in which we apologize for being diverted by dusk

Q. Shenaynay

The Beehive has been less buzzish here of late, as many of you have noted. So okay, we rested a bit after our trip and took a little break to get life back in the groove. And frankly, we've just needed some quiet space to ruminate on things -- we found out that trips to Great Britain cause one to need a lot more thinking time for proper digestion than we anticipated.

But I think we're about ready to climb back on the blog wagon now, so get ready for a few posts about Scotland and England -- we're trying to select a handful of pictures to post from a stack of... gulp... about a thousand snapshots.

I confess we've noticed during this little quasi-sabbatical from blogging that it's harder to blog indoors when it's springtime outdoors. It's soon to get too stifling hot here in Texas to just be out-of-doors without being conscious of the discomfort of frying skin and air too heavy to breathe, not to mention vampirish mosquitos. So April is not to be squandered.

I love April, and I love that time of day when the sky starts melting into the fuzzy drama of dusk. For just a half-hour or so, the light particles that illuminate my little fallen corner of the world breathe a sigh of relief, intoxicated with gold under the momentary canopy of something so glorious it seems out of place suspended as it is above all the confusion writhing beneath it. And where else in nature does God give us that intense azure blue that creeps over the eastern horizon -- can a color be more arresting and deep than that? The indigo of dusk is the color of endlessness. I can't fathom it.

I love dusk so much that I wish God would slow down the sun for that little span of time and let me enjoy it longer. But then I realize I enjoy it so much because I know I must stop for it because it will not stop for me.

So in that hour of the day when we might otherwise be blogging, instead we've been out walking and talking and trying to understand indigo, and thinking about how mockingbirds edify our sidewalk atmosphere so much more than grackles and how the neighborhood dove couple that we always see together and cooing seems far more content than that solitary yellow-bellied sapsucker of a woodpecker who comes around pecking himself senseless.

And thinking about how light is a mystery that we keep trying to explain though we cannot understand it.

That -- all of that -- is a very good thing.

(I forgot how much I enjoy blogging. Good to be back.)

"Wherever I go, there's always Pooh. There's always Pooh and me."

Christopher Robin came down from the Forest to the Bridge, feeling all sunny and careless, and just as if twice nineteen didn't matter a bit, as it didn't on such a happy afternoon, and he though that if he stood on the bottom rail of the bridge, and leant over, and watched the river slipping slowly away beneath him, then he would suddenly know everything that there was to be known.

How?

How can I, a lowly mortal,
born an earthling formed of clay,
seek to praise the Lord Jehovah,
who has turned my night to day?

A Song to Nothing-At-All

Here's a song to Nothing-At-All
Because there's too much Anything
For one small pencil.

Here's a song to Nothing-At-All
Because Something is far too significant
For just any ears.

Here's a song to Nothing-At-All
Because Everything is rather expansive
For these weak eyes.

Here's a song to Nothing-At-All
Because I'm too small for the Opera
And yet I must sing.

What I did on my "summer" vacation

I picked up Robert the Bruce's actual sword!

he he he

Home again home again jiggity jog...

I stuck my tongue out at Mary Queen of Scot's grave.

Will Blog For Tacos

Q. Shenaynay

Must get some enchilaaaadaaaas... must... two weeks without, gasp gasp... help, fading fast... quick, need salsa... need quacamole... jalapenos... blacking out...

Translation: We'll blog at length about our trip to Scotland and England as soon as we recieve the Sustaining Relief of Tex-Mex Comida and recover somewhat from jet lag (we were awake over 24 hours yesterday in transit, and our bodies still think midnight is 7 AM).

Oh, My Dearest Friends, say with me "God Bless the USA," for it provides within its borders the miracle of Tex-Mex food and juicy cheddar cheeseburgers with big slabs of dill pickles and really thin crispy-salty-greasy french fries and icy-cold-bona-fide Dr. Pepper and a chocolate malt with a cherry on top... ah yes, the finest country in the world, this.

ps. It was GLORIOUS, every single glorious glorious glorious day of it. Details to follow, with more pictures than you really want to see. But we just really gotta eat something other than British roast beef and potatoes before we can communicate properly about it all.