More Donne

A Hymne to Christ

In what torne ship soever I embarke,
That ship shall be my embleme of thy Arke;
What sea soever swallow mee, that flood
Shall be to mee an embleme of thy blood;
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face; yet through that maske I know those eyes,
Which, though they turne away sometimes,
They never will despise.

I sacrifice this Iland unto thee,
And all whom I lov'd there, and who lov'd mee;
When I have put our seas twixt them and mee,
Put thou thy sea betwixt my sinnes and thee.
As the trees sap doth seeke the root below
In winter, in my winter now I goe,
Where none but thee, th'Eternall root
Of true Love I may know.

Nor thou nor thy religion doest controule,
The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule,
But thou would'st have that love thy selfe: As thou
Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,
Thou lov'st not, till from loving more, thou free
My soule: who ever gives, takes libertie:
O, if thou car'st not whom I love
Alas, thou lov'st not mee.

Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,
On whom those fainter beames of love did fall;
Marry those loves, which in youth scattered bee
On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses)to thee.
Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:
To see God only, I goe out of sight:
And to scrape stormy dayes, I chuse
An Everlasting night.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I wander around aimlessly; bereft. I feel as if I belong to no one, that I belong nowhere. Life is just not what my child-self expected all those years ago. Where is the wonder and joy?

Then I remember...

This is not my home,
I do not belong;

and some day soon I will arrive at the door of Heaven, see Him whom my soul loves and I will be at Home forever.



And on a trivial note: the quality of one's life is sometimes temporarily improved by the addition of one pair of astonishing striped knee socks.

Heaven in a birdbath

Today Sarah and I planted a garden. You know that concrete bird bath in the little courtyard outside out door? Well, it has been problematic throughout the years. It grows nothing well- except moss. Last year it was lovely thanks to Aunt Robin. This year it fell to my lot to fill it up. First of all I grubbed it out completely and filled it up with some Miracle Grow stuff that had jolly well better be miraculous. It cost a enough.

Sarah and went to town this afternoon to pick out flowers. We weren't really sure what we wanted. Sarah was tired. I was crabby. We wandered around the outdoor part of Agway in Keene, pushing a poor excuse for a cart through the thick gravel aisles.

Sarah: (going past the herbs) Oh! We could fill it with herbs!
Katie: That's a good idea!

We walk past the herbs, not picking any up.

Katie: We need something tall in the middle, and something to hang over the edges, and then stuff in the middle. What about those pink flowers?
Sarah: Those are too tall.
Katie: no they aren't! (She picks one up)
Sarah: not the red ones.

We walk away. In fact, we abandon the cart and wander around and around in circles, alternately suggesting plants and rejecting the ones the other person had picked out.

Katie: maybe we should have some cool grass in the middle.
Sarah: No.
Katie: Oh, okay.
Sarah: People would wonder why we didn't weed our garden.

We finally had a collection of possibilities on our stupid cart. Sarah was sure they were all way too tall for our waist-height bird bath. I was sure they would be lovely. I won.

We practically carried the cart to the gazebo that served as a checkout. The lady in front of us was buying 13 rose bushes. The cashier was trying to ring them in without moving them off her cart. I was dubious that it was going to work; he didn't seem to be moving in a very orderly fashion. Sure enough- the end count was 15, so he started all over again; only this time she put them on the counter one by one. Sarah went to the car to wait.

I stood around with my feet on the ground. When the 13-rose lady finally left I checked out my odd collection of plants, minus the one that I rejected at the 11th hour because it cost 3 arms and two legs (as the saying goes). On the way to the car I became convinced that they were all too tall and that it was going to look horrible and stupid. Sarah would be right and I would be wrong- horror of horrors!

We planted them right away. And they looked beautiful. End of story. Only that I nearly cried they were so lovely- just like a piece of heaven.

Rachel Baglietto nee Adams

I just finished packing away Rachel's wedding dress. It is now folded up, but not squished, into a large blue Roughneck container between layers of acid-free tissue paper. It hung in the door frame of one of the bedrooms for ages after the wedding. Then it was sent to the cleaners to get the mud off the front hem. That was acquired walking down the steps from the church to the van and from the van to the Dining Hall.

Slowly the last bits of the wedding and shower are being cleared away. The big poster board titled "Rachel's Brains" was pulled off the fridge, the last of the party favors made by Mrs. Sandford have been properly disposed of (yum!), the calendar no longer displays a carefully choreographed layout of the month of January with marriage counseling sessions, airport runs, arrival times, etc.

Maybe now that the details and reminders are disappearing, I can actually start figuring out what just happened.

My sister, Rachel, remember her? just got married. If you didn't happen to notice. Weird. And yet, so right.

But how did it happen? And will it really ever sink in? An Adams girl? Married? I guess we can ditch that idea of all being old maids together like the Bronte sisters.

Actually, that wasn't such a good idea anyway. I just read a quick bio of them- apparently there were 6 kids total- 5 girls and one boy. Eldest two girls died early, the mom died of cancer. Then the four remaining kids and their dad hung out together trying to piece together a living tutoring, pastoring, writing. Then three of the kids died inside two years. First the boy died of alcohol and opium abuse, then two girls of tuberculosis. They were all right around 30 years old. Charlotte, the one who wrote Jane Eyre, lived a while longer and even got married. But she died while pregnant with her first child. She was 38.

So... yay for Rachel getting married! Now we aren't doomed to writing novels full of angst or dying early of sickness or substance abuse. Thanks, dear!

Hello, hello? Anybody still here?

The sound of my small voice is swallowed up by the darkness in the room. I open the door a little wider and hesitantly put in my head. When was the last I was here anyway? I flick on the light and blink in surprise. It really has been a long time! Everything is covered in dust. I see the footprints of friends who have come and gone and not found me at home.

Oh well! A good dusting, a little beating of the rugs, maybe make a pot of tea for myself and a pot of coffee for everybody else. Put out the welcome mat, turn on the music, pull up the shades... maybe they will come back.