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FieldMouse of Sleet
Jan. 30th, 2025 10:03 pmI often write elaborate paragraphs in my head, and then I just can't bring myself to materialize them onto paper or into pixels. This 2-sentence paragraph right here represents the whole array I did not write.
I have misunderstood the Nipper's gift, and I mourn this, for he is an INFP, and they are very tender-hearted. I'm sad to think I might have hurt his feelings. No, no, aged and daffy hippie mom (as he did NOT say), those are not rolling papers. They are, as it states on the label, wish paper. I thought that was just the brand name . . . You write your wish on them (very delicately, for the paper is translucently thin) and then insert them into the brass cylinder that forms part of the bracelet that came with them. It was a kind and thoughtful gift that was insufficiently appreciated. I don't think I can look at my wishes on paper right now either, but maybe later.
This is the Emerson quote he sent, which I did enjoy contemplating.
“Miracles have ceased,” he said. Said I, “Have they indeed? When? They had not ceased this afternoon when I walked into the wood and got into bright, miraculous sunshine in shelter from the roaring wind…”
I did, in fact, manage a walk this morning. The sun was out, and I did make it within the confines of the wood, which is no confine at this time of year, the bare branches merely sketching a shelter, but the sunshine was warm all the same. The edges of the snowpack are withdrawing by ever so little, and the edges of the night are withdrawing by ever so little, for a few minutes more of day each day. I can hear birds beginning to chirp hopefully. I'm not at all satisfied with the conduct of my legs, but at least they were moving.
When I thought of miracles, it reminded me of a quote from one of my very favorite books, Death Comes For the Archbishop, by Willa Cather. I spent some time leafing through my copy. it's a beautiful volume, illustrated, with a lovely type face laid out on thick deckle-edged paper, deaccessioned from the collection of Ohio State University at some point after 1937. It has a VERY strict list of rules for proper use of the library pasted into the front cover. It's been too long since I've read it.
“Where there is great love there are always miracles,' he said at length. 'One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.”
I have misunderstood the Nipper's gift, and I mourn this, for he is an INFP, and they are very tender-hearted. I'm sad to think I might have hurt his feelings. No, no, aged and daffy hippie mom (as he did NOT say), those are not rolling papers. They are, as it states on the label, wish paper. I thought that was just the brand name . . . You write your wish on them (very delicately, for the paper is translucently thin) and then insert them into the brass cylinder that forms part of the bracelet that came with them. It was a kind and thoughtful gift that was insufficiently appreciated. I don't think I can look at my wishes on paper right now either, but maybe later.
This is the Emerson quote he sent, which I did enjoy contemplating.
“Miracles have ceased,” he said. Said I, “Have they indeed? When? They had not ceased this afternoon when I walked into the wood and got into bright, miraculous sunshine in shelter from the roaring wind…”
I did, in fact, manage a walk this morning. The sun was out, and I did make it within the confines of the wood, which is no confine at this time of year, the bare branches merely sketching a shelter, but the sunshine was warm all the same. The edges of the snowpack are withdrawing by ever so little, and the edges of the night are withdrawing by ever so little, for a few minutes more of day each day. I can hear birds beginning to chirp hopefully. I'm not at all satisfied with the conduct of my legs, but at least they were moving.
When I thought of miracles, it reminded me of a quote from one of my very favorite books, Death Comes For the Archbishop, by Willa Cather. I spent some time leafing through my copy. it's a beautiful volume, illustrated, with a lovely type face laid out on thick deckle-edged paper, deaccessioned from the collection of Ohio State University at some point after 1937. It has a VERY strict list of rules for proper use of the library pasted into the front cover. It's been too long since I've read it.
“Where there is great love there are always miracles,' he said at length. 'One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.”
