Friday Ramble - Consider

This week's word is one of my favorite words in the whole English lexicon, in part because of the notions of careful thought, deliberation and balance enfolded in it, but mostly because of its splendid celestial origins.

Think Vincent Van Gogh and his gorgeous "Starry Starry Night". Consider hails from around 1350 CE, tracing its origins through the Middle English consideren and the Latin considerare, both meaning "in the company of the stars", thence the Latin sidus/sideris meaning a star or cluster of stars. At the beginning of it all is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root form *sweid meaning to shine. Other English words like constellation and sidereal are kin, the first describing a group of stars, and the latter meaning simply "starry" and by extension, celestial or heavenly.

Small wonder that we are given to considering, at least in the original sense of the word. Forged from the dust of ancient stars, we are probably never more true to ourselves or more in tune with our fundamental natures and inner light than when we are engaging in the liminal act of considering something. In doing so, we move away from the mundane and profane and intuitively toward our bone deep connection with the cosmos. Hallelujah, we are the universe expressing itself, and the stars over our heads are our kin. Dancing motes in the eye of the infinite are we.

It's one thing to consider my origins on a cold clear night when I can almost reach up and touch the moon and stars. It's another thing entirely to do so in late summer or early autumn when the sky is filled with clouds from here to there, and I can hardly see hand or lens, let alone sunlight, moonlight or stars. Who doesn't love a good haze or fog though, and days and nights on the cusp of the seasons dish up some splendid, atmospheric murks. Even when we can't see them, our starry kin are right up there over our heads and shining down on us. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote:

"We find lingering evidence of archetype in the images and symbols found in stories, literature, poetry, painting, and religion. It would appear that its glow, its voice, and its fragrance are meant to cause us to be raised up from contemplating the shit on our tails to occasionally traveling in the company of the stars."

Sequestered, Week 327 (CCCXXVII)

Holding the Sky

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

I am a child of the Milky Way. The night is my mother. I am made of the dust of stars. Every atom in my body was forged in a star. When the universe exploded into being, already the bird longed for the wood and the fish for the pool. When the first galaxies fell into luminous clumps, already matter was struggling toward consciousness. The star clouds of Sagittarius are a burning bush. If there is a voice in Sagittarius, I’d be a fool not to listen. If God’s voice in the night is a scrawny cry, then I’ll prick up my ears. If night’s faint lights fail to knock me off my feet, then I’ll sit back on a dark hillside and wait and watch. A hint here and a trait there. Listening and watching. Waiting, always waiting, for the tingle in the spine.

Chet Raymo, The Soul of the Night: An Astronomical Pilgrimage

Wordless Wednesday - Flowering February

Friday - Ramble - In the Great Blue Bowl of Morning

Most August mornings, we awaken to skies that would make an impressionist painter feel like dancing, to Canada geese singing in unison as they fly up from the river and out into farm fields to feed. This year's progeny sing loudest up there in the great blue bowl of morning. Their pleasure in being alive and aloft mirrors our own as we watch them, me with a mug of tea, eyes shielded from the rising sun with a sleepy hand.

Below the sweeping strokes of vibrant color painted across the eastern sky are trees, hydro poles, rooflines and village streets, trucks and cars in rumbling motion, early runners in the park, commuters with lunch bags, bento boxes, newspapers and briefcases headed downtown to another day at their desks.

On an early walk this week, Beau and I paused by a neighbor's fish pond to watch the white and scarlet koi finning their way around in circles, and we noticed the first fallen maple leaves of the season had already drifted into the pool, making eddies and swirls and perfect round spirals on the glossy surface. No need to panic, it's not an early autumn, just the dry heat of August setting the leaf people free to ramble.

I wish I could actually paint skies as magnificent as these, but I can't, and the camera will have to do. That is quite all right. What my lens "sees" is absolutely sumptuous, and I am content with my morning opus. Sky blue, rose, gold, violet, indigo and scarlet lodge in my wandering thoughts, and on the way home, I think about throwing a whole bunch of clay bowls and glazing them in perfect sunrise colors.

This morning, a different story is taking shape. Rain is falling in the darkness beyond the windows, but there is a lovely pot of  tea steeping in the kitchen, and there are gluten free waffles crisping up nicely in the toaster. A candle redolent of Bourbon, peaches and golden oak is burning on the coffee table. The garden is full of birds, and they are in fine voice, don't mind the wet stuff at all.

Never enthusiastic about rainy mornings, wet grass and dripping trees, Beau has curled up on the sofa and is snoring gently. Occasionally his feet move, and his tail thumps the cushions - I suspect he is chasing rabbits in his dreams. With all the precipitation, I will not have to water the garden today, and that is a good thing. 

Wordless Wednesday - Swimming in Summer Sky

And so it goes...

On a chilly morning this week, Beau and I spent a few hours doing autumn chores in the garden. On the day in question, I needed a woolly hat and warm gloves, and the collar of my tatty (but delightfully warm) old jacket was turned up against the north wind. Beau was decked out in his natty blue tartan coat with its fleecy lining and glad to be wearing it.

There is always so much to be done at this time of the year, removing annuals that have succumbed to the season, pruning shrubberies back and covering roses for the winter, pulling out veggies past fruiting and turning over the good dark earth for the next go around. This was not a good year for tomatoes by any means, but there are trays of green toms ripening on the old oak table in the dining room. 

When I looked up from my labours, I noticed that one maple in the garden has already lost its leaves, and blue sky is now visible in places where it was concealed by the tree canopy just last week. Crab spiders no longer lurked among the roses, and the fall asters that hosted throngs of bees, bumbles, and wasps a few days ago have gone to seed. Not a single little sister was dancing about in the faded purple and gathering nectar. 

Kales and culinary herbs in the veggie patch are hanging in for the time being, but no doubt about it, another growing season is fast coming to an end. Planting garlic (the Music and Nootka Rose varieties) and more crocus bulbs in the next few days will assuage our melancholy a bit, but we (Beau and I) are already missing the garden that kept us hopping happily about all summer.

Late autumn is my favorite time of the year, but the passing of summer's companions always tugs at my heartstrings, and I particularly miss the bumble girls when they have passed away, and their dear, fuzzy little bodies have returned to the earth. Yesterday I thanked them for their company and wished their new queens well in hibernation.

As I pulled out withered tomato vines later in the afternoon and consigned them to the compost bin, it was difficult not to feel like a traitor, and I hoped my once leafy friends forgave me for abandoning them in their dotage.

When we came back indoors after our toing and froing, the deck overlooking the garden was ankle deep in fallen gold and scarlet leaves, and that cheered us up immensely. Autumn's glorious coinage is something to crow about.

Friday Ramble - Consider

This week's word is one of my favorite words in the whole English lexicon, in part because of the notions of careful thought, deliberation and balance enfolded in it, but mostly because of its splendid celestial origins.

Think Vincent Van Gogh and his gorgeous "Starry Starry Night". Consider hails from around 1350 CE, tracing its origins through the Middle English consideren and the Latin considerare, both meaning "in the company of the stars", thence the Latin sidus/sideris meaning a star or cluster of stars. At the beginning of it all is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root form *sweid meaning to shine. Other English words like constellation and sidereal are kin, the first describing a group of stars, and the latter meaning simply "starry" and by extension, celestial or heavenly.

Small wonder that we are given to considering, at least in the original sense of the word. Forged from the dust of ancient stars, we are probably never more true to ourselves or more in tune with our fundamental natures and inner light than when we are engaging in the liminal act of considering something. In doing so, we move away from the mundane and profane and intuitively toward a bone deep and authentic connection with the cosmic dimension from which we emerged, and of which we are such miniscule components. Dancing motes in the eye of the infinite are we.

It's one thing to consider one's origins on a cold clear night when she can almost reach up and touch the moon and stars. It's another thing entirely to do so in late summer or early autumn when the sky is filled with clouds from here to there, and she can hardly see hand or lens, let alone sunlight, moonlight or stars. Who doesn't love a good haze or fog though, and days and nights on the cusp of the seasons dish up some splendid, atmospheric murks. It is important to remember that even when we can't see them, our starry kin are right up there over our heads and shining down on us. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote:

"We find lingering evidence of archetype in the images and symbols found in stories, literature, poetry, painting, and religion. It would appear that its glow, its voice, and its fragrance are meant to cause us to be raised up from contemplating the shit on our tails to occasionally traveling in the company of the stars."

Thursday Poem - Evening

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat

held for it by a row of ancient trees;

you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,

one journeying to heaven and one that falls;

and leave you not at home in either one,

not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,

not calling to eternity with the passion

of what becomes a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)

your life, with its immensity and fear,

so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,

it is alternately stone in you and star.

Rainer Maria Rilke

(translation by Stephen Mitchell)

Friday Ramble - In the Great Blue Bowl of Morning

I awaken to skies that would make an impressionist painter feel like dancing, to Canada geese singing in unison as they fly up from the river and out into farm fields to feed. This year's progeny sing loudest up there in the great blue bowl of morning. Their pleasure in being alive and aloft mirrors my own as I watch them with a mug of tea, eyes shielded from the rising sun with a sleepy hand.

Below the sweeping strokes of vibrant color painted across the eastern sky are trees, hydro poles, rooflines and village streets, trucks and cars in rumbling motion, early runners in the park, commuters with lunch bags, bento boxes and briefcases headed downtown to another day at their desks.

On our morning walk, Beau and I paused by a neighbor's fish pond to watch the white and scarlet koi finning their way around in circles, and while there, we noticed that the first fallen maple leaves of the season had already drifted into the pool, making eddies and swirls and perfect round spirals on the glossy surface. No need to panic, it's not an early autumn, just summer heat setting a few leaf people free to ramble.

If only I could actually paint skies as magnificent as these... I can't, and the camera will have to do, but what my lens "sees" is absolutely sumptuous, and I am content with my morning opus. Sky blue, rose, gold, violet and scarlet lodge in my wandering thoughts, and on the way home, I think about throwing a bunch of clay bowls and glazing them in perfect sunrise colors. Emaho!

Holding the Sky

Seeing Stars

October mornings are refreshing, but off we go anyway at first light. Beau wears his plaid fall coat, and I put on my waxed green jacket with its deep hood, a wool scarf and gloves. Capacious pockets hold my cell phone and glasses, a water bottle, house keys, lavender scented poo bags and a few dog biscuits. It doesn't matter what the weather is like. We are both happier for a long ramble in the woods, and there is always something wonderful to see on our outings.

 

On the way home from a morning walk a few days ago, we paused and looked in astonishment at a puddle lying in our path, a wide glossy pool with fallen leaves in rainbow shades, whiskery tree reflections, pearly clouds and silky blue light.

 

Mirabile dictu, the floating leaves looked like stars, and the puddle in front of us was a small perfect universe, lustrous, shimmering and complete within itself. There was a veritable cosmos at our feet, and we were standing in the sky.

Friday Ramble - In the Great Blue Bowl of Morning

I awaken to skies that would make an impressionist painter feel like dancing, to Canada geese singing in unison as they fly up from the river and out into farm fields to feed. This year's progeny sing loudest up there in the great blue bowl of morning. Their pleasure in being alive and aloft mirrors my own as I watch them with a mug of tea, eyes shielded from the rising sun with a sleepy hand.

Below the sweeping strokes of vibrant color painted across the eastern sky are trees, hydro poles, rooflines and village streets, trucks and cars in rumbling motion, early runners in the park, commuters with lunch bags, bento boxes and briefcases headed downtown to another day at their desks.

On a recent early morning walk, Beau and I paused for a while by a neighbor's fish pond to watch the white and scarlet koi finning their way around in circles, and while there, we noticed that the first fallen maple leaves of the season had already drifted into the pool, making eddies and swirls and perfect round spirals on the glossy surface. No need to panic, it's not an early autumn, just this summer's dry heat setting a few leaf people free to ramble.

If only I could actually paint skies as magnificent as these... I can't, and the camera will have to do, but what my lens "sees" is absolutely sumptuous, and I am content with my morning opus. Sky blue, rose, gold, violet and scarlet lodge in my wandering thoughts, and on the way home, I think about throwing a bunch of clay bowls and glazing them in perfect sunrise colors. Emaho!

Thursday Poem - Evening

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven and one that falls;

and leave you not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternately stone in you and star.

Rainer Maria Rilke
(translation by Stephen Mitchell)

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

Look at your feet. You are standing in the sky. When we think of the sky, we tend to look up, but the sky actually begins at the earth. We walk through it, yell into it, rake leaves, wash the dog, and drive cars in it. We breathe it deep within us. With every breath, we inhale millions of molecules of sky, heat them briefly, and then exhale them back into the world.

Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

I am a child of the Milky Way. The night is my mother. I am made of the dust of stars. Every atom in my body was forged in a star. When the universe exploded into being, already the bird longed for the wood and the fish for the pool. When the first galaxies fell into luminous clumps, already matter was struggling toward consciousness. The star clouds of Sagittarius are a burning bush. If there is a voice in Sagittarius, I’d be a fool not to listen. If God’s voice in the night is a scrawny cry, then I’ll prick up my ears. If night’s faint lights fail to knock me off my feet, then I’ll sit back on a dark hillside and wait and watch. A hint here and a trait there. Listening and watching. Waiting, always waiting, for the tingle in the spine.

Chet Raymo, The Soul of the Night: An Astronomical Pilgrimage

Wolf Moon and Eclipse (Not)

She rises before sunrise and brews up a lovely mug of espresso in the DiLongi, then lurches into the study to write a blog post.

There are one or two recent photos she thinks are OK, but she can't for the life of her figure out what to say about them. The words simply do not come. For someone who spends so much time with her nose in a book and thinking about word origins, the absence is a shocking state of affairs.

Perhaps the cold has something to do with it, could her brain have frozen over? When she and Beau ventured outside for the first time this morning, dark clouds obscured the sky, and the thermometer registered a balmy -38 degrees Celsius, a temperature just about as cold when expressed in Fahrenheit degrees. It snowed all night, and there is at least a foot of snow in the driveway and on the cobblestones at the front of the house.

She wishes she and her companion had been able to see the full moon and total lunar eclipse on Sunday evening, that skies had been clear and they had been able to gaze on all the splendiferous red up there in the darkness. There were dark clouds from here to there, and they saw it not. Shucks.

One thing about this winter - the village is growing some fabulous icicles. When sunlight shines through them, they shimmer and dazzle, and they seem to hold the whole universe within. One can almost forget what a nippy undertaking it is, this glacial business of trying to capture them with a camera.

Looking Into the Light

Field and Winter Sky