Joy to the world!

May the joy of the season make us all children at heart!

A is for....

A is for apple. And airplane and ant, something I’ll never forget because my beloved kindergarten teacher taught it to me. Who could not love, with the devotion of the cherubim, the sweet and patient young woman who had time only for her charges, and whose smile seemed to radiate candy store approval! 

Later I was to discover that A also headed up the collection of letters that denoted aardvark, algorithm and appendix. I cannot say why it is I still remember this, since it was learned under the loveless and unforgiving stare of a succession of science masters, all of whom seemed to possess the pinched features of birds of prey.

Thankfully, 'A' also ushered into my vocabulary affection, adoration and ardour. What pleasant lessons were these! Suddenly the acquisition of additional attributes became an attractive adventure, and I an assiduous and attentive A student! ... I must pause a moment here to admire my own amazing adjectival ability... alright,... I’m laughing now. I had you going there for a minute didn’t I? Were you thinking you’d landed smack in the middle of some kind of erudite literary blah blah? Sadly, no. Life carries its disappointments. Never mind, we were onto something there, I feel it down deep in my atoms...

Right now I guess I’m somewhere between almond truffle and Alka-Seltzer, or perhaps more accurately, halfway between alpha and omega. It’s not such a bad place to be. Rather than start to panic at the approach of age and the accompanying agents of doom which threaten arthritis, alzheimers, atrophy....arrrghhh!! .... no, rather than pack a thesaurus of assumptions into my expectations, let me pause once again. Perhaps to laugh at myself, or perhaps just to enjoy the achievement of reaching this moment with my wits intact.

A is for atmosphere. I create my own, with the thoughts that I breathe, and the actions I allow.  

ALL GROWN UP

"Maturity is this: recognition of responsibilities, acceptance of weaknesses, acknowledgement of decisions, thankfulness for blessings." ~Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir



I am all grown up, and yet...the child in me still wants to shirk my responsibilities, laugh at my weaknesses, escape from my decisions..and be blantantly ungrateful... :)

HEARTBREAK

When the heart is cut or cracked or broken,
Do not clutch it,
Let the wound lie open.
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt,
And let it sting.
Let a stray dog lick it.
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell,
And let it ring.

.. Michael Leunig

WINTER ROSE

Return to numbness.
Sleep silent cottoned in black
Without light or pain or petal.
It is the winter of your dreams;
be warm in earth that hides you
And hides the world from you.
Return to numbness
And cease the climb on broken limbs
Toward futile suns.
Do not feel the starkness of your bones
Nor barrenness of sap.
Ignorant of spring pollen,

rest under decay;
Purple sweetness a tale nestled in the buds of yesterday.
And perhaps, perhaps tomorrow.
Lying deaf to prophecy think on nothing~
Nothing.

Julia Zed 2010

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hate pruning my roses. I feel as though I'm being cruel, cutting off anything beautiful and leaving only bare thorny branches. They look so pitiful without their sprays of leaves and flowers. But it must be done; in fact I'm doing them a favour. After only a few weeks of ugliness, they begin to sprout all kinds of greenery, and before I know it there are already buds fattening and promising me hours of delight for my senses. I'm waiting for my favourite plant, the belle of them all, to sprout her first bud. She produces a deep burgundy blossom so fragrant that it makes me dizzy. I pruned her hardest of all.

When I think roses...this poem invariably pops into mind. I think it's depth, beauty and pathos are hard to match...


O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.


The Sick Rose is a poem by William Blake. The first publication was in 1794, when it was included in his collection titled Songs of Experience as the 39th plate. The incipit of the poem is O Rose thou art sick. Blake composed the page sometime after 1789, and presents it with the illuminated border and illustrations that were typical of his self publications. (From Wikipedia)

WORD SENSE?

I borrowed this from Douglas Hofstadter's column Metamagical Themas...made me smile.

I am the thought you are thinking.
I am the meaning of this sentence.
I am thinking about myself right now.
I am the set of neural firings taking place in your brain as you read the set of letters in this sentence and think about me.
This inert sentence is my body, but my soul is alive, dancing in the sparks of your brain.
You are under my control because I am chosing exactly what words you are made out of, and in what order.
No you are under my control because you will read until you have reached the end of me.

SHE IS BEAUTIFUL

Where is truth?
Does it hide shyly in lines of verse,
Or pose as laughter in fitful peeking?
Can it be found in us at all;
Uncertain emblems of decency we?
Is it wound tenderly in embroidered braids,
Seen by all but not understood?
Elusive beauty, veiled in the willow fronds of lies,
Still and deep, untested how will your depth be known?
If we seek you, will we find you,
Or just the shadow of your presence in the back of minds?
Mother of hope and daughter of love,
Leave traces for the seekers in secret places.
Linger on the lips of the ones who love your grace.

Julia Zed 2010