September

“The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.

–   John Updike, September

Two years ago September Dear, Josh, Laura and I were in England. We were there from September 13th for 10 days.  Two years ago September 13th my dear old mom went to be with Jesus. My dear old pop was melancholy today with all the memories and regrets.

We started a new series at church this morning called You Are Here. We will be looking at why we are here as a church body in our community and in our world.

September always brings new things in the midst of old things. I have started reading an old book that I enjoyed before and now am enjoying again. I found a nice old copy of this book in England on our September trip in 2013.

flight-souvenirs2

When I am finished with this book I have two more books in my queue. One is the new book by Louise Penny, The Nature of the Beast an Inspector Gamache murder mystery and another one which is called The Hole in Our Holiness, Filling the Gap between Gospel Passion and the Pursuit of Godliness by Kevin DeYoung. Yikes, that one will be a convicting one, I’m sure.

September is almost half way done. Dear continues in a holding pattern about future work. Katie has a 2nd interview with a company close to us. We have an open house at our son’s new office space on Tuesday. Work goes on for Dear and Andrew at our son and dil’s home with initial inspections ordered. The newlyweds are counting down the days to their honeymoon in Maui. Life goes on in the midst of waiting.

Hope you have a good week…

It’s September ~ Edgar Albert Guest

It’s September

It’s September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold,
And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning’s sharp with cold;
Now the garden’s at its gayest with the salvia blazing red
And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed;
Once again in shoes and stockings are the children’s little feet,
And the dog now does his snoozing on the bright side of the street.

It’s September, and the cornstalks are as high as they will go,
And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere begin to show;
Now the supper’s scarcely over ere the darkness settles down
And the moon looms big and yellow at the edges of the town;
Oh, it’s good to see the children, when their little prayers are said,
Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed.

It’s September, and a calmness and a sweetness seem to fall
Over everything that’s living, just as though it hears the call
Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow,
In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though
Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very best
When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops away to rest.

It’s September! It’s the fullness and the ripeness of the year;
All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near,
But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows,
For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows.
And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile
When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile.

Edgar Albert Guest

On a personal note I had a hair appointment this week with my very wonderful hairdresser who took to heart my complaints of what my pesky hot flashes were doing to my hair. She decided to try layering my hair to make it easier to care for. It probably would be easier for most people but I forgot in my “heated” state that I have no hair skills. I was quite alarmed with the results of my own efforts this morning to take advantage of her nice cut. I was desperate enough to try to find a hat that would look decent on my head. That is a desperate move on my part as I am not a hat person. And no I won’t be posting photos of my hair until you see some shots from England. I’m hoping I can find some solutions by then. On the bright side the color is real nice! 🙂

The Herons of Bothell…

The Herons of Elmwood

Warm and still is the summer night,
As here by the river’s brink I wander;
White overhead are the stars, and white
The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder.

Silent are all the sounds of day;
Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,
And the cry of the herons winging their way
O’er the poet’s house in the Elmwood thickets.

Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass
To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,
Sing him the song of the green morass;
And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern,
And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;
For only a sound of lament we discern,
And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight
Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,
The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight
Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you.

Of the landscape lying so far below,
With its towns and rivers and desert places;
And the splendor of light above, and the glow
Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.

Ask him if songs of the Troubadours,
Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter,
Sound in his ears more sweet than yours,
And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.

Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate,
Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting,
Some one hath lingered to meditate,
And send him unseen this friendly greeting;

That many another hath done the same,
Though not by a sound was the silence broken;
The surest pledge of a deathless name
Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Today I’ll be looking for a cool spot to escape to like this Heron. My sister Lana and I spotted him on the Sammamish River Trail last weekend.  We are suppose to have the hottest temperatures of the year today and break some more records in the Pacific Northwest. I’ll do my running around early and then move as little as possible the rest of the day. I’ll be waiting for temps in the low 80’s and high 70’s before I plan some summer adventures. How about you? Is it cool enough for an adventure where you are?

The Rhodora ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Rhodora

On being asked, Whence is the flower?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Moonlight ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Moonlight ~

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As a pale phantom with a lamp
Ascends some ruined haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.

Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.

Until at last, serene and proud
In all the splendour of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.

I look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.

All things are changed. One mass of shade,
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
By palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.

The very ground beneath my feet
Is clothed with a diviner air;
White marble paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.

Illusion! Underneath there lies
The common life of everyday;
Only the spirit glorifies
With its own tints the sober grey.

In vain we look, in vain uplift
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind;
We see but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.

Irish Blessing ~

May your blessings outnumber
The shamrocks that grow,
And may trouble avoid you
Wherever you go.

Hope you feel a little Irish this week and have blessings to share. My birthday weekend was filled with lots of wonderful things and I’ll be posting about it after I rest up a bit. Top of the mornin to ye. Remember to pray for Smiling Sally today as she is having another surgical procedure.

Daffodils ~ William Wordsworth

Daffodils ~ William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:


For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.