New Traditions

Dr. George Grant often stresses the importance of celebrating the traditions of the past and melding them with local customs to form new rituals.

This past Friday midnight, Mary Gray, Fa-so-la-la, Shieldmaiden, Faintly Macabre, Muggles and I laid the dining table with a plaid tablecloth and spread Texas Low-tea. The china was varied: a cup and saucer that are part of Betsy Trotwood and The Irish Question's finest wedding dishes, a few of their second best wedding china saucers, Polish pottery cups, and one large tea mug. A Polish teapot held the Earl Gray, though Muggles had her own cup of Sleepytime tea. To tempt our sweet teeth, we also served chocolate fajitas. The tortillas were slightly crisp, very warm, and extremely buttery; they provided the perfect contrast to the half-melted milk chocolate chips in between tortillas. Thus we blended English High-tea with our late-night randomness, combined the Hispanic culture in Texas with the universal love of chocolate, and stirred to create our own diverse, unique tradition.

Ex Libris by Ross King

This is a book about books, a bookdealer, with a cup of mystery, a dash of intrigue, and one very important book. Labyrinths mundi, the Labyrinth of the World, with the ex libris of its former owner, Sir Ambrose Marchemont, in the front, is lost. Lady Marchemont, Sir Ambrose's widow, the aged proprietor of Nonsuch Books called Isaac Inchbold, and the girl from the past, Emilia, wander through a maze of a larger, unexposed story that they do not recognize.

They "stumble in ignorance along its dark arteries, stumbling through blind passages and secret chambers in which, even years later, they still find themselves searching in vain for a clue."

"...her head bent over the volumes, blowing dust from the bindings or tracing her fingertips across their surfaces like someone exploring the curves of a loved ones face. Once she had even raised one of the books to her lips and, closing her eyes, sniffed at it as one would at a rose."

"It is easier to find a labyrinth...than a guiding path. Yet every labyrinth is a circle that begins where it ends,... and ends where it begins."

Transformation

The silver needle shone, light shining through the opening at the top, glittering around the smooth roundness that tapered down to the end, glancing with sharp brilliance off the sharp point. A black thread slips through the hole, and white fingers slide down its length, smoothing it down. The thread is wound around one of the fingers, then rolled off with two more, and pulled into a knot. The needle and thread are covered by a shadow, then pulled though into the light again, until the knot is tight against the white of the cloth. The thread and needle are pulled in and out, under and up, catching a few threads. A knot forms, and the tip of the needle, guided by the fingers, tease questioningly at the tangle, and then with a few pulls, straighten the thread again. The blackness of the thread renews the grey lines of memory, turning an old shirt into a thing of beauty.

November Geese-Myrddin Emrys

Silently I ponder and pray
seeking counsel from my Lord
of all that has passed through my lonely day
I listen for his Word.

My words are whispers in the dark
utterings of a hungry soul.
I perform my own silent vespers
in the abbey of God's skybowl.

I lean my ear towards his counsel
hoping for a reply
My tears drop silently to the ground
and I hear a clatter breaking the skies

Lairds o' the lakes, you sail in from your heights
with your happy laughter
In the chilly night, you learn to laugh
And charge us to follow after.

The Wonder of Words

I love words. I love the feel, the sound, and the taste of words. Sometimes I am hungry for words to the extent that hours fly by as I pursue the good ones. (I am sure you have experienced this.)

blackgard-this word is meaty, with a wealth of righteous disdain, but it cannot be thrown away on the lowest of the low. The one on whom this word is bestowed must deserve it. For instance, it cannot be lavished on a greasy dog who eats all of ones Christmas fudge. That is too low to earn this word.

mist-this word is just like what it describes. It clings to your tongue, lending an air of beauteous mystery to your voice.

silver-Oh, how this word rings! As it passes your lips, the sound is like the light clancing off a narrow bracelet, sparkling first here, then dancing there.

fleece-This is a word of warmth. When I hear this word, I picture bare feet sliding out of bed, cold toes sinking into the warmth of the wool.

gables- Anne of Green, of course. But gables are so homey. I think of eager girls preparing for a picnic, a bride and her attendents in a flurry of preparation, boys planning wars against the across-the-way enemy, parents in slow meditation of the day.

scheme-the very sound of it is full of potential dangers, possible betrayal, and certain injury.

sleigh-Can't you hear the bells? Little gold and silver bells, ringing lightly with the wind that tugs at their tiny clappers. You can hear the gentle swish of the runners underneath you, cutting easily across the snow, and feel the piping hotness of the warmed bricks below your feet.

crimson-I see a dark Victorian drawing room, oriental rugs on the floor, beaded cushions on the horsehair couch, a cold fireplace, and heavy curtains. And then I see the blanket, red threads and scarlet threads and threads the color of an Amish barn woven together in a scarlet coverlet.

What words do you love? How do they sound, taste, and feel to you?

The Song of His Creation

(This is a short piece I wrote, with the theme of singing, but I have a problem with it. I feel like Lucy when she tried to wake the trees and she couldn't tell whether she had said to much, or too little. I feel like something is missing. Please tell me if I'm just obsessed, or if there is something it needs.)


She stood there, feeling under her the blades of grass dry, shriveled, but limp from the closeness of the air, their voices stale and flat. The brown tables scattered between the trees shimmered in the heat, buzzing deeply. The lords of this place, the trees, stood stiff and unbending, refusing to sing a note. Stubbornly, she continued standing, still and unyielding. “I’m not leaving, not moving, until you come. I claim your promise.” Though she spoke firmly, inside she shrank away from the harshness, the lack of music in her words. She put her back to one of the trees. With her arms by her side, she spread her fingers over the bole of the trunk, trying to draw support from the mute wood. This time she called with her mind. “I said I’m not leaving.” Then feeling her resolve fall apart, she softened her words, letting a slow melody creep into her thoughts, drawing herself hard against the tree. “You said you would come. Please, you said you would come.” A wisp of wind darted across her chin. A stronger breeze wrapped around her throat as in a caress. Then the wind came, sweeping away the heat. Blades of grass stood, full and green. Trees danced and bowed to impossibly far-off melody. Ripples of air teased at her hair. The wind pulled gently at her dress. She stepped forward into the wind, then felt his arms around her. Warm, strong, unyielding, he held her as she fell in sudden joy, and the warmth of his hands was a song. Her heart soared with glorious music. “How could I have ever doubted my Savior.” Trees sang in rich, full tones, grass trilled in harmony, rough trees hummed low and strong; she and her Savior sang the melody, their voices blending and twisting together effortlessly, first soaring high and strong as they sang together of His creation, then gentle and soft as they sang of His sacrifice for her redemption, then loud and clear in an eternal song of His love for her, and His everlasting glory.