The Music of a Summer Night

I lean against the railing on the deck with an iced coffee in hand and watch fireflies frolicking through the shrubbery in the garden.

Midsummer has passed, and Lammas is only a few days away, but I am thinking of a watercolour (1908) by Robert Edward Hughes called Midsummer Eve. Hughes was acquainted with members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and their influence on his work shows. In his painting, a young woman stands in a forest clearing surrounded by a ring of fairies who are holding softly glowing lanterns. It is night, and the woods behind her are alight with fireflies. There is magic in the air.

In our darkened garden, there are the last cicada raspings of the day and a few crickets are doing their thing. Classical guitar (Rodrigo) wafts from the speakers on my neighbor's veranda, and a hound around the corner is singing soulfully to the waxing moon. A light wind blows through the old trees, and there is an occasional crackle from the lantern burning on the deck. By rights, a Pan flute or a harp should be playing too. Perhaps something by the Breton harper, Alain Stivell?

On nights like this, I feel ancient and young at the same time, and I know beyond a doubt that there is a wild, elemental magic at work in the great wide world. I can almost reach out and touch it, and that is comforting.

Friday Ramble, Rattle and Hum

It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the clatter of the wind across the roof with its freight of frozen twigs, the sound of small icicles falling on the deck, trees in the garden shaking their snow garments loose in a long slow dance. Light snow is falling, but the descending white stuff makes no sound, at least from in here. In the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi espresso machine, the rattle and hum of the old frigidaire in the corner.

By rights, there should be the sound of a toaster too, but it will be a while until I can even think about toast. This is a "bang up" month for migraines, and I have awakened with a whopper - thought about doing prescription meds when I opened my eyes but opted for a beaker of industrial strength espresso instead.

The stuff in my cup approaches the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel and could be dispatched with a fork. Steam rises in arty curls from the surface, and a splendid creamy froth rings its shores. The fragrance of freshly ground Logdriver Espresso (local, fair trade, organic) from Bridgehead Coffee Roasters is ambrosial. So too are the deep velvety beans in their canister. I consider drawing pictures in the foam.

Why is it my thoughts always turn to Paris when the weather is like this? With badass beaker in hand, I look through my rainy day "stash" of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards, tattered greeting cards, stickers and notebooks - the little ones with maps of France, fleurs-de-lis, French postage stamps, the Arc de Triomphe,  Louvre museum, Notre-Dame Cathedral or Eiffel Tower gracing their covers.

When the migraine has expired in my espresso sea, I will curl up in a comfortable corner and read something in French, perhaps the latest Fred Vargas. Yup, I can do this.

Thursday Poem - Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29