sharing my love of books with you

Month: May 2023

Saturday, May 13

May is slipping away, isn’t it? Today is my sixth wedding anniversary. We had a nice, quiet day at home with good food and happy cats. I finished writing my June devotional, and I will make that available to you on my Journeys for Christ page the first week of June. I hope it will be an encouragement to you.

Today has been a nice day for tea. I started the day with a mug of hot chocolate with matcha, then had a cup of strawberry limeade tea, and now I’m drinking chai. Tea and books are a such a good combination.

Hattie is sleeping next to me while I type. She looked so happy I had to share this picture.

I haven’t written many blog posts lately, but I’ll be returning to regular reading and posting soon. I started a new poetry book this week: a volume of selected works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I also read a few more chapters on Roosevelt. And I’m about to begin an audiobook – one I’ve listened to before and absolutely love. I look forward to sharing bits and pieces of these books with you over the next few weeks. But today, this is all I can write. Happy Reading!

Saturday, May 6

This afternoon is a 2-mugs-of-green-tea afternoon. It doesn’t hurt that one serving of my loose leaf green tea will make two cups. Today has been a slow day for me. Sadly, I haven’t read a lot this week, so I don’t have many updates, except to say that I will be working on my own poetry for the next few hours. I don’t think I’m a very good poet, but Mary Oliver said if you discipline yourself to work on your poetry, eventually poetry will find you. So that is what I am doing today. What are you working on today?


Polestars (yes, it is pronounced like two words, pole stars) – that which serves as a guide or director

“Everyone knew Roosevelt was a man of action, however, and the new president, although trotting in McKinley’s path, had polestars of his own to guide him in national politics and in world affairs.”

Lion in the White House, Aida D. Donald

A Little Ado About This And That, by Mary Oliver

If I walk out into the world in irritation or
self-centeredness, the birds scatter.

I would like people to remember of me, how 
inexhaustible was her mindfulness.

The hurricane may find us or it will not, that
will always be the way.

With Shelley, I feel the visceral experience 
of imagination.

Can you imagine anyone having a "casual" faith?

"This is what I know from years of being me," said 
a friend.

You will always love me.

About God, how could he give up his secrets and
still be God?

If you think you see a face in the clouds, why not
send a greeting?  It can't do any harm.

("A Little Ado About This And That", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)

Blueberries, by Mary Oliver

I'm living in a warm place now, where
you can purchase fresh blueberries all
year long.  Labor free.  From various
countries in South America.  They're 
as sweet as any, and compared with the 
berries I used to pick in the fields
outside of Provincetown, they're 
enormous.  But berries are berries.  They
don't speak any language I can't 
understand.  Neither do I find ticks or 
small spiders crawling among them.  So,
generally speaking, I'm very satisfied.

There are limits, however.  What they 
don't have is the field.  The field they 
belonged to and through the years I 
began to feel I belonged to.  Well,
there's life, and then there's later.
Maybe it's myself that I miss.  The
field, and the sparrow singing at the
edge of the woods.  And the doe that one 
morning came upon me unaware, all 
tense and gorgeous.  She stamped her hoof
as you would to any intruder.  Then gave
me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you 
stay in your patch, I'll stay in mine.  
Which is what we did.  Try packing that 
up, South America.

("Blueberries", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)

The Wasp, by Mary Oliver

Why the wasp was on my bed I didn't 
know.  Why I was in bed I did know.  Why 
there wasn't room for both of us I
didn't know.  I watched it idly.  Idleness
can be a form of dying, I did know that.

The wasp didn't communicate how it felt.
It did look confused on the white sheet,
as though it had landed somewhere in the 
Arctic.  And it did flick its wings when 
I raised my legs, causing an upheaval.

I didn't want to be lying there.  I didn't
want to be going in that direction.  And
so I say it was a gift when it rose into
the air and, as wasps do, expressed itself
in a sudden and well-aimed motion.

Almost delicious was its deep, inflexible

("The Wasp", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)