Wednesday, November 24, 2004

From A Woman’s Journey to the Heart of God by Cynthia Heald

“I received a beautiful testimony from a precious young woman who suffered the death of her young son through sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS). Here is n excerpt from her letter:

I never did get really angry with God, for God held up his end of the bargain. He blessed us with a loving son to rise in HIS will. I just was not prepared for what his will was to bring on how much this trial would hurt. So I started prying daily, and daily I would walk and pray, pray and walk. One day I was exceptionally hurt that someone who had been through the loss of a child through SIDS was not calling me. I was telling God how much it hurt and I needed to talk to someone who has been through this. He ever so gently said, “Then come to me for I lost my son also.” I had never had such a prayerful experience in my life and was so awestruck I had to sit down. God answered me like he was standing right there. And that’s when it finally hit me, God is here, he is walking with me, but most importantly he is LIVE.

This is the heart of the Father: “In all their suffering he also suffered, and he personally rescued them. In his love and mercy he redeemed them. He lifted them up and carried them through all the years.” (Is. 63:9 NLT).

Never a trial that He is not there,
Never a burden that He doth not bare,
Never a sorrow that He doth not share,
Moment by moment, I’m under His care.”
Check it out, a Rubik's cube online;

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

"173. Between the roof and the shed and the big plant that hangs over the fence from the house next door I could see the constellation Orion.
People say that Orion is called Orion because Orion was a hunter and the constellation looks like a hunter with a club and a bow and arrow, like this;
But this is really silly because it is just stars, and you could join up the dots in any way you wanted, and you could make it look like a lady with an umbrella who is waving, or the coffeemaker Mrs. Shears has, which is from Italy, with a handle and steam coming out, or like a dinosaur
And there aren't any lines in space, so you could join bits of Orion to bits of Lepus or Taurus or Gemini and say that they were a constellation called the Bunch of Grapes or Jesus or the Bicycle (except that they don't have bicyles in Roman and Greek times, which was when they called Orion Orion).
And anyway, Orion is not a hunter or a coffeemaker or a dinosaur. It is just Betelgeuse and Bellatrix and Alnilam and Rigel and 17 other stars I don't know the names of. And they are nuclear explosions billions of miles away.
And that is the truth."

An exerpt from my most immediate source of reading. It is an excellent book and I highly recommend it! It's called 'the curious incident of the dog in the night-time' by Mark Haddon. It is about a boy with Asperger's Syndrome who wakes up one morning to find the neighbours' dog is dead and decides to investigate into it's murder. The way the book is written is from the boy's perspective and it is absolutely wonderful and clever and heart-wrenching.

Monday, November 08, 2004

You came from the sky. Your a daydreamer and prefer
to have a good look on situations.

Where did you come from?
brought to you by Quizilla

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Hmmm, well I am torn,
As Danielle knows! Because she told me that today there is a chance of flurries!!! Should I be wary of going outside then? And should i hole up with a book and a coffee and a warm blanket and wait it out? Or should I put on my mittens and go outside and enjoy as the first snowflakes flutter down and perhaps do a little prewinter jig around my yard (I have got my flu shot just in the nic of time!)?
Hmmmm, that's a toughy! I suppose I only have one chance at seeing the first snowfall this year, while I always curl up with a book and coffee... but it is still hard to decide...

I love finishing books, don't you? When you can sit down and devour the last half of a novel, feeling it slowly get thinner in your right hand as you near the finish. And afterwards, thinking about what you read and what the really good parts of it were :) And being able to say that you read it and you then can move onto another one! :) I finished 2 of my 10 books this week and I am working on 2 more :) Soon enough I will be able to just read one book at a time... lol

Ok, I am REALLY liking Jeff Buckley, so go and search for some of his music and try it out for yourself :) I especially like this song by him; (It makes me meee ll t t t, there is just some really achy, soulful singing along with these lyrics!).

Lilac Wine
Jeff Buckley

I lost myself on a cold damp night
I gave myself in that mysty light
was hypnotized by a strange delight
under the lilac tree

I made wine from the lilac tree
put my heart in it's recipe
makes me see what i want to see
and be what i want to be

when i think more than i want to think!
I do things i never should do....
i drink much more than i oughtta drink!
because it brings me back you....

Lilac Wine
is sweet and heady
like my love
Lilac wine...
I feel
like my love....

Listen to me
I cannot see clearly
Isn't that she
coming to me
nearly you....

Lilac wine
is sweet and heady
where's my love?...
Lilac wine...
I feel
Where's my love?....

Listen to me!
Why's everything so hazy?
Isn't that she,
Or have i just gone crazy.. now....

Lilac wine
I feel I'm ready
For what love.. feel...
I'm ready..

For my love

Saturday, November 06, 2004

This was my amusement as I waited in the doc's office for my flu shot the other day, an exceprt from one of the books I'm reading, one of the more interesting parts of this book;

One afternoon, sometimes during the previous winter of 1918, I had returned from class to find a note from Rockwell pinned on my door. “Be at Sloan’s Bar, 5P.M.,” it read. “There’s someone from upstate I want you to meet.”
I opened the door, tossed my portfolio inside, and clattered back down the narrow stairwell that led to the street. It was already five. Rockwell’s energy made him seem a restless man with a tensile attention span. He might not still be there.
But he was, and in the company of an older man, wonderfully disheveled; a man who gave the impression that, although sitting reasonably still, he was nevertheless being buffeted by invisible forces. He was sweating profusely and kept mopping his wet brow with a large, stained pink handkerchief.
“Austin,” said Rockwell, “meet Abbott Theyer. He hates this bar.”
Rockwell has called the establishment Sloan’s Bar ever since the painter John Sloan has made a picture of the place. It was, in actuality, names McSorely’s Ale House, as was the work of art.
“I do not hate this ale house,” said Thayer. “I hate no place on earth. But it is far too warm and there are no angels here.”
I looked at Rockwell. He was listening attentively to what the older man had to say. “You hate Sloan’s painting,” he said to him.
“The painter has depicted only that which is here, not what might be here, not what should be here. Why, why,” demanded Thayer, “why would he want to do that?”
“He has painted the dignity of the common man, Abbott.” Rockwell motioned in the direction of one of the bartenders. “Look at him, Abbott. There he stands in his long white apron. He probably is an angel, and if not now, he will probably become an angel.”
“There are no animals here either,” said Thayer, ignoring altogether Rockwell’s fantasies about the bartender. “there aren’t even any concealed animals here.”
“Thayer here,” explained Rockwell, “has written a most scholarly volume entitled Concealing Coloration in the Animal Kingdom. Tell Austin about the blue jay, Abbott.”
“I don’t want to talk about the blue jay,” said Thayer. He looked around the room suspiciously. “The enemy might be listening. One can never be too careful.” He rose to his feet, approaching the potential angel, and ordering another glass of water.
“Thayer is in town,” Rockwell told me, “because he is trying to encourage various and sundry worthies to take his theories to the War Department. He’s has a hell of an ongoing row with Teddy Roosevelt about birds, concealing colouration and all that.
“Teddy Roosevelt?” I chocked my beer. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. They’ve been battling it out for over a year.” Thayer returned to the table and slumped dejectedly in his chair. “How many letters has Roosevelt written to you, about the blue jay?” Rockwell asked him.
Thayer drew his chair closer to mine and whispered, “The blue jay is invisible in snow. He is coloured blue and white precisely so that he will blend with the snow. I have made a painting entitled Blue Jay in Snow in which the bird is entirely invisible, can’t see him at all” He loosened the dirty, faded cravat at his throat. “T. Roosevelt refuses to accept my incontestable proof of this, to the great peril of the war effort. What was the point of us entering this godforsaken was if concealing colouration is not used to our advantage?” He thumped his forehead with his handkerchief, attempting to capture various beads of sweat.
“I helped this man do a painting once of a snake moving through leaves,” said Rockwell. “And when we were finished, the snake has completely disappeared from the canvas.”
“Why did the Titanic meet with disaster?” Thayer demanded of me, as if I were a schoolboy and he the master.
“because it hit an iceberg”
“and what colour was the iceberg?”
“well, there you have it.”
“Thayer says, “Rockwell clarified, “That a white object floating on a dark sea at night is invisible. And since Roosevelt himself has had white ships under his command, Thayer believed he might have been a kindred spirit.”
“What does this have to do with the blue jay?” I asked with as much gravity as I could muster.
“Nothing,” said Rockwell.
“Everything!” thundered Thayer, the possible presence of the enemy evidently forgotten. “The blue jay is blue and white in order to make itself invisible in shadowed snow, whether Mr. T Roosevelt believes it or not! That means that anything may appear to disappear!” He had attracted considerable attention in the bar. He pulled out his handkerchief again and mopped his brow. “Forgive me,” he said to a dozen or so curious faces turned in his direction. “I have a nervous disposition.”
“Henri always says that brilliancy is moving towards colour, not towards white,” I told Thayer, who immediately became even more agitated.
“You should have a beer, “Said Rockwell.
“I have never touched alcohol.”
“I’ll bet there is beer in heaven,” said Rockwell. “I’ll bet the angels drink beer. I’ve never seen even a hint of nervous disposition in your angels, Abbott.” He turned to me. “Thayer paints angels as well,” he said.
“In 1912,” Thayer said to me, once again ignoring Rockwell’s remarks, “well before the outbreak of the war, I invited Mr. T. Roosevelt to witness the disappearance of the blue jay in the shadowed snow of Central Park. Three or four of the birds has concealed themselves beautifully there in full view of the fifty witnesses who has accompanied me to the spot the week before. The blue feathers are for shadows, and the white feathers are, of course, for snow. The smaller, darker markings are there precisely so that you will confuse them with twigs – the markings, of course, not the jay – though there are birds that look exactly like twigs all over and that conceal themselves in dead bushes and the like. Do you know what he wrote to me?”
I did not.
“He wrote to me that my experiments with the blue jay and snow have as little relation to real life as would such experiments with ‘a blue-rump baboon by the Mediterranean.’ The audacity! The pomposity! Oh, I am certain he has spoken to the War Department and that is why they ignore my theories of concealing colouration! Why, why are we in this war?”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Rockwell.
“It had only been three years since Rockwell, his wife and children, had been turfed out of the British colony of Newfoundland. Rockwell could never understand why his singing of German lieder from a cliff edge at dawn, and at the top of his lungs, should have so upset the authorities. He offered lessons in music appreciation, and when those were refused, he painted a large, fierce German eagle on the outside door of the little building he used as a studio, partly as revenge and partly as a sign of respect for the Northern Europeans whose culture he so loved. This was the final straw. He was given notice to leave immediately, though permitted to delay his departure by two weeks when he explained that his children had the measles. He has loved Newfoundland. This war meant that he couldn’t be himself and remain there. He was disgusted when America entered the fray.
“I’ll tell you why we are in this war,” Rockwell was saying now. “We are in this war so that fat capitalists, like the father of Austin here, so that fat capitalists can get fatter.”
“Your father is a capitalist, sir?” Thayer looked at me for the first time with genuine interest.
I felt my face grow red, but said nothing.
Rockwell assured him that such was the case. “One of the worst,” he said. “Exploits miners, ruins pristine northern landscapes, slaughters virgin forests.”
Thayer smiled at me. “I have never,” he said, “approved of Kent’s socialist politics.”
“I’ll say!” said Rockwell. “He threw me right out of his house! Never let me back in the door! Now he only sees me in New York.”
“A terrible influence on the children,” Thayer confided. “Couldn’t have him spouting all that nonsense in front of the children, and other winged beings.”
“Look at that bartender,” Rockwell said. “Look at the small dark wings of his bow tie. In his own simple dignity, his ministrations to the tired, decent, honest working man who visit his establishment, is he not also an angel?”
“Thayer snorted, glared at Rockwell, and once again turned to me with a smile. “I paint winged beings,” he said. “The larger ones are angels, the middle-sized ones are portraits of my children, who are angels but whose wings are cleverly disguised by concealing colouration, and the smaller ones are of birds… some concealed, and some, though it grieves me to say it, hopelessly exposed. Might your father be interested in any of these?”
“I’m afraid he is no collector,” I replied.
“Might he then,” Thayer persisted, “know anyone at the War Department? Would my theories of concealing colouration interest your father, do you think?”
“No, they wouldn’t,” Rockwell interjected. “Capitalists have no imagination, Abbott.”
“Neither do dogmatists,” retaliated Thayer. “There is nothing winged about them. Dogmatists never hang large, expensive angels in their homes. They will not admit that a zebra’s striped were made by God to conceal the beat in long, thin weeds.”
“Hold it,” said Rockwell. “I helped you paint that invisible snake, remember?”
“That is true, Kent,” said Thayer. “I really wasn’t referring to you …yet. And, as you may gather, I am unwell. I am torn to pieces,” he lamented. “I am tied in knots. Why, why am I in this overheated bar? Why, why am I in this city?” He rose to his feet. “I must conceal myself in the country in the company of my winged creatures.” He places his bowler hat upon his head. “Goodbye gentlemen.”
“I love you, Abbott,” said Rockwell, leaping from his chair and embracing the older man.
“I love you too, Kent,” said Thayer, “but you are never again to visit my home.”
“I suppose it must be so,” said Rockwell.
“yes it must,” agreed Thayer. And then, after shaking my hand, he left McSorely’s Ale House, and not too many hours late I assume he left the city of New York.

“well aren’t you a fortunate on,” said Rockwell after the door had closed behind Abbott Thayer.
“How so?” I asked. I handed Rockwell a cigarette, lit one myself, then passed the lighter to my friend.
“God, I really do love that man. He introduced me to the Nordic sagas and God knows I love the north. But it was one of the happiest days of my life when I was banished from Thayer’s house. To be a bonafide member of the Thayer school, you realize, it is mandatory to visit his house… often. Now I am a man who loves the snow, and cold. Can you think of anyone who loves it more?”
I could not.
“Well, I can,” continues Rockwell. “Thayer loves it even more than me. Aren’t you the lucky one that he didn’t invite you.”
I wasn’t so sure of this, I had been drawn to the eccentricities of the man. “What’s the problem with the house?” I asked.
“The problem is, it is completely unheated. Thayer doesn’t believe in any form of artificial heat. Thinks it’s unhealthy.”
Rockwell laughed. “I was there once in winter and almost died of pneumonia! Each morning when I woke, my chin was frozen to the blanket, my shoes frozen to the floor. The family sleeps outdoors year-round under makeshift lean-tos. Guests are permitted to bed down indoors. Not that it makes much difference; all the windows are left open. For ventilation! Thayer says that if the men and women of the sagas could live without artificial heat, and Thayer believes that all of his children are angels; though few of them are children anymore.”
Rockwell described his first indoor blizzard. He had been sitting in the wooden armchair – Thayer did not approve of upholstery – talking with the man, when a sudden hard wind from the east had brought driving snow and sleet directly into the room. “Feel it!” Thayer has enthused. “Experience it! Thoreau should have known such indoor weather. He should be here with us.” They has been discussing Walden at the time.
Rockwell walked up to the bar and ordered another beer.
“so, I suppose he is insane,” I said to him when he returned.
He looked at me with astonishment. “Insane? Absolutely not. He is himself … relentlessly himself. Not a man to change either his art or his character as a result of, for example, a show of contemporary European cubism.”
His reference to the Armory Show, which has taken place the year before I came to New York, was not lost on me. I myself, influenced by those who had been influenced by it, had attempted one or two cubist nudes.

-The Underpainter, Jane Urquhart

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Hi all! I'm generally back again! ;)
Well, my party month is over.
And, yes I was right, I did fall in love with Quebec (I am so glad the french love cheese, because I love it too! And I'm so glad they love wine with their cheese too...), and in love with Rachel and her fiance (they are truly a couple brought together by the hand of God and so adorable too, Congratulations to the happy couple and to God be the glory!), and in love with my Love who came to visit me :) So much to love, so little time ;)
Here I sit taking a break from one of the four books I have recently taken out of my church library. I am now officially reading 8 books at the moment….
Which I don’t usually do.
I am listening to Jeff Buckley, and drinking a glass of really nice wine, it’s a very sweet white wine, Dutch I think and simply lovely (just like some people I know ;) ).
I just changed my calendar to November, and now for this month I will see the Trevi Fountain at Night in Rome instead of the mouth of the Grand Canal in Venice, San Giorgio Maggiore made a shadow by the evening sun setting in the distance.
The scenes of our calendars change just as the scenes of our lives change, (these are the days of our lives.....) whether we like the change or not. Philosophers have spun over and over the idea of Time, some emphasizing how it is gradual and growing, some how it is repetitive and cyclic, in any case, change is something everyone must come to terms with in their own lives, it is engrained in Time and keeps our life in motion.

In reading I came across this prayer, “Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Though change is not the enemy, it can be difficult to adjust to changes and to jump at the chances we have, in this world that is so full of multitudes of fleeting glances, fads, people and places and memories, it is amazing and wonderful that we have something in our lives that is never-changing, always stable, always present, always there for us, always loving us, our heavenly Father. In your happiest and everyday moments and even in your darkest hours, remember that He is still there, the same as always, ready for you and faithful in you.