Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire,
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
~ William Blake
(Songs of Experience)
In lands I never saw — they say
Immortal Alps look down —
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament —
Whose sandals touch the town;
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A myriad Daisy play —
Which, Sir, are you, and which am I —
Opon an August day?
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #108)
Lugh, the Celtic god of Sun and Light, celebrates the sun’s annual path across the sky. Each of the year’s solar events — solstices and equinoxes and the midpoints between these — marks the passing of the seasons on Earth. I have written the name of each solar holiday in Runes around the sun’s face and marked him with Celtic knots that represent this unending cycle.
~ Helen Seebold
(36th Annual Sculpture in the Garden)
On Monday I finished boxes #9 and #10 of the 14 family history boxes I’m going through. #9 had taken about a month, but #10 only took an afternoon, being mostly books which were either shelved or dispatched. Above and below are two of the photo treasures I found. So many fond memories taking our Shetland Sheepdog, Skipper, to the Cape to visit my grandparents! Too few pictures!
I was able to identify my Ukrainian immigrant grandparents (William & Katherine) in the picture below, standing on either side of the porch steps. This was the funeral for their son, Jon, who came to America with his mother when he was only 5 months old. He died at age 9 of appendicitis. The little girls in front of the coffin are my aunt Lil, who was 4, and my aunt Jean, who was 6. Auntie Lil lived to be 101 years old when she died, and she often remembered her beloved big brother, who would share whatever candy he had with her. (My father was born 3 years after Jon died.) I have no idea who the other people are in the photo, but my guess is that they are members of the church they attended.
A picture of Jon was posted here: Augusta Jean & John Stephen.
Friday we took Kat and her friend with us to the Ackland Art Museum in Chapel Hill and saw the special Radical Clay: Contemporary Women Artists from Japan exhibit. We made good use of Tim’s new disability parking tag — a game changer. Once inside I quickly realized I forgot to leave my handbag in the car and was relieved when Kat offered to carry it for me.
It was interesting seeing what interested the girls — they lingered and had lengthy discussions at a lot of the sculptures but zipped past all the paintings. It was nice listening to Tim asking them the kinds of teaching questions he’s so good at with kids. When he got tired there was a couch in the lobby where he rested.
I was distracted by the history of the museum itself, founded through the bequest of William Hayes Ackland, a Tennessee native. On the museum’s website, the Biography of William Hayes Ackland notes:
“The Ackland is in the process of reckoning with its history and rethinking how we tell the story of William Hayes Ackland. Stay tuned for changes to these pages.”
Ackland’s body lies in a stone coffin in a little room off of the museum’s lobby. The exhibit label traces where his inherited money came from. He not only wanted the people of his native south to know and love the fine arts, but it seems to me he also wanted to make sure they remembered him!
I can’t help wondering if the enlightening exhibit label will be changed if the current administration finds it out of alignment with its agenda. It will be nice when autumn comes and this cursed heat and humidity disappear. Getting back outside and enjoying the natural world; escaping from the reminders of tyranny that seem to be around every corner.
If it had no pencil,
Would it try mine —
Worn — now — and dull — sweet,
Writing much to thee.
If it had no word —
Would it make the Daisy,
Most as big as I was —
When it plucked me?
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #184)
No doubt about it, it is summer now. The field daisies have been in bloom since mid-June, and now come the black-eyed Susans, whose color smacks you in the eye. I find in Gray’s Manual of Botany that color is given simply as orange-yellow. To me it is a special brassy golden color, full of sunlight, a color that no artist I can remember except Van Gogh ever used.
~ Hal Borland
(Hal Borland’s Book of Days)
It’s been so sweet listening to our cardinals sing this summer, and now they have some youngsters exploring the world around them.
This one seemed particularly interested in our birdbath so I was able to get some fuzzy pictures through the sliding glass doors. He kept picking up and putting down catkins, splinters, and twigs, as if he was learning what might or might not be edible. He never did go into the water, though.
So, art thou feathered, art thou flown,
Thou naked thing? — and canst alone
Upon the unsolid summer air
Sustain thyself, and prosper there?
Shall no more with anxious note
Advise thee through the happy day,
Thrusting the worm into thy throat,
Bearing thine excrement away?
Alas, I think I see thee yet,
Perched on the windy parapet,
Defer thy flight a moment still
To clean thy wing with careful bill.
And thou are feathered, thou art flown;
And hast a project of thine own.
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
(The Fledgling)
