Christina Rosetti | dual personalities

April 26, 2019

“Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing/ On the west wind blowing along this valley track?”*

by chuckofish

It has been a busy week, the highlight of which was my visit to the wee babes’ preschool one morning for Grandparents’ Day. I went to chapel with them and to an activity (coloring) and a snack. I had to leave early to get to work, but they were in the good hands of their other grandparents. At two, life is just one activity after another and then you take a nap. Sounds pretty good, right?

After quite a few busy weekends in a row, I am going to take it real easy this weekend. I have no plans besides babysitting the wee babes on Saturday night. I am hoping the OM and I are capable of handling/wrangling them for two hours. We’ll see.

Since tomorrow marks the 137th anniversary of the death of the brilliant, but ultimately misguided, Sage of Concord, Ralph Waldo Emerson, I will be toasting him.

Screen Shot 2019-04-25 at 1.09.28 PM.png

When Emerson died of pneumonia in 1882, he was buried on “Author’s Ridge” in Concord’s Sleepy Hollow Cemetery —a cemetery that was designed with Emerson’s Transcendentalist, nature-loving aesthetics in mind. In 1855, as a member of the Concord Cemetery Committee, Emerson gave the dedication at the opening of the cemetery, calling it a “garden of the living” that would be a peaceful place for both visitors and permanent residents. “Author’s Ridge” became a burial ground for many of those famous American authors who called Concord home—Louisa May Alcott, Henry David Thoreau, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Emerson. Good company for sure.

Screen Shot 2019-04-25 at 11.17.05 AM.png

I should also note that tomorrow Christina Rossetti is honored with a feast day on the liturgical calendar of the Anglican Church.

Somewhere or Other

Somewhere or other there must surely be

The face not seen, the voice not heard,

The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!

Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;

Past land and sea, clean out of sight;

Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star

That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;

With just a wall, a hedge, between;

With just the last leaves of the dying year

Fallen on a turf grown green.

Join me in toasting her as well! And have a good weekend!

*from “Amor Mundi” by Christina Rossetti

4 Comments

May 24, 2016

He bids me sing

by chuckofish

I had a scratchy throat and was fighting a cold all last weekend, so flying on Sunday kind of did my ears in and I am feeling not-so-good now…So this is all I’ve got.

‘Winter Sunshine’ (1930s or 1940s) by English artist Frederick William Elwell (1870-1958)

I

The irresponsive silence of the land,

The irresponsive sounding of the sea,

Speak both one message of one sense to me:–

Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand

Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band

Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;

But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?–

And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,

And sometimes I remember days of old

When fellowship seemed not so far to seek

And all the world and I seemed much less cold,

And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,

And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

II

Thus am I mine own prison.

Everything

Around me free and sunny and at ease:

Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees

Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing

And where all winds make various murmuring;

Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;

Where sounds are music, and where silences

Are music of an unlike fashioning.

Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,

And smile a moment and a moment sigh

Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?

But soon I put the foolish fancy by:

I am not what I have nor what I do;

But what I was I am, I am even I.

III

Therefore myself is that one only thing

I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;

My sole possession every day I live,

And still mine own despite Time’s winnowing.

Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring

From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive;

Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;

And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.

And this myself as king unto my King

I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;

Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing

A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;

he bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?

And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

–Christina Rosetti, “The Thread of Life”

5 Comments

June 11, 2015

“A good man, full of the Holy Spirit and faith.” *

by chuckofish

Today the Episcopal Church observes the feast day of St. Barnabas, the early Christian fondly nicknamed Son of Encouragement (Acts 4:37). He befriended Saul of Tarsus after his conversion and introduced him to the skeptical leaders back in Jerusalem: “But Barnabas took him, brought him to the apostles, and described for them how on the road he had seen the Lord, who had spoken to him, and how in Damascus he had spoken boldly in the name of Jesus.” (Acts 9:27)

After that he and Paul (formerly Saul) undertook several missionary journeys together.

Willem de Poorter’s “St. Paul and Barnabas in Lystra”

Eventually the two disagreed about whether to take Barnabas’ cousin/nephew John Mark, whom Paul thought was a quitter, on another trip. The dispute ended with Paul taking Silas as his companion and journeying through Syria and Cilicia, while Barnabas took John Mark to visit Cyprus.

You see, even back then, church people were arguing and separating and going off in a huff. Why should we be surprised when this happens today?

Acts 15:38

I always liked old Barnabas. I’m sure he had to put up with a lot from Paul, who wasn’t always the easiest person/apostle to get along with. I always thought it was sad that their friendship ended the way it did. I’m sure we can all take a lesson from it.

St. Barnabas, with John his sister’s son,
Set sail for Cyprus; leaving in their wake
That chosen Vessel, who for Jesus’ sake
Proclaimed the Gentiles and the Jews at one.
Divided while united, each must run
His mighty course not hell should overtake;
And pressing toward the mark must own the ache
Of love, and sigh for heaven not yet begun.
For saints in life-long exile yearn to touch
Warm human hands, and commune face to face;
But these we know not ever met again:
Yet once St. Paul at distance overmuch
Just sighted Cyprus; and once more in vain
Neared it and passed;–not there his landing-place.

–Christina Rossetti

*Acts 11:24

2 Comments

December 5, 2014

Yet what I can, I give Him

by chuckofish

Today we celebrate the birthday of Christina Rosetti (December 5, 1830 – December 29, 1894), a 19th century English poet and devout Anglican. She wrote the poem that was set to music and is one of my favorite Christmas carols, In the Bleak Midwinter.

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk,
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air –
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can, I give Him –
Give my heart.

Here is a lovely rendition of this beautiful carol:

This may get you headed in the right direction–that is, not toward the mall, but to wherever you go to listen to that still, small voice in your heart.

Have a great weekend and enjoy Advent II.

1 Comment

Tag: Christina Rosetti

by chuckofish

by chuckofish

by chuckofish

by chuckofish