heightened senses….

“Memory believes before knowing remembers.
William Faulkner

(Victorian Christmas Greeting card)

Every memory seems more keen.
Every sight seems more bright.
Every tear seems more heavy.
Every scent seems more strong.
Every sound seems more bold.
Every heartache seems more piercing.
Every loss seems more painful.
Every joy seems more complete.
Every touch seems more dear…

Each year, finding ourselves standing before what makes Christmas just that,
Christmas…
Our senses,
our thoughts,
our tastes,
our recollections…
seem hopelessly more intense, more sharp, more profound…

Be that a blessing
or
be that a curse.

Pain is greater.
Suffering is more fierce.
Joy is more contagious.
While satisfaction hangs precariously in the balance.

There are those who gravitate toward this more mystical and magical time
full of giddiness and glee…
while others wish to close their eyes,
not openning them again until mid January.

The sensory overload can be overtly overwhelming or palpably underwhelming.

And yet it is in that overload, be it over or under,
that we actually become more….
raw…
more open…
and even more vulnerable.

And it is in that vulnerability that the ego slightly abates….
the guard slips ever so quietly,
While pretense evaporates as the dew in first light…
As we are splayed wide open.

And it is in that moment of pure raw vulnerability that
the heart finally realigns,
beating rhythmically for the first time since the tragic Fall,
as it is once again, albeit briefly, in sync with all of Creation…

For no word from God will ever fail.”
Luke 1:37

Obviously the truth

“Today I will do what others won’t,
so tomorrow I can accomplish what others can’t”
Jerry Rice

“Never be afraid to raise your voice for honesty and truth and compassion
against injustice and lying and greed.
If people all over the world…would do this,
it would change the earth.”
― William Faulkner

“Silence becomes cowardice when occasion demands speaking out
the whole truth and acting accordingly.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

(the first butterfly of the season visiting the blueberry blooms / Julie Cook / 2016)

The official word is supposedly to come Thursday.
The long awaited “will they or won’t they….”

Word is that they won’t.

Yet the House has voted…383-0
Unanimous across party lines.
A strong signal to the Administration…

“Last week, ISIS militants killed 16 people, including four Catholic nuns, at a retirement home in southern Yemen,” Ryan said in a statement Monday. “This is the latest in a string of brutal attacks committed by ISIS against Christian and other minorities. Yet the administration has still not called this what it is: A genocide.”
Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House

The Senate will vote next.
Yet these votes are symbolic in name only…
Because the final word will come from the White House and the White House alone.

However… no matter whether this Administration confirms that the atrocities waged by ISIS against Christians is indeed genocide… or not….the truth remains…obviously the Truth…

http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2016/03/14/house-poised-to-declare-isis-committing-genocide-against-christians-other-minorities.html?intcmp=hpbt2

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace;
Zechariah 8:16

The importance of the angle

“I don’t care much for facts, am not much interested in them; you can’t stand a fact up, you’ve got to prop it up, and when you move to one side a little and look at it from that angle, it’s not thick enough to cast a shadow in that direction.”
William Faulkner

(a bowl of freshly picked blueberries / Julie Cook / 2015)

Ode to the importance of angles. . .

I’m not talking about geometry or trigonometry
I’m not talking about Physics or Calculus
I’m not talking about cartography or the study of trajectory
I’m not talking about cameras, photography or architecture
I’m not talking about framing or woodworking
I’m not talking about golf, tennis, football, baseball, soccer, or hockey. . .

I’m simply talking about picking blueberries. . .

Upon first inspection of my blueberry bushes, I readily and immediately see exactly what needs picking.
Those lovely succulent orbs of royal blue to purple to practically black dangling and dotting the green backdrop like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

Working feverishly in the heat of day, gingerly canvasing the bush, I begin the task of pulling, plucking and gently twisting until the bush gives release of her tiny treasures. . .as I notice several berries sporting tiny little piercing holes. . . pecked neatly in the center of each berry.
As in pecking birds. . .
I am more than willing to share my bounty with my feathered friends but I would hope that the birds would pick and take as opposed to pecking, damaging and leaving.

Resigned to having no choice in my sharing, I let out one long heat laden sigh. . .

After an excruciatingly hot 40 minutes or so of slowly making my way round and around the bush, standing on tippy toes and squatting way down low, it appears as if I have gotten all the berries that are ripe, leaving those red and green berries for another day as they still require a few more days.

The thoughts of a cool AC and an even colder cool shower were sweetly beckoning to me like a siren to the weary sailor. . .that is until I bend over, picking up a few berries that had fallen down into the pine straw. . .and that’s when happenstance would have it’s wicked way with me.
I cast my gaze slightly upward, up underneath the bush. . .and that’s when I saw it.. . or rather that’s when I saw them. . .
I was aghast.
Dangling high and low, as if to tease even more sweat from my heatstroke brow, there hanging and hidden from the sight of the obvious are a myriad more overtly ripe blue and purple berries.

Hidden from the sight of the obvious.

I begin crawling up and under, scrounging on bended knees, reaching and stretching ever upward, around and over. . .agin and agin. . .
Plucking until, thinking triumphantly, I have finally gotten every last berry. . .
. . .that is until I turn my head to the left. . .

And that’s when it hits me. . .
This picking business isn’t about the obvious. . .no, not at all.
The key to successful picking is knowing about the angle.
The obvious is one thing.
The obvious is easy.
Everyone sees the obvious.
Even the birds see the obvious. . .taking full advantage of such obvious pickings.
The key to success, the key to the fullest basket or bowl of berries,
isn’t resting in the obvious. . .
No. . .I have discovered, in the heat of this late June day while clutching a burgeoning bowl of berries, that the key to success lies not in the obvious. . .
but rather the key lies hidden in the all important angle.

Being keen to bend, cocking ones head, peering up and over, or under and around.
With the angle of vision being paramount. . .

Being able to go into any endeavor, be it picking berries or solving any of life’s toughest troubles, knowing that what greets you initially is not all that there is—for there is certainly more— will be the true ticket to success—

So the next time you’re faced with one of life’s vexing problems—don’t consider the obvious, that which is staring you in the face. . . be willing to cock your head, looking over and around, up and above, hidden and way down low . . .

You might just be surprised at how quickly you’ll fill your cup,
your heart, your life, your bowl. . .
filling it full with even more ripe berries than what you had initially expected. . .

Now it’s time for that shower!!!

southern nostalgia

“Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar…”
― William Faulkner

(photograph: abandoned house, Troup Co, Georgia / Julie Cook / 2013)

Driving through the rural areas in our state, be it north or south, the sights all look very similar…fields, cows, crops, and most often, abandoned barns, outbuildings and houses. My husband has often told me I needed to start taking pictures of old barns as they are a dying breed. I’m beginning to think that much of the old rural ways are actually the dying breed.

This country grew up as a nation on the backs of the farmer…the small as well as the larger farms. There is something most satisfying about heading to a farmer’s market or fruit stand to purchase field fresh vegetables and fruits… that is if you don’t have your own garden out back. I think it’s almost humorous, this sudden massive fascination of ours— this huge surge in support for the farm to table movement and the Slow food movement. It’s as if farm fresh food has been suddenly discovered as some new novel idea… as it is now in vogue to eat at restaurants that tout farm fresh and locally sourced foods.

My grandmother, were she still alive, would laugh at this new craze as it was her generation’s way of life. With all of our growing technology, food became “convenient”…packed, wrapped and good to go….when fast food was born, our lives drastically changed as did our tastebuds and health. It’s taken the alarming drastic toll on our health and waistlines for us to finally realize that maybe our convenient flash frozen, quickly fried and biggie sized lives have not been as amazing as we first thought.

Looking at an abandoned old farm house such as the one above does make me a bit wistful and nostalgic for a former time. The cities began calling and off everyone sadly went. But there is something to be said for this long ago far away slower way of life, as life use to be. My humble opinion is that we were a happier people. Family was important and close knit. We interacted with one another, we supported one another. Our parents were our parents and not our friends. If we got in trouble, we got in trouble. Life was seemingly more “real”……

Afternoons, after school, were spent out in the yard or on our bikes. Weekends were spent exploring the woods or the creek. We picked apples off the tree and ate them on the spot as the yellow jackets chased after us. Evenings were spent, after homework, chasing toads, fireflies, counting stars; listening to the crickets, the whippoorwills, telling secrets under the stars and moonlit nights.

There were chores, errands, cleaning..there were repercussions for not doing such. There were beans to snap, cakes to make, oil to change in the car and truck, cats and dogs to feed. We could go outside and we were safe. Mothers didn’t worry if we were gone with the neighboring kids all day long, returning when twilight was falling on the land and names were called out from backdoors, or whistles were blown or bells were rung to come running for supper.

Wistful, nostalgic and even a tad sad…..

I miss that life…I think most of us miss that life.