Well, surprise, it is raining--still, again, some more, or whatever. But my house is not floating away, so I can be thankful for that anyway as I feel sorrow for Texas residents.
DH has been at it again, his trusty sander blowing up a fine white dust on everything in the house. I admit the board in the kitchen needed to be redone but wouldn't last winter before I cleaned up all the sheetrock dust for months on end have been a better time? I looked at the dining table and even the tablecloth was a layer of gritting white!
So I pulled things apart last night and washed some more. I decided it was a good time to change the silks and placemats as well. I usually switch to summer shades on Memorial Day, but this year I had no motivation to do so. DH came in and saw I was flipping a fresh cloth on the table and asked what I was doing. I told him I was saying goodbye to spring rains and bringing on summer. I was ready for some red, white, and blue. Nothing new, but familiar shades of vibrant reds had to be a promise that June would bring sunshine again.
Meanwhile, my copy of Jane Kenyon’s works arrived. So curling up with her beautiful poetry and a cup of tea is a rain reward. Kenyon’s poetry echoes Robert Frost in that she lived in New England and wrote of simple, daily tasks outside and inside both. I think her poems “Otherwise” and “Let Evening Come” are two of the grandest pieces of work. I wish I could produce just one piece half as good.
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
I started keeping a reading journal in 1999 after I read that Louis L’Amour started his own as a young man and kept up the practice leaving at his death many journals that recorded his reading tastes. I thumbed through my own this week and see I’ve read roughly 800 books since starting my record.
How about you? Do you keep a reading journal?