Winter Raindrops

 

Winter Raindrops

Scattered leaves, verdant, and made of 
a camphor page,
Adorn the roof outside my window.
Glued in place with winter droplets of rain.

The pitter pat of the soft rain, not heavy,
Lest the leaves scuttle if by water fall
From clouds, swept away, no longer steady
Would their clinging be.

But a notion of refreshment accompanies
this gentle rain.
The air is quiet and still, holding the morning
In its embrace - giving the birds, one by one,
A spotlight to sing their refrain.

Daring to go against all popular opinion, I love the soft winter rains, and I won't change my mind about it. It is pure delight to me. Soothing and calming. Providing interest to the day - a little bit of unpredictability never hurt anyone. Perfectly suited for a cup of coffee/tea and some deep reading or writing. I sit my rain-loving self at my desk looking out the window trying to take in all the atmosphere I possibly can, which usually results in me writing a few words, which morphs into a poem of sorts.

Whether you love rain or love when rays of sunshine glimmer across your face, notice those moments that you are graced with and stop to enjoy them. Take a deep breath and let nature soothe you by it being itself, simply doing what it was created to do. Don't let anyone tell you that you are wrong about it. Our own inclinations and the way we were made might need a different kind of atmosphere to feel calm and at peace. Discover what that is for you, if you don't know already, and let yourself indulge in the enjoyment of the simplest of moments.

Curious About The Old Curiosity Shop

 

She sat down at the window where she had spent so many evenings - darker far than this - and every thought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place came vividly upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful associations in an instant. (The Old Curiosity Shop, pg. 102)

If you have read any Charles Dickens you know that he wrote about the time in which he lived, creating characters that portray the aspects of life that were frequent in England in the 19th century. You can see the grit and grim on the paths of London. It is not always the friendly place we envision now. There were dark corners where child labour was the norm and poverty was extreme. I can see how Dickens would have been criticized for sentimentality in this novel, but even so, it has been worth the time reading it.  

We meet little Nell, who is mostly referred to as "the child" throughout the novel, when she is living in the old curiosity shop with her grandfather. She is a happy child, sweet and innocently facing challenges of the darkness and corruption during the industrial revolution in England. Her grandfather is poor and we find that he spends his evenings out at the gambling tables, leaving Nell at home alone, as he squanders away their last coins with that ill-fated hope of winning big next time. Instead he loses it all, and eventually becomes largely indebted to the evil-spirited Quilp (referred to as the dwarf), who finds immense pleasure in torturing everyone around him. When grandfather cannot pay their debts, Quilp takes over the shop and brave Nell sees the evil that he is, and proposes to her grandfather that they take their chances out in the world, getting away from London.

Can you suppose there's any harm in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our poor circumstances will permit? (pg. 173)

So, they walk into the countryside, meeting other travelers and gypsies, making acquaintances, and dodging some dangerous situations. They are sometimes met with kindness, sometimes absurdity, and always Nell tries to look toward hope. When her grandfather falters again, getting into the greedy slippery slope of gambling away all their money and being tempted to steal money to continue that urge, Nell again takes charge and forces them to walk away, deeper into the country, deeper into the heart of the black smokes of the industrial revolution.

The characters are quirky, offering some comic relief, especially with the lawyers Mr. Brass and his sister Sally Brass. Richard's observations and the comments he makes about them made me chuckle. While Quilp makes me cringe every time he shows up on the page with his evil grin and dark motives, I love the descriptions of nature in its raw and beautiful form, as Dickens personifies it, offering comfort to Nell as they journey, and contrasting it to the grim and darkness of certain places. 

The moon rose in all her gentle glory...

The noble sun rose up, driving the mists in phantom shapes before it...

Overarching the story is this sense that there is a Divine one overlooking the good, but it doesn't stop her from suffering. It just offers her comfort and glimpses of the light and joy because she chooses to see it before her, even in the more dire of circumstances. 

The same spirit which has supported her on the previous night, upheld and sustained her now. Her grandfather lay sleeping safely at her side, and the crime to which his madness urged him, was not committed. That was her comfort. (pg. 329)

Eventually they are met with kindness and a place of rest and solitude at an ancient church, where Nell and her grandfather are given a duty and house to stay in; a purpose for her life that Nell had been seeking all along and could not find. She is completely fascinated by the church, in equal measure, the church and the graveyard.

Upon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively riveted. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated graves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from the moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could turn to nothing else. (pg.354)

Sometimes in this big, strange world full of darkness, if we are able to let ourselves be riveted by the good, the life-filling, the acknowledged grace that sets itself before us, our decisions will be easy because they are obvious as we view the contrasting options the world sets up. Not letting ourselves get mixed up in the middle ground of grey maybes and slanted morals leads to a simpler life. Reading these kinds of stories highlights that way of living, by choice, and acceptance of the grace we are given, the goodness we can look to dwell in, to whatever end.

Everything in our lives, whether of good or evil, affects us most by contrast. (pg. 401)

The Library

Libraries only last as long as people find them useful.

How do you use your public libraries? Do you find them useful?

What would our world be like if there were no libraries? What if they were only digital?

There are millions upon millions of books in the world held within libraries. Vast collections of ancient documents of parchment, leather, paper, and clay tablet (the beginnings of the written collection). And for us, re-prints and modern books in our local libraries. Looking back through our history as humans, this chunky book, The Library, A Fragile History, is a lovely book to add to my own library and is a study of the history of the library through time. It explores how and why a library was created throughout history. What was happening in history to encourage or deflect the efforts of a library. I am endlessly fascinated by the history of the library as it mingles with the history of humanity. They cannot be taken separately as they are linked always. It discusses the effect of wars, shifts in culture, resources available (parchment, paper), religious history, printing history (printing press), manual processes (hand made), publishing history, human influence (power). It is about so much more than just a simple library.

In our modern times, I think some of the questions that rise are: What would happen if libraries were taken away, and everything was digital? If you wanted a book, you would go online? Where would the community meet for study, research, classes, events, or mingling? Where would children go to browse and delight in the sense of discovery of a book they never knew they wanted to read?

As the world shifts in priorities and deepens the reliance on technology,  libraries are used less and less. Many have become more of a community centre than a library. Is this a good thing that it has shifted from its original intent?

This was a brief age (in the time of illuminated manuscripts) in which books were an expression of the highest form of visual art, and where the price of a book might match or even outstrip the value of other possessions of the home.

Do we value books today in the same way? Most of the illuminated manuscripts or precious old books are now held within university libraries or great museums, some are on display so the public can view them. But is there a norm in our culture today that deeply values books as if they were treasures, rather than toss away items (or something to be moved to digital, and is it okay that one company, name starts with a G, owns and can control those digital books?)?

I treasure my books, but I don't just collect to collect. I read all of them. I remember growing up I revisited the same books on the bookshelves constantly. The feel of the pages, the scent of the book, all of it was enchanting to me. And it still is. As my own book collection has grown over time, I confess I am much more of a personal library person. I want to own the book, underline passages, jot notes in the margins, reflect and re-visit the book later, re-read in a year, etc. I cannot do that in library books. So, I do not check out books too often. But I love to buy books from their books sales, and I love to sit in the library to read or write in the quiet atmosphere that is a great alternative to a coffee shop for focused time (and while I am there end up picking some books from the surrounding shelves to dip into while there, sometimes checking them out to bring home). A library should always be a safe place for exploration, study, and learning.

But what do we do as the culture demands for libraries is diminishing? There were predictions years ago that books and publishing would be dead by around this time and that the digital books would take over everything - that was proven wrong. People still want physical books, and I believe they always will. More bookshops are opening. One opened this last summer in my downtown. There is an experience you get with a physical book that you cannot ever get with a kindle or reading online. The books on my shelves will never run out of batteries. They will never be lost in cyberspace. They will never by owned by G and controlled for any reason. I can go pick a book off my shelf anytime. No internet connection needed. 

I love reading about the history of books and collections like libraries because it tells a bigger story and asks some bigger questions I think deserve some thought. As you study books, you study human history. We have much wisdom to gain from this. Books and libraries have spanned thousands of years and something tells me that it will continue for the next thousand years. I won't be part of that time, but I can do my part now in appreciating books and places of learning like libraries and museums preserving such treasures, and sharing that love.

Ah, Bitter Chill it Was!

 

St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

- from "The Eve of St. Agnes", John Keats

Reading these lines makes you feel cold, doesn't it? 

I love the image of the owl, for all his feathers, still a-cold. I can see him shivering as he sits perched on the tree limb dozens of feet above the ground, looking out across the landscape, perhaps catching a glimpse of the hare who is trembling through the frozen grass, trying to get to his warm burrow. The frosty, crunchy grass seems frozen in time as the evening advances.

Ah, John Keats, who so beautifully mingles the spiritual and the temporal in his poetry, I read again this poem that invites me to imagine a medieval landscape of trials and bitter chill, and an introduction of the mythical.  This is where my heart and soul can expand beyond the norm of the everyday, and into the relish of the imaginative story that is bigger and older than me. It has much to tell, even in a microcosmic manner. Two young souls from challenging opposing families risk their lives to run away on the bitter cold, mystical night of St. Agnes' Eve, where the legend presents an opportunity.

I have been soaking up these cold, wintry, grey days. Even though I might shiver and for all my blankets and sweaters feel a-cold, I live for these days as they are so rare in Florida, and feel like a special treat to me. I realize that my love of winter and the grey clouded days we have had recently go against the general consensus of enjoyment out there, so if you think I am mad, I know. Most people do. I accept that and challenge you to try to see it from another angle, just as I need to see the summer sun and heat from another angle in those long, arduous months. 

A few days ago there was frost on my car and on the grass lawns of all my neighbors. I could not help but smile. The snowy dew was magical to me. I wanted to take a walk and linger with the scenes before it melted away a short time later. When I see things like that, especially in nature, where the changeable stance is that of the unpredictable, I am swept into the imaginative world mingled with my own. The two worlds collide, which makes the magic that I see.