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.

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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!

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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…”

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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.

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And Warmest Christmas Wishes!


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!


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!)

Friday, September 22, 2017

Hope is the thing with Pandora's Box

Hope is the thing with feathers, photo by K L Wood, author
In my recently completed Middle Grade novel, Zephyr Stone and the Moon Mist Ghost, I refer to the ancient Greek legend of Pandora's Box. You may remember that Pandora was so overcome by curiosity of a forbidden box that she opened it and let loose all manner of evil upon the world. She slammed it shut but, listening to a sweeter cry from within the box, she opened it again, and out flew Hope. Thank goodness! This set me to pondering about the nature of Hope.

As we witness worldwide disasters, both natural (hurricanes and earthquakes,) and unnatural (the atrocities against the Rohingya people of Myanmar,) I wonder at the resilience of the human spirit. How can people survive such devastation and live on? Is it merely a survival instinct that pushes us forward?

I believe it is the concept of Hope.
Hope, the quality sitting between Faith and Love in 1 Corinthians 13:13.
Hope, as Herman Melville, author of Moby Dick, expresses, “is the struggle of the soul, breaking loose from what is perishable, and attesting her eternity.” And from Miguel de Cervantes, creator of that ever hopeful character, Don Quixote, “The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.”
Final Gifts, photo of author's mother and daughter by K L Wood

Of course Hope is empty and fruitless without the inner strength and determination to truly believe in it so much that we do the hard work, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual, to move forward. Facing our own death may seem the ultimate hopeless situation, but I saw Hope in my mother’s eyes as she spent her last earthly days with us last Christmas. She had Hope in her future, even though it was a future for which she had no physical proof. Through a lifetime of experience she had done the hard work of anchoring her Faith in things sometimes unseen. Her Hope had a strong foundation.

How can we find Hope in the televised reports of lives torn apart by the ravages of storms and the person-to-person inhumane treatment of others? When we can help, we help. Volunteering our time, giving of our resources, educating the public. These all give strength to Hope and stir it in our own souls. But there are times we cannot give aid and must look on helplessly. Where is the Hope? One of my favorite quotes on this subject is from Fred Rogers, known for his beloved
Fred Rogers, 1960s, (photo in Public Domain)
children’s television program, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ ” We find Hope in the selfless acts of strangers.

One of my favorite things in life is watching the myriad of birds that flock to our birdfeeders. Birds of all kinds, sharing the sunflower seeds, feeding their young, singing their songs. In the sunlight, in the rain, in the snows of winter, these stalwart little creatures press on with the business of life and I am reminded of a poem by Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson, photo by K L Wood, author
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest, in the gale, is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

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