Grief & Relief

FOUND ART AT THE CEMETERY,
ACCUSTOMED, CERMONIOUS

I came across this fabric rose
at the Garden of Rest in Crosby, England,
all by itself on the ground.

A Fortnightly ago,
I re-cycled a meaningful Quotidian post
from ten years ago, on the topic of confidence.
For the next few weeks, I have decided to search out others
that seem deserving of an appearance on the Fortnightly.

The following initially appeared
on The Quotidian Kit ~ April 26, 2010,
reprinted here with a few minor changes:
One of Ann Lamott's anecdotes that has always stayed with me is the conversation she has with a priest when she is first pregnant with Sam and can't decide what to do.This passage is tied in with her difficult decision about whether or not to let young Sam go paragliding for his seventh birthday. I like the way that "grief" and "relief" are woven together in Lamott's thought process and in the priest's advice. He says that when it's a question of feeling

" . . . a deep and secret sense of relief, pay attention to that.
But if you feel deeply grieved at the thought, listen to that."

~ Traveling Mercies, 86 ~
Of course, sometimes (this is my observation, not Lamott's), the decision that brings deep relief is also deeply grieving. Maybe in those cases you just have to focus on the relief and give it precedence over the grief. Otherwise, you end up trying to fix one mistake by making another mistake, and that never works.


Additional thoughts on grief and relief:

"The truth about our childhood is stored up in our bodies, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, our perceptions confused, and our bodies tricked with medication. But someday the body will present its bill."

Alice Duer Miller (1874 - 1942)
American writer, mathematician, suffragist

I came across this passage a few years ago in The Old Farmer's Almanac Millennium Primer. This turn of the (recent) century handbook features a lot of silly old rhymes and folklore, but occasionally a thought or two will strike me as meaningful. I was wavering on this passage -- smart or stupid? love it, hate it? I kept going back to it, even though I had moved beyond that page. It seems a rather modern idea if you assume that what she means by "body" is what we post-Freudians might call "psyche" and if we assume that "childhood," as Miller uses the term, can be equated with "grief." Thus: "The truth about our childhood [GRIEF] is stored up in our bodies [PSYCHES]."

Rereading Anne Lamott, I came across a comment that increased my understanding of Miller's perspective:

"But what I've discovered . . . is that the lifelong fear of grief keeps us in a barren, isolated place and that only grieving can heal grief; the passage of time will lessen the acuteness, but time alone, without the direct experience of grief, will not heal it."

Traveling Mercies, 68
Anne Lamott (b 1954)
American writer and progressive political activist

And yet another way in which the bill is paid:

"Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed."

Natalie Clifford Barney (1876-1972)
American writer, lesbian activist, and salon hostess
expatriate living in Paris and writing predominantly in French

A Sad Childhood
"in a barron, isolated place"
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (1816 - 1855)
Illustrated by Fritz Eichenberg (1901 - 1990)

You can cover grief [or childhood] up and refuse to experience it, but it's still there, under layer upon layer of life, making you sad at the very core of your being -- that "barren, isolated place." Maybe experiencing all that buried pain as a path to self - acceptance is our 21st Century understanding of Miller's earlier metaphor of the body presenting a bill. The psyche will present its bill. Or the disasters of your life will be your bill. We either experience and accept that grief (i.e., pay the bill), or we live out our adult lives sick at heart, sick in body, soul, and spirit.

But not to sound too hopelessly hopeless! In fact, Lamott says that sometimes something amazing can happen:

"I would call it grace, but then, I'm easy.
It was that deeper breath, or pause or briefly cleaner glasses,
that gives us a bit of freedom and relief. "

~ Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, 232 ~
[emphasis added]

Here's to briefly cleaner glasses! That's a good start!

Lamott on caution / conscience / consciousness: "Don't be afraid of your material or your past. Be afraid of wasting any more time obsessing about how you look and how people see you. Be afraid of not getting your writing done. . . . Don't worry about appearing sentimental. Worry about being unavailable; worry about being absent or fraudulent. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it" (Bird by Bird, 226).

Lamott on quieting the voices in your head: "Close your eyes and get quiet for a minute, until the chatter starts up. Then isolate one of the voices and imagine the person speaking as a mouse. Pick it up by the tail and drop it into a mason jar. Then isolate another voice, pick it up by the tail, drop it in the jar. And so on. Drop in any high-maintenance parental units, drop in any contractors, lawyers, colleagues, children, anyone who is whining in your head. Then put the lid on . . . imagine that there is a volume-control button on the bottle. Turn it all the way up for a minute, and listen to the stream of angry, guilt-mongering voices. Then turn it all the way down . . .and get back to your shitty first draft" (Bird by Bird, 27).

More of my favorites from Anne Lamott:
QK: Like a Little Gnome!
And on Kitti's List
And so much more!

The Drip
by Eugene Christopherson (1939 - 2007)

This sweet little print came into my life
when my dear friend Vickie sent a vintage copy
of the above illustrated Jane Eyre
as a present for my little grand-daughter, Ellie
-- her first Bronte novel! Unbeknownst to Vickie,
a blank antique notecard was tucked inside the pages,
featuring this tiny tot by Christopherson.

Thank you Victoria Amador!
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, April 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Eichenberg & Christopherson
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

Confidence in Confidence

Posting a day late in honor of the time - honored
historic and historical Ides of March [or Whatever]

TINY RED SAMARAS
FROM OUR VERY TALL OLD BACKYARD MAPLE,
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

More commonly referred to as
“helicopters,” “whirlers,” “twisters” or “whirligigs,”
samaras are the winged seeds produced by maple trees.
All maples produce samaras, but red, silver and Norway maples
often produce the largest quantities.

For sizing: the broken twig is about 2 inches long,
so, depending on your screen, this photo might
appear a little bit larger than life.

Writing earlier about The Unbearable Lightness of Being and reading Duo Dickinson's Lenten Meditations, brought to mind the following beautiful Easter meditation taken from the pretend Diary of Emily Dickinson, actually written by Jamie Fuller.

It's Sunday 21 April 1867 -- a late Easter that year -- and instead of attending church with the family, Emily stays home and writes her own sermon. (I'm often tempted to do the same, with so much excellent material at hand, as well as the inclination to liven thinks up a bit: shed a little doubt, spread a little worry, a little realism, a little heartbreak.) In her Easter contemplation, the fictional Emily Dickinson writes not of an unbearable lightness but of a bearable heaviness, the "weight" of "the seeker's burden":

"Morning came with reluctance -- and the sky still mingles tears with hope. We like a vivid Easter -- but Nature -- remembering the first -- chooses a more fitting compromise. The family are at church -- where presumptuous bonnets vie with Faith -- but I prefer to spend this morning with my Bible -- to hear again the story of that Day -- that taught us how to suffer. The Gospels promise permanence but remind us of our evanescence. Even he who died for Truth -- the greatest blasphemy -- could not escape fulfillment of that ageless Prophecy.

"We read the tale -- admonishing the Followers -- but the cock crows many times in our hearts and Thomas sets our example. Faith itself is our cross -- We stumble under it's weight but cannot put it down. How much lighter the step of those who do not bear the seeker's burden" (p 33).

As a poet, Dickinson forgoes the (perhaps unbearably) "lighter . . . step." I'm struck by Dickinson / Fuller's image of the cock that crows "in our hearts," where doubt resides, and her conclusion that "faith is our cross," cumbersome but bearable. The dual burdens, one of doubt and one of faith, call to mind my favorite passage of the conflicted father in the Gospel of Mark: "I believe. Help thou mine unbelief" (9: 24). Doesn't that say it all? Especially for a Gemini and a doubting Thomasina, what's the difference really? Belief / unbelief: they go together. Doubt / faith: which is heavy; which is light?

As a wise spiritual teacher (I'm not sure who) once said,
“The enemy of faith is not doubt.
Doubt is faith’s friend.
The enemy of faith is fear.”
Not to shock the shy and modest Emily, but I can't help thinking of something irreverent here, one of Stephen Colbert's characteristic quips: "Ladies . . . show a little cleavage. It lets a man know that you're confident enough to show some cleavage!" Not much of an option for the unendowed such as myself; yet I grasp the concept. Of course, the circularity of Colbert's suggestion is laughable; yet, on the serious side, it bears a resemblance to the Easter idea -- we need faith to have faith, confidence to have confidence. As Julie Andrews sings in The Sound of Music: "I have confidence in sunshine,
I have confidence in rain . . .
I have confidence in confidence alone."
[Complete lyrics below]

On a similar note, architect and essayist Duo Dickinson says that

"We are curious about our curiosity."

Artist and witticist Michael Lipsey says that

"To appear confident is almost as good
as actually being confident." from I Thought So (9)
Likewise, novelist James Joyce describes the courage to have courage. In A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Stephen Dedalus proclaims:

"I will tell you also what I do not fear"
-- and then goes on to list the things he is afraid of, the things he summons the courage to deal with every day.

In closing, another wise teacher (this one I do know) said,

"Fear is an important consultant, but a lousy leader.
You can listen to its advice, but you must not let it lead.
Courage is a wise leader. You should follow it."

Noam Shpancer
from his novel The Good Psychologist (78)

And a related connection:

"Never listen to fear! Fear makes you stupid."

Nina George
from The Little Paris Bookshop (131)

The above Fortnightly post initially appeared
on The Quotidian Kit ~ April 11, 2013
It has been reprinted here with a few minor changes.

Seasonal Inevitability:
All Souls Day at the Cemetery in West Lafayette
My friend Beata and I found this wayward arrangement,
apparently from the previous Easter,
blown into a bank of dry autumn leaves and rubble.
Beata & Kitti ~ 2 November 2012


I Have Confidence

What will this day be like? I wonder.
What will my future be? I wonder.
It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free
My heart should be wildly rejoicing
Oh, what's the matter with me?

I've always longed for adventure
To do the things I've never dared
And here I'm facing adventure
Then why am I so scared

A captain with seven children
What's so fearsome about that?

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries
If I don't I just know I'll turn back
I must dream of the things I am seeking
I am seeking the courage I lack

The courage to serve them with reliance
Face my mistakes without defiance
Show them I'm worthy
And while I show them
I'll show me

So, let them bring on all their problems
I'll do better than my best
I have confidence they'll put me to the test
But I'll make them see I have confidence in me

Somehow I will impress them
I will be firm but kind
And all those children (Heaven bless them!)
They will look up to me
And mind me

With each step I am more certain
Everything will turn out fine
I have confidence the world can all be mine
They'll have to agree I have confidence in me

I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me

Strength doesn't lie in numbers
Strength doesn't lie in wealth
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers
When you wake up -- Wake Up!

All I trust I leave my heart to
All I trust becomes my own
I have confidence in confidence alone

(Oh help!)

I have confidence in confidence alone
Besides which you see I have confidence in me!

sung by the character Maria
in The Sound of Music
by Rodgers and Hammerstein

*****************
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, March 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

As the samaras dried out:
Still Life with Book

Magic Martisor

POSTING LATE TO COINCIDE
WITH LITTLE MARCH

RED & WHITE TWINE,
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Nude Girl with Long Braid, 1913
by Egon Schiele (1890 - 1918)

Happy Mărțișor Day!
In Romania the custom on March 1st is to exchange trinkets
& small tokens of affection tied with a red & white string.

Mother & Daughter, 1913 ~ Egon Schiele
Quotation by Thoreau

As this poem explains, Martisor combines traditions that we might associate with New Year's Day, Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, May Day, the Vernal Equinox, and In Like a Lion / Lamb -- all rolled up into one and lasting for nine days:

Women and Martisor

The magic of Martisor;
little March doeth begin.
We rejoice the land's rebirth,
as winter comes to an end.

The Romanian New Year,
traditionally starts with spring.
Fertility's festival,
women honored for what they bring.

A red and white string,
they will wear on their breast.
Purity and passion;
life's blood, women are blessed.

Beautiful talisman,
promises health in the year to come.
March is the war god Mars,
women and earth will never succumb.

Changeable weather,
the nine nasty days of babe.
Dochia awakens;
by March ninth spring is here to stay.

March eighth in Romania;
they're still celebrating women.
Traditional Mother's Day;
they crown their queens of wisdom.

Women and Martisor,
are forever interlinked.
A nine day festival,
honoring women and spring.

Charles T. Carlstrom (1960 - 2016)
[aka chuck / carlstromct]

Spring by Nicolae Grigorescu (1838 – 1907)

Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, March 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Happy Martisor Day!
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

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

THE MINIATURE BIRTHDAY BOOK
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Circa 1918

When the name of Ella Wheeler Wilcox came up recently, it sounded so familiar to me. Yet I could not place a particular poem of hers that I might know. I word-searched through all my blogs --

Remember: Key words are your friend!
--but nothing appeared. Then -- coincidence! -- the very next day, Gerry was looking for an old notebook from his grandfather — which we never did find. However, in a stack of old gift books from his grandfather’s house, we found this:

Every page has 3 quotes from Wilcox
and room to write down birthdays,

such as Gerry’s on 18 May:

Some of the writing inside is by Gerry’s mom Rosanne
(such as Gerry’s name above)
and some by his sister Tina:

The biggest mystery . . .

~ Whose book was this in the first place? ~

. . . remains unsolved because Gerry cannot think
of any relatives called Babs or Ted . . .

As so often happens, one connection quickly leads to another! Thanks to my friend ~ Beata for sharing the following poem, in which Wilcox's "people who lean" are reminiscent of

"the delicately wounded . . .
the meek, who gambled nothing,
gave nothing, and could never receive enough.”
[in John Ciardi's poem, "In Place of a Curse"]
Wilcox's poem, "Two Kinds of People," came to Beata's attention by way of J. C. Maxwell's The 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership. Maxwell mentions that his mother used to recite this poem to him often:

Two Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
Just two kinds of people, no more I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood
The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,
You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,
Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each man his laughter end each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean
Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go you will find the earth's masses
Are always divided in just these two classes.

And oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,
There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load
Of overtaxed lifters who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner who lets others bear
Your portion of labor and worry and care?

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 - 1919)

Poem Plaque in Jack Kerouac Alley
near the City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco

Another connection,
in recognition of Valentine's Day:
a few love poems from Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

I Love You
Attraction
Love's Language
What Love Is
Friendship After Love
The New Love
Time and Love

And this one about
The Revolt of Vashti
[See my QK post: Don't Mess With Esther]
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, February 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

Emerald Eye

THE EMERALD: MYSTERIOUS AND MENACING,
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Emerald, 1900 ~ Alphonse Mucha (1860 – 1939)
[Part of a Series ~ See Below]

I learned the following poem from my husband Gerry, who can still recite large segments from over fifty years ago, when he memorized it in junior high. He was inspired by looking through an old notebook belonging to his Grandfather Harry and discovering that Harry had written out the entire poem, longhand. Gerry cannot recall his grandfather ever reciting or reading the poem aloud; and, sadly, Harry (1891 - 1967) had already died a few years before Gerry found the notebook, so Gerry was never able to learn more about whatever special connection it was that Harry felt to "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God." Perhaps it was just a personal favorite, and he enjoyed the discipline of writing it out word for word.

The Green Eye Of The Little Yellow God
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

by J. Milton Hayes (1884 – 1940)

Speaking of green eyes, this poem reminds me of the ancient accounts of Nero looking at the world through a green gemstone.

"According to the records of Pliny the Elder, Roman Emperor Nero during gladiatorial fights looked at the arena through a concave emerald. In this way, he eliminated the glare of the sun and his nearsightedness . . . [perhaps] the first sunglasses in history. Ancient Romans valued emeralds (smaragdus) . . . [and] generally called all green beautiful stones emeralds. . . . Although ancient sources do mention Nero’s emerald, today the opinion is that Nero actually used another transparent stone with a beautiful green colour, such as olivine. . . . Thus, the word 'emerald' used by Pliny to refer to Nero’s 'eyepiece' cannot be read strictly according to our present-day criteria, but rather broadly – simply as a transparent green stone."

If you've ever watched the 1951 epic film Quo Vadis, you might have seen Nero ogling women through his emerald eyepiece. As described in the full text of the screenplay, "Nero grabs his emerald monocle, puts it up to his eye," and leers at Lygia from across the room, making crude sexist remarks to Petronius and Tigellinus. In the novel, after a split second of eye contact with Nero, Lygia is "straitened with terror" and suddenly re-possessed by a childhood fear of dragons:
" . . . it seemed to her now that all at once
the greenish eye of such a monster was gazing at her." (47 / 79)
Even as his wife, Poppea, makes a grand entrance, Nero, continues to stare at Lygia, turning his "emerald monocle around in front of his eye like a prism." Poppea is so angered that she snatches the monocle out of his hand, demanding that he look at her instead.

In retaliation, Nero tears a ruby from Poppea's neck, twirling the stone in front of his eye until its facets, kaleidoscope - style, reveal a vision of Poppea with five heads. Nero threatens to "get rid of at least four of them," and angry Poppea warns him to "watch for your own head, Nero."

In the novel, Poppea's misgivings are revealed: "Wounded vanity quivered in Poppea, alarm seized her, and various fears shot through her head":

"Perhaps Nero has not seen the girl, or, seeing her through the emerald, has not appreciated her. But what would happen should he meet such a marvel in the daytime, in sunlight?" (65 / 101)

Petronius also has his doubts. When he views the dissolute assemblage of party guests through Nero's emerald monocle. Rather than softening the view, the eerie green light heightens the harshness of their intemperance. Petronius returns the jewel to Nero, along with these poetic words of warning:
"Close your ears, Nero,
lest the words of fools hurt them.
Your world is like an emerald.
Rare and fragile."
Nero's emerald eyepiece appears throughout the story (both film & book) as a symbol of his evil vision. He peers into it to enhance his view of carnage and public torture. It enables him to focus his attention on lions and gladiators, otherwise too far for his view across the amphitheater. He takes a gleeful delight in the magnification of every sinister detail.

Quo Vadis, the movie, is based on the novel (1895 - 96) by Henryk Sienkiewicz (1846 – 1916), a saga of early Roman Christian times, standing alongside such historical fiction as Ben Hur and The Robe. The strongest connection for me, however, was the imagery of Nero's gemstone, so similar to the colored beads described by Ralph Waldo Emerson; and the windowpanes described by Gustave Flaubert, and Philippa Pearce.

In his 1844 essay "Experience," Emerson compares life to "a string of beads, and as we pass through them they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus." We hold beads of experience to the light, watching them become prisms, deciding which of the many colors we feel most moved by, which bead, which color we will choose. To choose but one hue is to choose a dream, an illusion, but such is our inability to perceive experience in more than one way at a time.

Writing in France a few years later (1857), in a section sadly omitted from the final version of Madame Bovary, Flaubert pictures Emma looking out at the countryside through the variously colored window panes of a guest cottage: yellow, blue, green, red, each color altering her impression of the experience. Like Nero's emerald, through the green pane, everything appears leaden and frozen; like his ruby, through the red pane, the landscape is so frightening that Emma averts her gaze back to a clear pane of glass.

Writing a century later, British author Philippa Pearce described an incredibly similar scene, from a child's perspective, in her mystical young adult novel Tom's Midnight Garden (1958):

Tom and Hatty looked through "the coloured panes that bordered the glass panelling of the upper half [of the doorway of the greenhouse]. Through each colour of pane, you could see a different garden outside. Through the green pane, Tom saw a garden with green flowers under a green sky; even the geraniums were green-black. Through the red pane lay a garden as he might have seen it through the redness of shut eyelids. The purple glass filled the garden with thunderous shadow and with oncoming night. The yellow glass seemed to drench it in lemonade."

Which vision will it be: yellow, red, purple, green?

The Four Jewels ~ 1900
~ Topaz, Ruby, Amethyst, Emerald ~
Also of interest: The Four Seasons
[In three series: 1896, 1897, 1900]
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, February 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 ~ Summer Books: I Did It
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

As the samaras dried out:
Still Life with Book

Out of the East, Into the West

SETTING UP THE CRÈCHE
~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~

We have owls, a wooden pig,
a shepherd girl, and a wise woman,
who also appeared on last year's post.

Last month, I enjoyed all the pre-Christmas commentary from various sources about the proper time to place the Holy Babe in the Holy Crib. My friend Natalia led one such lively discussion:

"To all those with a nativity scene:
Baby Jesus should NOT be out right now. . .
He was born CHRISTMAS DAY.
Is it Christmas Day? Absolutely not.
Put the baby away!
Growing up, we had some neighbors who used to set up their manger scene early in the season but hide the Baby Jesus in the bread box until Christmas Day because he wasn't born yet. These days, I'm not so sure that anybody even has a bread box. Or how about a bread drawer -- that's what we had, although we did not keep the Christ Child in there!

Concerning Epiphany, my friend Megan asked if I was "slowly slowly building the manger scene and then ending on January 6th?" I had to confess that my Two Kings and One Queen were already in place, in fact, had been since the very first day. However, that's not to say that I don't thorougly admire those who have the discipline to put the Wise Travelers across the room at first, because they are still on their way, proceeding from afar.

Here is our set - up, including ice - hockey;
non-conventional perhaps, but not as odd as some!

In addition to previously posted Epiphany poems by Peter Yarrow, Elizabeth Coatsworth and T. S. Eliot; Muriel Spark and Sara Teasdale; and so many others, here are a few more in celebration of the extended season:

1. New to me this year,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's
extensive re-telling of the Journey of the Magi:

The Three Kings

Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.

“Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,
“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews.”

And the people answered, “You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!”
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king.”

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped — it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body’s burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)


2. This lovely lilting hymn,
sung so beautifully by Chanticleer:

Beautiful Star Of Bethlehem

O beautiful star of Bethlehem
Shining afar through shadows dim
Giving the light for those who long have gone
Guiding the wise men on their way
Unto the place where Jesus lay
O beautiful star of Bethlehem Shine on

O beautiful star the hope of life
Guiding the pilgrims through the night
Over the mountains 'til the break of dawn
Into the land of perfect day
It will give out a lovely ray
O beautiful star of Bethlehem Shine on

O beautiful star of Bethlehem
Shine upon earth until the glory dawns
Give us a lamp to light the way
Unto the land of perfect day
O beautiful star of Bethlehem Shine on

O beautiful star the hope of rest
For the redeemed, the good and the blessed
Yonder in glory when the crown is won
Jesus is now the star divine
Brighter and brighter He will shine

O beautiful star of Bethlehem Shine on

Lyrics by Adger M. Pace (1882 - 1959)
Music by R. Fisher Boyce (1887 - 1968)


3. And this deeply stirring favorite:

Out of the East ~ sung by Charley Pride

[lyrics to follow]

Words & music by Harry Noble, Jr.

Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, January 28th

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