So It’s Sunday

Semi-soggy and somewhat uninspiring. Drizzle turning to light snow.
A walk around a deserted campus, a little elfish workshopping, groceries. And now, looking forward to dinner, an episode, and reading.

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Dusting Marilyn Nelson Thank you for these tiny particles of ocean salt, pearl-necklace viruses, winged protozoans: for the infinite, intricate shapes of submicroscopic living things. For algae spores and fungus spores, bonded by vital mutual genetic cooperation, spreading their inseparable lives from equator to pole. My hand, my arm, make sweeping circles. Dust climbs the ladder of light. For this infernal, endless chore, for these eternal seeds of rain: Thank you. For dust.


Bright and Beautiful Morning…

…fading to dim afternoon, and then still-unanticipated dark. The solstice is approaching. On the up side, all snow is gone, and throughout the neighborhood leaves continue to be raked.

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According to an article I read today, Mr. Rogers’ (of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood) favorite saying is this:
“L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.” (From The Little Prince.)

Sun!

A welcome sight after a week of gray.

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Over to Shorewood on an errand, so a chance for brunch with Abby at the Blue Egg; and if you have any interest in brunch, the Blue Egg menu is globally inspired. Quite a place, actually. (And fun discussion.)

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And quite a breath of fresh air after chain smoking the impeachment hearings. My big takeaway from the hearings is that the United States has been under attack by Russia since at least the 2016 election, is still under attack (and we have 2020 on the horizon), and that the Republican party doesn’t care. The current political climate of conspiracy theories, alternative facts, Twitter trolling, etc. is right out of Russia’s playbook. It’s Pearl Harbor in digital form, and the current administration has surrendered to the enemy because they think the enemy will help them win elections.

More Testimony

More hours devoted to watching impeachment proceedings. A pivotal point in the history of this country, I believe. Will we continue be (more or less) a representative democracy or will we devolve into a strong-man led, Russian-style oligarchy?

Swamp white oak, which holds its leaves long after they have finished their primary work

Swamp white oak, which holds its leaves long after they have finished their primary work

Another day of dull, gray nondescript weather.

Epic Ballad

Not here, not today, but in the poem below, published in Indian School Journal, in 1913. Hodjkiss was Cheyenne/Sioux, and almost nothing else is known about him. Skilled poet, though, as evidenced by this driving, carefully rhymed ballad, written in English, which was likely not his native tongue.

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Song of the Storm-Swept Plain 

William D. Hodjkiss

The wind shrills forth  
From the white cold North  
Where the gates of the Storm-god are;  
And ragged clouds,  
Like mantling shrouds, 
Engulf the last, dim star. 

Through naked trees,  
In low coulees,  
The night-voice moans and sighs;  
And sings of deep,  
Warm cradled sleep,  
With wind-crooned lullabies. 

 He stands alone  
Where the storm’s weird tone 
In mocking swells;  
And the snow-sharp breath  
Of cruel Death  
The tales of its coming tells. 

 The frightened plaint 
Of his sheep sound faint 
Then the choking wall of white— 
Then is heard no more,  
In the deep-toned roar,  
Of the blinding, pathless night. 

 No light nor guide, 
Save a mighty tide 
Of mad fear drives him on; 
‘Till his cold-numbed form  
Grows strangely warm; 
And the strength of his limbs is gone. 

 Through the storm and night 
A strange, soft light  
O’er the sleeping shepherd gleams; 
And he hears the word  
Of the Shepherd Lord  
Called out from the bourne of dreams. 

 Come, leave the strife  
Of your weary life; 
Come unto Me and rest  
From the night and cold,  
To the sheltered fold, 
By the hand of love caressed. 

 The storm shrieks on, 
But its work is done— 
A soul to its God has fled; 
And the wild refrain  
Of the wind-swept plain,  
Sings requiem for the dead.

Waffles and Ping-pong…

…in the morning, damp and chilly walk in the afternoon. (And even that tenuous, in so far as it’s now some sort of hunting season and Pax is hearing things.)

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Ping-pong is only fun when you have reasonable competition; otherwise it’s mostly ball chasing (usually requiring a prone position with arm wedged under an item of furniture). Kate and Will are fun to play, and a number of matches were tied at game point.

Much Better…

…above freezing, with verifiable sunshine. Walking without creepers once again possible.

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But, too much of the day spent on watching the impeachment hearing. Can’t help but find it fascinating—not just history in the making but also the play of logic and obfuscation. For those of us who like idea mapping (and wish we could do it well), a rich source of source material.

On the productive side, plank finished, anti-theft bird feeder prototyped, and what looks like a pretty tasty made-from-scratch chicken pot pie now in the oven.