Thursday, August 30, 2012


It seems that we are getting close to the end of our acreage life. The bitter-sweetness of it gives me new lens. I had just arrived from taking Number Five to catch her ride to school (teen vehicle in shop), and as I  parked back in our driveway I saw the early morning sun on the last bonfire built by Number Four, who is a bonfire-master-builder. (He never did Scouts, but I have awarded him honorary Eagles. His bonfires are one-match beauties, superbly, carefully built masterpieces.)

Digression: he skyped last night. He talked to Husband a little, then the computer was given to me. Number Four saw me and said, "Mom, you look beautiful". I lost it, burst into tears without being able to say more than his name. I miss him so terribly much.

So after this episode from last night I got out of the car and walked towards this lovely, secluded spot of our acreage. Tears. I wish it could work out, our acreage life. I love the chickens and eggs, all of the plants we put in: the raspberries and strawberries, the day-lilies and phlox, the sunchokes, horseradish, Husband's tulips and irises. I love the garden-growing days, the sometimes almost deafening birds' songs.  The kittens, the stars.

In heaven acreages will be forever, with jam-making, apple-saucing, and the apples will be perfect, every one. There will be stargazing every night, no roads to be driven, and no allergies.

Lord of Life, please continue guiding our steps.
Mary, Queen of Families, pray for us.

1 comment:

Fr. Brian Austin said...

I read with tears your most recent blog post - God plants these desires deeply in the heart of man -

Of course, as St. Paul says, "we have not here a lasting city: but we seek one that is to come."

All the things you mention - stars, trees, flowers, chickens - God loves too, and is happy that you love them - for He made them, each and every one.


Paradise is just another word for garden, as you know - the True Garden, the True Eden, with no stain or spot or blight, on leaf, limb, or bough - isn't it lovely?

We take comfort that surely, Fr. Hopkins, S.J., is there, with plenty of time to compose new verses, outdoing enen the splendour of those composed here:

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.
*13. Pied Beauty*

GLORY be to God for dappled things—    
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;    
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;    
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;    
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;    /5/
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.    
All things counter, original, spare, strange;    
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)    
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;    
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:    /10/
Praise him.