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The First Sunday in Lent
Another glorious day. I think it got up to about 72F today. Started out cloudy and gradually cleared through the day, with the breeze intensifying every hour. The weather people — none of whom are fit to touch the hem of my maternal grandmother’s apron when it comes to weather forecasting — are saying it’ll be snowing by this Friday night. Mrs. Orr and I had a lovely, leisurely, reading morning, settled in chair and sofa with dogs all around, our new used treasures piled before us, and we dipped into them like a all you can eat dim sum restaurant. I spent part of the day outside planting bulbs…
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39 for 35; or, 25 or 6 to four
Our maple reawakens The dogs awakened us extra-early today, which annoyed my beloved wife to no end. We let them outside, but made them wait for breakfast while we went back to sleep for a while. Mrs. Orr never really did get her sea legs the rest of the day, though, and felt groggy. Worse than toddlers, trust me. When I stepped out into the back yard, I saw the maple was decked with tiny pink blossoms. As quick as the moon changes, it will be covered in suncatching leaves. It’s hard to believe that it was a slender sapling, smaller in diameter than my wrist, when we planted it…
- Bluebelle, Church Life, Daily Life, Holy Days, Jinx, Lectio Divina, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections
First Friday In Lent
These last few months, I have felt like the tip of a bullwhip, yanked back and forth, snapping and popping with violence that almost tore my spiritual head off, then easing back to a casual, flyfishing rhythm for a few weeks, then back to the crack and snap. Being able to leave my former job and start a new one has helped immensely. It is a truly good thing to be able to work from the home that I love so much. Mrs. Orr enjoys having me here, and the dogs all seem to like it, too. The new job is not without its own set of stressors, but most…
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A Wanderer Forever in the Streets of Men
Ever since I discovered him by playing book roulette at the local library, Loren Eisley has been one of my favorite writers. An anthropologist and nature writer, Eisley was “discovered” by Ray Bradbury, who read one of Eisley’s essays in a science magazine and wrote him, saying, “You need to write a book.” Eisley took Bradbury’s advice, and I’m grateful he did. Eisley’s brooding prose saturates my mind every time I pick up one of his books. My favorite of his works is his guarded, haunting autobiography All The Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life (1975, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, NY). I want to share a portion of…
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Last Weekend in Standard Time
Jinx didn’t let us sleep in too late today, which was a pity because I was still exhausted from yesterday’s little stroll. But spotted dogs with small brains and enormous personalities cannot be denied, and we laughed together as he bounded around the room, growling and moaning. Yes, moaning. Jinx has a peculiar noise he makes when he’s trying to provoke us into playing with him, a noise that sounds quite a bit like the timbers in the HMS Indefatigable with HH on the bridge during a storm. A deep, creaky, groany glissando up and down three octaves. Moaning will have to do as the noun here. The moaning. Oh,…
- Church Life, Daily Life, Holy Days, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Jinx, Movies, Quotations, Reflections
Blue Skies, Hidden Lives, Unvisited Tombs
The day dawned under a sheet of gray, with the clouds in the east giving way to the sun, as if a long florescent tube had been flicked on just beyond the mountains. Jinx cavorted in the snow and carried chunks of ice around as if they were prizes beyond compare. The roosters one farm over called to the brightening sky as I crunched my way past, and the breeze was slight enough that my face was not numb when we reached home. While drinking our coffee, Mrs. Orr and I finished watching a movie we’d started last night. The movie was A Hidden Life, directed by Terence Malick, and…
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Last Standard Day
We slept in just a tad this morning, and then got ready for our annual ritual of joy: the book sale at the public library in a nearby town. When we arrived, the crowd was still pretty sparse, so I anticipated some good free-range browsing. This was before he sidled up to me. I was among the history/biography tables when I detected the presence of someone standing close behind me. I glanced back and saw that he was about my age and size, with a neatly-trimmed Vandyke and steel-rimmed glasses. The expression on his face was smug; I clocked him as some sort of academic. His clothes weren’t top quality,…
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A Big Little Life
Up until this past weekend, I had read exactly one book by Dean Koontz. It was a supernatural suspense novel called Whispers, and I read it when I was a young Marine in 1980. The book came into my possession just as I was ending a two-or-three year spree of reading Stephen King novels, and I was growing tired of the genre. Whispers did its work with me — it kept me up late into the night reading, and later kept me awake listening to the night sounds and thinking about the world Koontz had created. But I assumed that Mr. Koontz was treading the same ground King had already…
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Pages
It may be a cliche, but even cliches can be true. Each of my days is like a new page in the book I’m simultaneously reading and writing. I get to the bottom of one, my stub dull and whittled down, almost too short for my fingers to grip it, and then I blink my eyes, and in the quick space of that blink, a Hand has reached down and covered that page with a fresh one, and in the groove between the previous page and the new one sits a new, sharpened pencil. With the aroma of good coffee hanging in the air of the house where I think…
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“Where The Holiness Is Palpable…”
I’ve been reading Frederick Buechner’s novel The Storm and enjoying his reverent craft to a high degree. I’ve also been listening to some of his talks while driving to and from work. An interview conducted by Walter Brueggemann is one of my favorites, and I’ve included the third section of it below. In the interview, Buechner talks about his experiences within and thoughts about the church, and he makes the perceptive point that “the mystery is missing” in the physical structure of today’s church buildings, noting with sadness the sterile, brightly lit religious structures of today. His words about holy aesthetics reminded me of the fine essay In Praise of…