silent sunday
damp, dark and dreary
What a strange month August has been so far. After July ended with the distinction of being the hottest month ever recorded in North Carolina history, in stark contrast, the first 17 days of August never reached the average high temperature of 90. But the dew point has remained very high, giving me a new appreciation for the term warm and muggy. We’ve had a lot of rain and every day feels damp, dark and dreary.
On August 6 we spent two and a half hours seeing a pulmonologist and received an alarming diagnosis for Tim, interstitial lung disease. This finally explains his increasing shortness of breath and the cough, in spite of having all his heart disease issues addressed. We’re still trying to come to terms with all this new information and future uncertainties. It didn’t help having the washing machine and the air conditioning break down in the middle of things.
I’m more and more impatient for some better weather in the autumn so we can get outside again. In the meantime, as far as blogging goes, I distract myself with searching for and then pairing quotes and paintings, and have scheduled quite a few of them to be published many months from now. I’m making good progress with my resistance training, treadmill walking, and tai chi, but it’s not the same as walking among the trees. Work on my family history boxes has stalled.
Returning home from the laundromat early one morning I discovered these ghostly white things sticking up out of the moss in our front yard. My first thought was ghost plants but these are much smaller and don’t have a flower on top. I learned they are a fungus called clavaria. There may be 1200 species in the genus and I don’t know which species these are. They do seem to love my very damp moss garden, though.
bouquet de tournesols
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire,
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
~ William Blake
(Songs of Experience)
bonnets touch the firmament
In lands I never saw — they say
Immortal Alps look down —
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament —
Whose sandals touch the town;
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A myriad Daisy play —
Which, Sir, are you, and which am I —
Opon an August day?
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #108)
wordless wednesday
god of sun and light
Lugh, the Celtic god of Sun and Light, celebrates the sun’s annual path across the sky. Each of the year’s solar events — solstices and equinoxes and the midpoints between these — marks the passing of the seasons on Earth. I have written the name of each solar holiday in Runes around the sun’s face and marked him with Celtic knots that represent this unending cycle.
~ Helen Seebold
(36th Annual Sculpture in the Garden)
making progress
off-season on a Dennis, Cape Cod beach, 1967
On Monday I finished boxes #9 and #10 of the 14 family history boxes I’m going through. #9 had taken about a month, but #10 only took an afternoon, being mostly books which were either shelved or dispatched. Above and below are two of the photo treasures I found. So many fond memories taking our Shetland Sheepdog, Skipper, to the Cape to visit my grandparents! Too few pictures!
I was able to identify my Ukrainian immigrant grandparents (William & Katherine) in the picture below, standing on either side of the porch steps. This was the funeral for their son, Jon, who came to America with his mother when he was only 5 months old. He died at age 9 of appendicitis. The little girls in front of the coffin are my aunt Lil, who was 4, and my aunt Jean, who was 6. Auntie Lil lived to be 101 years old when she died, and she often remembered her beloved big brother, who would share whatever candy he had with her. (My father was born 3 years after Jon died.) I have no idea who the other people are in the photo, but my guess is that they are members of the church they attended.
younger sisters Lillian Elizabeth and Augusta Jean standing in front of coffin
parents William & Katherine standing on either side of steps,
behind the older unidentified girls, March 1919
A picture of Jon was posted here: Augusta Jean & John Stephen.
ancient and contemporary art
Friday we took Kat and her friend with us to the Ackland Art Museum in Chapel Hill and saw the special Radical Clay: Contemporary Women Artists from Japan exhibit. We made good use of Tim’s new disability parking tag — a game changer. Once inside I quickly realized I forgot to leave my handbag in the car and was relieved when Kat offered to carry it for me.
enameled and glazed porcelain
In Her Shoes, 2007
“This comically large foot, complete with long, painted toenails and a banana shaped heel, alludes to the fetishization of dainty feet.”
It was interesting seeing what interested the girls — they lingered and had lengthy discussions at a lot of the sculptures but zipped past all the paintings. It was nice listening to Tim asking them the kinds of teaching questions he’s so good at with kids. When he got tired there was a couch in the lobby where he rested.
I was distracted by the history of the museum itself, founded through the bequest of William Hayes Ackland, a Tennessee native. On the museum’s website, the Biography of William Hayes Ackland notes:
“The Ackland is in the process of reckoning with its history and rethinking how we tell the story of William Hayes Ackland. Stay tuned for changes to these pages.”
Ackland’s body lies in a stone coffin in a little room off of the museum’s lobby. The exhibit label traces where his inherited money came from. He not only wanted the people of his native south to know and love the fine arts, but it seems to me he also wanted to make sure they remembered him!
I can’t help wondering if the enlightening exhibit label will be changed if the current administration finds it out of alignment with its agenda. It will be nice when autumn comes and this cursed heat and humidity disappear. Getting back outside and enjoying the natural world; escaping from the reminders of tyranny that seem to be around every corner.
les marguerites
If it had no pencil,
Would it try mine —
Worn — now — and dull — sweet,
Writing much to thee.
If it had no word —
Would it make the Daisy,
Most as big as I was —
When it plucked me?
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #184)