tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16137290477693834912024-02-07T07:54:29.911-06:00Teresa EvangelineExploring new ways of seeing, new ways of being with an open heart and an open mindTeresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.comBlogger569125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-68592381890090638432017-11-10T07:52:00.002-06:002017-11-10T07:52:49.637-06:00Listening to the River<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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I love living near a river, with all it has to teach me, and this poem is a perfect example of why William Stafford is one of my favorite poets.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ask Me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some time when the river is ice ask me<br />mistakes I have made. Ask me whether<br />what I have done is my life. Others<br />have come in their slow way into<br />my thought, and some have tried to help<br />or to hurt: ask me what difference<br />their strongest love or hate has made.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will listen to what you say.<br />You and I can turn and look<br />at the silent river and wait. We know<br />the current is there, hidden; and there<br />are comings and goings from miles away<br />that hold the stillness exactly before us.<br />What the river says, that is what I say.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">~ William Stafford</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The photograph is mine.</span></div>
Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-51813459714081510472017-10-29T06:55:00.003-05:002020-09-17T13:00:34.786-05:00Finding Balance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I took a break from Twitter a few weeks ago, I thought I might spend more time back in Bloggerville. But, as time goes on, I find I'm spending less time on the computer. One of the things that caused me to look at social media and my computer time more closely was a segment on 60 Minutes a few months ago that talked of smartphone apps, which are also found in different versions on laptops. One of the creators of these social apps talked of their addictive nature, how they create a sense of loneliness, anxiety, and other things associated with addiction. Most notably, they can actually rewire your brain. Yes, rewire your brain.<br />
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Then, I read an article from The Guardian which also covered this topic and offered more insight into this flat screen phenomena. There were statements in this article that were real wake up calls for me. This was one:<br />
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"It is revealing that many of these younger technologists are weaning themselves off their own products, sending their children to elite Silicon Valley schools where iPhones, iPads and even laptops are banned."<br />
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As with all things, one can argue for balance. But, the nature of addiction is such that we have trouble identifying "balance" with any real measure of honesty. I have had to look at my own computer use with an unflinching eye and have made some major adjustments. Here's the article in case you are interested in learning more about this:<br />
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<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2017/oct/05/smartphone-addiction-silicon-valley-dystopia?CMP=share_btn_tw">https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2017/oct/05/smartphone-addiction-silicon-valley-dystopia?CMP=share_btn_tw</a><br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-10016538429948825142017-10-06T10:12:00.003-05:002017-10-06T10:12:37.071-05:00Taking a Stand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Time is precious and I know some folks don't want to click on links, but I wanted you to to know there are those who are taking a stand for this beautiful old world, for what is right and good. This is Joel Clement's Letter of Resignation from the Department of the Interior. Reading it made my day.<br />
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Watercolor: Kingfisher and Turtles in Pond<br />
Unsigned<br />
19th CenturyTeresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-76842740201012298992017-09-24T16:37:00.001-05:002017-11-02T13:05:24.552-05:00The Unsung Third Stanza<div style="font-family: georgia, helvetica, "proxima nova", arial, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">
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<span style="color: #999999;">There's a great deal of talk right now about the National Anthem, to kneel or not to kneel. I am a big fan of Colin Kaepernik, not just because of his political stance but for all the philanthropic work he is doing for those at the margins of life.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999;">This morning, I came across this poem and found it dovetails with my own thoughts, though this poet has so perfectly and so beautifully </span><span style="color: #999999;">stated them</span><span style="color: #999999;">. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999;">A New National Anthem</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">red glare” and then there are the bombs.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">(Always, always, there is war and bombs.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">even the tenacious high school band off key.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">to the field, something to get through before</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">the truth is, every song of this country</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">has an unsung third stanza, something brutal</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">snaking underneath us as we blindly sing</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">like the flag, how it undulates in the wind</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">brought to its knees, clung to by someone who</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">love it again, until the song in your mouth feels</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">in an endless cave, the song that says my bones</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">are your bones, and your bones are my bones,</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">and isn’t that enough?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">~ Ada Limon</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;">If you're not familiar with Ada Limon, here's a link to her site: <a href="http://adalimon.com/">http://adalimon.com/</a></span><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "helvetica" , "proxima nova" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-52328616711171178232017-09-23T11:56:00.001-05:002017-09-23T11:56:11.341-05:00There is a Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, it's been a while. I hope you are all doing well. Life is good here. Buddy and I are still hanging out together and life feels pretty peaceful, as long as I don't spend too much time thinking about the current administration in the White House.<br />
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Blogger has always seemed to be a kind, gentle place. I appreciate the friends I've found here. I'm not sure yet what I will do, but it will probably involve poetry, music, and art, plus an occasional personal story, as I did in the past. It's good to be here again.<br />
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"There is a light within our soul<br />
that burns brighter than the sun."<br />
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~ Basith, <i>Autopsy of the Seasons</i><br />
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Image: Albarran Cabrera, <i>The Mouth of Krishna</i>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-68172618283790084782016-06-27T10:34:00.003-05:002016-06-27T10:34:43.928-05:00An Embarrassment All the Way Around<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I believe Donald Trump must never be allowed anywhere near the White House, but this is not what I imagined for the first female President, nor did I ever imagine Elizabeth Warren would accept the role of Hillary's attack dog. This is an embarrassment all the way around.<br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-59598000269019430852015-12-17T11:35:00.000-06:002015-12-26T17:52:09.303-06:00Morning Ritual<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are a few Tumblr sites I visit as part of my morning ritual. I love seeing what's been posted each day. They're places of peace and reflection. And, I like looking at pretty pictures. Once in a while it leads me to another Tumblr and I add it to my bookmarks. Yesterday I ran across one and decided to borrow an idea I found there. I googled vintage postcards, downloaded one that fit what I wanted to capture and added lyrics to it from Leonard Cohen, one of my favorite songwriters. It's not highly creative but it's fun and I may do a few more, either using his lyrics or other songwriters I admire.<br />
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In other news, we got our first real snowfall yesterday, about five inches. I actually love shoveling snow as long as it doesn't become a Sisyphean task. This was just right. I hope all is well in your corner of the world.<br />
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Click on the postcard to enlarge.Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-49507913648727289182015-12-12T20:05:00.002-06:002015-12-13T16:49:10.114-06:00Christmas Fireworks and Coyotes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, it's Saturday night in northern Minnesota, in mid-December, and I just came in from standing on the porch listening to fireworks in the distance, part of a local Christmas celebration. If I'd been willing to go to town I suppose I could have seen them. I wasn't willing. It's hard to remember Christmas is just around the corner when there's barely a drop of snow on the ground and it's in the 40's.<br />
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Buddy, who had been resting peacefully on the porch, was not real thrilled with this turn of events. The fireworks went off, he barked. The fireworks went off again, the coyotes howled. The whole thing was turning confusing to him so he opted for going inside and I went with him.<br />
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A few minutes later I'm here at the kitchen table, listening to and watching Joni Mitchell sing, Coyote, during, The Last Waltz, with The Band. I love this song and the video.<br />
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So, that's what I'm doing on this mid-December night. Hope you're having a good night, too. Here's Joni:<br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-72014916407903532112015-12-04T13:08:00.002-06:002015-12-05T09:58:22.476-06:00The Companionship of Nature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A couple of barred owls, better known as hoot owls, have been hanging around my place again. I hear them after dark and very early in the morning. Buddy tends to go out just before daybreak, settles in on the porch to watch the woods and keep an eye on any critters passing through. Once he sees something he softly grrrrrrs, just to make his presence felt. From my table by the window I keep an eye on him in case any of those critters wander a little too close.<br />
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A few mornings ago, I stayed outside for a while watching and listening with him. Two owls started calling from one end of the woods to the other. There had been a light snow during the night ... a nice counterpoint to the morning's greying sky. Together, they created a slightly melancholy mood.<br />
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Last night at bedtime, as I turned out the little lamp I keep on my windowsill, I again heard the owls. They continued to call as I fell asleep. I found it peaceful and comforting, as though reassuring me, "All is well." Art, literature, music, friendship - all essential to my life - but nature sustains me like nothing else can. I love knowing there are owls in the woods, calling to each other in the darkness.<br />
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<i>Painting by Jeanie Tomanek</i>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-35248384123629541522015-11-29T08:19:00.004-06:002015-11-29T08:19:50.805-06:00How to Be in Love with Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Good morning, everyone. When I first woke this morning I felt led to read excerpts from Mary Oliver's book, <i>Dog Songs, </i>her paean to dogs and all they offer us. My pal, Buddy, has taught me so much about living life fully, how it is to be in love with life itself. As I have often said before, he is one fine companion. I had a feeling, as I read, it was going to lead me back here. I'm very glad it has. I'd like to share an excerpt that especially spoke to me on this cold but beautiful late November morning ...<br />
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"I want to extol not the sweetness nor the placidity of the dog, but the wilderness out of which he cannot step entirely, and from which we benefit. For wilderness is our first home too, and in our wild ride into modernity with all its concerns and problems we need also the good attachments of that origin that we keep or restore. Dog is one of the messengers of that rich and still magical first world. The dog would remind us of the pleasures of the body with its graceful physicality, and the acuity and rapture of the senses, and the beauty of the forest and ocean and rain and our own breath. There is not a dog that romps and runs but we learn from him."<br />
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~ Mary Oliver,<i> Dog Songs</i><br />
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Wherever you are, I hope you are all having a wonderful Sunday morning.<br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-65224787884624467492015-06-06T10:01:00.001-05:002016-02-14T10:40:34.665-06:00Caught In a Downpour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I was bringing my compost bucket to the garden this morning, I got caught in a downpour. Ducking into the shed (a very poor pun), I stood and listened as it passed through. I may have mentioned a time or two, all my outbuildings have tin roofs. The garden shed has the additional grace of slatted sides. I could listen, and watch. It was the most fun I've had in a while. It didn't last long, but while it did I was reminded of something I wanted to tell you.<br />
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A few weeks ago, I went to the cabin to do another walk-through to see how it fared through the winter. I do this fairly often and have spent some time there looking at possibilities other than its unintended use as a raccoon / porcupine hotel. For a while a skunk lived under the porch but I believe it has moved on to other quarters.The raccoon and porcupines have also moved on now that summer is here.<br />
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Prior to this particular walk-through, I had, that morning, mentioned to myself how nice it would be to have a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. I had no notion of which one, just one to add to my collection of poetry books. That afternoon I went to the cabin and did my usual, somewhat cursory looking around. Without knowing why, I felt drawn to a particular set of shelves in the corner. I had looked at these shelves before, but this time I looked closer and tucked into the corner of the highest shelf, against the wall and blending into the wood, was a book. I took it down and turned it around. It was a well-worn, 1922 edition of Carl Sandburg's, <i>Chicago Poems.</i><br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-54764176364446368172015-06-02T08:57:00.001-05:002015-06-02T18:43:20.502-05:00When Books Were Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There was a time when books came with nothing but hard covers and unbreakable spines, with artwork gracing their covers. I have fallen in love with these books and what they represent: the care taken to present beauty at every opportunity; when art was everywhere, even on bank notes and postage stamps. I fear they are all falling by the wayside of expediency. It seems we are being indoctrinated into the lie that we don't have time to slow down and savor the minutiae of life.<br />
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Most days, I look to nature for these elements of beauty. Yesterday, I saw white violets in the meadow. There was more than one extensive patch. I almost missed these quiet beauties as the sky had captured my attention. I was walking among them before I looked down and realized all the beauty right there at my feet.<br />
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The book covers that have caught my attention the most are those that bring together my love of books and love of nature. I mean, who doesn't want to be "among the meadow people?"<br />
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Ever since I realized insects rule the world and far outnumber us, I've been paying more attention and showing a great deal more respect. Yesterday, two little bugs found their way in with my bed sheets. They were hanging on for dear life, so I took them back outside to their known universe. They might not have been ready for a whole new one. Hmmmmm. Now, I'm wondering if that's not exactly why they came inside with my sheets. They were ready. I will try not to ponder the imponderable too long.<br />
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Instead, I will think on this title, the ways in which I can practice having, "a quiet eye," with the birds who frequent the feeder. Again this spring the indigo buntings spent a few days with me, moving from the feeder to the rock garden as morning arrived. Against the grey rocks they are so beautiful.<br />
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I don't know about you fellers, but for us girls, Louisa May Alcott was a pretty big deal among readers. I saw, "Little Women," at least parts of it, on television recently, but I didn't see them represented the way they are in my mind's eye, so I turned it off and let what I remembered of them remain. In her honor, I must include this cover.<br />
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And then, there's this. James Russell Lowell is the poet, the illustrations are by my beloved Winslow Homer. What's inside would surely set my head spinning. I would love to get my hands on a copy of it, first edition, of course.<br />
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I see more second hand bookstores in my future.<br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-34070888221059382662015-05-31T06:49:00.002-05:002015-05-31T06:50:32.029-05:00Getting By With A Little Help From Our Friends<br />
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/119164220">Winter Dream #7 by Teresa Evangeline</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/veryveryred">cara long</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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I've recently taken a break from twitter, perhaps a permanent one, but that's yet to be determined. While there, I found myself among some fine people, very creative and very kind. One of them is Cara Long. She is a short fiction writer who could always be counted on for something fresh and intriguing. She created this short video to complement my poem, Winter Dream #7, and posted it on Twitter. I am so grateful for her support and her creativity. I wanted to post it here to thank her and share it with you.<br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-6735797775409855072015-05-29T08:44:00.006-05:002015-05-29T08:44:59.678-05:00Farm Wife<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's a lot of fun for me to run across a painting I've not yet seen by a well-known artist whose work I love. Such is the case with Picasso's, "Farmer's Wife on a Stepladder." I'm reminded of the woman at the farm across the river who provides eggs for me. She and her husband have a beautiful farm with extensive gardens. I'm so grateful for their presence in my neck of the woods. I hope you are all well and having a good spring. I think it's going to be a really good summer.<br />
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<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-7392333243091756792015-02-09T09:10:00.000-06:002015-03-14T09:35:25.838-05:00Waiting on the Irises<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, I hadn't planned on taking a break, but, apparently, that's what I'm doing. I hope all is well with all of you. I'm still posting over on my poetry blog and hope you'll visit me there. Spring is just around the corner ...<br />
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Painting: Vincent van GoghTeresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-67529580856442624002014-11-20T17:06:00.001-06:002014-11-20T17:06:25.432-06:00Love is the Answer Always Has Been Always Will Be<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLoLzmYnlxLz1__x7ulz01zq-1bYsiwqJ40C6pO7hZt2S9DS0RDvRPsahfDgtCsaMsniny2dDn6OtQc0eqz0RycB4oQyQER7BtDybpND6zaSwOiVit9LvNOuRjlxeUF3Mbap2yl424os/s1600/SimoneFelicebyJohnHuba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLoLzmYnlxLz1__x7ulz01zq-1bYsiwqJ40C6pO7hZt2S9DS0RDvRPsahfDgtCsaMsniny2dDn6OtQc0eqz0RycB4oQyQER7BtDybpND6zaSwOiVit9LvNOuRjlxeUF3Mbap2yl424os/s1600/SimoneFelicebyJohnHuba.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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Tony Zimnoch's posts are consistently intriguing, and this is no exception. I hope you'll go over to his post, read the intro. and then click on "read more" for one of the most beautiful pieces I've read in some time.<br />
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<a href="http://everton.blogspot.com/2014/11/blog-post.html">http://everton.blogspot.com/2014/11/blog-post.html</a><br />
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Photo of Simone Felice by John Huba<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-3978487581707092962014-10-22T07:47:00.002-05:002014-10-28T20:33:31.128-05:00Prelude to a New Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Prelude ...<br />
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I've always liked that word. For me, it is the hour before dawn ... life's tender beginnings ...<br />
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The photograph is mine.<br />
<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-39523339771154508702014-10-02T13:16:00.002-05:002016-10-01T07:04:33.692-05:00In a Country Called October<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #999999; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 21px;">"The October country ... that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coalbins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain." ~ Ray Bradbury, from </span><i style="background-color: black; color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">The October Country</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><br /></i></span></span>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-67466974376563412182014-09-27T12:18:00.002-05:002014-09-27T12:25:57.341-05:00For the Woman In Ithaca<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The only time I recall hearing someone cry I didn't know or couldn't see was in the tent next to me outside Jackson, Wyoming in the middle of August in the middle of the 1970's. It was also the middle of the night. I thought perhaps the bar had closed and disappointment had set in. I went back to sleep.<br />
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The next day, my companion and I stopped in a bar/cafe somewhere up the line to get a bite to eat. A few people were shooting pool and playing the jukebox. I noticed every song they played was by Elvis and thought, "They sure are Elvis fans." You know where I'm going with this, right?<br />
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We drove through Yellowstone, saw some elk, stopped at Old Faithful - the usual things one does in Yellowstone - still out of tune with the rest of the world. It wasn't until we were leaving Yellowstone that we finally turned on the radio. Just as I did so, the announcer said, "They're lining up at Graceland to pay their respects ..."<br />
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When I read this poem today, that came to mind. But, the poignancy of this poem far outweighs, for me, the poignancy of losing the King. This is about a real person hurting over a real life who, for all we know, still struggles through the occasional night when she wonders ... I like how the poet honors that grief.<br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Toast"</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">There was a woman in Ithaca</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">who cried softly all night</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">in the next room and helpless</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">I fell in love with her under the blanket</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">of snow that settled on all the roofs</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">of the town, filling up</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">every dark depression.</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">Next morning</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">in the motel coffee shop</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">I studied all the made-up faces</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">of women. Was it the middle-aged blonde</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">who kidded the waitress</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">or the young brunette lifting</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">her cup like a toast?</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">Love, whoever you are,</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">your courage was my companion</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">for many cold towns</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">after the betrayal of Ithaca,</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">and when I order coffee</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">in a strange place, still</span><br style="line-height: 21px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;">I say, lifting, this is for you.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; line-height: 21px;">~ Leonard Nathan</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: black; line-height: 21px;">Painting by Edward Hopper</span></span>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-42708584399082815772014-09-05T20:57:00.001-05:002014-09-06T07:42:46.037-05:00Things to Consider When Closing a Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm afraid I've discovered a new poet. I'll try to go easy on you, not overdo it. This is the one I started with:<br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #999999; font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">"A Brief Lecture on Door </span><span style="background-color: black; color: #999999; font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Closers"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Although heretofore unconsidered</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">in verse or in song, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">the ordinary door closer is, I submit, a device</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">well worth considering. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Consisting primarily</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">of a spring and a piston, in combination, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">here's how it works: </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;"> You open a door, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">either pushing or pulling. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">The spring is compressed, the piston extended. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Now, having passed through the doorway, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">you relinquish control, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">and the door closer takes over. The spring remembers</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">how it was— </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">it wants to return. But the urge is damped</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">by the resistance the piston encounters, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">snug in its cylinder</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">filled with hydraulic fluid. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Such is the mechanism of the door closer, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">invented in 1876</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">by Charles Norton, when a slamming door</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">in a courtroom in Cincinnati</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">repeatedly disrupted</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">the administration of justice. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Whether concealed beneath the threshold</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">or overhead in the head jamb, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">whether surface-mounted as a parallel-arm installation</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">or as a regular-arm, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">door closers are ever vigilant, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">silently performing their function, rarely</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">complaining. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Whereas doors can be metaphorical—as in, </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">for example, "He could never unlock</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">the door to her heart"— </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">door closers cannot. </span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">Remember this when you</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">pass through, and the door closes behind you</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">with a soft thud</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">and final click</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">as the latchbolt engages the strike.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;">~ Clemens Starck (1937), from <i>Traveling Incognito</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></span>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-18711017087448788192014-09-03T10:01:00.000-05:002015-09-07T07:08:23.264-05:00I Am Not A Rock, I Am Not An Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Labor Day I labored, and it felt really good. I sawed dead branches from several trees and from shrubs near the greenhouse; both the shrubs and the greenhouse needed more sunlight. There is great satisfaction for me in this work. I have grown to love piling brush, something I hated doing as a child. I like knowing I'm clearing away those things that need clearing both in my physical and spiritual life. Sometimes we just need to do it.<br />
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Half a century ago my father developed lakeshore around Ox Yoke Lake - the lake of my childhood - building cabins for summer and weekend residents. The family spent many days clearing brush and hauling it into piles. In the evening we would be rewarded with hot dogs roasted on sticks over the fire followed by s'mores. If you've never eaten a s'more, well, time's a wastin'. Here's how: graham crackers with a couple of squares from a Hershey chocolate bar and a marshmallow, also roasted on a stick. This is the preferred method. When times get tough other methods may be employed. You'll figure it out.<br />
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After clearing the brush I worked on a new compost pile out by the garden. As they say, next year in Jerusalem. I followed that with much baking of zucchini bread, some with dried cranberries added. Fortunately I froze most of it. I also decided to find new ways to use zucchini, so I shredded a bunch (that's Minnesotan for a lot) and have added it to BLT's and other sandwiches, as well as omelets. It's non-stop zucchini season as some of you might know. Years ago there was a wonderful writer for the Christian Science Monitor named John Gould. He did a weekly column for them about life in the northeast - Maine, if I remember correctly. In one column he wrote of zucchini season and how, out of necessity, everyone started locking their cars. If you didn't you might return from your errand with a back seat full of zucchini. This type of story has now become ubiquitous, and I more fully understand it.<br />
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Later in the evening Buddy and I were treated to a sky show. With thunder rumbling overhead and the sky lowering, the sunset went on as usual. It turned all shades of pink and violet. Across this beautiful expanse came some amazing horizontal lightning bolts. Buddy soon decided he'd had enough so I let him in the house and continued to stand on the porch at what I was sure was a safe distance. But, Buddy must have faced reality sooner than I, covered in fur and all. With the next one I could feel the small hair on my hands stand up. It was time to go inside and watch from the window.<br />
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I like summer but I love fall. The Farmer's Almanac has purportedly predicted another long, very cold winter for my neck of the woods. So, I'm going to relish every day of this slanted sunlight and prepare for what may come. I have short story collections by my favorite writers and more than a few books of poetry. I have a set of watercolors yet to have the package broken open on them. I have the cooking channel (I'm hooked on "Chopped"). I have music, I have Buddy, and I have all of you. I am not a rock. I am not an island. But, I'll post the song anyway because who doesn't like Simon and Garfunkel.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/JKlSVNxLB-A" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<i><br /></i><i>Today's poem: <a href="http://teresaevangelinespoetry.blogspot.com/2014/09/autumn-arrives_3.html">http://teresaevangelinespoetry.blogspot.com/2014/09/autumn-arrives_3.html</a></i>
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<i>The photograph is mine, taken in the fall of 2012.</i><br />
<br />Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-8603561519752620052014-09-01T09:31:00.003-05:002014-09-01T09:31:36.580-05:00Labor Day: For the One Hundred and Forty Six<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">"Shirt"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The nearly invisible stitches along the collar</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Or talking money or politics while one fitted</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">This armpiece with its overseam to the band</span></span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">One hundred and forty-six died in the flames</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes—</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The witness in a building across the street</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Up to the windowsill, then held her out</span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;" /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">And then another. As if he were helping them up</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">A third before he dropped her put her arms </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers—</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">To wear among the dusty clattering looms.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,</span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;" /></span></span>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:</span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;" /></span></span>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">George Herbert, your descendant is a Black</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit</span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;" /></span></span>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">And feel and its clean smell have satisfied</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Down to the buttons of simulated bone,</span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;" /></span></span>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;">~ Robert Pinsky (b. 1940 )</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black; line-height: 24px;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black; line-height: 24px;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="background-color: black; line-height: 24px;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangle_Shirtwaist_Factory_fire">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangle_Shirtwaist_Factory_fire</a></span></span></div>
Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-20848682369783934992014-08-29T08:13:00.001-05:002015-09-04T20:51:46.138-05:00Time and Tiramisu <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I stepped outside to take a few photographs last evening, I could hear music coming from down the road, an early start to the Labor Day weekend no doubt. I walked around the crab apple tree taking photos - various configurations of fallen apples in the still green grass of late summer - listening to, "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" I thought of my friend, Amy, who passed in the winter of 2005. I remembered her telling me how much she liked the song as it played in the background at the Tesuque Village Market one Sunday afternoon. We would sometimes go there for lunch and a piece of their sinfully delicious tiramisu. Listening to it play in the distance brought a softly surreal feeling to the evening, an expansive sense of timelessness. As the last notes played, I walked back to the cabin and took a few photographs of black-eyed susans and birdsfoot trefoil growing in the grass behind the cabin, none of which turned out very well. It doesn't matter. It wasn't about the photographs.<br />
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<i>The photograph is mine, taken several days earlier, before they fully ripened ...</i>Teresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-40807833225449805822014-08-17T02:32:00.000-05:002017-03-06T05:22:51.435-06:00Old Poets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"The Old Poets of China"<br />
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Wherever I am, the world comes after me.<br />
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe<br />
that I do not want it. Now I understand<br />
why the old poets of China went so far and high<br />
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.<br />
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~ Mary Oliver, from, <i>Why I Wake Early</i><br />
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Photo by Michael and Patricia FogdenTeresa Evangelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05495114564099989481noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1613729047769383491.post-40455714489338609332014-08-16T07:50:00.002-05:002014-08-18T15:34:16.237-05:00The Days of Fisher Price<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When my kids were young, this is the telephone they had. They grew up to be thoughtful, articulate communicators. Tone matters. Emoticons are not tone. Letters are not words (a, I, and O are the only exceptions). Numbers aren't words. Sometimes, I worry about where this Flat Screen culture is leading us.<br />
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