Hark! Angels Singing, Nudging, Exhorting

Brain studies fascinate me. Where do ideas come from? Who is it taps me on the shoulder with gentle suggestions, "Why not try this?" What brings to mind the perfect word I wasn't even looking for? Since childhood I have attributed it all to angels, fanciful angels, storytelling angels, with my best interests at heart. I don't take credit for my creative efforts. I am simply a conduit. You, perhaps, have another explanation. My brother is a fine artist. He can sketch in a minute what I would not do in a lifetime. Cheryl Dolby of Roanoke, Virginia does masterworks of color but that doesn't hold me back. I'm not comparing myself to anyone. I just like to draw angels. These drawings began in 1985 when a list of titles came flooding. 26 in one day! Titles such as Angel of Divine Assignments, Angel of Molecular Levels, Angel of Uninhabited Isles, Angel of Lined Paper Notebooks. And the twins, Angel of It Doesn't Matter at All and Angel of It Matters a Lot. I couldn't imagine writing 26 poems for the titles. I decided I was supposed to draw something. I didn't know what. I hope the Angel of the Christmas Rose above inspires you to a list of your own and a frenzy of doodles.

Petals in the snow?

Cardinals investigate.

Yes! It is Christmas.

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...as December deepens towards the solstice and the night when the angels gathered in song, may you be filled with the light of His coming...

Creche Amidst the Holly

...a house in the Bronx...

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In the 5th grade, I won the Quiet Contest. It wasn't difficult as I was at an all girls' school with chattering students who had known each other since infancy. I couldn't keep up with the cast of characters and knew that I wouldn't be attending for more than a few months Such was the traveling life. My desk was by a bank of windows looking out on a tropical garden with bright heaping cumulus clouds framing it like a ceiling in a wayside chapel. So I drifted off daydreaming the hours away. Nary a word was heard from me--quiet as could be. The prize was a white porous stone Nativity set complete with twelve lambs and seven angels. I was probably supposed to paint it but alabaster was one of my favorite word--"Safe in their alabaster chambers"--snowy was perfect for me. As far as holiday decorations go, a Nativity set beats all. In San Francisco, in Muslim shop selling Levi's, I saw the best ever and the first with an elephant the detail of which was fit for a raj. The photo that decks the high branches of the Treehouse was taken when Pasquale drove us past a house where the decorations were extravagant to the degree that they included a Liberace style piano and an electrical engineer's masterwork of embedded outlets. I focused on the roof scene with my camera as it reminded me of, "Peace on earth, goodwill..."

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Thinking Christmas 1964

A paling ornament of "Baby's First Christmas" is

likely a pun: the creche/1964.

Jennifer was sitting up then in her red smocked dress

ready for a stroller outing

along the pitching sidewalk of Clipper Street,

heading towards the bells of Mission Dolores.

Downtown, Woolworth's sparkled with specialty cakes; the

Emporium's expansive dome seemed to say, "All wishes

come true if you seek a place high enough and arched."

Some things have changed since that time.

She likes lime green now. Urban renewal dazzles

Market with shifting glass reflections, like searchlights.

Clipper Street is the same, though. The wishes I made

for goodness and mercy are still sent, and the promise

of the Prince of Peace continues to exhilarate me.

Come Thou to my heart.

Each year is a kaleidoscope clicking with losses and additions,

timeless fragments glimpsed quickly--

verse/refrain, into the middle and back again.

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...may your heart be as festive as your wreaths and garlands

and your souls light up the world...

The First Night of December

"Summer afternoon." Henry James said those were the most beautiful words in the English language. I do like them and I do like a summer afternoon but if I were to choose one word instead of two, I would probably choose, "December" as it houses many of my other favorites: madrigal, advent, childe, Prince of Peace, pine (and balsam, too). The photo above has ties to Roanoke and Zionville. "Mr. Robo" was a fan purchased for the cabin long before I knew there would be grandchildren coming. He has movable arms and large red eyes that light up as he turns. The cap he is wearing is from Gone CoCo Boutique. That's a great story for a January blob. Behind Mr. Robo you can see the tote bag Cheryl Dolby created using snaps from my childhood, one of my angel drawings, an e-mail about my faith, and my mother's favorite quote from a poet friend, Althea Bass, which reads, "How could you know the way to hold me was to let me go?" However, there wasn't enough room for the "go" so she said that meant I wasn't supposed to go! Speaking of Roanoke, here is a poem from Roanoke days.

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Christmastide on the #51

"Happy Holidays"scrolls on the destination box.

There is talk of the Farmer's Almanac with its

predictions for tall tale snows; the early bird sales

good for finding "something nice" to leave the paper carrier;

the schedule of events at Haven of Hope; and Kwanzaa.

"It's not religious. Each day for six days starting the 26th

you give a homemade gift" reminiscent, I think, of

Twelfth Night and the festive, undulating journey of the Magi.

When did the "partridge in a pear tree" go out of fashion?

A quiet greeting. A wave. A young man laughs at my socks.

He is conversant on many topics. I tell him what I need fixing.

He smiles and suggests, conspiratorially, I ask Santa.

I know about asking. I have asked before, of Someone else.

Long ago, in a stone sanctuary where ancient plaques hung,

written in languages unfamiliar to me, lit by flickering votives

in a country seeping from war, I asked. I asked

for companions to exhort and encourage me.

One prayer. One recurring answer.

The bell rings, "Stop Requested" lights up the screen

and is echoed cheerfully by an anonymous voice.

On. Off. Rejoice. Giving, receiving, asking,

we travel along. Emmanuel. God with us.

For diverse believers and non-believers alike,

Christmas rides the #51.

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...may the blessing of transforming words be yours this December...

Little Thank You's All in a Row

52 lines of repeating "ing" endings is long for the Blob but that's what I wrote one year, a poem I called A Song for Thanksgiving. I started out to write one stanza and then got carried away. Sound familiar? It began to read like a gratitude journal, the kind people who are grieving are supposed to attempt. I remember when I did that kind of journal. I only came up with 5 entries a day. That's what the zombiness of grief can do to the mind. 10 times 5 entries is what comes about from joy rather than grief. Since my poem became a rhapsody, too long to post, it occurs to me I can put on my Catalyst's Cap and give you a few lines which you, my lovely readers, can add to. Maybe your song lines will double mine. One hundred four!

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Thank you children, for the smiles you bring,

their readiness unfaltering.

Thank you, books, for your remembering.

Thank you, friends, for your nurturing.

Thank you, music, for melodies enduring

long past the first clear note's piping.

Thank you, hearth, bright flames leaping--

Look! ghosts of old stories merging, receding.

Thank you, loved ones, for your thoughts while traveling,

our paths sometimes forking

but our faiths coinciding--

your words of calm wisdom designing

a sampler of patterns in varied, rich stitching.

Thank you, Earth, for your sheltering.

Thank you, stars in your wanderings

for fixing a course to lead us in.

Thank you, seas, for the might of wild churning,

the gentle lap in coves at dawning.

Thank you, clouds, for art works progressing

from flowers to lions to elephants balancing,

from dogs to fleet unicorns to galleons adventuring.

Thank you, days, for schedules in growing:

the calendar turns with the months' glad conspiring.

The world is so grand, so full and so pleasing.

I cherish Life's bounties, its sweet gifts unceasing.

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...may the blessings of catching tiny o-happy-day surprises be yours...

art on a card from susannaruth

The Quiet Car Not

Greetings from the Treehouse! For those of you who expected a blob from the shire, you can still view it at http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com where it is on sabbatical. The decision to have two blobs is very Gemini. The Shire is in Chapel Hill and the Treehouse in New York City. My post this time at this site is about the trip up on train #80. I tried upgrading to business class to compare notes. The car attendant was chatty and ready to exchange hot news. She was about to have her 58th birthday. She said she was married for the first time two years ago to a man ten years older who also was marrying for the first time. I overheard another attendant say, "I'm married 5 to 10." Since I forgot my mystery, I tried to borrow a book with "corpse" in the title for twenty minutes. The man said flat out, "No, I don't think so." That made me curious. On the Greyhound bus from Eureka to San Francisco, I had borrowed a book about grief and enjoyed not only the short break but the conversation which ensued. Apparently, the man plain was disgusted with his book because he didn't ever open it. Maybe it was a gift not worth giving in his estimation. On longer trains there is a designated Quiet Car with restrictions on cells phones and chit-chat. I enjoy eavesdropping so I was glad to pass the hours that way. A passenger behind me spent a good forty minutes on who was going to meet him at Penn Station. Opposite me, there was a highly educated woman in sari who never raised her eyes from her laptop and text concerning adolescence in anthropology. I could have had a spirited discussion on that optic but she was not having it. Business class is roomier with footrests and pillows. The river views from Fredericksburg in autumn were right out of National Geographic. At one point an announcement explained why the train stopped. "We are stopped at a signal. Once we receive a more favorable signal, we will proceed." Falling Back brought a new look to the nation's capital which appeared decorated with Christmas lights whereas on summer trips it sat in a pool of sunlight. A woman who grew up in East Germany was happy to talk when I went on my book loaning expedition. She and her husband have retired to a small town near the Tar River. She said she hadn't visited Germany since her mother died. Mother was brought over twice but Mother didn't like it. "America is so dirty," she declared. So Mother returned and Mother missed out as Daughter was going to Philly for her granddaughter's 16th birthday. The man behind her solved the long trip activities situation by having brought along 15 movies. He phoned a friend and recommended The Reader. This reader ended up doing crossword puzzles and then tearing out the page to put inside the newspaper to be recycled. Chatty Attendant came bustling over to thank me for the crosswords. I don't know why she was grateful for used crossword puzzles but when I slipped her a tip at the end of the trip I enclosed it in used puzzles and told her, "Now you have all the answers!"

Whether it is in the shire of the treehouse, the wonderful world of confluences of stories will be coming to you.

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...may blessings surround you as regularly as train whistles spreading the news of arrivals and departures...