Souls that are lit (I love this imagery)

Those of you who read my blog know that I am a poetry lover. I appreciate poetry in all formats--rhymed, unrhymed, haiku, song lyrics, experimental--the list is endless. As long as the emotions expressed are pure, that's all that matters to me. And there is something about poetry that brings out pure, raw emotion, in a way that no other form of writing quite manages to do, in my humble opinion. 

This poem by Clarissa Pinkola Estés provides food for thought in an increasingly crazy world. I love the imagery--souls that are lit can light other souls that are struggling. Beautiful and kind thoughts......

You Were Made For This

Ours is not the task of fixing the 
entire world all at once, but of 
stretching out to mend the part 
of the world that is within our 
reach.

 
Any small, calm thing that one 
soul can do to help another soul, 
to assist some portion of this 
poor suffering world, will help 
immensely. 

It is not given to us to know 
which acts or by whom, will cause 
the critical mass to tip toward an 
enduring good. 

What is needed for dramatic 
change is an accumulation of 
acts, adding, adding to, adding 
more, continuing. 

We know that it does not take 
everyone on Earth to bring 
justice and peace, but only a 
small, determined group who will 
not give up during the first, 
second, or hundredth gale.

One of the most calming and 
powerful actions you can do to 
intervene in a stormy world is 
to stand up and show your soul. 
Soul on deck shines like gold in 
dark times. The light of the soul 
throws sparks, can send up 
flares, builds signal fires, causes 
proper matters to catch fire. 

To display the lantern of soul in 
shadowy times like these, to be 
fierce and to show mercy toward 
others; both are acts of immense 
bravery and greatest necessity.
Struggling souls catch light from 
other souls who are fully lit and 
willing to show it. If you would 
help to calm the tumult, this is 
one of the strongest things you 
can do.

There will always be times when 
you feel discouraged. I too have 
felt despair many times in my life, 
but I do not keep a chair for it. 
I will not entertain it. It is not 
allowed to eat from my plate.
In that spirit, I hope you will 
write this on your wall: 
"When a great ship is in 
harbor and moored, 
it is safe, 
there can be no doubt. 
But that is not what 
great ships are built for."

🌊 Clarissa Pinkola Estés

And a poem, Out There Alone, from my upcoming collection

Out there alone

 

There you were, little baby gull
Early evening, in the middle of the busy street
Lit by street lamps
Standing alone
Watching the cars pass you by
Buses too
We stopped to watch you
Hoping that no car would hit you.
 
A predicament
I wonder what you thought
Out there alone
Without your mother.
Did you lose her
Or she you?
You were stunned, disoriented
Had you already been grazed
By a car or scooter?
You bent down to peck at something on the pavement
And let it drop. Were you hungry?
 
I couldn’t let you
Stand alone, unsure
Of where to go, where to step
Every move fraught with peril
You would have been crushed
By a car, by a bus
Even though they tried
To steer clear of you.
It was dark.
 
I ask, what we are doing to nature,
To the wildlife that more and more
Seeks refuge in towns and cities
Gulls fly into the city now
Circling overhead, I watch you all
From my kitchen window
You learn our ways
But they are not your ways
 
You eat our food
But it is not your food.
Your food belongs to the sea and its bounty
You belong there too
Had it not been for your being a wild bird
I would have scooped you up in my arms
And taken you home and cared for you
In case you were sick
 
As it was, I could not leave you
To fend for yourself
Watching you commit a form of suicide.
Would you choose that, would you even know
That you were doing so?
 
I walked into the lamp-lit street
To meet you, no oncoming cars to stop me
I thought I might have to gather you in my arms
But no, it was enough that I talked to you
And told you to leave the street
You walked in front of me to the curb
And then hopped up onto the sidewalk
And walked away up along the hilly side street.
 
But you did not fly away
You were not afraid of cars, nor of me
As I clapped my hands and talked to you
So that you would choose life
And not death
On a dark city street.
You should have been afraid.
I would not have hurt you for the world
But cars and buses behave otherwise
You trust, but trust will be your downfall.

Copyright 2022 Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

Two good poems by Charles Bukowski

they are everywhere

the tragedy-sniffers are all
about.
they get up in the morning
and begin to find things
wrong
and they fling themselves
into a rage about
it,
a rage that lasts until
bedtime,
where even there
they twist in their
insomnia,
not able to rid their
mind
of the petty obstacles
they have
encountered.
they feel set against,
it's a plot.
and by being constantly
angry they feel that
they are constantly
right.
you see them in traffic
honking wildly
at the slightest
infraction,
cursing,
spewing their
invectives.
you feel them
in lines
at banks
at supermarkets
at movies,
they are pressing
at your back
walking on your
heels,
they are impatient to
a fury.
they are everywhere
and into
everything,
these violently
unhappy
souls.
actually they are
frightened,
never wanting to be
wrong
they lash out
incessantly...
it is a malady
an illness of
that
breed.

the first one
I saw like that
was my
father
and since then
I have seen a
thousand
fathers,
ten thousand
fathers
wasting their lives
in hatred,
tossing their lives
into the
cesspool
and
ranting
on.

------------------------

poetry

it

takes

a lot of

desperation

dissatisfaction

and

disillusion

to

write

a

few

good

poems.

it's not

for

everybody

either to

write

it

or even to

read

it.

Pat Metheny - You Are (Official Audio)

I bought Pat Metheny's album From This Place in 2020, during the pandemic. I didn't begin to really listen to it until yesterday; listening to it made me realize why I've loved Pat Metheny's music for the past forty years. There are many songs that stand out on the album, but this one, this one, brought me into a world where my brother was still alive, and we were listening to it together. He was a fan too and we went to Pat Metheny concerts several times during the mid-1980s. I haven't been able to cry since he died in 2015, but last night when I went to bed, I lay awake and listened to this song over and over. I don't think I've cried so much in years. It seemed like the emotions came out of nowhere, but of course they didn't. They've been welling up inside me for years and I only needed the right trigger. Because I've wanted to cry and simply couldn't these past seven years. Perhaps another trigger was eating dinner with two friends who asked me about my niece and nephew (his children) and how they're doing. I think of my brother often; we were good friends and even though our lives went in different directions when we both married, we had a bond that couldn't be broken. I don't pretend to understand what God wants of us, why there is so much pain and suffering in the world, personal and otherwise. All I know is that they exist and sometimes it feels as though we're being torn apart emotionally. I'm grateful and always will be for my memories of my brother and for this song that managed to do something that nothing else has for the past seven years--put me in touch with him and the feelings that I've been suppressing for years (why I've done so, I've no idea). 

One of Many--my poem from Parables & Voices

Apropos my last post about doubt--I wrote this poem many years ago. The italicized paragraph describes a woman who has 'chosen' not to pursue her dreams because the man she is with cannot keep pace with her and is angry about that. My guess is that there are many women who do this to keep the men in their lives placated.  

One of Many (Portrait of a Lady) (apologies to Henry James)

 

In some future time she knew
In that way that only women can know
That regret would exact its pound of flesh
For all the choices cast aside, for all the roads not taken.
 
For there were so many roads down which
If she had gone, that life may have been brighter.
Not tinged by so many shadows, not clouded
By the sufferings of others that she took upon herself.
 
In some future time she knew
That she would look back at life
As an old woman and wonder why it was
She chose a man ahead of most everything else.
 
Was it love or perhaps hate that tightened the bond?
Was it fear that made it impossible to live a life unfettered?
Fear of loss, fear of the other, fear of aloneness.
But what is fear if not lack of trust (in oneself and in others).
 
The fierce desire to prove independence from others,
Has led to only this, that she cannot any longer
Act without him, cannot think, cannot be who it is she once was,
For better or for worse, without him looming there before her.
 
A kind of prison, forged by fear and lack of trust,
By uncertainty and a self-image which is negligible at best,
His and in the end it will be hers, chosen by her because it seemed
That if he could not advance then it was her duty to demote herself.
 
Once was pretty, once was lively, once was open.
Once was…..a long long time ago.
Now is diminished, now is careful, now is remote,
So as not to awaken the sleeping beast inside him.
 
For he smiles on the outside, but the inside
Is filled with hate for others and a desire
To be above them since he cannot control them.
He cannot be them, and she cannot be them, by extension.

(From Parables & Voices, copyright 2011, by Paula Mary De Angelis)

The dream killer

I saw this quote (by Suzy Kassem) recently online, and it struck a chord. How many of us never attempt to follow one of our dreams because doubt stops us? I'd wager there are many people whose dreams die in this fashion. Doubt/self-doubt is insidious; it may begin with a negative or critical comment from someone whose opinions we value. But from then on, the ever-present negative voice inside us does the rest, feeding the self-doubt until it dominates all the other feelings we have. 

Moving out against self-doubt is one of the most difficult things you'll ever do in life. But it's necessary. Better to take the plunge into the unknown and take the consequences than to never do so. Better to 'have loved and lost than never to have loved at all', as the old saying goes. Better to have tried and failed than to never have tried at all. It's too easy to convince ourselves that we won't be any good at this or that. 

But if you do overcome self-doubt and attempt to fulfill a dream or two, don't necessarily think that life will be easier. A new set of problems arises in the form of some few people who really don't want to see you succeed no matter what. They remain silent no matter what you do. They never comment one way or another. They are passive. They don't get excited for your small successes, or for a compliment that is given you. Their silence is deafening and tells you all you need to know. They are behaving in an envious and petty fashion. Many people who are trying to realize a goal get stuck here too; they don't want to 'offend' those people by not staying in their place, under the radar. As I wrote in a poem a long time ago, 'if he could not advance, then it was her duty to demote herself'. That is what it can feel like. 

So, here's to all the people who try to conquer their self-doubt in order to realize a dream. Cheers. 

Minnie Riperton- Inside My Love

I stumbled on this song when I was listening to the Jackie Brown film soundtrack. It's a beautiful and sensual love song with fairly explicit lyrics (amazingly allowed in 1975), and what a song it is, sung by an incredible singer. Minnie Riperton's voice lifts it into the ether; it's not hard to imagine her and her husband Richard Rudolph writing it together when they were first in love. I love it. 

Inside My Love

Two people, just meeting, barely touching each other
Two spirits, greeting, tryna carry each further
You are one, and I am another
We should be, one inside each other

You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love
You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love

My love, my love, my love
My love, my love, my love

Two strangers, not strangers
Only lacking the knowing
So willing, feeling
Infinite growing
While we're here, the whole world is turning
We should be, one, fulfilling the yearning

You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love
You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love
You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love

Say that you'll ride, inside this love with me
Come ride, inside this love with me

You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love
You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love

You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love
You can see inside me, will you come inside me
Do you wanna ride, inside my love

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Leon Ware / Minnie Riperton / Richard Rudolph

Inside My Love lyrics © Downtown Music Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Four beautiful poems by Mary Oliver

How did I not discover Mary Oliver sooner? Well, no matter. I have discovered her now and am immersing myself in the beauty of her poetry. Most of what she writes about resonates with me. The last poem I've included here, Hum, is about bees, and for those of you who follow my blog postings about my garden, you know that I too have written about the bees, those marvelous little creatures that keep it all going. 

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

------------------------------------------------

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

--------------------------------------------------

Lead

Here is a story

to break your heart.

Are you willing?

This winter

the loons came to our harbor

and died, one by one,

of nothing we could see.

A friend told me

of one on the shore

that lifted its head and opened

the elegant beak and cried out

in the long, sweet savoring of its life

which, if you have heard it,

you know is a sacred thing.,

and for which, if you have not heard it,

you had better hurry to where

they still sing.

And, believe me, tell no one

just where that is.

The next morning

this loon, speckled

and iridescent and with a plan

to fly home

to some hidden lake,

was dead on the shore.

I tell you this

to break your heart,

by which I mean only

that it break open and never close again

to the rest of the world.

-------------------------------------------------

Hum

What is this dark hum among the roses?

The bees have gone simple, sipping,

that’s all. What did you expect? Sophistication?

They’re small creatures and they are

filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not

moan in happiness? The little

worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks.

Is that long? Long enough, I suppose, to understand

that life is a blessing. I have found them-haven’t you?—

stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings

a little tattered-so much flying about, to the hive,

then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing,

should the task be to be a scout-sweet, dancing bee.

I think there isn’t anything in this world I don’t

admire. If there is, I don’t know what it is. I

haven’t met it yet. Nor expect to. The bee is small,

and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and

read books, I have to

take them off and bend close to study and

understand what is happening. It’s not hard, it’s in fact

as instructive as anything I have ever studied. Plus, too,

it’s love almost too fierce to endure, the bee

nuzzling like that into the blouse

of the rose. And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course

the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over

all of us.

Pearls Before Swine does it again

I agree with Stephan Pastis so often, it amazes me. The sense of entitlement that exists in society approaches nonsensical at times. He sums it up perfectly. 

Pearls Before Swine by Stephan Pastis

An autumn visit to Åsgårdstrand

Our annual autumn trip took us this year to Åsgårdstrand, a small resort town situated on the west coast of Norway, about 60 miles south of Oslo. We'd never been there before, so we decided to visit, especially after our visit to the new Munch Museum in Oslo where we learned that Edvard Munch had lived there. He bought a small summer cottage in Åsgårdstrand in 1898 and painted several famous paintings while he lived there during the summers, among them, Summer Night at Åsgårdstrand and the Girls on the Bridge. 

We stayed one night at the Grand Hotel in Åsgårdstrand, which was a very nice hotel overlooking the ocean. The weather was sunny and warm on both the Saturday and Sunday we were there, so we walked around the harbor area and then up the hill to the town center where there were some cafes and galleries. Munch's summer cottage was closed by the time we arrived on Saturday, so we'll have to visit it another time. After dinner at the hotel, we walked around the harbor area again. It was a clear moonlit night, and the moon lit a path on the ocean. 

During the summer, the town is most likely filled with tourists and boaters, since the harbor had a guest wharf for those who visit by boat. I'm sure it's nice to visit the town during the summer, but I preferred being there during the off-season because there were less people to contend with. I can definitely understand why Munch took a liking to this town. I took some photos and am posting them here. 

Munch's summer cottage is the yellow house to the left

Realizations

I don't view retirement as the end of something, but rather as the beginning of something else--a new adventure. I like where it is leading me. I am rediscovering parts of myself that I loved when I was a teenager and young adult. Interests that have been suppressed because there was little to no time to pursue them. 

When I'm at parties and social events, some people ask me why I retired early. I tell them that I got tired of the bullshit spouted at the departmental/management level. I got tired of listening to it and having to defend it. I got tired of talking about the same issues and problems ad nauseam. I got tired of no solutions, only talk. Talk, talk, and more talk. And having to go to meetings to talk about everything just a bit more. Meetings make the days go round. But not for me. I just wanted to get off the merry-go-round. So, I did. I was in my late fifties when I got tired of the bullshit. There are a few people who have commented that I could have kept on working until retirement age. My answer? I could have, but I didn't want to. I did what I wanted to do--leave. I left behind a work world that no longer suited me or me it; I left behind a work world that did nothing for me anymore. I got tired of giving my all (and more) and watching those who gave half as much get ahead or get the same rewards (salaries and perks) as those who worked much harder. I got tired of incompetent leaders telling us all what to do and draining the annual budgets with their bloated salaries. My former public sector workplace could have gotten rid of at least three levels of leadership, and then they would have had the long-sought after money to do some of the things they need and want to do. But that won't ever happen. Not in Norway, and not in public sector workplaces, which are top-heavy with administrative positions. 

Once you see through something or someone, it is very difficult to go back to pretending that all is fine. And yet we do that for so much of our lives, live on the surface and act 'as if', in order for things to function smoothly, especially at work. And that's ok, until it isn't. By the time one reaches a certain age, the desire for a more honest way of living is something that can no longer be suppressed, at any cost. 

I keep in touch and socialize with my former colleagues several times a year. Some will remain in my life, and some will not. That's ok. Some older colleagues need to keep pretending that they are happy working. And some few are happy working, so more power to them. I want the younger ones to be happy in their jobs. It's no fun to want to retire when you are in your late forties/early fifties and still have twenty-some odd years to go. Best to love your work for as long as you can. The problems start when you no longer love it and when you can no longer 'cover' over or suppress your unhappiness and dissatisfaction. 

I like my free time, and I like having alone time. I like being able to choose when I want to socialize and when I want to be by myself. I like not having to be 'on' all the time. 

My happy place is my garden. God gave me that gift right at the point when I got tired of most everything else. It reinvigorated me in a way that nothing else has or could. I am forever grateful for what my garden has given me--grace in all forms. 

I love being outdoors. I love to go out walking, be out in nature. When I am in New York, my friends and I usually end up visiting one or another garden or park. There are plenty of them in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley where I grew up. Here in Oslo, I walk along the Akerselva river or along the city streets until I find a small park. It doesn't matter for the most part where I end up, just that I am outdoors. 

I've decided to take some online courses in horticulture and plant science via the New York Botanical Garden, for no other reason than to learn. To learn. Not to compete with anyone else, not to win a medal, not to be the best at anything. Simply to learn. 

I am relearning Spanish using the online program Duolingo. It's free and it's good. It all depends on how much time you put into it. I started last December and use half an hour each day to learn and relearn Spanish. I have six years of Spanish between high school and college. I got so far in college that I could write long term papers about Spanish poets (Antonio Machado comes to mind). When I read what I wrote then, I marvel at how much Spanish I actually understood. But I need to get better at speaking the language. Because I want to visit Spain with my husband at some point, and I want to be able to converse simply with the Spanish people. 

I love the New York Times crossword puzzles and games, specifically the daily crossword puzzle, Wordle, and Spelling Bee. They keep me on my toes from an English language point of view. They challenge my brain and that's a good thing. Living in another country can wreak havoc with your retention of English language vocabulary. Wordle and Spelling Bee challenge me to remember my English vocabulary. 

I'm reading different authors and understanding that some authors that have been pushed as excellent are authors I find average at best--Joan Didion and Alice Munro come to mind. Didion does little for me (I've written about her before), and Munro is frustrating to read. Her short stories always end in an odd way; odd doesn't have to be a bad thing, but in her case, it is, because the stories rarely offer any resolution. Some few do, but most don't. Some people may say that's life, that there's no resolution for most of what involves us. Maybe it is, but I don't want to read a lot of stories that end in an ambiguous or frustrating way. Winning the Nobel Prize in Literature (Munro) is no guarantee that you will like the author's writing. So much I've realized. 

H.P. Lovecraft comes to mind as a very good author. Imaginative writing, eerie settings, a feeling of sinisterness. He's a horror and fantasy writer, a very sophisticated one. Not a lot of blood and gore. More the suggestion of the nasty things that can or will happen, the creepy things in dark corners of one's mind or room, or the appearance of monsters that will make your blood run cold. He isn't big on conversation in his stories, but the moods he creates are intense and memorable. His writing gets under your skin; at least it got under mine. I think he is a far better writer than either Didion or Munro, who have not gotten under my skin at all, but literary pundits will tell me that I can't compare genres. I'm doing so anyway. I think he is a very good writer. 

The sound of the bumblebees

I could relate to this comic strip--the sound of bumblebees in the garden.....Always a welcome and nice sound. Even though I like the different seasons, I wish winter was shorter so that we could get back to gardening sooner, all of us, including the bees. 

Fred Basset by Alex Graham

Two gardens worth visiting--Untermyer Gardens and the New York Botanical Garden

On my recent trip to New York in September, I visited Untermyer Gardens (Untermyer Gardens Conservancy - Home) with Jean and the New York Botanical Garden (Home » New York Botanical Garden (nybg.org) with Jola. Both Jean and Jola enjoy gardening and visiting gardens of interest, so it's always enjoyable to visit different gardens with them. 

I've written about Untermyer Gardens in this blog before (A New Yorker in Oslo: Untermyer park and gardens (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com); if you'd like to read more about the history of this garden I suggest Wikipedia and the Untermyer Gardens Conservancy websites. I visited Untermyer together with Stef and John in 2019 (pre-pandemic). A lot has changed in the space of three years; all of the changes are for the better, as they usually are in a garden. During the pandemic, the garden conservancy board planned and hosted different webinars that updated us on some of the changes occurring in the garden--new plantings, new areas dedicated to specific plantings, and renovation/repair of existing structures. The gardens are the venue for different music and dance concerts (carefully chosen) throughout the summer months. The dance concerts especially interest me since I used to dance modern dance many years ago; perhaps one summer I will be able to attend one. 

The New York Botanical Garden (NYBG) has been in existence for a long time, similar to Untermyer Gardens that started development in 1916. The NYBG was established in 1891 and is the largest botanical garden (250 acres) in the USA. It is a national historic landmark that in addition to exhibiting a large diversity of beautiful plants (annuals and perennials), offers programs in horticulture, education, and science. Basic and applied botanical research are also conducted at the NYBG. I've written about this garden before as well in this blog (A New Yorker in Oslo: Beautiful New York State (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com) when I visited NY in 2011. In the early 1980s, I lived in the Bronx and was able to walk to the garden from my apartment on 205th street near the Grand Concourse. Visiting the garden was always a pleasure during the spring, summer and fall months. I remember that I took a daylong course in the use of herbs for medicinal purposes at the NYBG during one of the winters I lived there. Nowadays the garden offers online and in-person courses for people of all ages. I have already registered for one of them: Put Your Garden to Bed, a two-hour course that will provide advice on how to prep your garden for winter. There are also courses in soil science (soil chemistry) that I hope to investigate next semester. 

Here are some photos taken at Untermyer Gardens!

The Walled Garden

one of the pools (canals) in the Walled Garden

The Vista, which descends to the Overlook

closer view of the Overlook, facing west toward the Palisades

a view of the lovely Hudson River from the Temple of Love area

And here are some photos taken at the New York Botanical Garden, of flowers in the tropical water lily pond, of a mosaic plant in the same pond, of the perennial garden, and of a beautiful ceramic urn standing in the vicinity of the perennial garden. 

Random reflections on this autumn day

• I'm one year retired. No regrets. I love my free time and am enjoying life in a whole new way. 
• Since I retired, I've published three books: a poetry collection (Movements Through the Landscape); a memoir about growing up in Tarrytown, New York (A Town and a Valley. Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley); and a meditative book about gardening (The Gifts of a Garden). All of them are available for purchase on Amazon. I am working very hard to market the latter book, although I'd like all of the books to sell a bit if possible. Sending prayers into the universe for support.
• Marketing books is a job unto itself. I wonder how well other authors do this job.
• Forty years ago, I started working at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. A wonderful workplace, one I will never forget. It changed my life in all good ways and showed me what good leadership really is (professional generosity and wishing others well). 
• I think about those friends and colleagues who are no longer with us. I wish they were still here--Liza, Thu, Debby. You left us too soon. 
• I think about friends who are ill and what they go through every day, living with anxiety and the knowledge that they cannot do what they once could do. 
• Enjoyed visiting the new Munch Museum: Munchmuseet in Oslo today with my husband. We visited the old Munch Museum at Tøyen when I first came to Oslo; I was only vaguely aware then of Edvard Munch's paintings. Over the years I've developed an appreciation of his works. The museum is worth visiting. 
• We ate dinner at Villa Paradiso (Italian restaurant) afterward. I thought how nice it was to do this together, go out on a Saturday afternoon, and I mentioned to him that we should do things like this more often. He agreed. He will be retiring soon, so it will be interesting to see what life will be like then when we have more time together. 
• Munch was preoccupied with sickness, death, mortality (his mother and sister died of tuberculosis when he was young). Illness in general, including mental illness. His was not a very happy life. But he was an amazing artist. The acknowledgment of our mortality. Some say it becomes more acute once one turns sixty. All I know is that I've been living with this knowledge since I was a teenager and watched my father experience heart attacks and strokes. His first heart attack occurred when I was twelve years old; he died when I was twenty-nine. Mortality became real to me as well once I read Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem 'Spring and Fall--to a young child' as a teenager. Perhaps I shouldn't have read it and internalized it. But I did, and it has stuck with me since then, especially the last two lines: 'It is the blight man was born for, it is Margaret you mourn for'. Do we mourn for ourselves, for the knowledge that our lives will eventually merge into the river of time that sweeps us all onward?
• Everyone ages. Some are more afraid of it than others. Some feel the need to change their faces and looks in order to stay young-looking. But it doesn't really work. It changes how you look even if it may make you look younger, and if you are a celebrity, everyone comments. If it changes how you look, does that change who you are? Do you really believe that you are younger? I don't judge others if they want to go down this road, but I think it is probably easier to just accept the gradual changes associated with aging. Look in the mirror. Or don't. My mother would have said 'just live your life. Get on with it'. She was right about so many things. 
• Does having faith make it easier to deal with one's mortality? Perhaps. I'd rather have faith than not have it. But no one knows what life is like after death, since no one has come back to tell us about it, except Christ. And one must accept his words about eternity, in faith. 
• Faith is defined as 'complete trust or confidence in someone or something'; also 'a strong belief in the doctrines of a religion, based on spiritual conviction rather than proof'. Our society requires proof, evidence, hard facts. Hard to come by where the afterlife is concerned. If someone we once knew and loved rose from the dead before our eyes, I think we would freak out completely. 
• I am now a gardener. That is my identity for at least six months of the year. I am happy in that knowledge. Working with the earth completes me. I don't need much else when I am in my garden. My soul is happy there. It's where I find God. That's all that matters to me. 
• I share my garden photos with others, and they tell me that I am a master gardener. It's nice to hear, but it's not why I share the photos. I want to share the beauty that my soul 'sees'. I hope that others find peace and serenity the way I have found it. That's why I wrote 'The Gifts of a Garden'. 
• I think about so many things when I am working in my garden. There is something about weeding that encourages reflection. I connect with my garden in a silent communion; we talk without the actual utterance of words, but they are uttered in my head. I've learned that if you treat living things well, they will shine. They will do their best to be the best versions of themselves that they can be. If it's true for flowers and plants, it's true for humans (and animals) too.
• As a country (the USA), we need less emphasis on what divides us, and more emphasis on what unites us. The media have had far too much to say about what divides us. But we can choose to listen to it, or to not listen to it. I choose the latter, most of the time. Many women I know have done the same. There is no point in becoming an angry person if that anger does not lead you in the right direction, toward something positive--changing yourself or the situations that infuriate you. If you are constantly angry at everything, your anger is not rational or logical. 
• The orange-haired man appears to be imploding. It had to happen at one point. He's an old man now and he looks it. His behavior borders on deranged. How he's kept up the facade for this long is anyone's guess. 
• As Tania Tetlow--the new president (first woman president) of Fordham University--states, 'we build a common good with ethics, empathy, and faith'. Not with amorality, hardness of heart, and lack of faith. Humans must have hope in order to go on. Our job as Christians is to appeal to that hope in every person we meet. 

And one more poem--Violets--because what she writes about is what matters

Who has not felt the fleeting sorrow for living things that are wiped out or destroyed in the name of progress (however necessary)? 

VIOLETS                  by Mary Oliver 

Down by the rumbling creek and the tall trees— where I went truant from school three days a week and therefore broke the record— 

there were violets as easy in their lives as anything you have ever seen or leaned down to intake the sweet breath of. 

Later, when the necessary houses were built they were gone, and who would give significance to their absence. 

Oh, violets, you did signify, and what shall take your place?

(from Devotions--Penguin Publishing Group) 

Another Mary Oliver poem--Almost a Conversation

Almost a Conversation            by Mary Oliver 

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter 

about his life. 

He has so many teeth, he has trouble 

with vowels. 

Wherefore our understanding 

is all body expression— 

he swims like the sleekest fish, 

he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles. 

Little by little he trusts my eyes 

and my curious body sitting on the shore. 

Sometimes he comes close. 

I admire his whiskers 

and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear. 

He has no words, still what he tells about his life 

is clear. 

He does not own a computer. 

He imagines the river will last forever. 

He does not envy the dry house I live in. 

He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship. 

He wonders, morning after morning, that the river 

is so cold and fresh and alive, and still 

I don’t jump in.

(from Devotions--Penguin Publishing Group) 

Mysteries, Yes--a beautiful poem by Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is fast becoming one of my favorite poets. I love pretty much everything she writes. 

Mysteries, Yes

by Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
 to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

The Gifts of a Garden is available on Amazon

My latest book, available on Amazon in three formats: e-book, hardcover, and paperback. 

The Gifts of a Garden: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9798435180572: Amazon.com: Books

(front and back covers shown; design by Paloma Ayala) 

Late summer garden--photos

As promised, some recent photos of my garden (August and September). Autumn is approaching here in Oslo, and gardening season is winding down. I went to my garden today after having been traveling for almost two weeks. The summer asters are in full bloom, the climbing rose bushes have bloomed for the second time this summer, the coneflowers look beautiful (see photos), likewise (some of) the gladiolas (see photos). The giant sunflowers grew very tall while I was away; their height is impressive, at least eight feet (see photos). The other photos were taken during mid- to late-August, when gooseberries, red currants, black currants and raspberries were harvested. The Folva potatoes were harvested at the beginning of September. 

yellow coneflowers

coneflowers and gladioli

giant sunflowers

the (mostly) perennial garden

garden project for this year--assembling and painting a garden bench

a lot of zucchinis (as usual)--they're easy to grow

a good year for gooseberries

pumpkins 

a lot of potatoes (one type--Folva)

Just about sums it up (the work world, that is!)