Odysseus Under the Moon: Ghazal

This is my attempt at a Ghazal for dVerse. 

 

Over star-glimmered waves, we journeyed and sailed under the moon.

There we bemoaned our fate, still sailing—railed under the moon.

 

We see the fork-tongued serpent, slither-scaled under the moon,

she, no siren, silver-voiced with hair unveiled under the moon.

 

From the towering giant, one-eyed, we quailed under the moon,

but scurried we, when blinded he was thus curtailed under the moon.

 

On blood-wine seas, the winds caught and prevailed under the moon

And what of the gods, we flattered, yet failed, under the moon?

 

What lands should we conquer? If heroes, we’re hailed, under the moon.

And what tales of those places to you we’d regale under the moon.

 

Do we return to love, or to marriages failed, under the moon?

My own wife, unconsidered, what of her travails under the moon?

 

Too far, too soon, the poet sleeps unassailed under the moon

to the gentle rhythm of the waves, inhales, exhales, under the moon

 

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Carl Gustav Carus [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Microfiction: Kiss at the Window

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Edvard Munch, Kiss By the Window, Public Domain, Wikipedia.

Inside the house, lamps and hearths glowed, banishing the darkness of the Norwegian winter. As they stood by the window, Fredrik gently placed the pearl necklace around her neck. The lustrous white spheres were cool against her skin. He kissed her, first gently, and then with more urgency. The faint scent of his pipe tobacco clung to his clothes. A knock at their bedroom door made them break apart, as her maid, Sonya, announced that their first dinner guests had arrived. Elisabeth vowed to remember everything about that December night forever. It was her twenty-fifth birthday.

Now alone in her hospital bed, body aching, she watched that memory, a movie in her mind. It had been nearly seventy years ago; twenty years since she had last heard Fredrik’s voice. She sensed—something–the air felt charged. She smelled pipe smoke. She heard a voice say, “Are you ready, my darling? I’ve missed you so.” Her heart fluttered. She noticed a window draped in blue, a fire burning in fireplace. She felt a necklace, cool against her throat. She smiled. She took Fredrik’s hand and walked with him into the glowing light.

 

This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. The prompt was the painting above with a two hundred word limit; mine was 191 words.

Crowns and Independence

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We got crowned! (Our youngest child was married.)

 

Monday Morning Musings:

 

 “Love is the crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of the soul, the golden link which binds us to duty and truth, the redeeming principle that chiefly reconciles the heart to life, and is prophetic of eternal good.”

–Petrarch

“We need to help people to discover the true meaning of love. Love is generally confused with dependence. Those of us who have grown in true love know that we can love only in proportion to our capacity for independence.”

–Fred Rogers, The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember

 

“For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”

–Nelson Mandela

 

It has been a mostly beautiful weekend to celebrate the birth of our nation,

colonies declaring independence from the crown

I think of how crown rhymes with clown,

and it amuses me–

I think of all the clowns who’ve worn crowns

and how often the jester or fool has been the wise man.

 

Last year on this day, the Fourth of July,

Independence Day,

My husband and I wore paper crowns,

parents of the bride

a nod to custom,

and an affectionate tribute to a family tradition

of the birthday crowns we construct.

Our daughter carried a fan she designed

with a quotation from Jane Eyre,

“Reader I married him.”*

 

She and our now son-in-law vowed to love and cherish

each other, to join together

forming “a more perfect union”

like colonies becoming states, and then a union,

it is a process that goes beyond the simple declaration of intent

of independence and dependence

a balancing act,

not dependence,

rather, respecting one another,

and enhancing the best in each.

Perhaps our nation could benefit

from a bit of marriage counseling.

 

We had planned to see a baseball game with them,

baseball, the great American pastime,

what could be more perfect?

But because it was raining with violent storms in the forecast

we went to dinner with them instead–

food, that like our nation, was a mixture of all types,

vegan entries, steak for my husband, salads,

Buffalo sauce and Sriracha

many flavors and textures

sharing space on the table.

 

The weather had improved by the next day,

glorious weather for celebrating,

though we stayed at home

listening to fireworks in the distance.

We watched a movie, Belgian, but in French

(Remember how France joined us in fighting

their English enemy though France was still

a monarchy with a King who wore a crown?)

Two Days, One Night,

Marion Cotillard, a wife and mother,

works in a solar-panel factory,

with the help of her husband and support from friends,

she spends the weekend asking her co-workers to vote for her to keep her job,

even though if they do so, they will lose their bonuses.

We make all sorts of negotiations in life,

When is it right give up something that will benefit ourselves

in order to help someone else?

It is a decision each must decide.

Dependence and independence.

 

The sun rises, a crown of pink and orange

beaming golden rays into the azure sky,

spokes like those of Lady Liberty’s crown

promising liberty, standing on a broken chain,

given to the United States by the people of France,

inscribed with the date, July 4, 1776,

a symbol,

not a reality for all

but something to strive for

Liberté, égalité, fraternité,

Emily Dickinson said,

“Hope is the thing with feathers,”

but hope is also the sun rising and setting

each day

and hope is the joining of two in marriage

and love is our shining crown.

Embed from Getty Images

 

*This essay by Claire Fallon discusses the line “Reader, I married him,”

The Gown

It sat in the attic for years/ she unwrapped the box, anticipating

fabric, now ivory-yellow, and elastic crunchy with age / the gown

her mother had helped her choose it/ known from photographs

she had felt like a Renaissance lady/ slightly off-kilter

memories of a day long ago/ thoughts of the day to come

I give you my love, he said/  waiting for the moment

a vow made/ love ever after

for a man and a woman/ a daughter, now a wife

Love is love/ Love is love

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Brides and sisters

 

Marian Beaman of Plain and Fancy Girl wrote about a dress she had with a secret. You can read about it here. She challenged me to use the word “dress” as a writing prompt. I took the challenge, changed dress to gown, and wrote a cleave poem. Each side is a separate poem, and read together, there’s a third poem. My older daughter wore what had been my wedding gown when she married her wife almost two years ago. It’s now “our gown.” On their wedding days, both daughters wore the same necklace I wore when I got married.

Clearing the Cobwebs, Rearranging the Lines

Monday Morning Musings:

“There is nothing more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.”

-Homer, The Odyssey

“If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you’ll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you’ve already been in.”

–Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.”

–Douglas Adams

Several years ago, our refrigerator died an unexpected death, and we bought a new one. That one purchase somehow led to a kitchen remodeling project—a new double oven, stovetop, Corian counter and sink, and new cabinets. A few days ago, we bought a new living room sofa to replace the suddenly worn one we’ve had for close to twenty years. (How do rips and tears appear overnight?) That led us to, not another remodeling job, but rather, a rearrangement.

We’ve lived with the same furniture arranged in the same way for about two decades. Oh, we’ve moved some bits, hung paintings and photos, and painted walls, but the essential arrangement has remained the same way for years. The new sofa (and chair) won’t arrive for another 6 weeks or so, but we’re ready to see how they might fit in our newly configured living room. It’s time to look at things from a new angle, to embrace a room with a new view.

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Our first sofa went from two apartments to our house.

My husband retired from teaching in June, after thirty-seven years at the same high school. (Obviously, we’re not impulsive people.) For the past few weeks, he’s been moving items in, out, and all about the house. He’s turned one daughter’s bedroom into a study for himself. He’s moved our son-in-law’s military gear and other items to basement and attic. We’ve been arranging, rearranging, and repurposing items. By we, I mean him. He provides the brute strength. I provide ideas, encouragement, and meals. But I have my own building and rearranging going on.

A few nights ago, I dreamt that I was living in an apartment and that I shared a kitchen in that dwelling with a young woman I know from the gym. In the dream, I was a young twenty-something woman, too.  Also strange, but in the way of dreams, making perfect sense in that dream world, I was starting a garden in my apartment. I was using a type of long, wooden container, like a horse trough that you’d see in an old Western. I think I was growing herbs, perhaps flowers, too, and I was very excited about it. They would all be moved outdoors at a later date. (Presumably by someone very strong.) There was quite a lovely view from my dream-apartment’s large picture window. It was like an estate, Downton Abbey, perhaps. Well, when you dream, dream big, I suppose, even though my dream apartment was small—and with that shared kitchen.

When I woke up, I was amused by this funny dream, but I instantly realized that it was about the two books I am just beginning to work on. I had received an email from one of my editors, confirming that the project had been approved by the powers that be at the press. For one of the books, I’m co-editing with another person—sharing the work as I shared the kitchen in the dream. I have a new computer, and I’m attempting to organize items in it. Rearranging. So now I have two projects with seeds planted. More seeds must be sown. The seedlings need to be watered and weeded. I hope that they will blossom and grow.

A friend and I used to discuss our house dreams. We both seemed to have them whenever we were working on projects or working out personal issues.

A house, like life, is never complete. There are always objects to refurbish, restore, or replace. My husband and I have never furnished our homes in a particular style; we don’t have rooms in which all pieces were purchased together and match. Our rooms are mishmashes of items we’ve bought, inherited, and found. We value comfort over a particular style. Somehow these varied items come together; a little of this and a little of that—much like my soups and stews—and writing.

Furnishings serve a function—a bed is to sleep on; a chair to sit on—but they also convey ideas about the inhabitants. Traditional or contemporary? Frilly or functional? Does the room have family heirlooms? Does it have books? Religious items? Valuable art? Is every surface covered with Knick knacks? Anyone who enters our home would see books, a kitchen that is obviously used, and, yes, cat hair.  It’s who we are.

Houses and furnishings convey class and aspirations. They always have. Even well-to-do 18th century Philadelphia Quakers furnished their homes with the best that they could afford.

On September 14, 1779, Elizabeth Drinker recorded the following account in her diary:

This morning in meeting time (myself at home) Jacob Franks and a Son of Cling the Vendue master, came to seize for the Continental Tax; they took from us, one Walnut Dining Table, one mahogany Tea-Table, 6 hansom walnut Chairs, open backs crow feet and a Shell on the back and on each knee—a mahogany fram’d, Sconce Looking-Glass, and two large pewter Dishes, carrid them of, from the Door in a Cart.

–Elaine Forman Crane, ed. The Diary of Elizabeth Drinker. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1991. Vol. 1, 359.

The Quaker Drinkers were pacifists, and they did not support the Revolution.

The chairs Drinker describes could describe a pair of chairs owned by my mother. Years ago, when Antiques Roadshow visited Philadelphia, they appraised the chairs, bringing in more than one expert, before determining that the Philadelphia Chippendale chairs were actually 19th century reproductions. Still valuable, still good chairs, but not quite as valuable or interesting as if they had been original 18th century chairs, like the ones Elizabeth Drinker owned.

I remember these chairs from my home in Dallas when I was little, to houses in Havertown, PA, and then my mom’s subsequent moves to apartments in Merion, Philadelphia. They’re now in her independent living apartment. Antique does not always mean fragile, and both the chairs and my mom are sturdy.

I wonder which pieces of furniture in my own home will last the test of time?

Words also last. Will mine? And will anyone want to read them?  A book, like a house, involves building and re-patching. Words, like furniture, get arranged and rearranged. Sometimes words, like objects, disappear or are moved. Sometimes it’s something minor, a lamp, or a comma. Other times, it’s a sofa, or an entire chapter. Sometimes words, like fine furniture, need to be dusted and polished.

I’m always writing, but the start of big projects is a peculiar adventure, exciting and sometimes scary.

For now, I’m ready to climb the stairs and open the door to the castle room. I’ll turn the knob and step inside. Will there be ghosts? Will it lead to an adventure? I’m not certain what I’ll find, but I think it’s where I’m intended to be. And if not, I can always rearrange the furniture.

 

 

 

 

Plaits Challenge

In my last Monday Morning Musings post, Time Bubbles, several people commented that they also wore braids when they were young. I mentioned in a comment to blondieaka that it would be fun to see people’s photos. Well, she took it as a challenge.

I can’t find any photos of me as a child with plaits, or braids, as we say in the U.S. But here is one of me a bit older. I’m actually in my mid-twenties here, and it’s a our 4th anniversary. We were in Florida, where we visited my husband’s family, then went to Disney World, then attended my cousin’s wedding. It was a great vacation. Feel free to join the challenge with your photo of yourself in braids.

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Love and Marriage: The Independence Day Edition

Monday Morning Musings

In the United States, the 4th of July is a national holiday. It’s the commemoration of the day Congress adopted the Declaration of Independence and ordered that it be printed. (Congress actually declared independence on July 2, 1776, and the delegates signed the official document at a later date.) Typically, Americans celebrate the holiday with barbecues or picnics, parades, and fireworks.

This year we celebrated with a wedding.

Our beautiful, kind, and amazing younger daughter married a handsome, strong, and amazing young man. I guess that makes them the amazing couple.

Fortune or Mother Nature smiled on them, and the rain held off for the lovely outdoor ceremony. As their officiate explained, they traced the genesis of their relationship to their casting (by him) in Albright College’s stirring and affecting production of Tennessee William’s play, A Streetcar Named Desire—she was Blanche; he was Stanley. (During the production, the future bride-to-be going out of her way to assure me that this man, “just a friend”—cast opposite her as Stanley–was really nothing like the him.) The sparks that ignited onstage, continued to smolder offstage. Friendship deepened to love. The wedding vows this couple wrote, each making promises to the other, were funny, poignant, and heartfelt. It was as if they were letting the rest of us—people who love them both—in on a private, tender moment. And we were fortunate to be there to share it with them.

After the wedding

After the wedding

With my daughter ( the bride) and my mom

With my daughter ( the bride) and my mom

In a swirl of rainbow colors and whimsy, they were married. As Americans have learned, we are stronger together. Together this young couple can now strive for “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness”—together. They can stand united against whatever fate may bring. They can take Thomas Jefferson’s immortal words to heart: “we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

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From now on, the nation will celebrate on their anniversary.  There will be fireworks and parades. Neither will ever have an excuse to forget their wedding anniversary. But, as my husband noted, this day is only the beginning. In his closing words from his toast to them, he said,

“My greatest wish for the two of you is that through the years your love for each other will so deepen and grow that years from now you will look back on this day, your wedding day, as the day you loved each other the least.”

But perhaps each year they should throw a party or have a barbecue so we can celebrate with them.

We’ll bring our crowns.

We got crowned! (Our youngest child was married.)

We got crowned!
(Our youngest child was married.)

Next Monday: Rainbow Challah for a Rainbow Wedding

Anniversary in the City

Monday Morning Musings

“A day spent with you is my favourite day. So today is my new favourite day.”

Winnie the Pooh

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Part I

It was not a day of romance and roses—

And we missed the parade of

Tall ships

With Mama Duck–

Who sprang a leak.

I later discovered.

But we saw great art,

And we talked and walked.

And glimpsed a different view

Of the city.

First,

In the morning

“Discovering the Impressionists”

At the Museum of Art.

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So strange that Degas’s little dancer

And the rest

Were considered shocking.

Collected by Paul Durand-Ruel

A conservative Catholic father of five—

Who embraced the art of those who became known as

The Impressionists.

The critics scorned and ridiculed their work.

I guess he had the last laugh.

A visionary in a time of rapid change,

Inventions like steam engines and railroads–

Changes occurring as quickly and regularly

As Monet’s Poplars changed their color and shape,

Through the seasons.

Transnational and transatlantic collaborations

French artists meeting in London,

American artist Mary Cassatt–

A conduit between the European art world

And the newly rich American millionaires

Who wanted fine art to grace the

Walls of their

New mansions.

Industry and art,

Dancing together like

Renoir’s couples,

Twirling and swaying,

The city couple and the country couple

Both enjoying that moment in time.

And we enjoyed the sight

Of them,

Arms entwined

We see their smiles

And hear the rhythm of the music

As they glide.

Over one hundred years later.

They still live.

Part 2

Up to the medieval galleries.

We looked at the swords

And the mounted knight

In the center of the room

On his armored horse.

Leonard the guard

Spoke to us

With great enthusiasm—

if not total historical accuracy–

Throwing himself to the ground

To demonstrate a knight

Thrown off his horse.

And then following us

To the next room.

To provide a

Somewhat fanciful account

Of how knights cooked their food.

But again,

With great eagerness.

There’s a man who loves his job.

Part 3

We walked to Fairmount

Near the Penitentiary

That looms over the area

A testament to an earlier time

And the zeal to reform

Sometimes harshly.

“Let them think about their crimes,”

The reformers said.

And built the Penitentiary

With single cells

And no talking allowed.

The ghosts linger there,

But not for us today.

Instead

We ate sandwiches

At Ry Bread.

We sat outside in the small back patio.

Opposite each other at the little table,

Opposite tastes, too.

His New York, a corned beef Panini,

Me with the Hollywood,

Whole wheat bread with hummus and vegetables,

I added avocado and cheese,

Because seriously,

Why wouldn’t you?

Then a stroll to the Rodin Museum—

We think with the thinker,

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We empathize with Eve,

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We’re giddy with Eternal Spring,

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And move with The Three Shades.

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Then another walk to the Mutter Museum—

A bit farther than we thought,

But well worth it because

Nothing says happy anniversary

Like seeing a giant colon, right?

And who doesn’t want to be disturbingly informed?

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Part 4

Dinner at Tria,

The rain mostly holding off

Till the end of our meal.

My husband moves his chair closer

To get under the umbrella

But we stay dry,

Well, almost,

Although the menu on its clipboard

Is soaked.

The sky is violet gray

And the air misty

Like an Impressionist painting,

The city swirls about us—

The Impressionists saw

Railroads,

But didn’t have to worry

About cars driving

past sidewalk cafes,

Horns honking,

People walking,

Life going past.

Sometimes too quickly.

But the wine was good,

And the cheese even better.

Part 5

We went to a show next.

It was not Shakespeare,

Or Stoppard.

It was ridiculous fun.

Sometimes just what you need.

Murder for Two

Two actors

Thirteen roles,

And the piano,

That both play—

Sometimes together.

Ballet moves

And silly step dancing,

The actors make it look

So effortless.

They seem to enjoy their work

As much as Leonard does his,

But they’re actors,

So who knows?

And then we go home

To feed the cats

“Where were you

At dinnertime?”

They say.

And we sleep

After our long day of walking.

Impressions of the city

Impressions of Impressionists,

Of life,

Of love,

Fill my dreams.

But thankfully

There are no giant colons

Or surgical instruments

To mar my slumber.

The next day we find that

All across America

It is no longer straight marriage or gay marriage

It is simply marriage,

And other couples will now get to celebrate 37 years together

As we have.

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Here are links to the places we visited:

Philadelphia Museum of Art

Rodin Museum

Mutter Museum

Philadelphia Theatre Company

RyBread Café

Tria Café

We didn’t go to Eastern State Penitentiary, but we’ve been there a few times. It’s a very cool place to visit.

Tall Ships

Passion: Love and a Bit of a Rant

Monday Morning Musings

“Just another love story, that’s what they would claim.
Another simple love story – aren’t all of them the same?”

“Loving you is not a choice, it’s who I am.”

–Stephen Sondheim, Passion

On Saturday, we saw Passion, a musical by Stephen Sondheim that explores what it means to love and be loved. What is romantic love? What is passion? What is obsession? How and why do dreams and desires change? These are questions that Sondheim explores in the story of the nineteenth-century Italian army officer Giorgio who is having an affair with a married woman, Clara. The show opens with the lovers in bed singing of their happiness, but then Giorgio reveals that he has received a transfer to a remote military outpost. Shortly after his arrival there, Giorgio learns of Fosca, his commanding officer’s sister whose place is set at the table, but who seldom appears there. Before long, Fosca, declares her love to Giorgio, a man she barely knows. In fact Fosca, who suffers from a vague and debilitating illness, is obsessed with Giorgio. This production at the Arden Theater in Philadelphia had a cast with wonderful voices, but it also featured a great set and lighting design: Clara was lovely and beguiling in pink-hued gowns, and bathed in golden sunshine whenever the shutters in their Milan hotel room were opened. (The lovers could only meet in the afternoon because of her husband.) Clara loves Giorgio, but perhaps her love is a diversion from her humdrum life. Fosca appears in drab gowns with the gray and dreary view of the outpost in the background. Fosca suffers from a disease of the mind and spirit, as well as her physical ailments. Or perhaps they are all one and the same. They consume her, and her obsession consumes Giorgio.

The show is based on the novel Fosca, by Ignio Ugo Tarchetti. Tarchetti was dying of tuberculosis–also called consumption–as he wrote the book, which was inspired by events in his own life. The book was turned into a movie, Passione d’Amore (1983).

What does passion mean? Passion is an intense feeling. Long ago it was associated with pain and suffering, as in the passion of Christ, or the suffering endured by martyrs who were tortured for their beliefs. Passion is often seen as an emotion that is barely controllable because of its intensity. People are often depicted as crazed with passion. Passionate love then can be both good and bad. One can have a passion for a cause that is admirable, or that becomes obsessive.

I’ve been thinking about all this because of events in the news. There is a couple in Australia, Nick and Sarah Jensen, who have vowed to divorce if a gay marriage law is passed there. (See this article.) They are entitled to their beliefs, but I don’t understand how the marriages of same sex couples affect their own union at all. And just as a matter of logic, I don’t understand why if they reject the state’s definition of marriage—if the law passes—they then believe the state has the power to grant them a divorce. I guess it’s passion, and not logic that is in play here.

In the US, evangelist Franklin Graham, called for a boycott of Wells Fargo Bank after the bank began airing a TV advertisement that featured a lesbian couple adopting a child. (The commercial is incredibly sweet.) Well, economic boycotts have a long tradition in the US. My inclinations would be not to support a business that discriminates against a group rather than one that is supporting diversity. Again, Graham has the right to his own beliefs, and he does say businesses should be “gay friendly.” However, he also apparently believes that an organization should not support a position that he feels is contrary to his views–which are based on his interpretation of the bible. Do no harm to others–just don’t allow them all the same rights, I guess. Fortunately, we do not live in a theocracy. (See this.)

Neither Graham nor the Jensens advocate violence. But there are true haters, people passionate in their hatred of others. I saw this article yesterday about a young man who has been beaten and tortured—ostensibly because he is gay. His family and their business have also suffered.

You know what? Sondheim was right that every love story is the same–and every love story is different. But I believe in love. Love is love. I believe love is good. I believe love is good for families and nations. When two people who are in love—consenting adults–want to get married, it does not harm society, even if they are gay, and even if they want to have a family. “Gay marriage” is no different from straight marriage in terms of love and commitment. Couples love and share passion. This is not immoral.

You know what is immoral?

People living in extreme poverty.

People starving.

Women—and children—kidnapped and raped as tools of war.

Slavery.

Sex trafficking.

Depriving people of medical care and education.

It seems to me that if people are truly concerned with the wellbeing of their societies, those are just a few things they might focus on—not who people love. But hey, that’s just me.

As far as those filled with hate for others, I don’t know. I don’t think a hate-filled mind can love, although it can be filled with passion.

Simple Pleasures: Sun and Clouds

Monday Morning Musings

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

–Albert Einstein

“Never put off till tomorrow what may be done day after tomorrow just as well.”
― Mark Twain

Today is stormy; yesterday was bright and sunny. Such is life.

I had intended to write about another topic today, but sometimes I need to remind myself how fortunate I am. Sometimes I feel like I should pause. Freeze. Stop. Bookmark this day on a site in my brain. It’s just an ordinary day of simple pleasures, and one of many, but one I would like to take out of a memory box to reexamine someday.

My husband and I took a walk yesterday morning. We went to the park in our town. I left my phone at home. We were living in the moment. We walked on a path and gazed out at the Delaware River. Yup, Philadelphia is still there. The sun was shining, the river lapped the shore, and a steady breeze kept the heat down. It was beautiful. A grandfather taught his young grandchildren how to fish from the stony beach. Mothers wheeled their babies in carriages. A little girl carried a bunch of colorful balloons. A church group held a service in a pavilion. My husband and I walked and talked. He watched while I did an occasional sprint and ran up the stairs to the battlefield site and did tricep dips on a park bench. We saw a friend who was getting her exercise in, and we stopped to chat for a few minutes. I told my husband we must do this again because we are lucky to have such a place nearby. I am fortunate because my husband agreed to stop what he was doing to walk with me in the park. He is a good man.

After the park, we both worked and did household chores. My husband took a nap. Our daughter and her fiancé stopped by late in the afternoon to tell us about a house they thought they were going to rent. We drank coffee, and my daughter ate a piece of the banana chocolate chip cake I had made the day before. (“See, this is why I won’t fit into my wedding gown,” she said laughingly to her boyfriend. She does not have to worry. She has youth on her side.) We laughed at the antics of one of the cats who positioned himself on the table.

After they left, my husband and I ate homemade pizza for dinner. I had some wine. We watched Orphan Black. I did not do all the work I intended to do. But there’s today, right?

The day got cloudy. My daughter texted me to say the landlord had changed his mind and would not allow pets. So now they must find a new place to rent, and quickly. I feel for them. In fact, I was nearly as upset as my daughter was. I’m hoping they will be able to find someplace that is better. It is difficult to find a rental house that permits pets.

We had thunderstorms during the night.

Yesterday was an ordinary day. It was bright and sunny; it got grey and stormy. But somehow it was special.