Connectivity

NOT ATTENTION BUT CONNECTION
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

And, guess what?
It's exactly the same for grown - ups as it is for kids.
Thanks to my nephew Dan for sharing this one!

Why strive for connectivity? Because for the most part we still want to believe that people are really good at heart. We still want to value the true, the honest, the lovely -- over the unjust and the impure. At every turn, people are trying to honor their connection to others, to acknowledge the humanity of those with whom they share space on this globe, pandemic or otherwise.

That's why no matter how many centuries or decades have passed, the noble words of Anne Frank and the Apostle Paul are worth remembering, because they set a precedent for us.

Nadia Bolz-Weber describes this kind of previous generational connection in her essay "Unprecedented Hope": "Because for it to be a hope on which I can truly rely, it has to be a hope for which there is indeed a precedent. It has to be a hope that has been worn smooth . . . already established in those who came before me. . . . . Those who have come before us have already lived through pandemics and social upheaval and loss and grief and death and labor pains. Which means we are never alone in our struggles."

Anne Frank: "It's difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality. It's a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart. It's utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more. In the meantime, I must hold on to my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I'll be able to realize them!"

St. Paul: " . . . whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." Philippians 4:8, KJV

Whatsoever connections you can make,
make them!

**********
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, August 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Lament

PRESSED FLOWERS,
NEARLY A CENTURY OLD
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Funeral Flowers for my Great-Grandmother
Anna Mary Miller Heidemann
(29 December 1862 - 3 January 1923)

Her daughter -- my Grandmother Rovilla Heidemann Lindsey -- has noted who sent each bouquet: "Harry" was my grandmother's brother; "Will Reider" was their first cousin. I don't know about "Miss Ferrell & Post Office Force." Maybe Anna Mary was friends with the P.O. workers, or a volunteer of some kind (?).

We are now living and dying in a season when funerals
must be postponed indefinitely and memorial services
restricted in attendance, yet there are still flowers.
And a friend may always send a poem.

When my mother ~ Rovilla's daughther ~ died last month,
my friend Eve sent this one:
"Here’s one of my favorites from Emily Dickinson.
I read it when my mom died."

76
Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses — past the headlands —
Into deep Eternity —

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

My friend Jan sent
Brooding Grief ~ D. H. Lawrence

A yellow leaf from the darkness
Hops like a frog before me.
Why should I start and stand still?

I was watching the woman that bore me
Stretched in the brindled darkness
Of the sick-room, rigid with will
To die: and the quick leaf tore me
Back to this rainy swill
Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.

My friend Vickie wrote to say that we are dealing with
"problems in a dark time -- Theodore Roethke, of course":
In a Dark Time

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood —
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks — is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is —
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

My friend Nancy wrote:
"I love the poem —
Lament ~ Anne Sexton
— especially 'even the trees know it.'
Whenever someone close to me dies, I am always in shock
that people around me go on with their normal life.
How can they? The world has STOPPED!"

Someone is dead.
Even the trees know it . . .
. . . it's done.
It's all used up.
There's no doubt about the trees
spreading their thin feet into the dry grass.
A Canada goose rides up,
spread out like a gray suede shirt,
honking his nose into the March wind.
In the entryway a cat breathes calmly
into her watery blue fur.
The supper dishes are over and the sun
unaccustomed to anything else
goes all the way down.

Ben sent the lyrics to
Photograph ~ Ed Sheeran

Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes
But it's the only thing that I know
When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes
It is the only thing that makes us feel alive

We keep this love in a photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Hearts are never broken
And time's forever frozen, still

So you can keep me inside the pocket of your ripped jeans
Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet
You won't ever be alone, wait for me to come home

Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul
And it's the only thing that I know, know
I swear it will get easier,
Remember that with every piece of you
Hmm, and it's the only thing to take with us when we die

We keep this love in a photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Our hearts were never broken
And time's forever frozen, still

So you can keep me inside the pocket of your ripped jeans
Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet
You won't ever be alone

And if you hurt me
That's okay baby, only words bleed
Inside these pages you just hold me
And I won't ever let you go
Wait for me to come home
Wait for me to come home
Wait for me to come home
Wait for me to come home

You can fit me inside the necklace
you got when you were sixteen
Next to your heartbeat where I should be
Keep it deep within your soul

And if you hurt me
That's okay baby, only words bleed
Inside these pages you just hold me
And I won't ever let you go

When I'm away, I will remember how you kissed me
Under the lamppost back on Sixth Street
Hearing you whisper through the phone,
Wait for me to come home

And another song from my sister Di:
"I've got the Joy Joy Joy
Down in my heart, down in my heart
I'm so happy, so happy, so very happy . . ."

Nature pics from the last trip Gerry & I took
before the coronavirus travel restrictions.
~ San Luis Obispo, California ~ late February 2020 ~
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, July 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com