Archive for December, 2013

Almost seven years ago, I found a sprig of holly, a seedling probably, and packed it up along with a host of other plants to come with us to Elsinore. This year, maybe, I could clip a sprig of holly from that tree, without doing lasting harm.


The little cedars are now taller than I am, and there are at least three patches of winter aconite that should be showing up after Christmas.  The gingko now has the mottled, rough bark of a mature tree; juncos and white-throated sparrows hop-pop beneath the snow-bent asters; I could make a wreath of spent grape vines.

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing in the choir

No garden, and few texts, are ever exactly finished.  But right now is a pretty nice moment, and this week should hold some even better ones.

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I’m just putting the URL here, because I really am supposed to be doing something else right now…

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….and I’d be just as uncomfortable as if I tried lying down.

Evil, evil cold, this….



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Word told me of someone she’d met at camp who would listen over and over to the song “Desperado” by the Eagles, listen and sob about how “it’s all TRUE!!!!”

It’s not clear to me what that meant, exactly, although there’s an age for many people when they feel terribly isolated and misunderstood. Of course, there’s the opposite position as well: the feeling that people are trying way, WAY too hard to get under your skin, and you would be much happier if they would deal with their own issues, rather than trying to fix, heal, or merge with yours.

One of the more difficult social situations is to tell someone who clearly cares a great deal that the way they are wanting to care is not the way you really want to be cared for.  Some people view any thwarting of their desire to intervene as just one more sign that you are broken and “just don’t see…”[I’m sure this theme will circle back again later.]

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There was a concert behind this door tonight.

The chapel was full of happy people, and the performance seems to have gone well.

My vocal chords, however, are protesting mightily , and I am trying to explain that bourbon is NOT the appropriate solution

Gin, then?

No, probably not that, either…

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Probably not as rough as some have had, and not as rough as some we’ll see soon.  But there are things that you do when you see they need doing, like standing in the late night rain with a sturdy oak staff — made from one of the remnants of limbing up the tree in the front yard — sloshing clumps of leaves out of the broad gutter in the alley.  Push, slosh the leaves out of the now moving water, twist, pull back and repeat. The air is black, silver drips from the edges of my hat, and the leaves are odd drowned colors — not at all the brilliant yellows and reds that they had a few weeks ago.

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The Railing Lamp saw it all

But it could never, ever tell….

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