In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.
Author: James Hogan
Tidbits
A lovely Thanksgiving morning here. Slept in past 630am, which is almost unheard of these days. Showered, got the coffee going. And then although usually I would sit in my cozy corner chair and have my quiet time, could I pass up an early morning Thanksgiving walk when it’s as glorious outside as it is? A beautiful 48 degrees when I stepped outside, coffee mug in hand. Down the street I went and then meandered my way down the MKT trail heartily enjoying the fresh crisp air, breathing deep and feeling gloriously vibrantly alive. I confess I don’t enjoy many things more than an early morning walk in the cold, sipping fresh hot coffee as I go. And there’s something about the early morning walks that bring out the best in people. Usually when I walk this trail, though the people watching is superb, one doesn’t address people as they pass. But early morning times feel special, as if we are all part of a private club that knows these times are the best times to be out and about and walking and that everyone else is missing out, really. So down the trail I walk, exchanging smiles and good mornings with the people I pass. There are many joggers of course, and a few dog-walkers (like the young mom and child that I pass as they let their dog sniff and take his time) but there are also walkers like me, enjoying the excuse to wear a warm hoodie and walk down the trail this lovely Thanksgiving morning. Eventually I reached my usual turning point and I turned around and began walking back home. I was stunned anew by the beauty I saw above and around me, seeing the leftovers of the sunrise strewn across the eastern sky. Homeward now! No less beautiful was this leg of the walk even though now my heart felt full to bursting. Prayers were said and more smiles were exchanged with the walkers that I passed. Soon enough, my legs found their way back inside the house, where somehow the apartment had done such a good job holding its residual heat that I felt I was stepping inside an oven! A 20-degree differential will do that, I suppose.
Now I finish the remnants of my coffee and think it’s time to brew another cup. Soon enough the Dani will wake and then we will begin to think of walk round 2. But for now, I will enjoy the flickering candle on the table, the Tchaikovsky playing in the background and soon a book upon the lap and a hot mug in my hand. I have oh so many things to be thankful for this day.
Sunward
A lovely Thankgiving Eve is at hand! Finally oh finally a cold front approaches and it appears we will have near perfect weather the next few days. Highs in the 60s and lows in the 40s? Yes please. And the sun shines! It very well may be a bit silly how happy such glorious weather makes me, but I will not deny such. Many long walks await!! And now I enjoy sipping on my coffee and preparing for another day of work, knowing that work is good and all that but…also grateful that this is my last full day of work for a good few days. Looking forward to a Thanksgiving holiday here with Dani in which we shall make far too much good food and enjoy wonderful rest and the bountiful gifts we have been given. At times we all over-complicate our lives, do we not? So in this Thanksgiving season, I long to pull back a bit and spend unhurried time on that which truly matters – devoting myself to those whom I hold most dear and luxuriating in quiet times of prayer and praise to the God whom I love so. Praise God from whom all blessings flow indeed.
Vine
we sit around this table and share our burdens
and our sorrows and our fears
and it’s alright that we do so
for is it not better that we bare our faces
instead of holding in all that ails and brings us pain
the fruit of the fall that still haunts us to this day
so yes let’s come before one another
these brothers and sisters with whom
we break this bread and drink this wine
as our faces glow and hearts akindle
we speak of our older brother who went before us
our Jesus who bore all that we might draw nigh
and we consider that day we shall
see him face to face
oh soon we pray come our Jesus come
Faithfulness
he sits under the maple tree
and scribbles in his little turquoise notebook
as he breathes deep of scents of fall
woodsmoke on the breeze
gently crunching leaves
and he sets down his pen and cocks his head
waiting for the dinner call
for through the kitchen window he sees her
finalizing the dinner spread
rice and good spiced beef and maybe okra too
it seems he’s hungry after all
his writing done he leans back his head against the bark
while he ponders of the richness that has been granted him
and looks up at the first of the evening stars
this night while he sits
under the maple tree
Tobias and Penelope
tell me i said
what have you written of late?
oh you know, bits and bobs
she asked how’s the family
and i said oh they’re well
and the silence began to stretch
for there was nothing more to be said
than all the words that were not said
so many years ago
but you know what?
that’s ok
and we smiled as we parted
and our memories remained
Spirals and Buttercups
she leans across the table and
stretches forth her hand
of course i respond
a dash of cinnamon into the cup
why can’t i taste
the subtle intermingling you describe
am i that much of a barbarian?
perhaps
what does it matter she whispers
why shouldn’t we
why not
you’ll understand when you wake
this dream is not for us
my heart races as trembling
i place my hand atop hers
it is well with my soul
A Mailbox at the End of the Lane
A well-loved book is similar to a
favourite coffee cup
for both have been lovingly cradled
and from both have they been
drunk deep
mined for the sigh of joy that comes
with a sip of perfection
a well turned phrase
then she says to me
babe listen
do you hear the rustling of the leaves?
No no I say sitting here on this wrought iron bench
I’ve been considering books and coffee
and how they fit each other well
that may be so she replies and rolls her eyes
but your coffee is cold and your book is closed
and I could use a little love
but of course my darling
and I hold her close to me and
drink deep
Tiptoe
Hello friends! I sit here at EQ (I really should start calling it Caffvino someday soon, but it is hard to bring myself to. One day) and am enjoying just a little time to rest and perhaps write before I walk back home and begin some dinner prep. I am a bit saddened that although it is most certainly November – and late November at that! – somehow it is still fairly hot and humid and not at all reminiscent of autumn. Where is my crisp cold weather? Where is the blustery wind and the grey skies that make my heart sing and eyes brighten as I consider that winter is nigh? Alas it seems I shall have to wait a little longer. It does seem as if perhaps this next week – Thanksgiving week! – we may get some decent weather. I do hope.
Now that I’ve gotten the weather talk out of my system, what else shall I discuss? I feel as if I ought use this time to write about something of note but as often happens, when I have the time I now feel antsy and wonder if I ought go for a walk instead. The tragedy!! Well, I shall sit here a bit longer and decide if I can summon up the muse. (No of course not. That’s not how muses work)
So topic switch? I don’t think it would be amiss if I simply state how grateful I am to God for all He has done in my life. Too often do I let my thoughts and emotions run amok as I think on all the things that could or might go wrong (or even the things that have!) and let myself spiral into the depths of despair. Have you ever felt such? I think so for I feel it is a pretty universal experience but of course there are some who would say they have no idea what I’m talking about. Some may say it is useful to imagine things differently than they really are (or is this also a concept my gentle reader is unfamiliar with?) but rather than dwell in unreality and imagination (not that I am demeaning a healthy and vibrant imagination, by no means!), I would urge something different. Instead of spending our time in the hazy mists of the unreal to comfort ourselves as we sit in the midst of the grimy everyday, instead ought we consider what is truly Real?
And that is the trick, is it not? How might we encounter the truths of reality even in the midst of the fogs through which we grope? Can we even say there is such a thing as absolute truth? Or is all contingent upon one’s own space in this matrix of the universe? These are philosophical questions which I freely admit I do not quite have the mental acuity to fully comprehend. Yet at the end of the day I do and will say that I believe there are truths that exist that are real and might be known. I might even say that these truths have been revealed to us who have been granted the grace to lift our eyes and with new eyes see. Hence why I love to use my (mid-tier) writing skills to dance through the swirls of the imagination to connect with the concrete substance of the true. This spark of creativity burns, small but bright. I freely confess I fail far too often to write anything worthy. Oh how common it is that I scribble some words upon the page which are both sparse of beauty and bare of truth. Yet sometimes, I do sense a hand upon my shoulder and as I consider the stars above and the One who knows them all by name, I write with an inner fire that well speaks to the faith that I so cling to. It is naught of me and naught of anything I have done. Instead, if there is a pattern of the beautiful in this weaving I have done, it must speak to a deeper and richer reality than these eyes now see. I now close my eyes and dream.
Snowbound
A quick book review.
79. A Winter’s Love by Madeleine L’Engle. Well, certainly not my favourite L’Engle I’ve ever read. But not entirely terrible and slightly redeemed by the ending, as I was hoping would be the case. Spoilers for this one may follow, so read further at your peril if that kind of thing will bother you. So. This was a book I saw mentioned in one of L’Engle’s memoirs (she mentioned writing it during a certain period of her life) and I had never heard of it so decided to pick it up. An adult novel, it’s one that feels both very real and also a bit surreal and dreamy at the same time. Like the best of L’Engle’s fiction, she interweaves the spiritual and the real together in such dreamy spirals and writes about characters that feel so real you believe they simply must exist in some reality somewhere. There is a solidity in her writing and yet also a floaty dreamlike sense to the whole thing as she attempts to understand the emotions inside us that we so often don’t understand ourselves. This story is a story grasping at what makes a person breathe and love and step forward once again, and as always, L’Engle’s prose is beautiful to behold, a masterpiece in and of itself. But the story. Ah well, the story is one of my least favourite kinds of stories, the kind that I winced at once I realised what would take up the bulk of this book. It’s the story of a woman (one Emily Bowen) who has lived many years with her husband and young children (Virginia and Connie and the ghost of wee sweet Alice) but now in a fraught time for their family, her heart pulls her in another direction and she begins to yearn after an old family friend who seems so much more solid and real and desirable than her husband. Oh joy. This is a real story though. And as L’Engle weaves in and around the lives of the various characters – as I mentioned, all of them seem so real in their own rights! – we begin to understand a bit of this moment that we have been dropped into and find ourselves seeing how the puzzle pieces of these people fit together. Gertrude and Kaarlo and Abe and Sam and Mimi and Virginia and Connie and Emily and Courtney and all the side characters (even Beanie who somehow L’Engle manages to humanize and make me wonder if I can forgive and understand him) bring this tale to life and I am frankly still awash in the emotions this one stirred up. I was even a bit amused to find a flashback sequence in which Courtney rages against Kempis’ Imitation of Christ, a book I just finished reading a bare few weeks ago!! While I wasn’t the hugest fan of it, I found myself amused to see that I disagreed with Courtney (and likely L’Engle) in the thrust of this one, and wondered if it’s partly the framework and perspective from which I sit. L’Engle has a bit more of a humanistic and individualistic outlook at times and of course this would clash against the humble servitude which Kempis preaches. Anyways! Just one of those happy little coincidences. That all being said? I was very prepared to loathe this book in its entirety, depending how it ended. I suppose I should have had faith in L’Engle though. The book does not end with Emily running to her lover, as much as she makes many decisions that made me wince and shake my head, even to the end. No, in the end, Emily chooses to stay true to her vows and oaths and press forward in her marriage to Courtney and her life with her family. A sigh of relief.
There is much in this book I haven’t talked about and many characters who I’ve barely mentioned in all their richness. But I’m grateful for L’Engle using her exquisite skill to bring forth themes that frankly sing in their brilliance and truth.
Something Weird 