When you have a summery day in March You sit on your garden bench, Even though dry stalks and faded glories Are the only things left in it.
A distant train whistle sings, The faithful owl keeps watch (I am amazed that no one stole it Over the long winter – hooray!)
The spring-warm sun greets my face Bringing on fit of sneezing (does that happen to others?). Once – twice – thrice…I think I’m done. I wish those killdeer that I hear would come visit.
I brought four books out to read, Which seems like an absurdly optimistic pile. Instead I sit, watch, listen, And hope there are wisps of poems in the breeze.
This morning I was chased and harassed By a goblin named Anxiety Until finally I knelt by my bedside To hash it out with the Lord.
Be anxious for nothing… Let your requests be made known to God. I told Him everything – really, I did! The goblin stood by to remind me what I was anxious about.
It was a revolving door there for awhile: Anxiety out, peace in; peace out, anxiety in. But I just kept taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ Until that old goblin slunk away in disgrace.
Hours later, I’m out under a fresh blue sky In this Hallelujah Garden Where God’s greening up the earth And banishing the goblins of the morning.
I’ve been reading a book of poetry by Billy Collins and thought I’d take a stab at his style of conversational poems.
I’ll probably banish this hob-bloggin in the morning.
There’s no getting around it – when you sharpen a pencil, some of the good stuff has to go. It seems wasteful, but it’s part of the cost of getting a sharp point with which to draw and color (notice how I avoided leaving a dangling preposition there, and do likewise). It’s interesting how so many things have to be sharpened to be at their best: knives, arrows, scissors, people… Yes, I did that – I added people to the mix. As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another, said the Preacher. Being sharpened usually doesn’t feel good, but it equips us to be better tools for God’s service. Put me up against that whetstone; sharpen me like a pencil. The stuff that grinds off or peels away isn’t essential and I’m better off without it. Give me a nice, sharp point and set me loose.
I’m still doing some watercolor “roughs” in a book with non-watercolor paper. They turn out rather bumply and weird, and are impractical for making into cards, so why I am even doing this? Good question. I don’t know why, but it’s motivated me to do watercolor work more often than before, It’s been great practice for drawing in proportion and using different lettering styles. It’s been a valuable workshop for mixing colors. It’s also a lesson in why watercolor paper works better for blending. At some point, I’ll transition to doing these in a book that that contains watercolor paper in it, but for now, I’ll keep on with the roughs. These are all copies of things I found on Pinterest except for the words. The words are always mine.
That’s enough for today. I’ll return to old posts tomorrow to save my arm the stress of typing.
Therefore, we do not lose heart, but though our outer man is decaying, yet our inner man is being renewed day by day. 2 Corinthians 4:16
A reprint of my second blog post back in March of 2018, waxing eloquently (I hope) about pistachios:
March 27, 2018 Ode to Pistachios What I really appreciate about pistachios, aside from their charm, good looks and impeccable taste, is that you really have to work for all that goodness. By the time you’ve amassed a handful, there’s a certain amount of moral high ground you’ve reached in earning the luxury of eating them.
Contrast this to what happens every year on Christmas Day when we go to my sister’s house for the extended family celebration. My sister and her husband are fabulous hosts, and one of the little extras they provide on that day are bowls full of pistachios without their protective armor. That’s right: bowls full. Every year on our way there, I tell myself firmly (very firmly) that I will not lose control with the pistachios, but each year the same, sad story plays out. It wouldn’t be so bad if I were able to forsake the Christmas cookies to make room for the pistachio gorging, but no. I hear a little voice in my head saying “YOLO” and off I go. Well, it’s only once a year…and YOLO.
When I buy them for our home, they come with protective gear and the seemingly impenetrable ones get left for last. By the time one of those bad boys gets cracked open, the last shreds of potential guilt have melted away and it’s smooth sailing right down the gullet. Amen.
I’m having a bit of trouble with my arm this week, so instead of writing new posts, I’m going to re-post the first five posts I wrote when I started this blog back in March of 2018, seven years ago. Here’s the first one in which by complete happenstance, I signed off with what would become my signature sign-off: some version of “I’ll probably delete this in the morning.
March 27, 2018 I Will Awaken the Dawn This seems unnecessarily complicated.
I’m switching to WordPress from Blogger to get access to the photos on my iPad (my blog there was called “Further Up and Further In,” a nod to C.S. Lewis). https://fari-blog.blogspot.com/
Now that it comes to it, I don’t have much to say about this photo, one of the first I took on my new Nikon D3400 camera with the nifty 70-300 lens that came with it. I was in my bathrobe and slippers outside on a frosty cold morning when I took this, hoping to see birds in yonder tree, but had to be content with yonder tree against the dawn sky. The Psalmist said, “I will awaken the dawn.” Something tells me that I would have had to be awake before dawn to be able to use that quote accurately.
I’ll probably delete this blog entry later when I get this all figured out (this is somewhat akin to the Dread Pirate Roberts telling Westley everyday “I’ll probably kill you in the morning.”).
As a young boy, Clyde had a strange fascination with folding things. The family learned not to leave important papers lying around, for Clyde would appropriate them for his folding works. By the time he was in high school, he had a display of things he had artfully folded – three shelves full in his bedroom. When he got up and when he went to bed, he took great delight in surveying these clever creations. If he told anyone about his interest in folding, it gave him great pains that their first assumption was that he took to Origami. “I do NOT do origami,” he would state in a tone that communicated his disdain for the topic. He had no interest in taking small colorful squares of paper and making cranes, frogs and boxes out of them.
No, his passion was for the unusual, the artful, the delicate matter of folding all manner of items: newspapers, scraps of cloth, posters, church bulletins, record album covers, etc. (This latter effort got Clyde in trouble with his older sister who did not appreciate what he did with her mint-condition Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon cover. He had been interested in making the album cover look more like a crescent moon to go along with the title of the album, thinking it would only increase the value. He didn’t even touch the inner sleeve which actually held the record – he wasn’t that stupid!)
His father and mother tolerated his odd obsession, but were fond of telling Clyde, “You can’t make a living by folding things. Once you get out of college, you need to find a proper job!” Clyde reluctantly agreed with them and chose a major in college that would lead to this “proper job” that he was expected to get. But his heart wasn’t in it.
One day, however, Clyde was perusing the want ads and came across an ad that simply astounded him. It said, “Do you like to fold things? We are looking for experts in this area to work in our business. Please apply to The Brilliant Haberdashery.” What?! It looked like his parents had been wrong. Perhaps he could make a living using his folding prowess.
Clyde skipped classes that day and went directly to the address listed for the BH. He strode into the store confidently and stated he was interested in the folding job advertised in the newspaper. The store owner, Mr. Argonil, was a nattily dressed fellow sporting a pencil mustache and a sharp bow-tie. Mr. Argonil dispensed with the usual employment forms and instead led him through increasingly complicated folding challenges that thrilled Clyde and made him sweat. At the end, Mr A offered Clyde a job. He quit college and began his illustrious career that very day.
Mr. Argonil told him that he’d start small and work his way up, in spite of his quite impressive job interview. “You’ll begin with folding some of our socks and underwear. Don’t despise small beginnings, young Clyde, for these are the very steps that will lead you to the pinnacle of folding at the haberdashery: our pocket squares. Each pocket square that we sell is made of the finest silk and has a different design. Each one must be folded in a unique way. You’ll have no outlet for creativity with the socks and underwear, nor will you branch out with any sort of flare when you graduate to pants, undershirts, and shirts. When you reach handkerchiefs, there will be some fancy and fashion. But when you get to pocket squares, that’s where your genius will shine!” Clyde was inspired. Clyde was impressed. Clyde had goals and aspirations!
“But one more thing, my young apprentice,” Mr. Argonil said, “We do not believe in magnifying names here at the Brilliant Haberdashery. Your work will be anonymous. Each level of folding is designated by the letter H – for Haberdashery of course – and a number. The higher the number, the more prestigious the level of folding you have graduated to. We start with the number 5 and move up by 5’s. The highest achievement of folding that you will reach is H-30. You can go no higher. Even I have never achieved higher than that.”
Clyde loved a challenge and took Mr. Argonil’s statement as such. Over the next few years he worked his way up, meticulously folding first socks, then underwear, then pants, undershirts, then shirts, then handkerchiefs. At last the great day arrived when Mr. Argonil promoted him to H-30, folder of pocket squares. No one was prouder than Mr. Argonil, who by this time viewed Clyde as his most talented protege. “Clyde, my boy, you’re a boy no longer. You are a man. Welcome to the top of the folding ladder. You have arrived.”
But Clyde was by no means finished. His genius had begun but had not reached full flower. Each day he arrived at work and took the day’s pocket squares to the office that he now had. He spent hours crafting the most exquisite folding designs for his pocket squares and did not even allow the new employee (still stuck at H-5) to transport them to the sales floor. He carried them carefully himself and displayed them in such glorious array that customers were often hesitant to touch them. But touch them they did, and then bought them by the dozen, each one boxed delicately and with just a small piece of typed paper at the bottom that said: “Folded by H-30.”
The Brilliant Haberdashery grew and flourished, thanks to Clyde’s artistry. He was ever aspiring to new heights of folding wizardry and everyone knew to leave the master to his work in solitude when the door was closed. One day, one unforgettable day, he brought out his latest masterpieces and set them on the display. Mr. Argonil and the other staff gathered in silent awe to gaze at them. Clyde stole a look at Mr. Argonil and saw tears silently streaming down his cheeks. Mr. Argonil excused himself, presumably to blow his nose, and came back with a small but expertly crafted box made out of cherry wood. He gave it to Clyde saying, “I almost didn’t dare to hope that I’d give these out to someone someday. Clyde, these are yours. You have earned them. You have my highest admiration.”
Clyde opened the box and gasped, seeing a pile of little typed pieces of paper, each one saying, “Folded by H-35.”
He had arrived.
I was inspired to write this story after finding a little slip of paper in one of my mom’s old boxes that said, “Folded by H-35.”
This post will be folded into oblivion in the morning.
The Blizzard That Never Came. So far, our skies have been surprisingly blizzard-less, which goes to show you that the weather peeps don’t always get it right. But maybe it’ll zoom in late and have the last laugh.
So, here’s a fun project:
Isn’t it adorable? My friend and co-grandmother, Martha, alerted me to the presence of this pattern on Etsy and I was smitten right away, smitten enough to purchase the digital download within seconds of seeing it. What a wonderful world.
To explain the term “co-grandmother,” Martha’s daughter married our son and they just had their first child. Doesn’t that make us co-grandmothers? I might have just made that term up. Anyway, this crib mobile (or changing table mobile) will be for our newest granddaughter. Shh – don’t tell!
I’ve got the items cut out and ready to start sewing. I’m hoping that the mysterious parts of the pattern will become obvious as I go.
One of the artists I follow on Instagram just started a project in which she does a simple sketch and painting three days a week. The part that intrigued me was that she’s not using watercolor paper – just a little notebook. Well! That opens up all sorts of possibilities! My brother-in-law Karl gave me a beautiful little blank book made by Baron Fig. (I’ll bet Baron Fig is related to the Earl of Sandwich.) The pages are unlined and just beckoning to be used by this very kind of project. I have begun.
I’m excited to have a painting project that is contained in a book. It will allow me to experiment with painting and lettering without using a lot of expensive watercolor paper and I can cast caution to the wind. Where it belongs.
I’m casting this post to the wind in the morning…where it belongs.
We’ve got a blizzard headed our way tomorrow. Does anyone besides me remember reading about how Pa Ingalls got stuck in a blizzard on his way back from Mankato? He had to dig himself a little cave in the snow for protection and ended up eating all the candy he’d bought to bring home to the kids. I think of that sometimes when I’m sitting in my nice home drinking hot chocolate while the storm rages outside.
It’s a balmy 52 degrees today, and with a blizzard coming tomorrow, I’m inclined to agree with a friend of mine who said, “March is full of weather whiplash.” Indeed! When I got on the weather app for more information, I also found this important news:
So at least there’s that. I sort of feel like no matter how nice it is in March in Minnesota, the mosquito risk ought to be placed at ZERO. But there might be an exceptionally hardy breed of mosquitos out there that burst out of the starting gate when it gets up to 50 degrees. The chance of those mosquitos living through a blizzard though is ZERO. Equilibrium restored.
Quotes from the Commonplace Book
You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do. Eleanor Roosevelt
Masculinity is the glad assumption of sacrificial responsibility. Femininity is the warm response to sacrificial responsibility. Douglas Wilson
Duties are ours. Events are the Lord’s. Samuel Rutherford
Wherever you are, be all there. Live to the hilt every situation you believe to the be the will of God. Jim Elliot
This is what the incarnation is all about – the author of the story becoming not just a character, but a human character. In this narrative, God is the storyteller and the main character. He is the bard and the hero. He authors the fairy tale and then comes to kill the dragon and get the girl. Joe Rigney in the book Things of Earth
A recent visit from my cousin Mitch resulted in me having temporary access to several small boxes of pin-on buttons and other miscellaneous items that my Grandpa Harry had collected over the years.
Some of you may not know this, but I was made for the work of sorting. The good Lord put it into my nature to find sorting a very pleasant and interesting activity. I consider this to be a balancing feature to the fact that He has made other people who are able to work as EMT’s, a job I could not and would not do. I am probably the very last person you would want to have around in a crisis or an emergency. Thank God for the ways in which He distributes these different giftings. Maybe EMT’s hate to do sorting of any kind and are thanking God for people like me.
All that is to say, I spent a very pleasant half hour sorting through all those buttons and geegaws. Grandpa Harry was an executive in the Boy Scouts of America for much of his career, so it wasn’t a surprise to find lots of BSA buttons and paraphernalia.
There was also a collection of stars that had been put on little felt circles. I’m not sure what those were for. Was it Boy Scouts related?
I think he must have been a regular volunteer for what used to be called Community Chest, a fundraising entity that became The United Way.
He also had a few old buttons from political campaigns. Willkie & McNary ran in 1940 against FDR. I looked – the buttons aren’t worth very much in spite of them being nearly 90 years old.
Harry also had a small collection of buttons and pins from the University of Minnesota, dating back to 1917 and 1919 and later. Over 100 years old!!
Mitch told me that Grandpa Harry was involved in some sort of Mosquito Prevention effort which involved him wading around spraying stuff. It sounds like nasty work, but at least he got a nice pin out of the deal.
Lastly, I found a bunch of old cufflinks among his things as well. There’s something innately classy about cufflinks, in my opinion.
Even the old salt codfish box that some of the buttons were stored in was interesting!
I felt like I knew Grandpa Harry better after looking at the things he collected and valued. And now I know where I get my propensity to collect little things like that.
I’ll probably have to do some blog post prevention in the morning.
In honor of my dad’s birthday today (he would have been 98), I’d like to share a rewrite of the poem “Sea Fever” by John Masefield that he wrote to celebrate his own love of canoeing up in the Boundary Waters.
I must go back to the lakes again, To the lonely lakes and the sky, And all I ask is a sturdy canoe And a compass to steer her by, And the paddle’s kick and the wind’s song And the white caps shaking, And a gray mist on a quiet lake And a bright dawn breaking.
I must go back to the lakes again, For the call of the loon Is a wild call and a clear call That cannot be denied, And all I ask is a windy day With the white clouds flying, And the Norway pines and the portage trails And the sea gulls crying.
I must go back to the lakes again, To the voyager’s gypsy life. To the eagle’s way and the beaver’s way When the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn From a laughing fellow paddler, And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream When the long day is over.
I copied the cats from someone else’s work, but added my own words. I may have shared this painting on the blog before, but don’t feel like going back and checking. The nice thing is that even if I did, you don’t remember it either, so it’s like you’re seeing it for the first time anyway.
Original artwork and poem.
Hey, speaking of poetry, ten of my poems will be published later this year in a poetry anthology called “I’ve Got A Bad Case of Poetry.” Isn’t that fun? Thank you to those of you who contributed to the Kickstarter campaign.
I’ll probably delete this in the green leaf morning.
Lynniebeemuseoday 