Christmas for Cowgirls

CHRISTMASY COWBOY BOOT EARRINGS
~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~

"Cowgirl is an attitude, really; a pioneer spirit, a special brand of courage.
The cowgirl faces life head on, lives by her own lights, and makes no excuses.
Cowgirls take stands. They speak up. They defend the things they hold dear.
A cowgirl might be a rancher, or a barrel racer, or a bull rider, or an actress.
But she's just as likely to be a checker at the local Winn Dixie,
a full-time mother, a banker, an attorney, or an astronaut."

Dale Evans ~ 1912 - 2001

Back in the day (1965 or so), on our shelf of Christmas classics, right next to the Big Golden Christmas Book, stood the Big Golden Dale Evans Prayer Book For Children:

Many of the writers in this anthology are anonymous, but others are classic: William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Alexander Pope, and Christine Rosetti -- authors a girl needs to know if she's going to get a Ph. D. in English one day. As the editor, Evans shares a few of her own small poems, not so much as a legendary poet but rather as a legendary cowgirl! Her work in the anthology also serves the worthy purpose of raising the number of female authors from a scant three to four (Elsa Ruth Nast, Sara E. Wiltse; plus charming illustrations by Eleanor Dart).

You can find a bit of pantheism in the pages there, alongside more standard verses of faith:
Where is God?
In the sun, the moon, the sky,
On the mountains, wild and high,
In the thunder, in the rain,
In the vale, he wood, the plain,
In the little birds that sing . . .

A little sparrow cannot fall
Unnoticed Lord, by Thee;
And though I am so young and small
Thou dost take care of me.
A little sparrow? Could that be true? Oh well, time enough in January to resume the skepticism that has been with me -- just like this book -- since girlhood. Hey, even young cowgirls who love the holidays get the existential blues sometimes and question the universe around them.

Cowgirl Keychain from my friend Eve.
I gave the little boot to my dad decades ago --
and now it has found its way back to Christmas tree.
In addition to stuffing your tree with mementoes and souvenirs, here are a few ways to cheer yourself up should the post - Christmas blues [or reds] come knocking:

1. Poach a previous blogpost from yourself as a shortcut. Presto! You've just made some quick progress on your holiday "to - do" list!

2. Read the novel by Tom Robbins

3. Eat some hard candy and sing along with Dolly Parton

4. Sing along with Emmylou Harris
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

She's a rounder I can tell you that
She can sing 'em all night, too
She'll raise hell about the sleep she lost
But even cowgirls get the blues

Especially cowgirls, they're the gypsy kind
And need their reins laid on 'em loose
She's lived to see the world turned upside down
Hitchin' rides out of the blues

But even cowgirls get the blues sometimes
Bound to don't know what to do sometimes
Get this feelin' like she's too far gone
The only way she's ever been

Lonely nights are out there on the road
Motel ceiling stares you down
There must be safer ways to pay your dues
But even cowgirls get the blues

Even cowgirls get the blues sometime
Bound to don't know what to do sometime
Get this feelin' like she's too far gone
The only way she's ever been

Even cowgirls get the blues sometime
Bound to don't know what to do sometime
Get this feelin' like the restless wind
The only way she's ever been

Written by & music by Rodney Crowell

5. And with John Denver
Christmas for Cowboys

Tall in the saddle, we spend Christmas Day
Driving the cattle over snow covered plains
All of the good gifts given today
Ours is the sky and the wide open range

Back in the cities, they have different ways
Football and eggnog and Christmas parades
I'll take my blanket, I'll take the reins
It's Christmas for cowboys and wide open plains

A campfire for warmth as we stop for the night
The stars overhead are Christmas tree lights
The wind sings a hymn as we bow down to pray
It's Christmas for cowboys, wide open plains

It's tall in the saddle, we spend Christmas Day
Driving the cattle over snow covered plains
So many gifts have been opened today
Ours is the sky and the wide open range
It's Christmas for cowboys and wide open plains

Written by Steve Weisberg

These songs always lift my spirits, as do the inspiring lives of Dale Evans and Anne Morrow Lindbergh. So, saddle up, and enjoy all the good gifts from seas, plains, and wide open skies! Channel your inner cowboy or cowgirl, live by your own light, stand for what you hold dear, and have a Happy New Year, despite the odds!

Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, January 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.blogsppot.com

Mystical Rose

REQUIEM MASS
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Alleluia, Alleluia
It is my Father's will, says the Lord,
that whoever believes in the Son shall have eternal life,
and that I shall raise him up on the last day.
Alleluia

Requiescat in Pace
Rosanne Bristow McCartney
29 May 1933 ~ 9 November 2021

A Eulogy for Rosanne
Given by her son William Gerard McCartney
Rosanne was born May 29th, 1933 to 42 year old Harry Bristow and his 24 year old wife, Annie Hurst. The Bristows hailed for four centuries from Lincolnshire and had moved in the late 19th Century to Little Crosby, while the Hursts were a long-standing Lancashire family who lived for many generations mostly around Aughton. Rosanne was the middle child of the marriage, following her sister Margaret who was born thirteen months earlier. Two years later, her brother Anthony was born, and their mother Annie, still only 26, died from septicemia after his delivery.

Anthony was sent to family friends, the Bullens in Maghull and was raised by them; Rosanne and Margaret were raised at The Olde House on Little Crosby Road by their 45-year-old father and two maiden aunts.

At the age of six and the outbreak of WW2, Rosanne was sent to a convent boarding school in Skipton. These were not happy years for Mum, as she noted wryly several times, “I was neither pretty nor rich, so the nuns didn’t like me.” The only vestige of that period was that in later life my mother enjoyed many nun jokes, the more inappropriate the better. But she came through it and came back to Liverpool where she trained at Mount Pleasant as an Infants teacher. Teaching was her profession, but she genuinely enjoyed both working with her children and the collegiality of the other teachers at Ss Peter and Paul’s where she worked most of her life and where she made several lifelong and dear friends.

She was always devoted to her religion and was not only a daily communicant most of her adult life but contributed many years of her life and her money to the cause of Our Lady of Walsingham for whom she had a deep affection. She was also keen to pass on her faith to her children; I vividly recall that as a child she would read me each night the Marian prayer “Sweet and Gentle Lady.” That prayer hangs in our home in Indiana today.

For Rosanne, faith was a key part of a practical life. My mother cared for her father’s second wife Sally in her long struggle with cancer, which included at one point giving her a bedroom in our three-bedroom home on Kaigh Avenue, while doing her full-time teaching job; oh and raising us three children. That was then followed in short order by her daily care of Aunty Betty who lived on Cavendish Road in Waterloo well into her eighties. But Rosanne was not one to complain, ever. Not for her the mealy-mouthed “thoughts and prayers” but rather, like her husband Ron, concrete, useful action. To borrow the motto of St Mary’s College: “She showed her faith by the way she lived.”

She loved music, playing piano and singing along with whatever was playing on the always-on radio. She loved going out to a “dance” or a “do.” She loved having her hair done every Friday. She told me once in later years that every time Ron walked into a room her heart still beat with excitement when she saw him.

She loved jokes and to laugh, a big, noisy, full-throated belly laugh but also the wry, knowing smile with her head slightly tilted; my last memory of my mother from just a few weeks ago, is that smile on her face.

She was always busy with her hands. She loved to darn and iron, and I would say garden, but in fact she seemed to get a lot more satisfaction from weeding things out than from growing them. As her grand-daughter Lucy once called it: “weedening.” There were several times -- once with a neighbor and then another time at a minor British stately home -- where she spontaneously engaged in some freelance weedening and had to be actually stopped from doing it. Neither the neighbor nor the staff of the stately home seemed particularly grateful for her practical help. Or again, she once savaged a conifer with her shears which had been gamely growing outside our Philadelphia home; a neighbor walking by remarked drily “very Tuscan, Rosanne, very Tuscan.”

While she didn’t really enjoy cooking, she could certainly do it. One of her favorite cooking activities was the making, icing and especially the soaking of the Christmas cake; either whiskey or brandy would do very nicely. One year, Kitti and I arrived with our boys during the Spring, having missed our typical December visit. At Rosanne’s hands they had early learned the magic of an English Christmas; so Mum, to extend that holiday, made a Christmas cake for us. The cake of course was delicious but tasted somehow different than usual; further examination of several liquor containers revealed that Rosanne had liberally doused the cake in Tequila. That was our first Cinco de Mayo Christmas cake.

There were moments of tragedy, the death of her second child Catherine Anne at only seven weeks of age in 1958, several miscarriages late in pregnancy, the death of her father in 1966 hit her hard, but overall, she was a happy person, with an easy laugh. Our dear friend and Philadelphia neighbor, Lawrence Davis, who knew Ron and Rosanne well wrote in sympathy: “she was the best. We found her wit, barbs and “sotto voce” asides immensely entertaining and a welcome breath of fresh air.”

So the totality of her life cannot be clouded by the lingering death she so gracefully endured. There are many people to be thanked who helped our family in the last years of Rosanne’s life: lifelong friends Bernie and Mary Cullen; our neighbors Theo and Alex who are particularly caring to my father, the staff of Warren Park who even through these trying times have always been a model of friendliness and warmth. Sister Leigh-Anne at Aintree University hospital and the Chaplain Fr Cooper were angels of tenderness and caring professionalism, attending to Rosanne in her last hours.

There was a story that Rosanne told several times to her closest confidants about how she would meet people, even when she was an adult, in Crosby Village who had known her mother Annie, whom she of course had no recollection of. Out of kindness these old friends would share an anecdote, but to Rosanne it was puzzling: “How can it be” she would say, “that they know my mother and I don’t.” But we were so very fortunate because we did know Rosanne; we knew her as caring daughter to her father, affectionate sister to her brother and sister, loving and loyal life companion to Ron, devoted mother to her three children, and most recently as joyful grandmother and great-grandmother.

Rosanne lived a full life that was blessed and magical, a life full of laughter, energy and love. She was our mother most amiable, mother admirable, mother of good counsel; she was our tower of ivory, house of gold, and morning star; she was our sweet and gentle lady; she is our mystical rose.

Spring Break 2010

A reading from the letter of St Paul to the Colossians (3: 12 – 17)

You are God’s chosen race, his saints; he loves you, and you should be clothed in sincere compassion, in kindness and humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with one another; forgive each other as soon as a quarrel begins. The Lord has forgiven you; now you must do the same. Over all these clothes, to keep them together and complete them, put on love. And may the peace of Christ reign in your hearts, because it is for this that you were called together as parts of one body. Always be thankful. Let the message of Christ, in all its richness, find a home with you. Teach each other, and advise each other, in all wisdom. With gratitude in your hearts sing psalms and hymns and inspired songs to God; and never say or do anything except in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.

Gospel Reading ~ Matthew 19: 13 - 15

People brought little children to him, for him to lay his hands on them and say a prayer. The disciples turned them away, but Jesus said, "Let the little children alone, and do not stop them coming to me; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs." Then he laid his hands on them and went on this way.

Prayers of the Faithful

Let us pray for all those who looked after Rosanne's caring and medical needs during these last years, that their devotion will always be rewarded. Lord, hear us. Lord, graciously hear us.
We join our prayers to those of
Our Blessed mother, as we say together:
Hail Mary, full of grace.
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners
now and at the hour of death. Amen.

**********
Communion Hymn ~ Be Still, My Soul

Be still my soul the Lord is on thy side
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain
Leave to thy God to order and provide
In every change He faithful will remain
Be still my soul thy best, thy heavenly friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end

Be still, my soul; your God will undertake
to guide the future as he has the past;
your hope, your confidence, let nothing shake;
all now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
his voice who ruled them while he lived below.

Be still, my soul; when dearest friends depart
and all is darkened in the vale of tears,
then you will better know his love, his heart,
who comes to soothe your sorrows and your fears.
Be still, my soul; your Jesus can repay
from his own fullness all he takes away.

Be still, my soul; the hour is hast'ning on
when we shall be forever with the Lord,
when disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still my soul; when change and tears are past,
all safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

**********
Gone From My Sight ~ Henry Van Dyke

A ship sails and I stand watching until she fades on the horizon,
and someone at my side says, "She is gone."
Gone where?
Gone from my sight, that is all.
She is just as large as when I saw her.
The diminished size and total loss of sight
is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says
"She is gone,"
there are others who are watching her coming,
and other voices take up a glad shout,
"There she comes!"
And that is dying.

**********

Prayers of Commendation and Farewell
May the choirs of angels come to greet you,
May they speed you to paradise.
May the Lord enfold you in his mercy,
May you find eternal life.

To see her is to love her,
And love her forever.
For nature made her what she is,
And never made another!

~ Robert Burns ~

My Favorite: Rosanne & Josef, Fall 2006
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, December 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Fare Thee Well Awhile"
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.blogsppot.com

This Colorful Friday

THANKSGIVING TREES
~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~

Autumn Sun, 1912 ~ Egon Schiele (1890 - 1918)

As we struggle past another year of COVID,
these spare, elegant paintings (above & below)
are a reminder of the stark reality that
Schiele (age 28), his wife Edith, and their unborn child
all died in the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918.

Two weeks ago, I posted 3 days early for Veterans Day. Today I'm posting 2 days early for the Friday After Thanksgiving, colloquially referred to as Black Friday for the past six decades. However, black need not be the only color choice for the day. How about brown, for example:

“Autumnal — nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day. . . . Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it. . . . Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses. . . deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth—reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.”

from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
by Tom Stoppard (b 1937)

The "certain brownness" of Stoppard's autumn includes a gorgeous array of unusual seasonal tones: russet, tangerine, gold, ochre, umber, blue! In the next poem, Anne Barbara Ridler offers a similar palette of surprising, "raging colour": purple, red, rose, amber. What could be more perfect to brighten a cold "Black" Friday:

Autumn Day

The raging colour of this cold Friday
Eats up our patience like a fire,
Consumes our willingness to endure,
Here the crumpled maple, a gold fabric,
The beech by beams empurpled, the holy sycamore,
Berries red-hot, the rose's core--
The sun emboldens to burn in porphyry and amber.

Pick up the remnants of our resignation
Where we left them, and bring our loving passion,
Before the mist from the dark sea at our feet
Where mushrooms cling like limpets in the grass,
Quenching our fierceness, leaves us in a worse case.

Anne Barbara Ridler (1912 - 2001)

Autumn Trees, 1911

In the following sonnet, Elizabeth Jennings makes no mention of color, describing instead the tenacity of the last leaves to fall. Some are ready to go by Halloween, others by Thanksgiving. Others linger well beyond the autumn holidays, taking nearly another season before the branches are "utterly bare," before we see those bones:

Beech

They will not go. These leaves insist on staying.
Coinage like theirs looked frail six weeks ago.
What hintings at, excitement of delaying,
Almost as if some richer fruits could grow

If leaves hung on against each swipe of storm,
If branches bent but still did not give way.
Today is brushed with sun. The leaves are warm.
I picked one from the pavement and it lay

With borrowed shining on my Winter hand.
Persistence of this nature sends the pulse
Beating more rapidly. When will it end,

That pride of leaves? When will the branches be
Utterly bare, and seem like something else,
Now half-forgotten, no part of a tree?

Elizabeth Jennings (1926 - 2001)

Small Tree in Late Autumn, 1911

So if you happen to be feeling overwhelmed by Thanksgiving and Black Friday and Cyber Monday, take a break from it all and immerse yourself in the vivid colors of this special weekend that comes but once a year!

******************

Previous Egon Schiele Posts
How A Body Sways
Allerseelen
Easter Siblings

&

A nice long poem for reading
anytime during October through December:
"Kicking the Leaves"
by Donald Hall

Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, December 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Trees & Shells"
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.blogsppot.com

Angel of the Hills

DULCE DECORUM EST
~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~

Pvt Samuel Gordon Lindsey
(January 5, 1893 - July 31, 1918)

with his mother

Sarah Elisabeth Hartman Lindsey
(August 19, 1856 - September 29, 1937)

The following artice was written in 1936,
shortly before Sarah died. I'm not sure who wrote it,
but I imagine it was for a local publication,
such as the Caney, Kansas, newspaper.
"When her son, Samuel Gordon Lindsey, was killed in action in the World War, Mrs. Sarah Elisabeth Hartman Lindsey, who lives near here [the Cascade Hills in Chautauqua County, Kansas] decided that the qualities which had endeared her son to all who knew him, his generosity and kindliness, could find continued expression through the war insurance which she receives monthly.

"Sums ranging from two dollars to one hundred dollars have been lent to worthy applicants for aid.  A man whose house, barn, and stock were burned was given a "stake" to enable him to get on his feet again.  A boy desiring an education was given money for books and his luncheon provided for during the school term.  A widow struggling to make a livelihood for herself and children on a barren forty acres has been helped over many rough spots.  A young man faced with bankruptcy following the Crash of 1929 was given money enough to ease the load and satisfy his creditors.  

"Countless relatives also have been the recipient of aid at different times.  No interest is charged those to whom loans are made and no principal has been lost.

"Her desire to help others has enabled this woman, now 80 years of age, to express usefulness at a time of life when useful activity might be difficult for many. Small wonder she is lovingly referred to as "The Angel of the Hills" in her community."

*************

My Great Uncle Sam had a very serious side,
but never lost his sense of humor.

A month before he died, Sam wrote home to his mother:

"I surely hope you are not worrying about me and trust you are not because I am faring fine so be easy as possible. I figure this is a cause worthy of an easy mind, although the outcome might be unfortunate for a boy, it is well worth whatever loss he meets, is simply why I can set steady in the boat. I want you to see it is so, not for the good old US alone but for humanity's sake in general, and I know you do of course and . . . see where we are fighting for Right and it's not near as much trouble for you. For me, I am not bothered a bit -- can't be bothered haha!

. . . You know it doesn't seem like I am as far from you as I am but when the sun comes up back there it's nearly noon here so it's some little ways, eh? Well Ma dear I must close for now and I will write more often. . . . I want you to think about what I have said.* If you have any little Kodak pictures of yourself I wish you would stick one in when you write. I lost the one you gave me.**
Hoping this finds you all well.
Your loving boy
Pvt. Sam. G. Lindsey
Co. A - 47 U.S. Inf. (Reg.)
American E. F. (Via New York)

*Emphasis added.

**In an earlier letter -- to his sister Mabel, in February -- he has written across the top of the page: "Thanks for the picture of mother." Perhaps this is in reference to the one that got lost.

In a final letter to Mabel -- mailed on July 11, 1918, exactly 3 weeks before his death -- Sam wrote, with what was to become the saddest irony:

"My Dear Sister and family,

You may think I am dead but
now think again ha, ha."

Dear Uncle Sam,
Rest in Peace
I will try, as you implore your mother,
"to think about what [you] have said."
But I cannot promise to agree.

In honor of Veterans Day & the Armistice,
I shall allow Eleanor Roosevelt the last word:
"I have sketched briefly the short trip to Europe after World War I, and yet I think that trip had far - reaching consequences for me. I had known Europe and particularly France, with its neat and patterned countryside, fairly well. The picture of desolation fostered in me an undying hate of war which was not definitely formulated before that time. The conviction of the uselessness of war as a means of finding any final solution to international difficulties grew stronger and stronger as I listened to people talk. I said little about it at the time but the impression was so strong that instead of fading out of my memory it has become more deeply etched upon it year by year." ~ from her Autobiography
*****************

To read more about Sarah . . .

Faded Autographs
Great - Grandmother's Day Book

To read more about Sam . . .

My Grandfather's Brother
Veterans Eve
Uncle Samuel
Back when Kansas was the Wild Wild West!
Two Fine Families

Time to Write A Letter
Talking About the Homestead
Thus Far Our Experience
Getting Almost Homesick

And more about Veterans Day . . .
Collected on the Quotidian Kit

Next Fortnightly Post
Sunday, November 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.blogsppot.com

Someone Who Likes You

WE ALL NEED FRIENDS ON HALLOWEEN!
~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~

"A friend is someone who likes you."
~ Joan Walsh Anglund ~
(1926 - 2021)
[Please! Credit where credit is due!]

Favorite Halloween Pictures
~ here & above ~
From This Is Halloween

Even amongst friends,
we are alone inside our heads:
"We assume too readily that we share one world with other people. It is true at the objective level that we inhabit the same physical space as other humans; the sky is, after all, the one visual constant that unites everyone’s perception of being in the world. Yet this outer world offers no access to the inner world of an individual. At a deeper level, each person is the custodian of a completely private, individual world. Sometimes our beliefs, opinions, and thoughts are ultimately ways of consoling [does he mean "deceiving"] ourselves that we are not alone with the burden of a unique, inner world. It suits us to pretend that we all belong to the one world, but we are more alone than we realize.

"This aloneness is not simply the result of our being different from each other; it derives more from the fact that each of us is housed in a different body. The idea of human life being housed in a body is fascinating. For instance, when people come to visit your home, they come bodily. They bring all of their inner worlds, experiences, and memories into your house through the vehicle of their bodies. While they are visiting you, their lives are not elsewhere; they are totally there with you, before you, reaching out toward you. When the visit is over, their bodies stand up, walk out, and carry this hidden world away."

by John O'Donohue
from Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom, p 40
See also: Doubt ~ Dolls ~ Miniature
And: Cyber ~ Connections ~ Peanut

Yet, despite the limitations of friendship, it can transcend the boundaries of time and space:
"Friendship transcends disappearance: an enduring friendship goes on after death, the exchange only transmuted by absence, the relationship advancing and maturing in a silent internal conversational way even after one half of the bond has passed on.

"But no matter the medicinal virtues of being a true friend of sustaining a long close relationship with another, the ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the other nor of the self, the ultimate touchstone is witness, the privilege of having been seen by someone and the equal privilege of being granted the sight of the essence of another, to have walked with them and to have believed in them, and sometimes just to have accompanied them for however brief a span, on a journey impossible to accomplish alone.”

by David Whyte
from Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words
See also: Cyber Monday & Small Opening

Next Fortnightly Post
Sunday, November 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.blogsppot.com

Previous Favorites

Trick or Treat! ~ 2020

Love These Silhouettes!

Soul Cakes ~ 2016

From Doris & Denis ~ 2021

More Good Ones:
For the Love of Fall and Halloween

Only Collect a Few (Imprints #3)

SAND & CONCRETE
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Thanks to my friend Jan Donley
for this gift from the sea.

Excerpts from Gift from the Sea (1955)
by Anne Morrow Lindbergh (1906 – 2001)

“One never knows what chance treasures . . . may turn up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind . . . The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea” (16 - 17).

“I shall ask into my shell only those friends with whom I can be completely honest. I find I am shedding hypocrisy in human relationships. What a rest that will be! The most exhausting thing in life, I have discovered, is being insincere" (32).

“The one-and-only moments are justified. The return to them, even if temporarily, is valid. The moment over the marmalade and muffins is valid; the moment feeding the child at the breast is valid; the moment racing with him at the beach is valid. Finding shells together, polishing chestnuts, sharing one’s treasures: all these moments of together-aloneness are valid, but not permanent” (73).

“One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can only collect a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few. One moon shell is more impressive than three. There is only one moon in the sky” (114).

March 2016 ~ Amelia Island

*******************
I have long been a fan of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, especially Bring Me A Unicorn but not until a recent re-reading of Gift from the Sea, did I fully appreciate how ahead of her time she was on issues such as environmentalism, de-cluttering, mindfulness, and self - care. For all her gentlness, only a person with a built in shit detector could pinpoint the awesome truth that "The most exhausting thing in life . . . is being insincere." We have all felt it; but, on our behalf, Lindbergh declares it.

Likewise, she declares for personal time and space: "remaining whole in the midst of the distractions of life," "practicing the art of solitude," "being inwardly attentive." These contemplative disciplines -- "even day - dreaming" -- she says, are so rare as to be revolutionary (29, 41, 42, 48, 56 - 57). And this was decades before Facebook and social media started gnawing away at our attention spans.

The ever - elusive work - life balance is prominent on Lindbergh's agenda: "The bearing, rearing, feeding and educating of children; the running of a house with its thousand details; human relationships with their myriad pulls. . . this constant tangle of household chores, errands, and fragments of human relationships . . . endless distractions, always at hand -- unnecessary errands, compulsive duties, social niceties . . . to little purpose" (29, 47 - 48). Using the imagery of seashells, Lindbergh offers suggestions for maintaing a creative identity alongside the whorling omnipresence of housekeeping and childcare and making one's way in the world.

As staunchly as Virginia Woolf (51, 54), Lindbergh advocates for a room of one's own. Or, if not a room, at least an hour to oneself:

“It is a difficult lesson to learn today -- to leave one's friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week. . . .

The world today does not understand, in either man or woman, the need to be alone.

How inexplicable it seems. Anything else will be accepted as a better excuse. If one sets aside time for a business appointment, a trip to the hairdresser, a social engagement or a shopping expedition, that time is accepted as inviolable. But if one says: I cannot come because that is my hour to be alone, one is considered rude, egotistical or strange. . . . Actually these are among the most important times in one's life -- when one is alone” (42, 49 - 50).

These gifts of introspection came to Lindbergh at the beach. Yet, never fear, such gifts are also widely available on dry land, even upon mundane concrete . . .
August 2017 ~ North Carolina

June 2020 ~ Indiana

April 2021 ~ Indiana

August 2021 ~ South Carolina

"I couldn't even walk head up . . . for fear
of missing something precious at my feet." (114)

Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, October 28th

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

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST ~ "More Gifts From the Sea"
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

The Leaves Conferred (Imprints #2)

AUTUMN LEAVES ON THE SIDEWALK
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~ PRAGUE 2019

"If you go looking, you will find sidewalk squares to measure.
You will find steep concrete steps leading to stoops and into houses.
They are everywhere. . . .

. . . home is fragile and varied and elusive.
Just the word 'home' can bring a smile or a tear.

I suppose I write and draw in an attempt to locate home,
some center point that grounds me."

~ Jan Donley ~
[See also: Safe Home & Picture of Home]

Bright Soul ~ Edinburgh, 2018

**************
I didn't realize, until my last post, how many leaves and sidewalk imprints I had collected over the years! Searching through my files, I realized that it was going to take more than one post to make all the connections. I think it all began when my friend Jan sent this mesmerizing picture, nearly a decade ago:

I responded with this one,
taken in Dallas on New Year's Eve 2012:

My son Ben was with me that day, walking around Dallas,
in the pouring rain, and he thought it would be funny
to take a picture of me taking a picture of a wet leaf:

Additional wintry variations on the theme include snowy leaves --

Instead of looking down at the sidewalk,
this one is taken from a different perspective:
looking up, from inside, at the glass ceiling of my sunroom!
First, the leaf fell against the skylight; then, the snow fell!

-- and some unexpected Jack ~ Frost
on the floor of the garage!
[See also: facebook & brainpickings]

And this icy manifestation from Jan
New Year's Day ~ 2017

I have been a collector of leaves from way back!
Let us leave it (yes, pun intended!) to Emily Dickinson
to explain why we love them so:

To my quick ear the Leaves — conferred —
The Bushes — they were Bells —
I could not find a Privacy
From Nature's sentinels —

In Cave if I presumed to hide
The Walls — begun to tell —
Creation seemed a mighty Crack —
To make me visible —

The Leaves like Women interchange
Exclusive Confidence –
Somewhat of nods and somewhat
Portentous inference.

The Parties in both cases
Enjoining secrecy –
Inviolable compact
To notoriety. [additonal ~ posts]

both poems by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

From my saved files but not sure from when, where, whom?
Possibly shared by my friend Terry Menard,
back in the earlier days of facebook.
Sure do wish I could recall!
[Note to self: take better notes!]

**************

Thanks to my friend, artist Susan Blubaugh
for sharing the following:

"So here are my 'imprints.' The first is a big leaf maple
on the hill across from my house.

The second is an oak leaf impression from leaves
that I picked up in Rome at the Borghese Palace.
Mary Firestone at Artists’ Own
incorporated the impression in a ceramic dish."

Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, October 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Imprints"
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.blogsppot.com

Shadowy Sidewalk Imprints

A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

"The day she quit poetry
the sidewalk insisted
on revealing its magic
shadowy imprints of fallen leaves

dancing frozen in concrete
people trampling
over autumn snapshots trapped in gray
but she knew it was a sidewalk
herself a pedestrian
She had quit poetry. . ."

~ from The Day She Quit Poetry
by Michael Kuchma (1979 - 2008)

Another timely coincidence (aren't they all?): for the past few years, I have been collecting photographs of leaves in concrete, planning to pull them all together into a blog post. Then along comes this sad and beautiful poem, "The Day She Quit Poetry." The imprints are not consistently clear, yet I sense that they capture the poet's impression of magical leaves frozen in concrete. And of course, it is autumn now, or nearly so, the perfect tme to relish the imagery of Michael Kuchma and Shel Silverstein.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

by Shel Silverstein (1930 - 1999)

Oak leaf on concrete
January 30, 2020 [Pictures: 2019-08-30]

**************

Shadowy Sidewalk Imprints by Julie
September 15, 2020 [Pictures: 2020-0501]

Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, September 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Imprints"
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.blogsppot.com