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Thursday, August 28, 2014

virtual mochaccino



It's time, I think, for a virtual coffee, or in this case, a virtual caffe mocha. I'm not one for product placement (to my own folly, I'm sure) but my latest rather decadent addiction is: the Via Caffe Mocha from Starbucks. {Hello, Starbucks, feel free to send me a case of this stuff...lol}




Thinking lately, about courage, about grace.


Courage

by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off our heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.





If we were sitting at my kitchen table, I would tell you about movies I've recently watched, including The Railway Man, which I've added to my usual DVD list at the library. Maybe I wouldn't have watched the movie if Colin Firth hadn't been one of the principle actors, but what a compelling story, beautiful, understated acting, and a good screenplay. It's powerful and gut wrenching without being overblown and overdone.

A book I've slowly been reading for most of the summer: My Life in Middlemarch by Rebecca Mead. It's been the perfect before bedtime book. I like the book for many reasons but maybe foremost because of the whole idea that a book may choose us, or we choose it, or it finds us - and it becomes the companion for a portion, maybe all, of our life.

" "What's your favourite book?" is a question that is usually only asked by children and banking identity-verification services - and favourite isn't, anyway, the right word to describe the relationship a reader has with a particularly cherished book. Most serious readers can point to one book that has a place in their life like the one that Middlemarch has in mine. I chose Middlemarch - or Middlemarch chose me - and I cannot imagine life without it. My husband, the most avid reader I know, would choose In Search of Lost Time as his most treasured work. One friend insists on the primacy of David Copperfield, while another goes back to The Portrait of a Lady, and I know them better for knowing that about them."  

Longtime readers of this blog, and anyone who knows me, know my book is The Stream of Life by Clarice Lispector. A Breath of Life, by CL a close second. But then I'm always going back to Jane Austen, as well. Of course, after reading Mead's book, will have to go back to Middlemarch. And then maybe others by Eliot. I've read Adam Bede, though seem to have lost my copy from way back in university days. I've read Daniel Deronda, but not Silas Marner or The Mill on the Floss.

And you? What have you been watching this summer? Reading?




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