This shimmering view through the thick medieval glass windowpane arrests me. The call to Halt, look, see again, seems to whisper into the air that hovers just above me, or all about, or even deeper within. This wavy scene—a thing of beauty itself—in which I recognize yet also see anew the centuries-old traditional European half-timbered …
The phrase, “And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,” from John Milton’s elegy “Lycidas” lingers in my mind as only a sorrowing beauty-filled thought can. Daffadillies, daffadillies—what lovely sounds to have roll off the tongue. Such beauty, and yet, yes, with such beauty, tears. Whole cups of tears, tears to overflowing. When I read this …
Holy grief—is there such a thing? Or is all grief horrid, unholy, the pain we cannot welcome? Then again, is holy grief the only kind of grief, the right kind—the other kind of grief is . . . is what? Can someone tell me what unholy grief would be? I have my moments when the …
Spring fatigue—it’s a thing, right? Tiredness that we wish we could shake off even as the days lengthen in northern climes? Instead of more energy as daylight hours increase, lethargy. Instead of buoyancy, weariness. In my part of the world in the Canadian Pacific Southwest, the sap is rising, yes. I can hardly complain! Snowdrops …
Monika Hilder 