The scarlet petals were floppy as old hats by March, and falling into piles on the rug, so I cut its plastic pot to free its roots and laid it by the compost in the mud. Busy that spring, I never noticed how it waited out the months, night after night in wind, in grueling rain and a late snow, inclining from the compost into light, its new leaves firming, shining, thick, like a novitiate of a strange order, as days warm, growing fierce and quick, blessing the lost plants I’ve lodged there. It rang like church bells, red, on the hour. Now let me learn to love what cannot flower.
The shavings curled from my plane the afternoon she stood a shadow in the door and spoke the single syllable. I thought, So soon, but deep in me a harmony awoke, a rhythm lost in the hammer song I made furnishing the world chair by chair, bed by bed. Her single word was Go. My debt was paid. Joseph’s memory would be satisfied: My craft would find its end in speech—the Word voiced as once when spoken it divided light from dark and all Creation bloomed. I heard my father in her voice. Both sadness and delight indwelt the shop, as if the two were one as they may be when the work of wood is done.
Rickie Lee Jones broke into the music business in 1979 with the jazz-pop novelty hit “Chuck E’s in Love,” and she has been a maddening enigma ever since. At best she’s inconsistent, at worst she’s the embodiment of the tortured artist: all tantrum and attitude with little worthy fruit to show.
in a pink shirt the reporter speaks his voice ripe with excitement while behind him the Wave crashes over and over the same bodies flung like broken sticks which in an instant they have become bundled into body bags bulging on the shredded sand though when we return we’ll hear from one survivor in a wheelchair whom we glimpse smiling as the scene shifts to a woman waltzing across her kitchen dazzles as she holds high a ziplock bag not large enough for bodies no but fruit she says stays fresh for days.
First, use four similes to describe the lake: Grinnell Lake is like . . . a threshold . . . a turquoise . . . wings arching open . . . a nest.
+++ At the end of the boardwalk over red-rock streams, beyond the suspension bridge, the waterfall, the long hike, my feet on fire empty into the lake: home. Icy aqua iridescence, perfection of mountains, these trees.
Now use four metaphors: the lake is . . . reality . . . exquisite balance . . . a window . . . a cup filled with sky.
+++ In the lobby of the grand hotel miles below hang beautifully framed old photos. Grinnell Glacier, a wisp above us now, was enormous a century ago, its lake many times smaller.
How can we protect the earth but by drawing close, by falling in love? The lake is the glacier melting too fast. The lake is the waters from Jesus’ pierced side. The lake is the face of the love that saves us. How can we love the earth but by falling . . . in?
A copy of the Bay Psalm Book, the first book published in America, will be auctioned off by Sotheby’s and is expected to bring between $15 and $30 million, making it the most expensive book ever sold. One of two copies owned by Old South Church in Boston, it is one of only 11 remaining copies published. The proceeds will be used to help replenish Old South’s endowment once $7 million of it is used for deferred maintenance. The church historian resigned over the congregation’s decision to sell one of its treasures, but the rest of the congregation overwhelmingly supported the decision (New York Times, November 15).