Another Year

I am still writing "2009" on checks and attendance slips.

Last Friday on my birthday an old friend and fellow Douglas Adams reader reminded me that I am now the answer to life, the universe, and everything. Age-specific ads at the side of my Facebook page tell me that forty-two year-old women wear Ug boots, buy iPads, and publish their own poetry. My students ask if I rode the pterodactyl to school or took the mammoth. Outside stars billions of years old burn so fiercely that their light still reaches us, and the patient moon grows old and young again. Why should I fear?

Reconnecting

We're in a busy stage of life, Great Scott and myself. The girls are old enough to have begun after school and summer activities; Great Scott works long hours; I've begun subbing when school is in, and last month I began ABCTE's teacher certification program to obtain a certificate to teach English in Missouri secondary schools. While this route to certification is going to save us a lot of money and a lot of time, while it allows me to do work online and here at home (save for the tests and the student teaching experiences, which will come later), the work still needs to be done, and I'm doing it while keeping up with the girls' activities and my grandmother's medical appointments. Summer has given us a bit of a slow-down, yes, but Great Scott is still taking a graduate class four days a week in a city an hour away, working on two degree papers and finishing up the yearbook for the 2007-08 school year where he teaches. It's easy for each of us to forget what the other looks like.

This weekend my mother took the girls to Steal Yer Dollar City (a.k.a. Silver Dollar City) all day Saturday, leaving Great Scott with a sizable gift certificate for Borders bookstore. The temptation was too great. Off we went, tra-la-la, here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush.

It had been a long time since I've spent time alone with my husband being silly, and silly we were. We made smart remarks, played at being cynics, played at curmudgeonry, played at obliviousness and simpletonry, played at making the other laugh--lots of this. We browsed the bookstore, laughed in the parking lot, got frozen custard at a place we used to frequent when we were dating and first married, laughed on the way home, and we laughed after we got home. We picked on each other mercilessly the entire time, and we loved every minute of it.

Sometimes it's very difficult to remember a time when my mind and identity weren't entirely tied up with responsibilities, schedules, censored motherhood and things-to-remember-so-that-no-one-starves-and-the-electricity
-stays-on. This weekend I remembered.

Today we spent the day at Great Scott's father's farm, where we celebrated both their birthdays and a belated Father's Day. Sometime after lunch I slipped outside to look at the lilies and hollyhocks in the yard and joined The Younger Daughter in the hammock. After a bit The Younger Daughter went off to learn to shoot a gun--she turned out to be amazingly good at it--and I was left alone under the light-dappled leaves, a cool breeze stirring the hem of my gypsy skirt about my ankles as I lay back and closed my eyes. I drifted off amid the wind and whispering grasses, and no one came to call me back. It was utterly restful (rest full).

This next week will be a busy one again. The "Little House" play practices are upping the times from one practice a week to two, both five hours long; my grandmother has a doctor's appointment, we're taking the girls to see Cats! one night, and I have another section of my English/Language Arts course to complete. I've tucked away this weekend, though; I'm keeping it deep within, ready to bring out and enjoy in stolen moments. It was very, very good.

In Memoriam: Madeleine L'Engle

November 29, 1918 ---September 6, 2007

A great light has gone out of this world.

Marian Jordan Lewanowski and MJL Photography

Last week I received an email from Jordan unexpectedly. I've still no idea how he stumbled across Quotidian Light or what about it caught his eye, but whatever the cause, I'm grateful. He sent me a link to his website, and while you're visiting there, I strongly recommend that you explore his gallery. Light holds an inexplicably strong fascination for me, and Jordan's photographs are to Thomas Kincade's (the "painter of light"'s) paintings what Oliver, Kenyon or Nye's poems are to Hallmark's. We're talking no comparison, here, people.

When Jordan asked if I'd be interested in linking to his site, I replied that I would but that I wanted to be able to give my readers more than just a link. He very kindly consented to letting me post an introduction to him and his work, for which I'm very grateful. You'll find it below. Enjoy!

Marian Jordan Lewandowski (MJL) is a freelance photographer based in Europe whose work has been published in various places including the April 2003 centerfold of the internationally recognized American periodical Popular Photography. Jordan describes the photos he strives to take as, “Uncommon, difficult to categorize, on the point of poetry, expressing deepest spiritual values, depicting the coexistence of a man and nature as well as mysticism.”

Because of the high esteem he holds for the natural strength and beauty of reality, the confidence and respect he holds for the viewers of his work, and his trust in and respect for his own talent and skill, almost no PS manipulation is used in Jordan's work . Some of the highlights and reoccurring themes that characterize photos from MJL Photography are as follows:

Italy-the beauty of this Mediterranean country.
Poland-and thestrength of wonderful uncontaminated nature.
New York, Manhattan - energetic places
Van Gogh - his madness in colour
Old Dutch Masters of 16th century - their use of light and tone,
Poetry - notably the English Romantics

Jordan also has a solid appreciation of universal Christian values and has involved himself in numerous voluntary organizations as well as Students' Christian Societies. He writes, "...I consider life to be a meeting - a meeting with God, with other people--Christians and non-Christians, with God present in nature ..The most beautiful thing that a human being can experience is the possibility of true dialogue; my website is such an attempt--my private but open dialogue with the world, with other open-minded, sensitive people ..."

JML is the author of a book of poetry and photos dedicated the mystic Rome, entitled Roma--Citta Aperta (Rome--The Open City).

One question for you, Jordan, when you read this: where can we find your book?

The Hummingbird Story

After the last post, Seeker and I Wonder asked to hear how I came to hold a hummingbird in my hand. Simple story, really. One got trapped on my parents' back porch, having flown in through an open door, I assume. I thought it was a large bumblebee until I heard it chirping as it flew into the windows that line two sides of the porch.

I was unsuccessful at shooing it out, so I got one of my mother's large tea-towels and caught it , then gingerly transferred it into my hands and carried it outside. Once caught, it didn't struggle, even when I took it out of the towel. Instead it watched me with bright, interested eyes, chirping occasionally and cocking its head to see where we were going. It flew free when I opened my fingers.

Another bird story: A couple of springs ago I was reading in the bedroom when a resounding WHACK on the window interrupted me. Birds often fly into our windows in the spring and early summer, despite efforts to deter them. Usually they're only stunned and recover fairly quickly, but this time I noted the Great Golden Sun Cat not far away from the feathery inert body on the grass, so I went outside to intervene. As the GGSC hurried closer, I picked the bird up. It was alive; I could feel its heart against my fingers. After awhile it opened its eyes but still couldn't get to its feet, so I stood there by the rosebushes, the little grey bird with the black mask in my opened hands and the cat rubbing around my legs until the bird could (and enthusiastically did) fly away. Afterward, I looked it up. A loggerhead shrike.

Buckbrush---A New Trend?

Buckbrush. I love it: its humble height, the arc of its slender branches, its persistent brightness against the neutrals of late autumn and winter. It grows in fence rows and along the edges of wooded areas. This particular sprig was growing near the creek where the trees begin to give way to the openness of the fields.

I am no photographer by any stretch of the imagination But yesterday I took a long walk with the camera, a walk which yielded a great many pictures, and to my surprise and pleasure, Great Scott actually approved of a few. He told me to start blogging some of them. So for what it's worth, here's a glimpse of why I walk where I do: in the woods, in the fields, on pond banks, and alongside creeks. If you enjoy the pics, I'll likely keep posting them. Otherwise I will allow words to suffice.

Friday Quote: On Writing and Accomplishments

"Writing is only writing. The accomplishments of courage and tenderness are not to be measured by paragraphs."

---Mary Oliver
"Sand dabs, Eight"
Long Life