tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51202524924804699322024-02-19T08:26:52.819-08:00Catalogue of Potions"All we ever do our whole lives long is go from one piece of holy ground to the next."
-J.D. SalingerElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-38573445857377927122014-02-10T15:36:00.000-08:002014-02-10T16:02:58.456-08:00A Winter Update<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Nothing can be possessed but the struggle. All our lives are consumed in possessing struggle but only when the struggle is cherished and directed to a final consummation outside of this life is it of any value.”</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">-Flannery O'Connor</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-559b03f3-1dc0-6624-360a-e9752825910f" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is freezing outside. I'm cozy enough on the second floor of this silent library, but the shiver I see in the trees makes its way to me through the nearby window. This past week has brought some of the coldest temperatures we have ever experienced and has left a bright blanket of snow on everything. Contrasting with this white is the darkness of bare trees shooting out of the ground, reaching up to the heavens. Today those heavens are concealed, and a subtle fog hides the details of outstretched branches, but I know they're reaching. Branches maintain this pose all year long, but in the winter, with all the leaves dead and gone, they can't hide their strain. Nothing can cover their twisted reach upward.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This year feels like one in which much straining has been laid bare. It has been a year thick with substance and rich with experiences. Celebratory occurrences have carried more significance this year. Recently Olivia was marveling at the fact that, the more she learns about numbers, the more difficult it is to understand what she knows. This feels true of many things.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brett and I celebrated our 15</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super; white-space: pre-wrap;">th</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> wedding anniversary and were able to spend a lovely fall weekend on Berry College's campus where we began our fascination with and love for one another. When I shared my gratitude to him for being the strong one, keeping us moving along so beautifully, his surprised response, “I've always thought of you as the strong one,” seemed to perfectly embody the mutual appreciation we have for one another. Olivia, while continuing to love life and learning, searches to find what is good and familiar in the midst of a socially and academically rigorous 3</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super; white-space: pre-wrap;">rd</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> grade school year. Mae, still the dancing free spirit, pulls to connect her joy and goodness to a new understanding of difficulties and hardships. Brett, as department chair and professor, reaches for new ways to view occupational challenges, to lift his workplace and students to a new level of rigor and support. And I keep trying to seize these moments, dealing with them as creatively in real life as I strive to deal with them on the page. But there are some moments I'd like to rewrite.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our friend Will Gray lost his battle with cancer this summer. He and his wife Angie were our neighbors on Martha's Vineyard and accompanied us on our move to Mount Vernon in 2008. Will was 33. It's hard to separate the events of our year from the events surrounding Will's illness and death. We're grateful to have been so affected by the life of this friend, and we join Angie in feeling the presence of his absence.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My grandmother, Zilpha Sharp also passed away this fall. We'd all come together to celebrate her 100</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super; white-space: pre-wrap;">th</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> birthday just two months before we gathered again to attend her funeral. Her life was one of tremendous service and love, and her example is one we will spend the rest of our lives hoping to follow.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so through loss and struggle, we feel connected to those bare trees and their reaching. Understanding feels hidden in the fog and the snow, but Mae would direct us to wonder. Recently, overcome by what she saw in a new snowfall, she began an extemporaneous poem of sorts:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nature is quiet and beautiful.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The things that happen outside are more rightful than respectful.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nature is beautiful because it is grateful.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It uses its breath to move the snow from here to there.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It makes beautiful sounds like birds and bunnies and giraffes.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like us, it sometimes likes to hibernate. Like bears and squirrels.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We often spend much of our year hibernating. It's a strong temptation to simply remove ourselves from this harsh winter and stay in the interior, all huddled together, feeding off each other's warmth. But we know to push ourselves outside of ourselves. We're committed to cherishing the struggle and directing it toward its final consummation. Please step outside, bring your shiver, and join us in reaching upward.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>
</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With Much Love,</span></span></div>
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Brett, Elizabeth, Olivia, and Mae Wiley</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Bk16Mnl_YgbDGeb_GKzUMUzHk3_MN_jJ3x2pY-T66nZ4YuELVCfKkDz1QfhMz3B68F6DGM1K6UAijPb69mfxIxbxsilerfMYiTcrqAVcMCg1NqSnho-eHJM3zUdEb5WIIzP_hBlF95s/s1600/Xmas+card+photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Bk16Mnl_YgbDGeb_GKzUMUzHk3_MN_jJ3x2pY-T66nZ4YuELVCfKkDz1QfhMz3B68F6DGM1K6UAijPb69mfxIxbxsilerfMYiTcrqAVcMCg1NqSnho-eHJM3zUdEb5WIIzP_hBlF95s/s1600/Xmas+card+photo.png" height="320" width="253" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-40922764687541950372013-01-28T17:48:00.000-08:002013-01-28T17:50:25.101-08:00"...and are we not of interest to each other?"Our "Christmas" card-- the online version:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkL120pZtt2NeexOu1tH0bCw1ISLOpwmBLa5DPPuGnQhO2dFi4or8a4a6xOIPx_gn_SMyx-on1VP5llrYgfC0lQlip0KhwSI-KOnUpT5JNoKRfv2dnVf95ttsPZEj_S-a-u-oRbkLLS7c/s1600/folly+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkL120pZtt2NeexOu1tH0bCw1ISLOpwmBLa5DPPuGnQhO2dFi4or8a4a6xOIPx_gn_SMyx-on1VP5llrYgfC0lQlip0KhwSI-KOnUpT5JNoKRfv2dnVf95ttsPZEj_S-a-u-oRbkLLS7c/s320/folly+family.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Poetry
is what you find</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">in
the dirt in the corner,</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">overhear
on the bus, God</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">in
the details, the only way</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">to
get from here to there...</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">...Poetry
(here I hear myself loudest)</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">is
the human voice,</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and
are we not of interest to each other?</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> -from
“I Believe,” Elizabeth Alexander</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">January
2013 </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Friends
and Family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We've
certainly missed the cut-off date to call this a Christmas or New
Years greeting, but it turns out the most opportune moment for me to
pause and consider our lives, our year, our community-at-large occurs
in January. And I can hope that after a month of mailboxes full of
beautiful faces and messages, maybe this note can be of the most
service to you arriving on a bleak mid-winter afternoon. We also joke
that perhaps our family photo will find a prime spot on your mantle
or fridge now that all the other Christmas cards have found their way
into those feel-good baskets and keepsake boxes, or heaven forbid,
the recycling bin.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our
year has been good. We're often busier than we want to be, but busy
with what we consider to be interesting, worthwhile endeavors. Mae,
now 4, began preschool this fall and is thriving in an ideal
class-size of only 6 children. She continues to sing and dance
through her days, showing an uncanny ability to create obscure rhymes
and enjoying anyone who comes across her path. When she sees any
child approximately her own age, she'll often declare, “Look,
there's one of my best friends!” Olivia, 7, is enjoying 2<sup>nd</sup>
grade, navigating her days with great thought and enjoyment. If you
ask her for the highlights of her year, she points to the 5k she ran
with a group of friends this fall, her horseback riding and sewing
lessons, and any days she was able to spend with grandparents, aunts,
uncles, and cousins.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Brett
and I continue to enjoy our lives in this mid-Ohio small town. We
love where we came from, but we also bask in the way of life this
little place nurtures. As those who have become important to us are
both close by and scattered far and wide, we cherish the time, notes,
shared interests and experiences that keep us close. We celebrate,
grieve, and connect with friends and family far away, and we long to
be closer to everyone.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Most
of you know words, though limited in their ability to fully express
our love, are of great significance to us, and we rely heavily on
them to keep these connections going. As our relationships with you
become older and deeper, the words between us begin to look more like
poetry. In another of her poems, entitled “Praise Song for a Day,”
Elizabeth Alexander writes,
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“We
encounter each other in words, words</span></div>
<pre class="western" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,</span></pre>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">words
to consider, reconsider.”</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So
thank you for sharing your poetry. Thanks for writing, visiting,
calling, thanks even for “tagging,” “liking,” commenting. In
all these things, we recognize attempts to shorten the distance
between us, and these actions convey to us interest, value, and love.
We gratefully receive it and hope we return it well.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Enjoy
this day. Love.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Elizabeth,
Brett, Olivia, and Mae Wiley</span></div>
Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-11052299423701822542013-01-24T13:05:00.000-08:002013-01-24T13:14:52.300-08:00An Ocean Reverie<a href="http://www.womeninjourney.com/feature.html">Here</a> is an entry I recently wrote for the blog, <a href="http://www.womeninjourney.com/index.html">Women In Journey</a>. My good friend <a href="http://blessedintheboro.blogspot.com/">Abby Moss Rosser</a> edits the blog and is soon to have her book, <a href="http://womeninjourney.intuitwebsites.com/~local/~Preview/AbbyRosser.html">Oh To Grace</a>, published by <a href="http://www.demmehouse.com/">DemmeHouse</a>. Please enjoy.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-79901848732607136722012-07-02T21:30:00.000-07:002012-07-03T06:30:23.382-07:00"I am for people. I can't help it." -Charlie ChaplinIn just a few hours Olivia will wake up, and we will begin celebrating her 7th birthday. Once again she'll hear the stories that make up the day of her birth. She already knows much of the narrative, but she always brightens up when we start sharing moments from her story's beginning. Often she asks us to retell another <a href="http://elizabethdarkwiley.blogspot.com/2010/07/five.html">particular detail</a> from the day that we might have forgotten to include. She loves the part about her Pop Pop and Nana arriving late the night before and Pop Pop taking her dad out to The Grill, a 24-hour diner, to get a bite to eat while Nana sat with me in the hospital room. She loves to hear that her older cousin Dorothy cried when she was told she couldn't accompany my brothers on the drive down to Athens from Nashville to meet her. She loves the bit that includes our neighbor Michael stepping out of the Sunday church service to call and see if she'd been born (She had been, and Michael was extremely efficient in getting the message out). She still hangs on to the picture our friends' son Noah drew for her and delivered to her in the hospital. And she loves for us to recount for her all of the people who came to see her that first day of life. She won't settle for names of people. She likes to pull out the pictures of everyone, and she wants to be told again who they are, what they are like, and how their lives connect with ours. I love this about Olivia. She gets that people matter, and she seems to understand, often better than I do, that we can't really get through life well without them. <br />
<br />
I remember the complete agony I felt when Brett and I left Olivia in the hospital nursery for a couple of hours that first night. I was an absolute mess all the way back to our hospital room-- I remember thinking that anyone who passed me would wrongly, but understandably, assume something tragic had happened to our baby. I felt silly for being so emotional, but I remember telling Brett, in between my blubbering sobs, “No one in that nursery loves her as much as we do. She's so special.” This thought returns to me every first day of school, though fortunately my reaction gets more controlled each year. But it's true. She is so special. I'm delighted that on her birthday she treasures the details of her first day that are tied to other people. And to be honest, on her other days, she shows me that very few details aren't tied to others.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-65389591231037080262012-04-08T14:11:00.002-07:002012-04-08T14:14:14.615-07:00"Ears of My Ears"The kind people over at the <a href="http://bluebearreview.wordpress.com/">Blue Bear Review</a> recently published one of my essays. If you like, you can read it <a href="http://bluebearreview.wordpress.com/tbbr-1-3/ears-of-my-ears-elizabeth-dark-wiley/">here</a>.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-53654286166368755672012-01-23T13:03:00.000-08:002012-01-23T15:43:58.038-08:00WildgooseOlivia's 1st grade class is writing poetry. It's been a beautiful and humbling process to witness. I feign nonchalance as I walk past her sitting in the dining room, her elbows on the table, pencil eraser tapping her chin. I can't resist throwing a glance at her work in progress. What turn of phrase will pass through her pencil? And how does it come so easily for her when I wrestle with every word choice? Her freedom inspires.<br /><br />Today she came home with a poem she wrote about her experience at the <a href="http://www.wildgoosefestival.org/">Wildgoose Festival </a>last June. This festival on justice, spirituality, art, and music included three days of rich conversation for all of us, and we hope to go back in the future. But there is no question that, over the past 7 months, the children have brought it up more than Brett and me. Here's Olivia's take on the festival, in verse:<br /><br />Wildgoose <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgtC_T5EBgHZX4kxMS4HkJB3JEd3XCHvzCdbbMXQsvLDmdvfKIXeInwQ4fTj_LYTeJePCiogapIjoEO_iCYo-AjwzNp9-SWZ7fMExwW4efXpRNPlbWdo1YtJZlNZZQFCjfudIgYhwu-c/s1600/Olivia+the+poet.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgtC_T5EBgHZX4kxMS4HkJB3JEd3XCHvzCdbbMXQsvLDmdvfKIXeInwQ4fTj_LYTeJePCiogapIjoEO_iCYo-AjwzNp9-SWZ7fMExwW4efXpRNPlbWdo1YtJZlNZZQFCjfudIgYhwu-c/s400/Olivia+the+poet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700948911351510162" /></a><br /><br />fun and great<br />tweet, tweet goes the bird<br />I snuggle, I cuddle with my mom<br />I hear the bands<br />I snuggle in the tent<br />in the tent I cuddle<br />in the tent<br />some nights, sit by the lantern<br />some nights by the band<br /> <br /> -Olivia WileyElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-46767530259108785292011-12-26T19:11:00.000-08:002011-12-26T19:24:24.795-08:00Merry Christmas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPFT3HIaH6sW8TdG9_ihpInpygkJNq8MHO2Y-cn7o1sLWOQbChTqhJCQJGAIecHEUkTJ8u4IU7NKmRWXZBzKrEJYFV7uWtsdo4Wv60G8LXsfy_8UEZSH-DbwPHeSSYP3rPgMehbNKiCI/s1600/livmae.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPFT3HIaH6sW8TdG9_ihpInpygkJNq8MHO2Y-cn7o1sLWOQbChTqhJCQJGAIecHEUkTJ8u4IU7NKmRWXZBzKrEJYFV7uWtsdo4Wv60G8LXsfy_8UEZSH-DbwPHeSSYP3rPgMehbNKiCI/s400/livmae.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690641302308401074" /></a><br /><br /><blockquote>“Are our sensibilities / too blunt to be assaulted / with spatial power-plays and far-out / proclamations of peace? Sterile, / skeptic, yet we may be broken / to his slow silent birth / (new-torn, new- / born ourselves at his / beginning new in us.) His bigness may still burst / our self-containment / to tell us—without angels’ mouths— / fear not.” — Luci Shaw</blockquote><br />Dear Family and Friends,<br /> <br />We hope this letter finds you and yours enjoying this season of Christmas. As is often the case, we’ve traveled much of the past month away. We were able to join Brett’s family in Chicago for Thanksgiving, and now we’re enjoying time with my family in Nashville. The break from our daily routine certainly brings it’s challenges, but more so, I believe it tends to offer clarity as we’re able to step outside of our everyday ways and look at them with a fresh perspective.<br /> <br />Olivia, now six, has really grown into her role as the older sister. She, more than any of us, is ready to jump into Mae’s imaginary world of play. For Olivia, I sense this world is often more familiar and comfortable than the 1st grade world she maneuvers so gracefully each school day. We continue to marvel at her desire and ability to learn new things. This year she’s successfully tackled the scooter, the written word, the Lego manual, the bike (she calls it the two-wheeler), the piano, and just this past week, the knitting needles.<br /> <br />I recently learned that our neighbors like to refer to Mae as “the little woodland creature.” This is an apt description as I watch her spritely form sing and dance around me with her crazy hair and make-shift costumes. I sense this is exactly what a three-year-old girl should be doing. For our family, she is the great communicator. She lets us know, in her gentle way, when our family dynamic isn’t quite right and when more is right than we recognize.<br /> <br />Brett continues to appreciate the significance of the opportunities made available to him through his work at MVNU. This past spring he was given the President‘s Award for Excellence in Teaching; he is grateful for his employment at a university that appreciates his contributions. He continues to write and present in his areas of interest. <br /> <br />I still teach a course or two at MVNU and write when the schedule allows. My work with the art program at our church continues to be a substantial combination of challenge and blessing. I’m constantly enriched by the witness of both the volunteers and the children as, each week, we engage in the humbling opportunity to create together. I’ve also enjoyed more time to delve into the rituals of home, discovering the value of slowing down and fully engaging in everyday domestic tasks.<br /> <br />And of course, mixed within warm moments like these have been the rushed episodes where we allow our supposed needs—to be on time or to get out the door—to excuse our shortness with each other. We let our consideration for each other fall to the floor so we can hold up our expectations of perfection to one another. Or we let temporary ownership of a particular possession (insert name of toy here) take precedence over sharing freely. Add to this an unusual season of sickness for our family--colds, fevers, and beyond-- and we become keenly aware of the fragility of our broken, mortal form.<br /> <br />This is where I take great comfort in the angels’ proclamation, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, and good will toward men.” Of all the phrases to utter, of all the “threads of speech” to snap so that we could understand, these are the words they chose. No doubt a host of angels filling the sky would be a fantastic sight to behold, but I believe the display was only to give further weight to the words chosen to accompany Christ’s arrival. Through his birth, peace and good will come to men. As self-contained as we’d like to be, it’s not possible, thank the Lord. And so we pray for the proclamation of his birth to burst into our days, to make its way through our blunt sensibilities, that we may receive the message and in turn, offer peace and good will to each other.<br /><br />Glory to God in the highest,<br />Brett, Elizabeth, Olivia, and Mae WileyElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-92005237261852039692011-12-17T11:29:00.001-08:002011-12-17T11:54:47.208-08:00We Moved Christmas, and the Weather ObligedAs we're travelling to be with family far away for Christmas Day, we opted to have our own Christmas here at home this morning, December 17th. It's been lovely. We're even enjoying our first real snow of the year. Mary Oliver's poem is apropos. Here you go:<br /><br />First Snow<br /><br />The snow<br />began here<br />this morning and all day<br />continued, its white<br />rhetoric everywhere<br />calling us back to why, how,<br />whence such beauty and what<br />the meaning; such<br />an oracular fever! flowing<br />past windows, an energy it seemed<br />would never ebb, never settle<br />less than lovely! and only now,<br />deep into night,<br />it has finally ended.<br />The silence<br />is immense,<br />and the heavens still hold<br />a million candles, nowhere<br />the familiar things:<br />stars, the moon,<br />the darkness we expect<br />and nightly turn from. Trees<br />glitter like castles<br />of ribbons, the broad fields<br />smolder with light, a passing<br />creekbed lies<br />heaped with shining hills;<br />and though the questions<br />that have assailed us all day<br />remain — not a single<br />answer has been found –<br />walking out now<br />into the silence and the light<br />under the trees,<br />and through the fields,<br />feels like one.<br /><br />~Mary Oliver~<br /><br />Merry Christmas.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBbNS1XKhvi1SDYJ8DMYTeScn6bF9jr9oA_dK0MEsqsUZOJZ3KeXObzZPrudwSpOrkXkRFTz4LNcviPtZpEAnmuP6nB_N9V4GQKXoluokfpS56PRks5FRpFBKUN-SSmOYM0JSsuDh6aE/s1600/Christmas+Morning.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBbNS1XKhvi1SDYJ8DMYTeScn6bF9jr9oA_dK0MEsqsUZOJZ3KeXObzZPrudwSpOrkXkRFTz4LNcviPtZpEAnmuP6nB_N9V4GQKXoluokfpS56PRks5FRpFBKUN-SSmOYM0JSsuDh6aE/s400/Christmas+Morning.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687186339093046290" /></a>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-50653813732036898832011-11-17T09:27:00.001-08:002011-11-17T09:34:48.301-08:00Over lunch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-i-4iQDAiggffH2pmMEG4I9UtmPP8EN8BbOGe3Aykdv8SVibZMYviLRPR7ujN9K-FDkm9km_YMJxqyPxLiFounffGgMTFcABKf8Um-3zHNOUuhR35QU5_YALYQ2VhZ1KNTrBJGa8fsU/s1600/IMAG2324.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-i-4iQDAiggffH2pmMEG4I9UtmPP8EN8BbOGe3Aykdv8SVibZMYviLRPR7ujN9K-FDkm9km_YMJxqyPxLiFounffGgMTFcABKf8Um-3zHNOUuhR35QU5_YALYQ2VhZ1KNTrBJGa8fsU/s400/IMAG2324.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676018627933222738" border="0" /></a> Mom: "So Mae, what would you like for Christmas?"<br /><br />Mae: "A present."<br /><br />Mom: "What kind of present?"<br /><br />Mae: "A present I can give to Olivia."<br /><br />Mom: "And what kind of present would you like to receive?"<br /><br />Mae: "Maybe a cheeto to eat. And a pirate toy."<br /><br />Mom: "Why do you want a pirate toy?"<br /><br />Mae: "So I can be a pirate."Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-47965297218244879902011-10-15T10:10:00.001-07:002011-10-15T10:25:05.874-07:00When All You Have Left Is the Dark Night Sky...A wise young woman once said,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"When all you have left is the dark night sky...<br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGtmIXiZgTrGtQBIpGgM_7xRbb1p_SlMIJZhNhQk5rEcVYfaKoIMzH5gF_x677rpHvUJ1au-RzmClbodfc5hZbp6iTckP9bTpsKthHUR6MCuhiNtdtv8wIeJK2ZnZMKG1qY9ed6LVRgU/s1600/darksky.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGtmIXiZgTrGtQBIpGgM_7xRbb1p_SlMIJZhNhQk5rEcVYfaKoIMzH5gF_x677rpHvUJ1au-RzmClbodfc5hZbp6iTckP9bTpsKthHUR6MCuhiNtdtv8wIeJK2ZnZMKG1qY9ed6LVRgU/s400/darksky.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663767756585215298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q-rYie7q6ve6TnkZBBi4ZYykOH2IvQH6WuVGxU_dFrckaOANk2SOGCXZfdvggICYN2F6wqBajIQCVOiX2egW5JfjgNlq05AEXbKmr3gNBRiOc7vuwrFHrKyjqNq8Uv7PnmpA8sH2seM/s1600/men.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q-rYie7q6ve6TnkZBBi4ZYykOH2IvQH6WuVGxU_dFrckaOANk2SOGCXZfdvggICYN2F6wqBajIQCVOiX2egW5JfjgNlq05AEXbKmr3gNBRiOc7vuwrFHrKyjqNq8Uv7PnmpA8sH2seM/s200/men.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663769079195368322" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXSPWdMzYap8JeAQWCZJq8LZceXvFvr8-ufyldkNb2n7Ixv7aiFzcG5cBbOyzTISyUNKUZJKQqwNL2hvCq9DxZMZTqTibziyBZvnOihy_4ws2XXD8SypyrZP3i-AiFriP_MfejiKi5oU/s1600/monsters.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXSPWdMzYap8JeAQWCZJq8LZceXvFvr8-ufyldkNb2n7Ixv7aiFzcG5cBbOyzTISyUNKUZJKQqwNL2hvCq9DxZMZTqTibziyBZvnOihy_4ws2XXD8SypyrZP3i-AiFriP_MfejiKi5oU/s200/monsters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663769488040742530" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">...you begin separating the men from the monsters...<br /></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjwLKcVBnRCbwnwsS3DrEMH4d11A6vWbYb9UX8oG695R5rZOlweJ3ISEhx2g_uzXmYqRBXiRVqjPwh_9S8QDz2dOFD268FgaBSp7wshLwleShuoDryTPGYo9acs8Jh55RgUuxcMX3U9U/s1600/pogosticks.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjwLKcVBnRCbwnwsS3DrEMH4d11A6vWbYb9UX8oG695R5rZOlweJ3ISEhx2g_uzXmYqRBXiRVqjPwh_9S8QDz2dOFD268FgaBSp7wshLwleShuoDryTPGYo9acs8Jh55RgUuxcMX3U9U/s200/pogosticks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663770037406418562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4_b9q_P2lx_FkKbQI5SjRWDMwcy2w7wC3i8U7O24HlHBtRZrIti-QuESTv7uaVsmJWK9-BDA3OcRrKfApdNfGDzX7fZhccaKh1Q7grA95bwePRR_1LmXM60ZUXdk08bSykqRkbAZ0Yc/s1600/puppydogs.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4_b9q_P2lx_FkKbQI5SjRWDMwcy2w7wC3i8U7O24HlHBtRZrIti-QuESTv7uaVsmJWK9-BDA3OcRrKfApdNfGDzX7fZhccaKh1Q7grA95bwePRR_1LmXM60ZUXdk08bSykqRkbAZ0Yc/s200/puppydogs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663770244939577730" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">...and the pogo sticks from the puppy dogs."<br /></div>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-48031369510418953562011-08-26T10:41:00.000-07:002011-08-26T11:11:36.382-07:00Quiet GiantsI was just thinking of <a href="http://ayjay.tumblr.com/">Alan Jacobs</a> yesterday. Today, <a href="http://imagejournal.org/">Image Journal</a> brought <a href="http://www.gospelofthetrees.net/">this</a> to my facebook feed. Allow me to suggest finding a quiet half hour, preparing your beverage of choice, and slowly flipping through the <a href="http://www.gospelofthetrees.net/">Gospel of the Trees.</a> I think you'll come away refreshed.
<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div></div>Here's a peak at what you'll find:
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6EcXyPw903BcmN31POunC52raM0Ii6tGDHI5yRg3VGtZGHhRegAqPpBOzYGt9OglYiv5Bxf7SsDze_cxT_NkffRK8WoAZpoxY-UIIdfHwxsjr9vgkzmwTF4_rYyjBCTnPqly3Oh53P0/s1600/namim_mm7628_03_custom.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6EcXyPw903BcmN31POunC52raM0Ii6tGDHI5yRg3VGtZGHhRegAqPpBOzYGt9OglYiv5Bxf7SsDze_cxT_NkffRK8WoAZpoxY-UIIdfHwxsjr9vgkzmwTF4_rYyjBCTnPqly3Oh53P0/s400/namim_mm7628_03_custom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645226827182368402" border="0" /></a>Photo (yes, photo) by <a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/06/namibia-park/behind-the-photo">Franz Lanting </a></div>
<br />Trees
<br />
<br />To be a giant and keep quiet about it,
<br />To stay in one’s own place;
<br /> To stand for the constant presence of process
<br /> And always to seem the same;
<br /> To be steady as a rock and always trembling,
<br /> Having the hard appearance of death
<br /> With the soft, fluent nature of growth,
<br /> One’s Being deceptively armored,
<br />One’s Becoming deceptively vulnerable,
<br /> To be so tough, and take the light so well,
<br /> Freely providing forbidden knowledge
<br />Of so many things about heaven and earth
<br /> For which we should otherwise have no word—
<br />Poems or people are rarely so lovely,
<br />And even when they have great qualities
<br /> They tend to tell you rather then exemplify
<br />What they believe themselves to be about,
<br /> While from the moving silence of trees,
<br />Whether in storm or calm, in leaf and naked,
<br /> Night or day, we draw conclusions of our own,
<br /> Sustaining and unnoticed as our breath,
<br />And perilous also—though there has never been
<br /> A critical tree—about the nature of things.
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">— Howard Nemerov
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<br /></div>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-76942050928639749692011-08-25T10:27:00.000-07:002012-01-23T13:02:43.771-08:00There's A PlaceI've been drawn to this song these past few days as I consider the tremendous energy my daughter Olivia musters to work through all that is encompassed in what we call "1st grade." But beyond that, it seems it might offer a timely word for so many-- right now. Ladies and gentlemen, Peter Gabriel.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe width="420" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qiu6RMMNERs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(I debated whether to post this live version with Paula Cole or the video with Kate Bush. As you see, the live version won, as I just can't seem to receive the message while watching an <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kl1rRxG251s">awkward 6 minute hug</a>).</div>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-17142189895404278982011-07-05T10:55:00.000-07:002011-07-05T11:15:11.589-07:00Do NOT eat at the Upstairs CafeBrett was already seated when I came in, but even as I approached our table, I read his nonverbal cues that I should run out while I still could. Unfortunately, my curiosity made me sit down. Where to begin...<br />-- the music was way too loud<br />-- all the food was hard, like plastic, even Brett's spaghetti-- how do you mess up spaghetti?<br />-- when Brett asked for a fresher order, they brought him sliced pickles covered in cheese-- without a plate<br />-- I did receive the corn I ordered, but it was in an unopened can, plopped down in front of me<br />-- when I ordered a doughnut, the chef told me to get my own doughnut<br />-- the waitress took our order sitting on our table while the chef crawled under our table to retrieve some dropped food<br />-- the chef squirted mustard all over our utensils, and then when we asked for new ones, the chef and waitress proceeded to lick them clean and then give them back to us<br /><br />BUT, they do offer free flu shots and storytime at the end of each meal, so I suppose that counts for something. Actually, we'll probably go back again, and again, and again.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-55559956478234497842011-05-25T10:38:00.000-07:002011-05-26T19:49:40.010-07:00Farm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJjbiNQ_4kVgtB1dFnBNDL_z8go_F5nai4U1bQQGgZS3A5ZPzzk_xhoYwvlF4qfurZ_R1I4-bCKERsC6xizJQ1M-hfIM3Zj6BRXXI7XIK_PyBtgVQEYibFztAPw1yGsy7dJE9-oWxx4w/s1600/Farm.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJjbiNQ_4kVgtB1dFnBNDL_z8go_F5nai4U1bQQGgZS3A5ZPzzk_xhoYwvlF4qfurZ_R1I4-bCKERsC6xizJQ1M-hfIM3Zj6BRXXI7XIK_PyBtgVQEYibFztAPw1yGsy7dJE9-oWxx4w/s400/Farm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610718375932398370" border="0" /></a>I grew up in a beautiful, suburban neighborhood of ranch houses just south of downtown Nashville. Before it had been such a neighborhood, it had been rolling fields, pastures, and farmland. The area's past still tells its story through the tree lines that once served as property lines. I just missed this landscape by a few decades.<br /><br />As a child I experienced echoes of the farm life when I'd go to my grandparents' house in west Tennessee. I played in barn lofts and gathered a few eggs, I named a farm cat or two, but I was too young to pick up on all the intricacies of the farming schedule, and most of my grandparents' farming days were in the past. My education to this "way" of life was done through the retelling of stories more than it was through actually witnessing the day to day routine of a farm.<br /><br />Unknowingly, I grew up assuming working farms were pretty much a thing of the past and were only still happening in tiny pockets of our country. I wrongly assumed most of America was urban or suburban, even though I'm sure I correctly answered a question or two from a map on a standardized test telling me otherwise.<br /><br />Now we live in a small Ohio town, and I'm never more than a mile or two from a contemporary, working farm. I can buy all our meat and chicken and dairy from any number of these farms (though, financially, I'm still trying to figure out how to swing this), and from May to October I'm less than a 5-block walk to a farmer's market any given Saturday morning. To get to the nearest urban center, I spend 30 minutes on highways surrounded by working farms. My education continues.<br /><br />In our little backyard, I'm trying to reclaim some of the practices of my grandparents, and frequently, as I'm thinning out the vegetables or wondering what's wrong with my squash, I regret that this wasn't a regular part of my own upbringing, that so much skill and knowledge was lost in the span of just one generation. I hope my girls grow up with an internal awareness of the seasons in a way I didn't. I hope they recognize that their outdoor chores are determined by the patterns of nature, that the changing of seasons doesn't just affect their clothing options. I want them to recognize this cycle as valuable and worth their notice, not oppressive and backwards.<br /><br />When I first saw the cover of Elisha Cooper's <span style="font-style: italic;">Farm</span>, I was pretty sure this would be a good text to supplement our family's everyday experiences. I'm always happy to find books to enrich our family's story with the stories of others, and this one looked like it might give a bigger picture to the one we're trying to create in our home. <span style="font-style: italic;">Farm</span> follows a year in the life of a family farm, from sowing to harvesting. It goes beyond naming the animals and their sounds to explaining the everyday workings of a farm in a very poetic and intriguing manner.<br /><br />The tiller turns the soil, "and the fields change from the color of milk chocolate to the color of dark chocolate."<br /><br />The combine harvester eats the corn: "It bites stalks, pulls them into its mouth, separates kernel from cob in the the thresher inside its belly, burps out husks."<br /><br />The children return to school and a rooster goes missing: "Did a fox get it? September shows that some things are not forever."<br /><br />And the pictures are spot on. I'm grateful that these scenes aren't as foreign to my girls as they would have been to me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwwAFBBWkyHhb6XrqGgB4DWlX3cycfGb8xl5DP4ohl-2zFeYq463pNxO1Y2rf9gL9SavTgPL0S0G87OqQdEZsbjXUoDaxnWDnl5NdxfxrpWMsKnqbvsUmjIA7izI4RBNCac-5OnZ1FfI/s1600/farm_landscape.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwwAFBBWkyHhb6XrqGgB4DWlX3cycfGb8xl5DP4ohl-2zFeYq463pNxO1Y2rf9gL9SavTgPL0S0G87OqQdEZsbjXUoDaxnWDnl5NdxfxrpWMsKnqbvsUmjIA7izI4RBNCac-5OnZ1FfI/s400/farm_landscape.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610718598517060866" border="0" /></a><br />My grandparents' farm is still standing, but barely. The animals are long gone, as are most of the family members. There is very little about the farm that I would call "working," but when my 98 year old grandmother looks out the window of her house, the same house in which she was born, I imagine her mind sees moments like the ones Cooper captures in his book. Fortunately, these scenes and the realities they represent are more prevalent in America than my younger self had thought.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-64789351511364572362011-04-24T03:51:00.000-07:002011-04-24T03:55:43.334-07:00Happy Easter<span style="font-weight: bold;">I thank You God for most this amazing</span><br /><br />i thank You God for most this amazing<br />day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees<br />and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything<br />which is natural which is infinite which is yes<br /><br />(i who have died am alive again today,<br />and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth<br />day of life and love and wings:and of the gay<br />great happening illimitably earth)<br /><br />how should tasting touching hearing seeing<br />breathing any-lifted from the no<br />of all nothing-human merely being<br />doubt unimaginable You?<br /><br />(now the ears of my ears awake and<br />now the eyes of my eyes are opened)<br /><br />e.e. cummingsElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-90477723067217607782011-01-21T18:21:00.001-08:002011-01-21T18:26:53.919-08:00Happy Epiphany<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4-eAU6m_tqJDMarR8KNBSwF-djNbOCrFLDiTfizx8nANIcp5klBpE5YqwXGtX5lt2WfJUBB0Ecl3kcPfFdQIBqOKoc7vfDgLywHWR8BPndv5sb28RhQ2RvoOsbevwE4vhe_pBUCOniE/s1600/Epiphanyphoto.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4-eAU6m_tqJDMarR8KNBSwF-djNbOCrFLDiTfizx8nANIcp5klBpE5YqwXGtX5lt2WfJUBB0Ecl3kcPfFdQIBqOKoc7vfDgLywHWR8BPndv5sb28RhQ2RvoOsbevwE4vhe_pBUCOniE/s400/Epiphanyphoto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564830950759594690" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">I am not concerned with gifts given in spite or fear, nor those gifts we accept out of servility or obligation; my concern is the gift we long for, the gift that, when it comes, speaks commandingly to the soul and irresistibly moves us."<br />- Lewis Hyde, “The Gift”<br /></div><br />Dear Family and Friends, <br /><br />This year’s letter is being written on the twelfth day of Christmas, The Feast of the Epiphany. Lots of wonderful busyness kept us from getting to it earlier, but, as we’re enjoying a heightened awareness of the church calendar, this seemed a perfect day for some reflection, a day to celebrate Christ’s divinity made manifest and acknowledged here on Earth. A number of these revelatory moments occurred in his early life, but the one I hear referenced most frequently is the visit of the magi, coming with gifts.<br /><br />Beyond our recent Christmas morning, birthdays, and other celebratory occasions, the language of gifts, both tangible and intangible, has very much been a part of our home this year. We’ve received many, given some, discovered even more, and our hope is to be always moving through the day with an awareness of the gifts in motion around us, most often made manifest through each other in small, unforseen moments--epiphanies, if you will.<br /><br />Brett’s work continues to be a gift for him. He’s engaging in rich conversations, creating new courses, and writing on topics of interest. This June, he’ll take a group of students to NYC for a summer course on the literature and culture of New York City. I enjoyed teaching two courses this past fall, one methods course and one writing. Watching my students discover their own gifts for writing was extremely rewarding, as was delving into the details of the craft with them. Now I’m directing a children’s after-school art program at our church, and I look forward to receiving the gift of art with the children of our community.<br /><br />Olivia and Mae’s gifts are daily revelations for us. Olivia’s life-long fascination with books has now evolved into her reading them. Watching her crack that code has been sheer magic for us, and I’m humbled as I think about how she will use this gift of literacy. She’s also taken a great interest in the piano, regularly asking me to write out a particular song so she can add it to her repertoire.<br /><br />Mae’s verbal development amazes us. Her ability to communicate has come so rapidly that it seems I’m regularly mistaking a comment from her as one from Olivia. And as has been the case since her beginnings two years ago, her general delight with life picks us all up several times a day. Her big sister has passed on to her the gift of song and dance, and now Mae can turn almost any item into a microphone and the slightest slip into a pirouette.<br /><br />It’s been an exciting year. A lot has happened. Many opportunities have come our way. But at the end of this day, I recognize our most revelatory moments have happened not in the out of the ordinary, unusual moments, but in the most likely of occurances, when the common is transformed into something saturated with significance, and once again Christ is revealed.<br /><br />Epiphany is a gift. It is the gift we long for, and when it’s received, really received, as Lewis Hyde explains, “it speaks commandingly to the soul and irresistably moves us.” We hope you will note your own epiphanies as well and treat them as James Joyce would have you treat them--“with extreme care, seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments."<br /><br />Happy Epiphany and Happy New Year.<br /><br />Brett, Elizabeth, Olivia, and Mae WileyElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-73549274764330305202011-01-19T11:27:00.000-08:002011-01-19T11:37:47.330-08:00an unseen realityI’m listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">On Being</span> this afternoon. Today I’ve chosen the show, "<a href="http://being.publicradio.org/programs/2011/quarks-creation/">Quarks and Creation</a>" and am really enjoying Krista’s conversation with physicist and theologian John Polkinghorne. I’m also happy to learn the scientific term “quark” was borrowed from a line in James’s Joyce’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Finnigan’s Wake</span>. Here’s a comment from Polkinghorne I found especially encouraging as I looked at the semi-ordely chaos that is my dining room table:<br /><br />“There's a very interesting scientific insight which says that regions where real novelty occurs, where really new things happen that you haven't seen before, are always regions which are at the edge of chaos. They are regions where cloudiness and clearness, order and disorder, interlace each other. If you're too much on the orderly side of that borderline, everything is so rigid that nothing really new happens. You just get rearrangements. If you're too far on the haphazard side, nothing persists, everything just falls apart. It's these ambiguous areas, where order and disorder interlace, where really new things happen, where the action is, if you like. And I think that reflects itself both in the development of life and in many, many human decisions.”Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-22582757184222134332011-01-10T05:41:00.000-08:002011-01-10T06:10:08.858-08:00One such as this...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRy5mdU9xvjQcocBjvmYUtyNSfsav0UKpWUK5BsBeD7hIYPTTKVpG1FGhw6Gj421s8Ow1aVzgKGVOZJ4ir1yXTKQ_Nj0zr9gUruR_XqqNsDedkKt4dSsBYErveCXQdWP_sW62Jf1ng7g/s1600/DSCN9523.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRy5mdU9xvjQcocBjvmYUtyNSfsav0UKpWUK5BsBeD7hIYPTTKVpG1FGhw6Gj421s8Ow1aVzgKGVOZJ4ir1yXTKQ_Nj0zr9gUruR_XqqNsDedkKt4dSsBYErveCXQdWP_sW62Jf1ng7g/s400/DSCN9523.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560558361546577730" border="0" /></a><br />"This triviality made him think of collecting many such moments together in a book of epiphanies. By an epiphany he meant ' a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself. He believed that it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care, seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments."<br />James Joyce, Stephen Hero (Ch. 25)Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-26126919454554198292010-12-18T07:25:00.000-08:002010-12-18T07:26:51.661-08:00The Christmas Story<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kWq60oyrHVQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kWq60oyrHVQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-68750913133970079252010-12-11T19:27:00.000-08:002010-12-11T19:41:41.118-08:00...the thing with feathers...Celebrating my brother Joel's wedding today.<br />And wanting to share the poem Cary selected for the occasion.<br /><br /><em>Hope</em><br /><br />Hope is the thing with feathers<br />That perches in the soul,<br />And sings the tune-- without the words,<br />And never stops at all,<br /><br />And sweetest in the gale is heard;<br />And sore must be the storm<br />That could abash the little bird<br />That kept so many warm.<br /><br />I've heard it in the chillest land,<br />And on the strangest sea;<br />Yet, never, in extremity,<br />It asked a crumb of me.<br /><br />-Emily DickinsonElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-75547275649233287782010-11-29T17:34:00.000-08:002010-11-29T17:43:10.666-08:00tell it slant"Tell All the Truth but tell it slant"<br /><br />Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--<br />Success in Circuit lies<br />Too bright for our infirm Delight<br />The Truth's superb surprise<br /><br />As Lightening to the Children eased<br />With explanation kind<br />The Truth must dazzle gradually<br />Or every man be blind--<br /><br />- Emily DickinsonElizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-9781876973731690352010-11-11T18:33:00.000-08:002010-11-11T18:36:53.714-08:00"Hey Liv, you wanna come in and help me with dinner?"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjx-phu51ehkU2ScH0OiEXUNkb7gHaWGhSraQHmTPNqb1OqBpGsOJ4I96c0LIHf_-psy04DdzXslceB13w8YoXEDPZVFoXqjCRR8I3We8tBpY8HSZkzY4AriZyCvZo2oGb6N-f3zl4RA/s1600/DSCN9454.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjx-phu51ehkU2ScH0OiEXUNkb7gHaWGhSraQHmTPNqb1OqBpGsOJ4I96c0LIHf_-psy04DdzXslceB13w8YoXEDPZVFoXqjCRR8I3We8tBpY8HSZkzY4AriZyCvZo2oGb6N-f3zl4RA/s400/DSCN9454.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538486389122158002" border="0" /></a>"No thanks, Mom. I'm kinda busy right now."Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-86940611411914329722010-09-19T19:57:00.001-07:002010-09-19T20:00:05.910-07:0012 years ago...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xB6S5uJpj8RfzVVRnZocxt7IDC5PsosPZl27H4Tzy2p1RB_q8_mh_AcBzczeTBcSlZAa9bKr3oN2Qz_MhGJY2xGQqORj3dHuqpVqD9V7pL6KL9Ew8c2YBX8BWiNZCKqMJpRd7LnlR4w/s1600/attempt+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 361px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xB6S5uJpj8RfzVVRnZocxt7IDC5PsosPZl27H4Tzy2p1RB_q8_mh_AcBzczeTBcSlZAa9bKr3oN2Qz_MhGJY2xGQqORj3dHuqpVqD9V7pL6KL9Ew8c2YBX8BWiNZCKqMJpRd7LnlR4w/s400/attempt+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518824779655501538" border="0" /></a>If I remember correctly, Brett was supposed to look pensive and I was supposed to be looking at him dotingly. We never pulled it off, but this has always been my favorite shot from the occasion.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-24602295385930234442010-08-23T10:51:00.000-07:002010-08-23T19:37:37.004-07:00for your reading pleasureReading with Olivia has been a lot of fun this summer. I could listen to her reading <a href="http://www.betterworldbooks.com/hop-on-pop-id-0375828370.aspx">Hop On Pop</a> all day long, her laughing after every reading of, "NO! PAT! NO! Don't sit on that!" And though she loves her new skill, she still prefers us on the couch reading to her. Much like a conversation between <a href="http://www.betterworldbooks.com/olivia-id-0689874723.aspx">Olivia </a>the pig and her mother, our version goes something like this:<br /><br />"Only one book tonight, Olivia."<br /><br />"Four?"<br /><br />"One."<br /><br />"Three?"<br /><br />"Olivia."<br /><br />"Two?"<br /><br />"Oh, alright, two."<br /><br /><br />Four favorites of late:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWbyMzmcm6VHGvMUOqeBqZyVXI73nnAlsuN057jjc7pvQ3W0gXukS0YnFyI2T8TMk9g9QXPusfrxzPQauUMck26N1q4cTHLJduKQ4yLhoilJ2IuJgyH0UBeX81oPDw4Iwgvda019oiEsE/s1600/Isabel.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 327px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWbyMzmcm6VHGvMUOqeBqZyVXI73nnAlsuN057jjc7pvQ3W0gXukS0YnFyI2T8TMk9g9QXPusfrxzPQauUMck26N1q4cTHLJduKQ4yLhoilJ2IuJgyH0UBeX81oPDw4Iwgvda019oiEsE/s400/Isabel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508666229329304242" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.deborahunderwoodbooks.com/Deborah-Underwood-A-Balloon-For-Isabel.html">A Balloon for Isabel, by Deborah Underwood</a><br /><br /></div>I shared our love for Underwood's <span style="font-style: italic;">Quiet Book</span> <a href="http://elizabethdarkwiley.blogspot.com/2010/04/silence.html">a few months ago</a>, and she's charmed us again with this one. Isabel the porcupine wants to get a balloon for class graduation, just like everyone else in her class, but because of the quills, she and her porcupine friend Walter have to settle for bookmarks. My absolute favorite passage:<br /><br /> Isabel gazed out the window. "Sally told me that when you first get it, a balloon can bounce <br /> on the ceiling. If you pull the string and then let go, it makes a soft, thumpy sound," she said.<br /><br /> "I heard that after a few days, a balloon floats halfway between the ceiling and the floor," said<br /> Walter. "It just hangs there like a ghost."<br /><br />Isabel's determination to figure out a way to solve the problem is inspiring, and it very much reminds me of a couple of other strong-willed girls I know quite well.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7M8I6JE-yPjrR7AywNNn3GGFKgMZIzK0-rzowwMPXIuOrOJ_vtRmWaBS1ZeEiNs-Baxo6yrrrdi4YWlgCWyoorsSSM8TXZAJfJXOz0A389pxNjqU_EozXgz9PGsunusBhH_EvQMvo8ZE/s1600/Sandwich.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7M8I6JE-yPjrR7AywNNn3GGFKgMZIzK0-rzowwMPXIuOrOJ_vtRmWaBS1ZeEiNs-Baxo6yrrrdi4YWlgCWyoorsSSM8TXZAJfJXOz0A389pxNjqU_EozXgz9PGsunusBhH_EvQMvo8ZE/s400/Sandwich.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508665901491561106" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.queenrania.jo/media/interviews/queen-rania-discusses-her-new-book-swap-sandwich-oprah">The Sandwich Swap by Her Majesty Queen Rania Al Abdullah</a><br /><br /></div>Salma and Lily are best friends who do everything together, but they let their different tastes in sandwiches drive a wedge into their friendship. What started as confusion and hurt feelings turns into anger. This is a great book about celebrating our differences, and it took me back to a high school lunch period when hummus first entered my world through the coaxing of my friend Amy.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAvD6x7utZrVKGt0psHZRrrXSZpqDGL4l3O_5KxVvGmqAsnOcoQkQ34deVdO1vqGnbjPDeqh385vCj3u837QVcYpasdSW1rvSPriyU2QpF5fv1760FbvHjMvmvDOHDG3wfzYfM9td4Og/s1600/Whispers.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 361px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAvD6x7utZrVKGt0psHZRrrXSZpqDGL4l3O_5KxVvGmqAsnOcoQkQ34deVdO1vqGnbjPDeqh385vCj3u837QVcYpasdSW1rvSPriyU2QpF5fv1760FbvHjMvmvDOHDG3wfzYfM9td4Og/s400/Whispers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508671081211176530" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.lanabutton.com/">Willow's Whispers, by Lana Button<br /></a></div><br />Olivia took to this one immediately. I think it spoke to her anxiety about the start of kindergarten (tomorrow!). Willow has a lot she wants to say, but she hasn't yet found her voice, and so she's often misunderstood. Who among us can't relate to that? She seems to gain the necessary strength from a tender moment with her father at bedtime:<br /><br /> But Dad was an expert at hearing Willow's whispers. He never said "What?" or "Pardon?" or<br /> "Who?" He just wrapped Willow tight in a big bear hug and whispered right back...<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7J8QndPV8YiwAmaQJVp4LHtxC0DvPWwCFEz74iBksHxfdmGqvwT747Ly6A_z8lclm6dDiH6ldwMk5r0jZ6nYJ1aeR3QLywoTUHYz6-ptoAQURwWeuFZv2VTSG1wQ1iIV8JzoAtHuFkI/s1600/Beret.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 399px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7J8QndPV8YiwAmaQJVp4LHtxC0DvPWwCFEz74iBksHxfdmGqvwT747Ly6A_z8lclm6dDiH6ldwMk5r0jZ6nYJ1aeR3QLywoTUHYz6-ptoAQURwWeuFZv2VTSG1wQ1iIV8JzoAtHuFkI/s400/Beret.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508665666368674514" border="0" /></a><a href="http://tomlichtenheld.com/childrens_books/bridgetsberet.html">Bridget's Beret, by Tom Lichtenheld<br /></a></div><br />This one came across our path this summer just as Olivia's own interest in drawing was taking off. Bridget is "drawn to drawing," but only if she's wearing her beret. When her beret gets lost, she experiences artist's block, but ultimately the artist within triumphs. I really liked Lichtenheld's short sidebar with suggestions to cure artist's block:<br /><br /> 1. Make up a funny animal<br /> 2. Draw people with funny hair<br /> 3. Draw something REALLY BIG!<br /> 4. Make a scribble, then turn it into something.<br /><br />These were all found at our local library. Perhaps they'd be at yours, too. If you've come across a favorite, please share.Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120252492480469932.post-60688375355674955702010-08-12T20:19:00.000-07:002010-08-13T12:43:25.900-07:00... but I digress<div style="text-align: center;">"Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine; -- they are the life, the soul of reading."<br />-Tristam Shandy<br /></div><br />I've <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2010/04/15/books/20100415-timelines-ss_index.html">recently learned </a>that the use of the timeline as we know it is just a little over 250 years old. Apparently, until the mid 18th century, chronologists (one whose name happened to be Joannes <span style="font-style: italic;">Temporarius</span>!) had used tables, charts and matrices of varying forms to convey the passing of time with a visual image, but were admittedly stumped as to how to create a "common visual vocabulary for time maps."<br /><div><br />And just as a fellow named Joseph Priestley and his chronologist buddies were playing around with the idea of the timeline, Laurence Sterne was publishing his satirical novel, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Life_and_Opinions_of_Tristram_Shandy,_Gentleman"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy, Gentlemen</span></a>, in which Tristam, the main character digresses throughout his entire narration. In Sterne's novel, Tristam offers this wonderful diagram, similar to a timeline, to illustrate his pattern of digression.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmtQ09BSW6B7-3vXZ-EAfoGiPsE4yRjepjIOWGdLouw4Slf9xVDEPU_vYeuAdYrwkFNs-epCtsIxo2TUys-oKr9YTpNEeBI2p7xWTGPWf29VTPKPSJojQyxYep1Vkphr7LjmumvtKxyE/s1600/digress.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmtQ09BSW6B7-3vXZ-EAfoGiPsE4yRjepjIOWGdLouw4Slf9xVDEPU_vYeuAdYrwkFNs-epCtsIxo2TUys-oKr9YTpNEeBI2p7xWTGPWf29VTPKPSJojQyxYep1Vkphr7LjmumvtKxyE/s400/digress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502875992131691746" border="0" /></a><br />My brother Joel, the best and most effective digressor I know, will arrive here tomorrow for a weekend visit. I've always held that my passing the World and U.S. History portion of the PRAXIS test had more to do with my regular exposure to his offshoots in conversation than any formal history instruction I ever received. The content of his digressions is always worth hearing, and I'm looking forward to a weekend filled with them. His late birthday present from me will be <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2010/04/15/books/20100415-timelines-ss_index.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Cartographies of Time: A History of the Timeline</span></a>, by Daniel Rosenburg and Anthony Grafton. In our family, we have the habit of enjoying the presents we choose before actually giving them to the recipient, and I've been enjoying this one immensely. Here are a few of my favorite images from the book:<br /><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2bKKEgZ4c37tz9BXD5C7ZBuu8u2W7ZBn0HHDIqx7TF-ToSnzxWIT4GihScsYWRKbSVWS1PeXdCCVbSFNDMQ24iofX0AaPW93f5Dtke8JTWZQsuaG1h1jEVdvuw_F2z4bbgA1MNo8FBk/s1600/Chronographie+universelle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2bKKEgZ4c37tz9BXD5C7ZBuu8u2W7ZBn0HHDIqx7TF-ToSnzxWIT4GihScsYWRKbSVWS1PeXdCCVbSFNDMQ24iofX0AaPW93f5Dtke8JTWZQsuaG1h1jEVdvuw_F2z4bbgA1MNo8FBk/s400/Chronographie+universelle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503854657876310466" border="0" /></a></div>Jacques Barbeu-Dubourg's <span style="font-style: italic;">Chronographie universelle</span>. He referred to it as a "time machine." It actually folds up.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tM6kfQZI_1H6i_d4vQ7gKVO7Mfw5-mZ-LSpDs5AnHtExw10aB4wy4-wJLxpWaWDQ_e_tiPOVojTFMUG1h4nKoV61C78IYyoZTx7COwnO8qyd0RhiUbyx96ohCGTXxTwG96XxEcUWswA/s1600/TimeTemple.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tM6kfQZI_1H6i_d4vQ7gKVO7Mfw5-mZ-LSpDs5AnHtExw10aB4wy4-wJLxpWaWDQ_e_tiPOVojTFMUG1h4nKoV61C78IYyoZTx7COwnO8qyd0RhiUbyx96ohCGTXxTwG96XxEcUWswA/s400/TimeTemple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462228130098518898" border="0" /></a>Emma Willard's <a href="http://blogs.princeton.edu/rarebooks/2008/12/standing_within_the_temple_of.html">Temple of Time.</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjxaEi16DcGtJQivJYlwD9JfhyphenhyphenmyxF_pcJYpsgkz9E3oj3L5xlzZg-Esgnm85HDt004eNIgRTAA1rDDCK1Xrm9WSHGACHi8IQTzVNHx7Hjzb3zPOYNC7_wVs-ff9EmWXJ0zFqZ4TulJZQ/s1600/now.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjxaEi16DcGtJQivJYlwD9JfhyphenhyphenmyxF_pcJYpsgkz9E3oj3L5xlzZg-Esgnm85HDt004eNIgRTAA1rDDCK1Xrm9WSHGACHi8IQTzVNHx7Hjzb3zPOYNC7_wVs-ff9EmWXJ0zFqZ4TulJZQ/s400/now.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462228273995277058" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.longnow.org/">The Long Now Foundation</a>'s comparative time scale of the concept of the long now.<br /><br />In the "nowadays" it's become increasingly difficult to work out schedules and find time for trips to see loved ones, and living so far from those who know me best, I am very happy that my brother is coming to visit with us here, and "now."<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(48, 48, 48); line-height: 17px;font-family:Verdana,Tahoma,Arial,sans-serif;font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(48, 48, 48); line-height: 17px;font-family:Verdana,Tahoma,Arial,sans-serif;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div>Elizabeth Dark Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03652410422184636114noreply@blogger.com4