Vineyard Picnic

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/08/vineyard-picnic/

Can we just remember this is a beautiful world? For a moment? Tonight, we went to a Shakespeare production in a park, beautifully backdropped by the harvest vineyard, rolling hills of green and golden earth, and the ridges of chehalem mountain and bald peak at our backs. The oaks hovering over our heads were sparse, but offered the perfect shade for an evening show, and the clean country air: perfect – pluperfect, perhaps. Metaperfect, superperfect, extraperfect.

Just because man sinned does not mean God’s creation invariably became un-good. I witnessed a piece of its marvel today. And Shakespeare was an exquisite accent on the bountiful blessings of our landscape, showcasing the creativity of the creation itself. Who spins words as that, since?

It can feel wrong to revel in such things when, around the world, people endure, and are contemporaneously enduring, agony, pain, sickness, angst, suffering. As my best friend and his wife attend to her mother who, even now, lies on what may be her deathbed; as malnutrition drags children to their knees, and injustice psychologically scars thousands and is not punished, remedied, or healed; as people die at the whims of country leaders sitting in comfortable chairs – how can I be so insensitive and admire this world, sighing at its grace, form, color, and clever creativity? This world that has, too, inspired a million poems, countless plays, dances, celebrations, relationships, love, painting, music, sports, books, and a thousand thanksgivings – can I cherish so simple a thing as a sunset over a vineyard, tonight? Can I feel the Spirit moving over the hills, and smell the heady wines in the air and the sugar grapes at their vines, and can I wait on the Lord, and be still in the wooded grove, listening to the whispering world sing praise?

If not I, then who? And so I must, and though I remember (or try) all their pains, the glory is here, also. I am thankful for that. God is not gone, and never was. But sometimes, I’m hard of seeing, poor of hearing, and dumb of speech, and the country is the perfect remedy for this disease. Lord, oh let me just be at peace with this beautiful sky full of stars for a little while, and the poplars brushing with the breeze, and the orchards thick with the redolence of green, and the apples collecting on the sidewalks and thick in the branches, and the plums plump in the leaves, and the blackberries bulbous on the vines, and the comfort of friends forever close, and the patience of a picnic in the crook of the hill – I’m a lamb in the pasture, forever by still waters and thick grasses lead, and let me follow, please.

Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty

What is beautiful? You are. The most beautiful.

I read, once, about how in China for a long time (almost a thousand years), culture valued the smallness of feet as standard for beauty.  At a young age, the girl's feet were bound, and toes were frequently broken in an attempt at inhibiting growth. The whole process is quite gruesome, and wikipedia discusses it (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foot_binding) in miserable detail. All delicate attraction was tiny feet.
I have naturally small feet - not a benchmark of beauty in America - and I don't believe my beauty, or the beauty of anyone, is wholly reliant upon the the size of feet, the symmetry of face, stars in the eyes, in cheekbones high and prominent, chest, legs, or hairy heads. Of course I believe in a beauty of the heart, the spirit, the mind - or want to believe. Well, at the end of the day, at least you are beautiful.
I'm a perfectionist. I'm not perfect. What is beautiful? Sometimes I catch myself thinking beauty is everything in a bubble around me, exclusive.

no sound falls from the morning sky
no sound wrinkles the evening pool
~ Maya Angelou

There is so much that needs doing. Loving, living so tightly bound, around our hearts, ours and mine. A diffidence of difference, where's the line? The eager ember golden coin of sunlight burrows through these blinds, today's surprise, I suppose. Where are the grey skies? The writing weather, wherefore art thou, Raineo?
I'm trekking into the center of Oregon, tomorrow and this weekend. I've made posts nearly every day for a long while. It's strange to be missing some. Maybe I'll sneak some in.

rose petals falling
beneath an autumn red moon
will not adorn your unmarked graves
~ Maya Angelou

I'm full to bursting with life and everything. Struggling to learn things that I'm naturally lousy at, and suffuse them through my livelihood, and then pulling off the balance act of community that ever threatens to tip one way or the other. There's a gray pallor over the heart, a fractal of cumulus clouds with rains and sun-breaks. The ventricles central still hammer the same, the anvil forge beating a rhythm of being, crimson beneath skies of slate, and blue oceans of spent life-rivers, trudging the waterways. Full to bursting, my lungs say, but it's a contented burgeoning, a joy contained that ticks time behind a cage. Beat along, beat alone, beat a tone of silent survival beneath the dingy day. For twilight, well, may steal your breath away.

Three Thunderstorms, Rosh Hashanah, Home to Home

Last night, another thunderstorm crossed over the hills where my parents live, this one by far the most frighteningly awe-inspiring. There is that edge, I think, to beauty sometimes. The beauty of the canyon, staring down over the precipice; the beauty of the spider or the panther, elegant in their predation; and  in the volcano and depths of the ocean. The tension of safety and magnificence snatches our lungs and squeezes, and even in the thunderstorms, I felt a little of such. There was lightning like I've not seen since my childhood, too numerous for even calculating seconds between strikes, most of the time. One bolt struck not far uphill, less than a soccer field's distance away from my house, temporarily knocking out a street lamp. A fright possessed me, sitting with my nose to the screen and watching the cracks in the skyline. What if someone's house was struck? What if someone was hurt? I stayed up many hours, watching the lightning crackle and the thunder rumble, and listening to the rain tumbling down. I slept little and enjoyed myself immensely in the cradle of the valley, in the nook of the night.

Rosh Hashanah is the feast of trumpets and the Jewish new year. Rarely is a year's beginning so early in the Gregorian calendar. Unfortunately, I was in the wrong state to feast with friends, but I'll probably celebrate it in some capacity, regardless. (Matthew why you leave the country? Phil, why you at work?) I like the Jewish holy days. Especially the high holy days. Most people, often even Jews included, do not celebrate many of the Jewish holy days anymore (a land and temple thing, but also a parting from belief that the holy days are sacred). I'm not religiously Jewish, but I really appreciate the value in the appointments God prepared. Plus, they are always an occasion for a special celebration. A special appointment holy-day celebration ordained by God? Please and thank you.

And now, after a fantastic visit home, it is time to go home. With slightly more laden packs filled with new books, my heart is light and my drive looming. Goodbye beautiful forest backyard with its large maples and droopy pines, its jolly firs and wild blueberries, its garden and hills. I'll miss the nightly games, family dinners, and my charming closet of a room. Hasta luego, Redmond.

Blackberry Season

(Ignore the tea, even though the birthday mug is delightful. Also, ignore the waterbottle and the computer cords, and the "everything-that-is-not-a-bowl-of-blackberries")




One of my favorite times of summer is fruit season. Just outside my doors, ripe plums hang from darkly violet (plum-colored, if you will) trees; grapes dangle from vines laced around wires; pear and apple trees lining the streets and in the fields sag under the weight of their ripening loads; figs, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, each bush or tree laden with juicy antioxidants and vitamins (I mean fruit!) bundled in the sweetest of packages. And now blackberries.
Blackberries are my favorite. I think it is the competition with the brier requisite in retrieving the fruit. This morning, sunlight barely peaking over Rex Hill, I snatched the largest bowls I could find (optimistic), and wandered around town to find blackberry plants. First, I tried near the North Valley Friend's Church. Not much luck. The location I'd tried last year was mostly poisoned down (why, Newberg, why?) and after hopping my way between islands of thorny vines, I eventually find myself trapped in a prison of angry blackberries with berries tantalizingly out of grasp. And even the berries I found were dried out, or laced with angry spiders. I managed my escape with only a few handfuls of berries and some bloody ankles. Worth it. I ate most of these.
Next, I tried the river. The entire valley is fertile, but the river region is more so, for obvious reasons. These berries were by no means short on water. The best part was, a private, fenced off region with a barbed wire fence bordered some land, and the blackberries blithely climbed over the fence, allowing for a large quantity of freely given berries that did not require platemail and a broadsword to collect (which is good, because they don't make broadswords like they used to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwibf6t7Scc)

Ta-da, blackberries! I then made a cobbler, went to a wedding, and another. Now, of course, I'm ready to see A and S tomorrow, with gluten free dessert (the cobbler used magic not-flour flour).

Blackberry Poetry Section:
Sylvia Plath: (she always has a... dark side to her poetry. I appreciate it, but if I had been friends with her, I think I would have been worried. Still, it is about blackberries. You're welcome)
I cut off the last portion of the poem because Sylvia Plath got sidetracked from blackberries, and it just would not do. Next time, Plath, stay on the topic of delicious berries. Though, it is actually an interesting end to the poem. So I suggest you go read it anyway (I think here they have it: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178965)

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

Patterned Thoughts - Prying up Scattered Pieces of Poetry

Something in the lacklustre light, the chai tea seeping into my marrow, the morning lethargy of this coffee shop, transforms this dawning day into a poetry and "thoughts organization" day.

I was going to transform this one into a story, because it has a melancholy aspect that I suspect might make a tragic tale with, perhaps, a heartwarming (or devastating) end.

Rain pitter-pats down the roof
A faucet taps an equal tune
In a room where a carefully constrained fire coughed with the old man
Sitting in the rocking seat
Each dying of consumption.
Trophies mounted along log walls
Glazed eyes glaring down
Matching his now vacant stare
Remembering times both wild and strong, once unlike that old man
Staring there, past nowhere
Just sitting, listening now
Watching the dying fire.

---------------------------------------------------------

A floaty composition. Not so much a story as a dreamy compilation of words.



A dirge of footprints, en passant
Sorrow-filled, awash with want
Lamenting distant days and daydreams
Tie your hands tight to balloon strings
And sail away

Through stormy days and sunbreaks
Past sleet and rain and jet planes
Still racing on
Passing people holding hands, sharing smiles
Then waving, waving

Down below the city’s lights
Are fireflies
Mimicking the heavens
Dreaming stars in silken radiance
Floating on

Bursting bubbles, shifting sands
Falling falling
To fields of goldenrod and thistledown
Drifting round
Taxi
Beneath cherry blossoms and midnight moon
A dance, a song, a distant tune

(unedited, but finished)

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Yet the leaves drift with the wind

Iron bleeds in the soil here
A distant fear's great debts
Bought and paid in a crimson age
A soldier's high priced gift

Are they but men, our heroes dear?
Serving freedom you blithely wear
Iron seeps in the soil here
Yet the leaves drift with the wind

(unfinished - two incomplete stanzas)

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These last few days, my muse has been overactive in artistic contemplation. However, despite the absurd influx of ideas, everything has been stymied in a frenzy of life activity, disorganization, an over-enthused escalation of summer plans that has asphyxiated my attention to detail. Here are some things I wanted to write about: legos and the creative process; competition and its evolution; the great romance of the seas; Esther; and the Night Circus; Gambits and stories (Notebook, Ocean's Eleven, Fantastic Mr. Fox). I think there were a few more, even, but ideas often fall by the wayside. I'm certain I've captured at least a few in a journaling capacity.

I want to climb (see) mountains again, mountains, Gandalf

I'm not one for favorites, generally. What's my favorite color? All the greens of the trees and blues of the seas, the oranges, crimsons, violets of summer sunsets, the first daisies, trilliums and snowdrops come spring, the color of distant mountains, each season of sky from icy winter blue to gentian summer, coffee and spring-sky eyes, emeralds, amethyst and precious jewels, the color of twilight filled with countless stars and an archaic, fae moon.
What's my favorite number? Number of what?
Favorite time? 1224, 1248, 1111, 1234, 248, 1144, 1122, 1236, 1020. I don't know. What is a favorite time, anyway? My favorite time is time with people, time with everyone I love dearly.
Favorite pair of pants? Shirt? Shoes? I have 1 pair of shoes, a few pairs of pants, and as many shirts as P last gave me because he felt like I needed more clothing.

There are some things I do have favorites for, though, things over which my partiality gets the better of me. The one greatest example that's been stuck on my mind all day is mountains. I have a favorite mountain. It also is one of my favorite Sabbath locations, places of prayer, and a place I climb whenever possible. Matthew knows of it - he probably introduced us, Si and I. Oh, I so desperately want to visit, to scamper up its steep incline, racing towards the summit, and seeing everything stretched out below from Seattle, to the Olympics, to Mount Rainier, to the Cascades, and the entire valley in between, with the Snoqualmie river and each tiny town stretched along its course.

One of the beauties of this land is that I'm surrounded by mountains. Less than an hour drive probably brings me to the mountains on either side. So at least I don't suffer as Bilbo does. I'm already seeing mountains. Now I just want to reverently scale them.

Tolkein
The wind was on the withered heath,
But in the forest stirred no leaf:
There shadows lay be night or day,
And dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold,
And like a tide it roared and rolled.
The branches groaned, the forest moaned,
And leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East;
All movement in the forest ceased.
But shrill and harsh across the marsh,
Its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
The reeds were rattling—on it went.
O'er shaken pool under heavens cool,
Where racing clouds were torn and rent.



“Ah, Teneriffe!”
By Emily Dickinson

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages — pause for you —
Sunset — reviews her Sapphire Regiment –
Day — drops you her Red Adieu!

Still — Clad in your Mail of ices –
Thigh of Granite — and thew — of Steel –
Heedless — alike — of pomp — or parting

Ah, Teneriffe!
I’m kneeling — still –

Metaphor

One of my gravest weaknesses as a writer is my lack of metaphor. In one book I read, one of the characters says something to the effect of, "Finding the right metaphor is like... is like..." In context, he was discussing love, or women, or something equally gnostic, but occasionally I get stuck within a zone of metaphoric void. The sun washing over the hills towards sunset while the celestial bodies speckle into existence is like... is like... beautiful? You would have to see it. The ocean lapping against the beach beneath a sea of stars, a gentle breeze against your back as the sea cools and the sand still radiates warmth is like... is like...why weren't you just there? The majestic peak, a pristine white gleaming above the ringlet of clouds as I stare from it's mighty pinnacle, the valley stretched beneath is like... like... well? Edenic? It isn't like you were there, either. How can I explain something in a simple comparison that illustrates something primal, meta-natural. Frequently, these times are just images stamped onto my retina, a mere beach or mountain or valley. But just as frequently, they strike a spiritual chord, and transcend the physical realm. As I glance across these things, I see why God called them good on that first creative run. They are good.

And it isn't just any old sunset I see, showing hillsides in honey and sparking the trees awash in wildfire scarlet-orange. I'm not staring at mundane-beach under everyday-stars with wimpy waves lapping at a soggy shore. Standing atop this mountain, staring across the world stretched beneath my shoddy sambas, a valley indeed edenic, filled with snaking rivers, sand and soil and evergreens, the fall trees decidedly deciduous and marking a fiery swath across forests green. Tiny toy cars dot distant highways and distant structures are the stuff of ants, this is olympus, this is asgard, and huginn and muninn join me in this temperate paradise atop a solitary summit.

Does metaphor suffice? These are moments where the entirety of my experience is swept out from beneath me, and words are whispering hymns of praise to an almighty maker, not petty descriptions that litter the ocean floor, the valley crags, the depths of a cave in time of sunset. But then, these may be just excuses. Because metaphor is not my forte, and finding the right metaphor is like... is like...