stemming from something comical they said or did. This was usually something they had not intended to be funny at all, and that made it all the more hilarious. One of the last wonderful laughing spells I shared with my mother, before her passing in 2016, occurred at Thanksgiving.
"Mama and Kate Share a Laugh" photo by author's husband, Bill Ahearn

As the family matriarch, we called upon Mama to say the Thanksgiving prayer blessing over our dinner. Surrounded by the loving presence of children and grandchildren, all waiting to dive into our bountiful feast, Mama began her prayer. It was a bit long, but filled with heart, as she recounted her blessings and spoke her prayers for those at the table and those present in spirit. Then, she fell silent for a moment and ended by saying, “Mmmm...buh bye.” We all opened our eyes and mouths and looked at her. Mama had just left a message on God’s heavenly answering machine! It took her a beat but, when she realized what she’d done, burst into laughter. Thank goodness! We could all join her, knowing she was delightfully aware of the humor of the moment.

I believe that spark of humor is, indeed, a divine gift to humanity, and I am thankful it’s been my lifelong companion.

Thanks for stopping by! Y'all come back now.


Kate



Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Keeping Secrets...I can...can you?

                                       FreeImages.com
I’ve got a secret! Or, at least, I did from August 30th to September 8th. And I could have kept it longer, honest! I will explain later. Throughout our lives, we have the opportunity and the challenge to be keepers of secrets. Of course, there are all kinds: big, small, wonderful, terrible, personal, family, even national. One important quality differentiating the good and bad ones, is that part of the happiness of a good secret, is the knowledge that it will, one day, be gratefully shared. The bad secret is sometimes taken to the grave, festering and flooding the soul with its poison. But, today, we discuss the power of the joyful secret.

Pixabay.com
Perhaps our first concept of happy secret keeping occurred when someone bent down to our toddler level, finger to lips, and whispered, “Shh. Don’t tell Mommy, it’s a surprise!” as the trusted adult showed us a lovely gift-wrapped package. The anticipation of seeing Mommy open the gift, formed a little bubble of happiness within, making us giggle and share winks with our loving co-conspirator. Beyond that, we may not have consciously conceptualized the notion, but we were also pleased and proud that someone had entrusted us with something of such importance. We were one of the chosen ones. We could keep a secret!

Pixabay.com
As a writer of a “Work-In-Progress,” I harbor many secrets! My head and computer are chock full of my characters, the worlds in which they inhabit, and the situations in which they find themselves. It is the special privilege (and sometimes torment) of the creator, whether writer, artist, composer, choreographer, etc, to carry a secret universe within them until such time as it is fully formed and ready to be sent out into the world. In a similar way, most pregnant women have that initial pause in their lives when they, and they alone, have knowledge that they cradle newly discovered life. A precious secret held close to their hearts, even if for just a few moments, before the baby is known to the rest of the world.

That leads me to the revelation of my most recently kept secret. (No, there is no Biblical Sarah and Abraham story here!) Our pregnant younger daughter and her husband invited me to be the keeper of the secret (even from them) of their baby’s gender, which would be
From: poofthereitis.com
discovered through the modern miracle of ultrasound on August 30, 2018. Now a’days, Gender Reveal parties are all the rage and, although the element of nine months of anticipation with a birthing room “reveal” has its merits, it is truly wonderful to be able to visualize a little boy or girl on the way. And so, I was honored to be the designated “Knower.” The Knower who would order the gender-specific, 24 inch long smoke canon for the pregnant parents to set off at the September 8th family gathering.
"Oh Boy! Charm" by KWAhearn

After I was handed the sealed envelope with the word “Gender” written on it, I snuck a peek and grinned like a Cheshire Cat...for nine whole days. On the first day of my dear secret, I purchased a little round charm in the traditional gender color. I tucked it into my pocket each day and whenever I wanted a pick-me-up, I slipped my hand inside and was gently reminded of my secret joy. After the explosive Reveal, I presented the other family members with their own baby reminder charms. So, now the secret’s out! The color of that charm and that celebratory puff of smoke? Blue! Secret’s out and I couldn’t be happier!

May all your secrets be joyful ones!

Thanks for stopping by! Y'all come back now.


Kate




Sunday, August 26, 2018

Room For One More...on National Dog Day


When you are loved unconditionally and you, in turn, give your heart completely, and
"Sweet Betsy" photo by KL Wood
then the source and recipient of that deep affection dies, what do you do? You mourn. You grieve. You shake your fist at the heavens. Even though you knew this would happen. Even though you knew, from the very beginning of your relationship, the loved one had a limited time on earth with you and would pass away long before you. You knew, one day, long before you were ready (you are never ready,) this dear one would be wrenched from your side although the sweet spirit would forever dwell in your heart.

In 2014, such a loved one died in my arms and never a day goes by that I’m not reminded of her. She was my companion, confidant, and fellow explorer of life’s ever changing seas. She couldn’t care less how I looked, whether rolling out of bed or dressed to the nines. She patiently listened as I ranted about politics or injustice or the cost of shoes. She always greeted me with genuine delight, no matter how long or short our separation. She was a young spirit within an old soul. She was my Betsy. She was my dog.

Betsy was black and white, curly-haired, half cocker spaniel, half poodle, all clown. Although the official term for her particular canine mixture is “Cockapoo,” I always referred to her as a “Cockerspoodle.” Somehow that moniker seemed more suited to her personality. Betsy walked by my side through many of my life changes: becoming a grandma, enduring a divorce, exploring new vocations, camping across America with a summer in Alaska, finding new love and marriage, then home-sweet-home in Edenton. In those twelve years, Betsy nestled deep within my heart and became part of me, forever. But then, she developed cancer and within four months, she was…gone. Even, now, tears well as I write these words.

The loss rent a tear in my heart, a piece torn away that would always be hers. I was devastated. How could I ever consider doing this to myself, again? Bring another love into my life that would leave me all too soon? But, two years later, as we watched our other dog, nine-year-old Minna, the sweet ShihTzu, become more and more of a fluffy couch potato, we decided it was time to look for a young companion to keep her company and get her moving again. I told myself it was for Minna, but I knew, it was really for me. You see, Betsy had expanded my heart and made room for more of the unique love that only pets can fulfill.

We knew there were so many wonderful dogs languishing in animal shelters who
"Betsy, Minna, Sophie- National Dog Day, 2018" by KL Wood
needed a home like ours in which they could enjoy being alive and part of a family. So, my husband, Bill, and I began an Internet search, looking for the qualities we thought would best fit into our home life. And, then one day, we saw the photo of a dear face, whose amber eyes looked out to us through cyberspace, imploring us to adopt her. And we did. Seven-month-old Sophie (who we thought was a terrier mix but who we realize, now, is a Portuguese Podengo Poqueno) came bounding into our home, instantly bonding with all of us and bringing playful joy and her own love into all our lives.

We have Betsy, and all the beloved pets before her, to thank for this new companion. Sophie hasn’t replaced them in our hearts. She’s just moved into the addition they created.

Thanks for stopping by! Y'all come back now.

Kate

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Well Wishes...from our Wishing Well

I wish you all the joy you can wish.”
"Our Wishing Well" photo by KL Wood
--William Shakespeare

When my husband, Bill, sets his mind, heart, and creativity to a project, you can rest assured it will be well done. The latest project to catch his imagination has been the designing and building of a Wishing Well for our front yard, complete with water spilling from a tilted brass teapot. The Wishing Well actually serves two purposes: wishing, of course, which I will expound upon in the next paragraph, and the more practical purpose of covering the sump pump necessary to keep our little old cottage from floating away when rainwater pours down Edenton’s West Church Street.

To wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.”
--Jane Austen

But, let’s talk about Wishes. Some say wishing is an empty and fruitless activity. I say,
Photo, Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons
there’s something innately important in the act of wishing. How many of us have, at that moment before wishing upon a star, a fountain, a Wishing Well, or a birthday candle, stopped to seriously consider what we truly wish for? The very act of wishing crystallizes our most immediate desires and, even believing it to be a silly superstition or ritual, we usually put real thought into it. Having to wish for something makes us think about our priorities in life and, for that fleeting moment, we wonder what it is we really wish were different, or really wish would remain the same. Because...what if that Wish came true? We’ve all heard the old adage, ”Be careful what you wish for.” I can say from my own decades of wishing, I’ve had a couple Wishes come true whose repercussions proved quite challenging.


A dream is a Wish your heart makes.”
--Cinderella
Undine by John William Waterhouse, 1872

And what about the tradition of throwing coins, along with our Wishes, into the water? Although Bill likes to tease that we plan to fund our retirement from the Wishes of our fellow Edentonians, and could even offer a drive-by “Easy Pass” plan, I’ve stopped to ponder why coins and Wishes often go hand-in-hand. Back in ancient times, people believed that certain fountains, springs, or wells, were inhabited by gods with the power to grant Wishes (or at least ensure the continuance of the flow of clear, life-giving water.) Throwing valuables into the water was meant to appease the deities and keep life flowing along in a positive direction. In other societies, a Wish was solidified by the making of a sacrifice. If it was important enough to wish for, it was important enough to sacrifice for. In other words, “Put your money where your mouth is,” if you want to see real change. So, today, when we toss in a coin with our Wish, I think the tiny financial expenditure is symbolic of the importance of the Wish we are making. Our first official Well Wisher was neighbor, Deems Cole, who tossed in coins with his Wishes and allowed me to photograph the moment for posterity.
"Our First Well Wisher" photo by KL Wood


As “Keepers of the Well,” we invite you to wish big and wish small, toss a coin or send a prayer. You’re not limited to the traditional three Wishes! Our Wishing Well at 215 West Church Street is always open to you. So...

Stop on by and wish a spell,
You’re Well-come to our Wishing Well.
Wishes really can come true,
And that’s our Wish for each of you.
Touch the bricks and close your eyes,
Make your Wish and realize,
A Wish is hope for better things,
A starting place to give it wings.”
--Kate Ahearn

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now! (And if you don't live near Edenton, North Carolina, our Well takes long-distance Wishes, too!)
Kate


Wednesday, May 9, 2018

It's May!...finally

"Raindrops On Our May Blossoms" photo by KL Wood
Although the calendar promises that Spring begins in March each year, most of us residing in the northern hemisphere realize Spring does not comfortably and reliably breathe among us until sometime in the month of May. And now at long last, May, in all its soft beauty, has arrived. Even my daughter living way up in New York state near the Canadian border has some flowers blooming, now. And so, in celebration of sweet May and in the sighting of a migrating rose-breasted grosbeak, who stopped at our kitchen window bird feeder on his way north to my daughter, I am happy to share some photographs from our spring garden (and bird feeder) as well as a lovely poem by John Burroughs. 
"Migrating Rose Breasted Grosbeak with Resident Dove"
photo by author's husband, William Ahearn


Burroughs was an American naturalist and writer who counted among his friends the likes of poet-Walt Whitman, inventor-Thomas Edison, automobile pioneer-Henry Ford, naturalist-John Muir, and American president-Theodore Roosevelt. Born in Spring, April 3, 1837, and dying in Spring, March 29, 1921, this poem, extolling the beauty of spring birds and flowers, is a fitting tribute to both him and to the month of May he so lovingly portrayed.

"John Burroughs" photo via Wikipedia (public domain)

"Rose Breasted Grosbeak Passing Through" photo by KL Wood

In May

by John Burroughs (1837-1921)

When grosbeaks show a damask rose
Amid the cherry blossoms white,
And early robins’ nests disclose
To loving eyes a joyous sight;


When columbines like living coals
Are gleaming ‘gainst the lichened rock,
And at the foot of mossy boles
Are young anemones in flocks;

When ginger-root beneath twin leaves
Conceals its dusky floral bell,
And showy orchid shyly weaves
In humid nook its fragrant spell;

When dandelion’s coin of gold
"Our Yellow Iris" photo by KL Wood
Anew is minted on the lawn,
And apple trees their buds unfold,
While warblers storm the groves at dawn;

When such delights greet eye and ear,
Then strike thy tasks and come away:
It is the joy-month of the year,
And onward sweeps the tide of May.

When farmhouse doors stand open wide
To welcome in the balmy air,
When truant boys plunge in the tide,
And school-girls knots of violets wear;

When Grapevines crimson in the shoot,
Like fin of trout in meadow stream,
And morning brings the thrush’s flute
Where dappled lilies nod and dream;

When varied tints outline the trees,
Like figures sketched upon a screen,
And all the forest shows degrees
Of tawny red and yellow-green;

When purple finches sing and soar,
Then drop to perch on open wing,
With vernal gladness running o’er
"Our Clematis in May" photo by KL Wood
The feathered lyrist of the spring:

When joys like these salute the sense,
And bloom and perfume fill the day,
Then waiting long hath recompense,
And all the world is glad with May.


Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now! (And Happy May!)

Kate







Saturday, March 3, 2018

March Forth!...with a Spring in your step


If the month of March was a color, surely it would be yellow. The yellow of breezy, blowing boughs
"March Forsythia" photo by KLWood
of forsythia, the yellow of nodding, trumpeting daffodils, the yellow of the ever boldening sun, racing toward its Vernal Equinox and then onward in its steady pace of lengthening light.

If March had a slogan, it would be “March Forth!” March forth into the greening of the year. March forth, high-stepping across puddles and patches of itinerant ice. March forth with the power of the March wind to your back.

If March had a Facebook page on which it noted its “Relationship” status, I’m certain it would choose, “It’s Complicated.” One day stormy, one day calm. One day frigid, one day warm. One day clinging to winter, one day plunging into spring. Mercurial, thy name is March.

John Philip Sousa, Nov 6, 1854-MARCH 6, 1932
If March was music it would, of course, be composed by the “March King,” John Philip Sousa. Proud, loud, and infectious, spurring us to put down our laptops and smartphones, and march around the kitchen table, banging our pot lids and beating our spoons, heads high, smiles wide. 

If March was a Bible verse, it might be, “And the lion shall lie down with the lamb.” After all, we’ve
all heard the saying, “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb,” right? True enough, except there are no lions lying down with lambs in the Bible. Not directly, anyway. This is one of the many misquoted/misremembered verses of the Good Book. Isaiah 11:6, “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.” Thus endeth our Bible Study lesson for the day.

If March was a mathematical symbol, it would be Pi. Pi the irrational, Pi the infinite possibility, Pi the unpredictable. Perhaps that is why March 14, is National Pi Day! I don’t know about you, but I’m going to bake an Apple “Pi” on the 14th, complete with a Pi symbol-shaped steam vent in the top crust.

"Running European Hare" photo by Malene Thyssen per Wikimedia Commons
If March was an animal, it would be the March Hare. Heard the English idiom, “Mad as a March Hare”?  (Remember Alice in Wonderland?) Seems European hares mate primarily during the month of March and go just a wee bit crazy in the process, jumping straight up into the air for no apparent reason, boxing with each other, darting around erratically. Of course, basketball fans may recognize this as “March Madness,” but that’s another whole genus of animal altogether.

If March was a poem, it would be by William Wordsworth. (Oh, what a wonderful name for a man so full of worthy words!) In his, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” its first verse proclaims:
“I wandered lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”

"Mama's Daffodil, 2018" by KL Wood
God bless you, March. You boisterous, bodacious, blustery, marvel of a month. And in this year, of 2018, you are heralded with full moons bookending your first and final days. By the almanac they may be called the Worm Moon and the Blue Moon, but for me they are the Lion Moon and the Lamb Moon. That bridge, spanning the seasonal chasm of winter to spring. Not a month to just “get through,” but one on which to stand high and look around, feeling the March wind blow the cobwebs away!


Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now!

Kate

Thursday, February 1, 2018

To Everything There is a Season...a time for every purpose under heaven

I’ve recently completed a year-long art project in which I photographed the same tree in the
"Spring Tree" by KL Wood
same field from the same angle in each of the four seasons. The project began, quite by accident, as we were traveling to Ahoskie last spring, and came across a magnificent tree standing alone in the middle of a young soybean field. It was so beautiful, standing regally above the new plants, that I asked my husband to stop so I could get out and take its portrait. I was so pleased with the result that I decided to capture it in each of the other seasons, as well. And, so, I did.


Each time I scrambled across the farm ditch and crouched near the earth to get the right viewpoint, I felt something different and, yet, something the same. It occurs to me, now, that the tree and its field are metaphors for time of year, time of day, and time of life.

In the spring of the year, sprays of tender, pastel green leaves covered the tree’s massive, old branches, and the little soybean plants fanned out in orderly rows around it. Spring, with its rebirth and promise of greatness to come. Morning of the year, with its watercolor sky, moist and softly fragrant. Childhood, with its gentle, joyful laughter.

"Summer Tree" by KL Wood
In mid-summer, I returned to discover a deep and verdant sea of green. Emerald clouds floated above the tree’s dark trunk. Not only could I no longer make out the tree’s individual branches, I could no longer see the bottom of the ditch, my feet tripping through a jungle of vines and wildflowers and briars. Snakes? Perhaps. But with camera in hand, I tend to take more risks than is my usual nature. Summer, with its rich dark soil flooded with life. Mid-day of the year, with its buzzing, fertile aliveness. Young adulthood, with its vibrant, boisterous dance.

"Autumn Tree" by KL Wood
In autumn, I found bronze leaves clinging tenaciously to the spreading branches. The freshly harvested field glowed with inner golden light. Autumn, with its time of harvest and gathering in. Afternoon of the year, reaping the fruits of the day’s labor. Middle age, with its toil and satisfaction of work well done.

And with our first snowfall, we braved the icy roads so I could capture my tree in that world of white. A great web of bare branches towered above the wind-smoothed snow field. I could
"Winter Tree" by KL Wood
not see where the bank ended and the ditch began, sinking above my knees into the billowy snowdrift. At least I was certain no snakes hid in those depths. Winter, with its snow-muffled quiet, and glistening crystal reflection of the sun. Evening of the year, with its luminous glow of moonlight and sparkling starlight. Old age, when the light of the soul shines through the fading of the flesh.

“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven…”

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now.

Kate


Saturday, December 16, 2017

Ghosts of Christmas Past...God bless us, every one

Buttercup Cottage Christmas photo by KL Wood
Our house is haunted. Not the spooky, howling Halloween sort of haunting, but the gentle kind that nudges at your heart and sparkles in the Christmas lights. Living in our little cottage on West Church Street, I feel the spirit of more than one hundred Christmases whispering through the rooms. Lean years, bountiful years, marching in a parade spanning five generations of weddings, funerals, birthdays, and holidays. And Christmases. Especially the Christmases.

When our realtor introduced us to it in the spring of 2012, we felt at home the very first time we crossed the threshold. Despite the fact that the house had stood empty for many years, the spirit of family love was imprinted in its walls, and palpable in the air. This will make a wonderful Christmas House, I thought. And it did. A house with the warmth of Christmas spirit throughout the year, blooming and overflowing with it each December.

Mama and Daddy Christmas Spirits photo by KL Wood
It seems fitting then, that this year our home is sweetly haunted by one spirit in particular. One who loved Christmas with all her heart. My mother. Mama passed away, here in her bedroom, on December 26, 2016. When she returned home to us under hospice care, after a brief hospital stay, we all prepared for the bittersweetness of her final days. Mama had two goals: to celebrate her 93rd birthday on December 16th, and celebrate Christmas with her children, grand and great-
grandchildren. She achieved both.

On her birthday, Mama rallied enough to get dressed and out of
Christmas Tree 2017 photo by KL Wood
bed, donning a party hat and video-chatting on a computer with her great-grandchildren who were still at home in the snows of upstate New York. As she slipped in and out of consciousness during her last days, we overheard her, on more than one occasion, telling my father to wait a little longer. Daddy passed away in 2001.

On Christmas day, she had enough periods of wakefulness that she could interact with all of us, including those two precious great-granddaughters who made it in time to hug their Nana one more time. Then, on the afternoon of the 26th, surrounded by family, she crossed over as gently as the extinguishing of a Christmas candle. As a matter of fact, death at Christmas has become a bit of a family tradition. In addition to Mama’s passing on the 26th, both my father’s oldest sister and my mother’s oldest sister died on December 25th in years past.

Sophie and Minna's Christmas Dream Time photo by KL Wood
In some ways, of course, this makes for a tough holiday season at times. My family is used to me welling up with tears on a pretty regular basis, whether upon hearing a particular Christmas song, hanging ornaments on the tree, or preparing one of Mama’s Christmas staples: collard greens, boiled with ham hocks. So whether this is your first or your fiftieth holiday season without loved ones, welcome those tears as a reminder of the depth of love you share with them and know, in your heart, their spirits are present among the glitter and glow of your decorations and within the notes of the Christmas music you hold dear.



Merry Christmas, everyone. And may the loving Spirits of Christmas, gently haunt you.

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now.
And Warmest Christmas Wishes!

Kate

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Giving Thanks...for dirty feet

For this month's post, during the season of giving thanks, my thoughts turn to gratitude as I realize all that I have to be thankful for. And, as I swept the floors today in preparation for friend and family visits, I got to thinking about all that dirt, where it came from, and what it actually meant to me. Lo, and behold, that dirt spawned unexpected gratitude and this new poem was born!

Giving Thanks
by Kate Louise Wood

Dirt tracked inside
and, as I sweep,
Thanksgiving sings
upon my lips.
For if the source
of my day’s toil
was gone away,
I’d surely weep
and long to grab
my broom and sweep
the muddy trail
of those dear feet.

Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back, now! And Happy Thanksgiving, one and all!

Kate


Thursday, October 26, 2017

Edgar Allan Po-e-try...Nevermore

"Raven" photographed by the author's husband, William F. Ahearn
With Halloween just a few days away, and front porches festooned with all things spooky, my thoughts turn to that creator of creepiness, that hero of horror, that master of macabre, Edgar Allan Poe. Mr. Poe has long embodied the spirit of the season and, so, I salute him this month with one of his most enduring poems, "The Raven."

I invite you to read these lines with new eyes. It's possible that you have not read them (or, at least, not all of them) since you were forced to, back in high school. With years of life experience coloring your interpretation, you may feel a different sense of dread than you did in your younger days. I find it fascinating how his use of a single word, "Nevermore", chills us to the bone. And, so, illustrated by a raven my husband photographed as it sat upon the top of our camper trailer in Yellowstone National Park, I bow to Poe's genius, and present:


The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”



    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.



    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”



    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.



    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.



    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”



    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.



Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”



    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”



    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”



    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”



    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!



    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!


           Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.  (Happy Halloween!)
        Kate