November 26, 2006
November 23, 2006
November 22, 2006
random thoughts of gratitude
q. shenaynay
I'm thankful for thumbs, Henry Ford's imagination, thunder, those Sri Lankan kurundu trees that grow cinnamon bark, arms around me.
old minor hymns, reassurance, friends who stay, privacy in the shower.
the printing press, healing, Benjamin Franklin's kite, the book of Isaiah, tea leaves, seasons.
having a real, true home in the church.
the miracle of water that can boil, freeze, fill human cells, ripple, trickle and crash, steam, make creation bloom, obey God's voice, make things clean, form vapor, steam and snowflakes, make earth inhabitable, and wave for the moon.
never feeling unloved.
the eternal kinship of fellow believers.
the 8 note scale, Alexander Graham Bell, vocal chords, the postal service, stars on the water, gasping at the sky.
the sound of Sunday in my heart.
kissing, soap, charity, babies, Philippians, moments of joy, the sensation of creative flow.
kinfolk, passion, the gospel, friends who make time for real conversation.
photographs, wood, David the shepherd boy, truckers, toothbrushes, brothers.
color.
expressed appreciation.
stone fruits, giggling children, ticklishness, cotton plants, satisfaction.
fire, eyelids, goosedown, letters in the mail, sleep, sheep's wool, oceans.
that he fell in love with me.
the Spirit testifying to my spirit.
pillows, blankets, prayer, feeling at home, the resurrection, fruit-bearing vines, pasta.
the shimmering buzz of live music. most especially when created by people I love.
vision, poems, forgiveness, knees, garlic, Handel.
stringed instruments, cookies, candles, the people God sends to my table.
my children. oh my, yes.
my mother laughing, modest girls and boys who respect them.
that God thought flowers were necessary.
that God thought of any of it, and all of it. and that He thinks of me.
I'm thankful for thumbs, Henry Ford's imagination, thunder, those Sri Lankan kurundu trees that grow cinnamon bark, arms around me.
old minor hymns, reassurance, friends who stay, privacy in the shower.
the printing press, healing, Benjamin Franklin's kite, the book of Isaiah, tea leaves, seasons.
having a real, true home in the church.
the miracle of water that can boil, freeze, fill human cells, ripple, trickle and crash, steam, make creation bloom, obey God's voice, make things clean, form vapor, steam and snowflakes, make earth inhabitable, and wave for the moon.
never feeling unloved.
the eternal kinship of fellow believers.
the 8 note scale, Alexander Graham Bell, vocal chords, the postal service, stars on the water, gasping at the sky.
the sound of Sunday in my heart.
kissing, soap, charity, babies, Philippians, moments of joy, the sensation of creative flow.
kinfolk, passion, the gospel, friends who make time for real conversation.
photographs, wood, David the shepherd boy, truckers, toothbrushes, brothers.
color.
expressed appreciation.
stone fruits, giggling children, ticklishness, cotton plants, satisfaction.
fire, eyelids, goosedown, letters in the mail, sleep, sheep's wool, oceans.
that he fell in love with me.
the Spirit testifying to my spirit.
pillows, blankets, prayer, feeling at home, the resurrection, fruit-bearing vines, pasta.
the shimmering buzz of live music. most especially when created by people I love.
vision, poems, forgiveness, knees, garlic, Handel.
stringed instruments, cookies, candles, the people God sends to my table.
my children. oh my, yes.
my mother laughing, modest girls and boys who respect them.
that God thought flowers were necessary.
that God thought of any of it, and all of it. and that He thinks of me.
November 19, 2006
spuddy buddy unlocks the mystery of the crush
q. shenaynay
Spuddy Buddy was waiting for me to finish getting ready for church this morning, which gave him some time to think Big Thoughts. Which always leads to Big Questions. (Oh, no.)
SB: Mamadah, does _____ have a crush on _____ ?
Me: I need to get ready, son.
SB: I think they are kinda like Calvin and Susie.
Me: Really, son, I need to get... huh? Calvin and Susie? Oh, yeah, I remember. Calvin has a big crush on that girl Susie, doesn't he?
SB: No. HE doesn't. Not Calvin. Calvin doesn't like Susie.
Me: Oh, c'mon! Calvin does so like Susie!
SB: No, no, no. Calvin doesn't like Susie. His duplicate does.
Me: Uhhh...
SB: So Calvin gets in his Transmogrifier to trade places with his duplicate. So that way it's his duplicate who likes Susie instead of Calvin. See?
Me: (Oh. my. word. Bill Watterson is a genius, a visionary...)
SB: So I think they are like that.
Me: Uhhh... Huh. Hmmm.
Transmogrifiers. Duplicates. Huh. That explains an awful lot.
November 17, 2006
Thanksgiving Poetry, Prayers and Psalms
Our family has a Thanksgiving tradition of tucking a little slip of paper or a ribboned scroll at each place setting, with a poem or a prayer or a passage of scripture printed on it, and each of us finds a moment to read our selection aloud at some point during the big feast. We do this at a leisurely pace, and it usually goes around the table rather randomly throughout the meal. It's really quite lovely, having poems and prayers and perhaps words of hymns punctuating the usual family chatter. Here are some that have become traditional favorites.
(Note: If you try this, do keep it low key for the little readers in your family. In the past, we have let younger readers have a peek at their scrolls before dinner to make sure they knew all the words, and sometimes we have let younger ones share a selection with a parent or another child, taking turns with stanzas.)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
from
The Supper of Thanksgiving
by Horatius Bonar (1808-1889)
For the bread and for the wine,
For the pledge that seals Him mine,
For the words of love divine,
We give Thee thanks, O Lord.
For the body and the blood,
For the more than angel's food,
For the boundless grace of God,
We give Thee thanks, O Lord.
For the chalice whence we sip
Moisture for the parched lip,
For the board of fellowship,
We give Thee thanks, O Lord.
For the feast of love and peace
Bidding all our sorrows cease,
Earnest of the kingdom's bliss,
We give Thee thanks, O Lord.
For the paschal lamb here given,
For the loaf without the leaven,
For the manna dropt from heaven,
We give Thee thanks, O Lord.
Only bread and only wine,
Yet to faith the solemn sign
Of the heavenly and divine!
We give Thee thanks, O Lord.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
SONG OF THE PILGRIMS
The breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
The blue waves curl beneath the gale,
And, bounding with the wave and wind,
We leave Old England's shores behind --
Leave behind our native shore,
Homes, and all we loved before.
The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of woe,
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;
Still, as long as life shall last,
From that shore we'll speed us fast.
For we would rather never be,
Than dwell where mind cannot be free,
But bows beneath a despot's rod
Even where it seeks to worship God.
Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
Bear us o'er the troubled deep!
O see what wonders meet our eyes!
Another land, and other skies!
Columbian hills have met our view!
Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu!
Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.
As long as yonder firs shall spread
Their green arms o'er the mountains head --
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
Where join the ocean and the land --
Shall those cliffs and mountains be
Proud retreats for liberty.
Now to the King of kings we'll raise
The paean loud of sacred praise:
More loud than sounds the swelling breeze,
More loud than speak the rolling seas!
Happier lands have met our view!
England's shores, adieu! adieu!
~ Thomas Cogswell Upham
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A favorite of mine, and just perfect for reading at the table before prayer --
from
Harvest Hymn
by John Critchley Prince (1808-1866)
Whoever fails, Thou dost not fail;
Whoever sleeps, Thou dost not sleep;
With fattening shower, and fostering gale,
Thy mercy brings the time to reap;
Man marks each season and its sign,
And sows the seed and plants the tree,
But form, growth, fullness, all are Thine, --
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!
O God! it is a pleasant thing
To see the precious grain expand,
And the broad hands of Plenty fling
Her golden largess o'er the land;
To see the fruitage swell and glow,
And bow with wealth the parent tree;
To see the purple vintage flow --
Lord of abundance, praise to Thee!
Praise for the glorious harvest days,
And all the blessings that we share;
For the unbounded sunlight praise
And for the free and vital air;
Praise for the faith that looks above;
The hope of immortality;
For life, health, virtue, truth and love,
Maker and Giver, praise to Thee!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Here's a good poem for a child to read:
FIRST THANKSGIVING OF ALL
Peace and Mercy and Jonathan,
and Patience (very small),
Stood by the table giving thanks
The first Thanksgiving of all.
There was very little for them to eat,
Nothing special and nothing sweet;
Only bread and a little broth,
And a bit of fruit
(and no tablecloth);
But Peace and Mercy and Jonathan
And Patience, in a row,
Stood up and asked a blessing on
Thanksgiving, long ago.
Thankful they were for hearth and home,
And kin and company;
They were glad of broth to go with their bread,
Glad their apples were round and red,
Glad of mayflowers they would bring
Out of the woods again next spring,
So Peace and Mercy and Jonathan,
And Patience (very small),
Stood up gratefully giving thanks
The first Thanksgiving of all.
-Nancy Byrd Turner
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thanksgiving
I thank Thee, O my God, that through Thy grace
I know Thee, who Thou art;
That I have seen the beauty of Thy face
And felt Thee in my heart.
I thank Thee, O my Savior, who hast deigned
To stoop to even me;
Within my inmost soul hast ruled and reigned,
And will my ransom be.
I thank Thee, Holy Spirit, that Thy wings
Brood o'er my wandering mind;
Bringing to my remembrance sacred things
To which my eyes were blind.
I thank Thee, Triune God! But oh, how cold
The warmest words I speak;
For love and goodness strange and manifold,
All human words are weak.
O teach me, then, to praise Thee with my life,
With stern obedience;
To make the atmosphere about me rife
With silent eloquence!
Elizabeth Payson Prentiss
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers
by Felicia Hemans
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast;
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang
And the stars heard, and the sea!
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free;
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared:
This was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was a woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Aye, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod;
They have left unstained what there they found ~
Freedom to worship God.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Luke 17:11
And it came to pass, as He went to Jerusalem, that He passed through the midst of Samaria and Galilee. And as He entered into a certainvillage, there met Him ten men that were lepers, which stood afar off: And they lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us. And when He saw them, He said unto them, Go shew yourselves unto the priests. And it came to pass, that, as they went, they were cleansed. And one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, and with a loud voice glorified God, And fell down on his face at His feet, giving Him thanks: and he was a Samaritan. And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed? but where are the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger. And He said unto him, Arise, go thy way: thy faith hath made thee whole.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Psalm 111
Praise ye the LORD. I will praise the LORD with my whole heart, in the assembly of the upright, and in the congregation. The works of the LORD are great, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein. His work is honourable and glorious: and His righteousness endureth for ever. He hath made His wonderful works to be remembered: the LORD is gracious and full ofcompassion. He hath given meat unto them that fear Him: He will ever be mindful of his covenant. He hath shewed His people the power of His works, that He may give them the heritage of the heathen. The works of His hands are verity and judgment; all His commandments are sure. They standfast for ever and ever, and are done in truth and uprightness. He sent redemption unto His people: He hath commanded His covenant forever: holy and reverend is His name. The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: a good understanding have all they that do His commandments: His praise endureth for ever.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Psalm 100
A Psalm of praise.
Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands. Serve the LORD with gladness: come before His presence with singing. Know ye that the LORD He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture. Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name. For the LORD is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
We've also included the lovely Thanksgiving Prayer I posted earlier this week.
November 15, 2006
Thanksgiving books for families
q. shenaynay
When Fa and Beatrice were little girls, they adored all things pilgrimish. We collected and read through a tidy stack of lovely books about the pilgrims, but we have particularly fond memories of curling up on the sofa with Stories of the Pilgrims by Margaret Pumphries, a lively children's chapter book which follows the pilgrims' story from its beginnings in England to Holland and then across the water to Plymouth, all told through the lives of the pilgrim children.
After a few chapters, the girls began showing up for our reading sessions in costume, their imaginations completely swallowed up in the story: they were escaping to Amsterdam whilst the king's men pursued them... they were on the leaky Speedwell racing back to England before she sank... they were playing on the decks of the Mayflower, helping to name the babies born on board, planting corn with Squanto... The entire saga continued on long after the book was closed -- in our backyard, at Target, in the church parking lot, you name it.
Ten years later, they are in high school, but they still remember that book in vivid detail. They say it was one of the most "living" books I ever read to them. Now I'm reading it to Spuddy Buddy. He is getting caught up in all that magic. And as I read to him, the girls will pause on their way through the house to hear snatches of the story, sigh with nostalgia, and wander back to their own school books.
But way back in those little girl days, I wrote a post for an email list about the books we most enjoyed reading during the Thanksgiving season. Since Thanksgiving is still over a week away, it's not too late to curl up with a child or two and wallow in a one or more of these wonderful books. (Even if you're not a parent, surely you know at least one child who would enjoy that sort of attention from you?)
Here's that post... enjoy!
* * * * *
We find the story of Squanto absolutely intriguing -- it's truly the heart of the Thanksgiving story. Squanto was the thread God used to weave all that providence together. I never heard the whole story in school and I bet you didn't, either. Don't miss it.
One of our favorites was Squanto and the First Thanksgiving by Eric Metaxas. We also checked out the video version from the library, which is not flashy visually but is narrated with quiet elegance by Graham Greene (a writer who is Native American and Christian). It made a big impression on all of us about the sovereign hand of God over the events of man, and opened the door for some wonderful conversations.
Squanto and the Miracle of Thanksgiving, a newer Metaxas book, places even more emphasis on God's sovereignty over his life and is more deftly illustrated.
We also read Squanto, Friend of the Pilgrims by Clyde Robert Bulla every other year or so. We are always once again amazed by this story of remarkable providence. This is a chapter book, but it's not long -- check it out now and you'll have time to finish it by Thanksgiving. Written on a middle elementary reading level, and good for grown-ups, too.
Four fantastic picture books by Kate Waters:
Sarah Morton's Day
Samuel Eaton's Day
Tapenum's Day
On The Mayflower
These are photographed re-enactments of things such as a typical day in the lives of two pilgrim children and an Indian boy. (Claire was so taken with Sarah Morton that we got her a copy to keep. Sometimes she was Sarah Morton for days on end.) The first two were photographed at Plimoth Plantation, and the Mayflower book was photographed on the Mayflower II replica ship. Very good books.
Others books we like -- most of these are top-rate picture books with lots of content, so they will be enjoyed by children from "5 to 105," as C.S.Lewis would say:
Standed at Plimoth Plantation 1626 by Gary Bowen -- absolutely beautiful woodcuts, carefully researched from historical documents.
The Pilgrims at Plymouth by Lucille Recht Penner -- a new Picture Landmark book
Three Young Pilgrims by Cheryl Harness
The Pilgrims of Plimoth by Marcia Sewall
If You Sailed on the Mayflower by Ann McGovern
We also enjoy reading snippets from Eating the Plates, a book of Pilgrim manners and customs.
N.C. Wyeth's Pilgrims is like walking through an museum watercolor exhibit on the Pilgrims -- in fact these paintings are on permanent display in a museum. These are a portion of the Metropolitan Life-commissioned murals of the Plymouth Colony that Wyeth was working on when he was killed in an automobile accident in 1941. They are simply not to be missed -- although I'm not dazzled by the text, which skips over any religious connections to the events, particularly the "Harvest Festival." Still, it's so lovely that I bought the book regardless (but then I'm easily persuaded to buy anything Wyeth illustrates!).
Happy reading!
When Fa and Beatrice were little girls, they adored all things pilgrimish. We collected and read through a tidy stack of lovely books about the pilgrims, but we have particularly fond memories of curling up on the sofa with Stories of the Pilgrims by Margaret Pumphries, a lively children's chapter book which follows the pilgrims' story from its beginnings in England to Holland and then across the water to Plymouth, all told through the lives of the pilgrim children.
After a few chapters, the girls began showing up for our reading sessions in costume, their imaginations completely swallowed up in the story: they were escaping to Amsterdam whilst the king's men pursued them... they were on the leaky Speedwell racing back to England before she sank... they were playing on the decks of the Mayflower, helping to name the babies born on board, planting corn with Squanto... The entire saga continued on long after the book was closed -- in our backyard, at Target, in the church parking lot, you name it.
Ten years later, they are in high school, but they still remember that book in vivid detail. They say it was one of the most "living" books I ever read to them. Now I'm reading it to Spuddy Buddy. He is getting caught up in all that magic. And as I read to him, the girls will pause on their way through the house to hear snatches of the story, sigh with nostalgia, and wander back to their own school books.
But way back in those little girl days, I wrote a post for an email list about the books we most enjoyed reading during the Thanksgiving season. Since Thanksgiving is still over a week away, it's not too late to curl up with a child or two and wallow in a one or more of these wonderful books. (Even if you're not a parent, surely you know at least one child who would enjoy that sort of attention from you?)
Here's that post... enjoy!
* * * * *
We find the story of Squanto absolutely intriguing -- it's truly the heart of the Thanksgiving story. Squanto was the thread God used to weave all that providence together. I never heard the whole story in school and I bet you didn't, either. Don't miss it.
One of our favorites was Squanto and the First Thanksgiving by Eric Metaxas. We also checked out the video version from the library, which is not flashy visually but is narrated with quiet elegance by Graham Greene (a writer who is Native American and Christian). It made a big impression on all of us about the sovereign hand of God over the events of man, and opened the door for some wonderful conversations.
Squanto and the Miracle of Thanksgiving, a newer Metaxas book, places even more emphasis on God's sovereignty over his life and is more deftly illustrated.
We also read Squanto, Friend of the Pilgrims by Clyde Robert Bulla every other year or so. We are always once again amazed by this story of remarkable providence. This is a chapter book, but it's not long -- check it out now and you'll have time to finish it by Thanksgiving. Written on a middle elementary reading level, and good for grown-ups, too.
Four fantastic picture books by Kate Waters:
Sarah Morton's Day
Samuel Eaton's Day
Tapenum's Day
On The Mayflower
These are photographed re-enactments of things such as a typical day in the lives of two pilgrim children and an Indian boy. (Claire was so taken with Sarah Morton that we got her a copy to keep. Sometimes she was Sarah Morton for days on end.) The first two were photographed at Plimoth Plantation, and the Mayflower book was photographed on the Mayflower II replica ship. Very good books.
Others books we like -- most of these are top-rate picture books with lots of content, so they will be enjoyed by children from "5 to 105," as C.S.Lewis would say:
Standed at Plimoth Plantation 1626 by Gary Bowen -- absolutely beautiful woodcuts, carefully researched from historical documents.
The Pilgrims at Plymouth by Lucille Recht Penner -- a new Picture Landmark book
Three Young Pilgrims by Cheryl Harness
The Pilgrims of Plimoth by Marcia Sewall
If You Sailed on the Mayflower by Ann McGovern
We also enjoy reading snippets from Eating the Plates, a book of Pilgrim manners and customs.
N.C. Wyeth's Pilgrims is like walking through an museum watercolor exhibit on the Pilgrims -- in fact these paintings are on permanent display in a museum. These are a portion of the Metropolitan Life-commissioned murals of the Plymouth Colony that Wyeth was working on when he was killed in an automobile accident in 1941. They are simply not to be missed -- although I'm not dazzled by the text, which skips over any religious connections to the events, particularly the "Harvest Festival." Still, it's so lovely that I bought the book regardless (but then I'm easily persuaded to buy anything Wyeth illustrates!).
Happy reading!
November 14, 2006
providing & preventing
q. shenaynay
When we prepare our hearts to give thanks to the Lord, we usually think mostly of expressing gratitude for all the things we've been given. But if we had any idea how many times in every hour of every day the Lord's protective hand intervenes without our notice to spare us heartache and harm, surely we would pray many more prayers in the spirit of this one -- giving Him thanks for His preventing hand as well as His providing hand.
It's good for me to read this slowly, twice -- first as a poem, and then as a genuine prayer.
When we prepare our hearts to give thanks to the Lord, we usually think mostly of expressing gratitude for all the things we've been given. But if we had any idea how many times in every hour of every day the Lord's protective hand intervenes without our notice to spare us heartache and harm, surely we would pray many more prayers in the spirit of this one -- giving Him thanks for His preventing hand as well as His providing hand.
It's good for me to read this slowly, twice -- first as a poem, and then as a genuine prayer.
We thank Thee, Father, for the care
That did not come to try us;
The burden that we did not bear,
The trouble that passed by us;
The task we did not fail to do,
The hurt we did not cherish;
The friend who did not prove untrue,
The joy that did not perish.We thank Thee for the blinding storm
That did not loose its swelling;
And for the sudden blight of harm
That came not nigh our dwelling.
We thank Thee for the dart unsped,
The bitter word unspoken,
The grave unmade, the tear unshed,
The heart-tie still unbroken.
-- Anonymous
November 13, 2006
I'll have one miserable comforter to go, please.
q. shenaynay
Confession: I could make a sport out of eavesdropping in restaurants. I mean, what a fascinating past-time for someone who, like me, finds the human race endlessly intriguing.
So there's this yuppified Chinese restaurant in our neighborhood with a take-out waiting area where there is always some prime eavesdropping to be had. Tonight there was the typical crowd of liposuctioned soccer moms and their obligatory entourages of two preschool rock stars each, and there was also a nice turnout of the Important People In Suits multitasking on their cellphones. And then, of course, me, the homeschool mom in jeans who obviously doesn't get out enough.
The flashy blonde gal in her late twenties waiting next to me was wearing an impressive exuberance of leopard print and fiddling obsessively with the bluetooth rig welded onto her right ear. After several minutes of listening intently to her caller, she suddenly let loose with her long-awaited offering of comforting counsel:
"You should have told me about this problem before now. I mean, this just happens to be something I know a whole lot about. I wrote a paper about it in college, you know. Really, I do know a lot about this. If you had only told me sooner, I could have helped you. But. Well." (heavy sigh)
Oh goodness, the human race is just dripping with irony.
When she hung up, it was all I could do not to turn to her and say, "My lands, woman, I just can't imagine why your friend there didn't confide in you sooner!"
But I didn't. Aren't you proud of me?
...maybe next time...
Confession: I could make a sport out of eavesdropping in restaurants. I mean, what a fascinating past-time for someone who, like me, finds the human race endlessly intriguing.
So there's this yuppified Chinese restaurant in our neighborhood with a take-out waiting area where there is always some prime eavesdropping to be had. Tonight there was the typical crowd of liposuctioned soccer moms and their obligatory entourages of two preschool rock stars each, and there was also a nice turnout of the Important People In Suits multitasking on their cellphones. And then, of course, me, the homeschool mom in jeans who obviously doesn't get out enough.
The flashy blonde gal in her late twenties waiting next to me was wearing an impressive exuberance of leopard print and fiddling obsessively with the bluetooth rig welded onto her right ear. After several minutes of listening intently to her caller, she suddenly let loose with her long-awaited offering of comforting counsel:
"You should have told me about this problem before now. I mean, this just happens to be something I know a whole lot about. I wrote a paper about it in college, you know. Really, I do know a lot about this. If you had only told me sooner, I could have helped you. But. Well." (heavy sigh)
Oh goodness, the human race is just dripping with irony.
When she hung up, it was all I could do not to turn to her and say, "My lands, woman, I just can't imagine why your friend there didn't confide in you sooner!"
But I didn't. Aren't you proud of me?
...maybe next time...
November 9, 2006
still life with lunch
I just thought it was beautiful. That's all. It was yummy, too.
(This is one of our favorite fall lunches for busy school days.
It was about to go into the oven to bake, tented in foil
and with a little water added to the dish for moist steam.
I sprinkle cinnamon over it, grate a little fresh nutmeg on top,
and sometimes put a teaspoon of maple syrup in each half, particularly
early in the fall before the squash crop has gotten a good frost.
We like pears best for the hole -- they are incredible baked like this --
but sometimes I use apples, or even dates and chopped pecans.
Sometimes I stick a few chicken/garlic/basil sausages
on the panini grill thingy to serve with it.
That and a big glass of iced tea... oh, yeah.)
Gallant Knight of the Day Award
...goes to our beloved HHomeboy Kris, for noting the dire distress of the Beehive ladies over the disturbing spectre of the dead and decaying bird haunting the birdhouse outside our kitchen window. The birdish brethren of the dearly departed dead thing had, with considerable exhibition of violence, attempted to evacuate the corpse from the premises, but had only managed to peck it halfway out, leaving the dessicated head dangling from a broken neck outside the little hole of the house.
This disturbing view loomed right outside our kitchen windows, and had for many days been a source of much sorrow, recoil and horror to the Beehive ladies.
HHomeboy raced to our rescue with dazzling resolve, valiantly extricating the horrific beast and banishing its rotting remains from our domestic view, thus greatly relieving our delicate feminine sensibilities from further assault.
All hail HHomeboy! Hip hip and all that rot, wot?
Gallant Knight of the Day Runner-up Award goes to HHomeboy's brother Bluejacob, as we fondly refer to him, who so courageously nominated HHomeboy for the knightly errand.
This disturbing view loomed right outside our kitchen windows, and had for many days been a source of much sorrow, recoil and horror to the Beehive ladies.
HHomeboy raced to our rescue with dazzling resolve, valiantly extricating the horrific beast and banishing its rotting remains from our domestic view, thus greatly relieving our delicate feminine sensibilities from further assault.
All hail HHomeboy! Hip hip and all that rot, wot?
Gallant Knight of the Day Runner-up Award goes to HHomeboy's brother Bluejacob, as we fondly refer to him, who so courageously nominated HHomeboy for the knightly errand.
November 7, 2006
and the correct answer is:
b.
virtual apple pie with haagen dazs vanilla ice cream on top to:
rachel tsunami
~e
lace
light in the darkness
ludwig
and nomos
ps. what a hippie beatrice is turning out to be, huh? i mean, quoting woodstock and all. dude. what a trip.
virtual apple pie with haagen dazs vanilla ice cream on top to:
rachel tsunami
~e
lace
light in the darkness
ludwig
and nomos
ps. what a hippie beatrice is turning out to be, huh? i mean, quoting woodstock and all. dude. what a trip.
November 5, 2006
three poems and a pop quiz
q. shenaynay
Wow. What hip and happenin' speed poets you all turned out to be! So what did I tell you... whipping out a pedal-to-the-metal poem like that was pretty fun, now wasn't it? Might just have to do it again this week. Like at a red light or something. Hoo boy. Why not?
You people are cool - did we ever tell you that?
We got the five poems we asked for and some to spare, so here are the first three we whipped out, as promised. And because the fun just never ends here at the Beehive, you get to guess who wrote what! (If you've read any of the poems we've posted here before, this should not be excessively puzzling.)
The correct order of authorship of the following three poems is:
a. Fa, Beatrice, QS
b. QS, Fa, Beatrice
c. Fa, QS, Beatrice
d. Beatrice, QS, Fa
e. Wislawa Szymborska, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Joni Mitchell
Dallas to Graham
Pastures roll
and I unfold
drinking space
breathing green
upon green
All my missing clouds are here
every race and creed of them --
They say
they fled the metal
piercing their space
in that place I am leaving behind,
fled the counterfeit canopy
that daily dims their aerie carnival
and mine --
exiled, to explode here
in this rapture of rumbling dance
and white breath.
Air, my love! they cry to me
and gasping,
I sing alto
Dance, my love! they sing,
and I try
but my bones cry --
I need water
deep rocking water
water wide and full of fleeing clouds
at play;
water
to slip and laugh and sing
to my brittle bones
soon
before they return to dust.
The Paper Beckons
Sloshing around in big rubber boots
clumsy lumberjack hands--
you fell stands of words
and ride them down the swift river
swift cold river
churning with monsters-- see the teeth
snap around your ankles? that one
dines on split infinitives, this one
prefers run-on sentences,
but they're all hungry.
Your lumberjack boots fill with water
your calloused lumberjack hands grip
the slipping words for dear life
rushing whirling
tumble rolling
colliding jamming uncontrollable
headstrong
words.
Hide Behind the Moon
Little girl can’t handle a knife
Little boy shouldn’t see too many guns
But turn on the news
Then turn it right off
Cover your eyes
Cause all you’re gonna see
Is a bunch of little boys
Who can’t handle their power
We’ve got to separate,
Call a time out
Go hide behind the moon
Call out the bands
All the lonely altos
They’ve all got to comprehend
The mess we’re all in
The blood of the fugitives
Covers our lies
Covers our footprints in shame
I’m not saying we’re stardust
I’m not saying we’re golden
But we’ve got to get back
Get back what we were
before we saw
Wow. What hip and happenin' speed poets you all turned out to be! So what did I tell you... whipping out a pedal-to-the-metal poem like that was pretty fun, now wasn't it? Might just have to do it again this week. Like at a red light or something. Hoo boy. Why not?
You people are cool - did we ever tell you that?
We got the five poems we asked for and some to spare, so here are the first three we whipped out, as promised. And because the fun just never ends here at the Beehive, you get to guess who wrote what! (If you've read any of the poems we've posted here before, this should not be excessively puzzling.)
The correct order of authorship of the following three poems is:
a. Fa, Beatrice, QS
b. QS, Fa, Beatrice
c. Fa, QS, Beatrice
d. Beatrice, QS, Fa
e. Wislawa Szymborska, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Joni Mitchell
Dallas to Graham
Pastures roll
and I unfold
drinking space
breathing green
upon green
All my missing clouds are here
every race and creed of them --
They say
they fled the metal
piercing their space
in that place I am leaving behind,
fled the counterfeit canopy
that daily dims their aerie carnival
and mine --
exiled, to explode here
in this rapture of rumbling dance
and white breath.
Air, my love! they cry to me
and gasping,
I sing alto
Dance, my love! they sing,
and I try
but my bones cry --
I need water
deep rocking water
water wide and full of fleeing clouds
at play;
water
to slip and laugh and sing
to my brittle bones
soon
before they return to dust.
The Paper Beckons
Sloshing around in big rubber boots
clumsy lumberjack hands--
you fell stands of words
and ride them down the swift river
swift cold river
churning with monsters-- see the teeth
snap around your ankles? that one
dines on split infinitives, this one
prefers run-on sentences,
but they're all hungry.
Your lumberjack boots fill with water
your calloused lumberjack hands grip
the slipping words for dear life
rushing whirling
tumble rolling
colliding jamming uncontrollable
headstrong
words.
Hide Behind the Moon
Little girl can’t handle a knife
Little boy shouldn’t see too many guns
But turn on the news
Then turn it right off
Cover your eyes
Cause all you’re gonna see
Is a bunch of little boys
Who can’t handle their power
We’ve got to separate,
Call a time out
Go hide behind the moon
Call out the bands
All the lonely altos
They’ve all got to comprehend
The mess we’re all in
The blood of the fugitives
Covers our lies
Covers our footprints in shame
I’m not saying we’re stardust
I’m not saying we’re golden
But we’ve got to get back
Get back what we were
before we saw
November 2, 2006
we could call it BePoWriMo.
We dare you. Read all the way to the bottom and you'll see.
A little context first, though:
Day before yesterday, tens of thousands of ordinary people all over the world -- people just like you, with jobs and school and kids and everything -- started writing novels which they will break their necks to finish by midnight on November 30. Why? Because November is National Novel Writing Month. No joke. That's NaNoWriMo to the hip and groovy.
(No, we're not daring you to write a novel. Keep reading. Although, if you did, nobody would cheer you on with more gusto than your Beehive pals.)
Turns out, this NaNoWriMo thing is huge, a swelling grass-roots phenomenon started just a few years ago -- quite by accident -- by a twenty-something California dude who was just feeling a little lonely at his laptop. See, he always wanted to write a novel, but he knew he'd never do it without some camaraderie and a kick in the proverbial pants.
So... he challenged all his friends to write a novel in one month. Goal: 50, 000 words, 176 pages -- about 6 pages a day. To his surprise, his friends -- and what a fantastic pack of pals they must be -- took him up on it. Got way into it, even. Several of them even finished. They threw a big party and wore silly paper crowns.
The following year, this thing somehow caught a big gust of wind through yahoogroups and blogs, and it pretty much exploded. NPR did a story, and now it's just out of control. The party is now held in a warehouse and people fly in from all over for it, with their 176 pages in tow, to collect theirsilly coveted paper crowns.
Quality is not the issue here; finishing is. This is no-holds-barred writing with your hair on fire-- whatever comes to mind next is what you write.
Now, the thought of thousands of people freely writing at torpedo speed all around the world every day this month just lights my fire. I wish I were deranged enough to try it, but I just checked my schedule and wouldn't you know it, I already had plans to have fun this month.
But poetry... hey, that I could try. And still have fun.
I've always wondered what sort of poetry I would write if I just went at it wide open, breakneck speed, like a buffalo stampede. But I'm always too chicken to get out of my own way and just cut loose with the verbage in my head. I mean... yikes.
But I did it. Just now. Just to see what would happen, no other reason. Heh heh. I took the brakes off my brain and just wrote what flew through my head, no arguing, no negotiating. Wow. That was fun.
So I challenged Beatrice and Fa to try it. Being good sports, they hit the gas without checking their rear view mirrors. It took about four minutes.
Now we want to do it again. We might even do it every day this month, who knows? Would you join us if we did? I figure if we write 20-30 poems by December, a few of them might even turn out okay. Which is really not the point, but still. You just never know unless...
Come on, admit it. You want to try it. So open a new screen, and just start typing. If at least five people post their creations in the comments, we'll post ours.
Heheheh.
A little context first, though:
Day before yesterday, tens of thousands of ordinary people all over the world -- people just like you, with jobs and school and kids and everything -- started writing novels which they will break their necks to finish by midnight on November 30. Why? Because November is National Novel Writing Month. No joke. That's NaNoWriMo to the hip and groovy.
(No, we're not daring you to write a novel. Keep reading. Although, if you did, nobody would cheer you on with more gusto than your Beehive pals.)
Turns out, this NaNoWriMo thing is huge, a swelling grass-roots phenomenon started just a few years ago -- quite by accident -- by a twenty-something California dude who was just feeling a little lonely at his laptop. See, he always wanted to write a novel, but he knew he'd never do it without some camaraderie and a kick in the proverbial pants.
So... he challenged all his friends to write a novel in one month. Goal: 50, 000 words, 176 pages -- about 6 pages a day. To his surprise, his friends -- and what a fantastic pack of pals they must be -- took him up on it. Got way into it, even. Several of them even finished. They threw a big party and wore silly paper crowns.
The following year, this thing somehow caught a big gust of wind through yahoogroups and blogs, and it pretty much exploded. NPR did a story, and now it's just out of control. The party is now held in a warehouse and people fly in from all over for it, with their 176 pages in tow, to collect their
Quality is not the issue here; finishing is. This is no-holds-barred writing with your hair on fire-- whatever comes to mind next is what you write.
Now, the thought of thousands of people freely writing at torpedo speed all around the world every day this month just lights my fire. I wish I were deranged enough to try it, but I just checked my schedule and wouldn't you know it, I already had plans to have fun this month.
But poetry... hey, that I could try. And still have fun.
I've always wondered what sort of poetry I would write if I just went at it wide open, breakneck speed, like a buffalo stampede. But I'm always too chicken to get out of my own way and just cut loose with the verbage in my head. I mean... yikes.
But I did it. Just now. Just to see what would happen, no other reason. Heh heh. I took the brakes off my brain and just wrote what flew through my head, no arguing, no negotiating. Wow. That was fun.
So I challenged Beatrice and Fa to try it. Being good sports, they hit the gas without checking their rear view mirrors. It took about four minutes.
Now we want to do it again. We might even do it every day this month, who knows? Would you join us if we did? I figure if we write 20-30 poems by December, a few of them might even turn out okay. Which is really not the point, but still. You just never know unless...
Come on, admit it. You want to try it. So open a new screen, and just start typing. If at least five people post their creations in the comments, we'll post ours.
Heheheh.
what i'm pondering today
fa-so-la-la
For it pleased the Father that in him should all fulness dwell; and, having made peace through the blood of his cross, by him to reconcile all things unto himself; by him, I say, whether they be things in earth, or things in heaven.
Colossians 2:19-20
For it pleased the Father that in him should all fulness dwell; and, having made peace through the blood of his cross, by him to reconcile all things unto himself; by him, I say, whether they be things in earth, or things in heaven.
Colossians 2:19-20
November 1, 2006
so hard before
beatrice
you've probably all read this hymn before, but please take a moment to read it through slowly.
o Jesus! sweet the tears i shed,
while at Thy cross i kneel,
gaze on Thy wounded, fainting head,
and all Thy sorrows feel;
my heart dissolves to see Thee bleed,
this heart so hard before;
i hear Thee for the guilty plead,
and grief o'erflows the more.
twas for the sinful Thou didst die,
and i a sinner stand;
what love speaks from Thy dying eye,
and from each pierced hand.
i know this cleansing blood of Thine
was shed, dear Lord, for me,
for even all, oh, grace divine!
who look by faith on Thee.
o Christ of God! o spotless Lamb!
by love my soul is drawn;
henceforth forever Thine i am;
here life and peace are born;
in patient hope the cross i'll bear,
Thine arm shall be my stay,
and Thou, enthroned, my soul shall spare
on that great judgment day.
you've probably all read this hymn before, but please take a moment to read it through slowly.
o Jesus! sweet the tears i shed,
while at Thy cross i kneel,
gaze on Thy wounded, fainting head,
and all Thy sorrows feel;
my heart dissolves to see Thee bleed,
this heart so hard before;
i hear Thee for the guilty plead,
and grief o'erflows the more.
twas for the sinful Thou didst die,
and i a sinner stand;
what love speaks from Thy dying eye,
and from each pierced hand.
i know this cleansing blood of Thine
was shed, dear Lord, for me,
for even all, oh, grace divine!
who look by faith on Thee.
o Christ of God! o spotless Lamb!
by love my soul is drawn;
henceforth forever Thine i am;
here life and peace are born;
in patient hope the cross i'll bear,
Thine arm shall be my stay,
and Thou, enthroned, my soul shall spare
on that great judgment day.
ummmm...
fa-so-la-la
During my recent reading of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, I found the following two quotes, one from the Introduction written by Charlotte Bronte, the other by the Whoever-It-Was that Barnes & Noble has write the Afterwords for their lovely little red classics.
"Heathcliff, indeed, stands unredeemed; never once swerving in his arrow-straight course to perdition, from the time when 'the little black-haired, swarthy thing...' was first unrolled out of the bundle and set on its feet in the farmhouse kitchen, to the hour when Nelly Dean found the grim, stalwart corpse... with wide-gazing eyes that seemed 'to sneer at her attempt to close them, and parted lips and sharp white teeth that sneered too."
"He is no devil, just a man defeated in his love for the one thing he actually desires. His subsequent greed and inhuman treatment of others, while unforgivable, are at least understandable as we learn of how poorly he was treated."
Ok, so... in 1850, Heathcliff is Just Plain Bad. But in 2004, he's a victim of his environment.
Uh huh. Interesting.
During my recent reading of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, I found the following two quotes, one from the Introduction written by Charlotte Bronte, the other by the Whoever-It-Was that Barnes & Noble has write the Afterwords for their lovely little red classics.
"Heathcliff, indeed, stands unredeemed; never once swerving in his arrow-straight course to perdition, from the time when 'the little black-haired, swarthy thing...' was first unrolled out of the bundle and set on its feet in the farmhouse kitchen, to the hour when Nelly Dean found the grim, stalwart corpse... with wide-gazing eyes that seemed 'to sneer at her attempt to close them, and parted lips and sharp white teeth that sneered too."
"He is no devil, just a man defeated in his love for the one thing he actually desires. His subsequent greed and inhuman treatment of others, while unforgivable, are at least understandable as we learn of how poorly he was treated."
Ok, so... in 1850, Heathcliff is Just Plain Bad. But in 2004, he's a victim of his environment.
Uh huh. Interesting.
are you beautiful?
...as beautiful as those people in magazine ads?
You probably just said no, didn't you? But the answer is probably yes.
please don't miss this amazing little video
...and when it's over, go back to the beginning and get another look at that model. And then ask yourself honestly which one of those people you'd rather have as a friend or a neighbor or a babysitter for your children or as your pastor's wife -- the real one, or the one on the billboard?
The most truly beautiful people I know
would look blessedly ridiculous
on a fashion catwalk.
bonnet tip to The Common Room
You probably just said no, didn't you? But the answer is probably yes.
please don't miss this amazing little video
...and when it's over, go back to the beginning and get another look at that model. And then ask yourself honestly which one of those people you'd rather have as a friend or a neighbor or a babysitter for your children or as your pastor's wife -- the real one, or the one on the billboard?
The most truly beautiful people I know
would look blessedly ridiculous
on a fashion catwalk.
bonnet tip to The Common Room
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