Hard Copy: All the way

A Book

There is no frigate like a book

To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page

Of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of toll;

How frugal is the chariot

That bears a human soul!

 ***

Here's to hard copy.  People look at me askance in the office when I suggest printing a publication.  It's all pdf and html to them.  I have a Kindle but it's not the same as a book; a real new book smelling of ink and clean paper.   Untouched.  I don't much go for second hand books except when they are library books and even then I leap for joy when I score a new book acquisition and discover I am the first borrower.   I hope no more bookstores go out of business.  How ever will we browse the new book selection?  We are writing to Queen Elizabeth on the occasion of her Diamond Jubilee.  You can do so by email (as we've done) but it's not the same as writing a real letter either.  Receiving an honest to goodness letter by reply in the mail from the Lady-in-Waiting at Balmoral Castle is such a thrill, I can tell you.  No email pdf can match it.

Poem by Emily Dickinson

Still here

...but without camera. 

Crazy days here.  Looking at high schools for 2013.  Not impressed with the public schools on offer and not totally satisfied with local private school.  Talk about chalk and cheese.   Everything from cost to curriculum and communication with parents is diametrically opposite and none have the perfect fit. 

We're also adjusting to changes on the work front which have a flow-on effect on the whole family.  Difficult times.  Decisions to be made.

Saturdays are now entirely consumed by soccer games which squeezes an already tight timetable.  It's tiring, but I must confess to finding it fun to watch 7,9 and 11 year olds play their matches and observe the different skill levels emerge.

So, all up, I'm savouring the family vibe but with an undercurrent of stress this week. 

A Series of Squares

~ Raymond Foss

The work, the lawn
carved up into a series of squares
crisp edges, overlapping rows
breaking all up
a section at a time.

Like parts of a maze,
a prayer labyrinth
in the segments, the squares
the rectangles and the edges,
all woven, walked

A series of squares,
around the trees, the pines
at the edge of the hill,
between the beds
the soccer field

A pattern of pieces
together a whole
watching the skies
for the clouds above
rounding each corner
to finish the whole

***

It was the first full day of soccer  matches yesterday.  From 9.00 pm to 3.00 pm in three different venues. That's an entire school day spent on the road.  Admittedly, thanks to being a two-car family, I managed to squeeze a grocery shop and few loads of washing back home into the schedule - blissfully aware, I might add, that this was a privileged option.

I still find it unusual to see girls play soccer, especially novice seven-year-olds with legs like fawns and sweet ponytails swinging as they chase the ball.  It's a great atmosphere pitch-side with attentive parents shouting encouragement.   However, I still jump when a mother bellows from the top of her lungs when standing right next to me ... some can even manage it mid-conversation.  It's all a bit rowdy; just not cricket, when a gentle clap is acceptable.  I doubt I'll get used to this.

It's May

Peace, quiet and rest is her message,

Tired scenery heeds her call;

This gracious lady of Autumn,

Loveliest season of all.

Pamela Summers

Still no sign of my camera.  It's with a spiral notepad somewhere. Meantime, I've borrowed a DLSR monolith from the office to play with and have no idea what ISO or half the other functions mean.  Also can't seem to download them to the computer.  I'm thinking a replacement Mother's Day camera might be called for. Is that excessive?  It's either that or a non-stick fry pan and I know which I'd prefer.  (However, I have had a sneak peak of some "vouchers" from the children for hugs, back tickles and promises to do odd jobs 'round the house.  What more really could a mother ask for?)    

Photo: Australian Institute of Sport, Canberra.  "Swimming Islands" and "Waiting Poolside".  By me on iphone with Instagram.

Solitude

Ode on Solitude

~ Alexander Pope

 

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

 In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

 In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mix'd; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me dye;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

 Tell where I lye.

***

The children have gone off on holiday with their grandparents.  It's strangely quiet without them and there's less structured activity to pad out the days.  It's the catering that I notice the most.  Dinner and washing-up for two.  Cut lunches for two or not at all. Bliss.  No mess on the floor.  No crazy bedtime routine.  No... little faces, little conversations, little books and learning.  No little hugs.  I can't imagine what it will be like when they have grown and gone away.  It's nice for a week but not for an endless period, as it will surely be one day.    Empty children's bedrooms are the saddest places, I think.

Fan mail

“Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred.
"Six years to the day we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?"
"Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?"
"I forge’ the details," Hagrid chortled.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

“A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!”

 ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Batement Tendu

Childhood

~ George William Russell

HOW I could see through and through you!

So unconscious, tender, kind,

More than ever was known to you

Of the pure ways of your mind.

We who long to rest from strife

Labour sternly as a duty;

But a magic in your life

Charms, unknowing of its beauty.

We are pools whose depths are told;

You are like a mystic fountain,

Issuing ever pure and cold

From the hollows of the mountain.

We are men by anguish taught

To distinguish false from true;

Higher wisdom we have not;

But a joy within guides you.

***

Beautiful end of term open session at ballet this afternoon.  A room full of little girls in lavender, alternately graceful and squirming.    At seven years of age, they are starting 'intensive training' with classic routines at the barre and on the floor.  It's hardly the Kirov, but so sweet to see my girl point her toes perfectly and step out on long, lean but muscular legs.  She can tie a mean bun all by herself in the back of the car too.

Bravo.  Encore!