For if you do, no one will ever believe you.
Author: TiffanyCreek
St. Hilary’s Day
According to “The New Book of Days”, by Eleanor Farjeon, January 14th marked the Great Frost, or the coldest day of the year. Travel back to England in 1205. An old chronicle says, ‘a great frost held til the two and twentieth day of March so that the ground could not be tilled.’
Well, I never tilled a garden, per say, except for small herb, and flower beds, but I always wanted to do so. Will be happy when the great thaw takes the place of the great frost. Even then, I won’t be tilling any garden, but will wait in anticipation for the season to change.
Now, if you are wondering who Saint Hilary was, this saint, a he, and not a she, was married, but was called upon to be the Bishop of Poitiers, France. He lived from 316 c. 368 c. and wrote extensively in defense of the divinity of Christ. Apparently there was a sect called Arianism that disputed this ‘truth’. It’s amazing how Christianity came to be, and the obstacles it encountered to get it’s feet on the ground. I am forever intrigued by the history that lies before us, and how everything came to be, and remains to become. Which brings us to the topic of creativity.
January is as good a month as any for stirring the imagination. I plan to get outside as much as possible and breath the cold air into my lungs – to breathe in Life and feel the pulsation of Time at work. Yet, it’s not enough to imagine, but we must also do, and while we are at it, keep in mind the one’s we love, for that is creativity too. How can we use our imagination, and make our lives, and those of others more satisfying, and rewarding? This is the greatest accomplishment of all. The greater question is; what is it that truly makes us happy? Where do we find our rewards? How can we be happy, if others are not? Of what consists a higher good?
Summer Event
July 2018 – 5 months ago this photo was taken in the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. It prompted me to conjure some memories of my visit to this village. Stockbridge is an upscale community, and former residence of Norman Rockwell. Nearby, one can go and see this famous artist/illustrator’s home, studio and the museum featuring his art work. Stockbridge is also a convenient place to stay if you are coming from out of town and want to go to a concert at Tanglewood, an expansive park where artists of many genres go to perform. Concertgoers bring their blankets, chairs, and picnics to enjoy the musical sounds, under the evening sky. At Tanglewood, there is a small museum into which I ventured inside, and learned some interesting historical trivia. For one, there was a small red house on this property owned by a wealthy New England family, whose name slips my mind, however, inside this house lived the writer Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne was a native of Salem, Massachusetts, and author of “The Scarlet Letter”, “House of Seven Gables”, and numerous short stories. He is an author that interests me for his stories and his links to Puritan thought and heritage. It is no wonder one of his books is entitled “Tanglewood Tales”, a collection of stories based on Greek mythology, composed for children. And so goes the memory – a single photograph that produced a few bits of essential information stored in the confines of my brain. Call it an exercise, a jungle gym of mind play, or what you will. Had I not pushed myself to write, all of this would have been left to dissipate into thin air, like used up space crafts orbiting in the hemisphere.
Rosecran Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery
Fort Rosecrans Cemetery was established as a National Monument in 1934, but many of the graves pre-date California before it was a state, in 1850.
Thursday
Jupiter’s day in December. Midmorning – quiet. The subtle sound of an airplane was heard overhead and the simmering of the oatmeal on the stove sounded. A blue brightness surrounded. At 27 degrees it was cold, but as the afternoon wore on it never felt too cold to walk around outside. In fact it felt great to breathe the air into my lungs on my walk. A slight breeze rustled all day through the deep green hemlock promising a star would shine in the sky. The sun rose at 7:02 and set at 4:18 tagging on a couple more minutes of light. There was a new moon. A new moon, and another day were set in motion.
December 3rd
On a walk this morning up the street, the sun was shining and the temperature was pleasantly nearing some 50 degrees. The wind blew at varying tempos, fast, medium and slow. The rays of the sun came bouncing down to earth, dodging shadows in search of objects to reflect upon. The brilliance glistened silver on small sage leaves of olive bushes dotting the landscape. A nondescript tree had tiny reddish-brown leaves that whirled and whirled like tops. They hung on fiercely to the branches. Wind and sun converged in the air as I remembered fragments of a dream from the night before, where I inhabited a town of mean spirited, and kindred folk alike. Where a child lost in a sea of water called his mother for help. Others swam against the current, upstream. I roamed in and out of empty homes trying to find a place of friendship, when finally peace-loving souls welcomed me in. Relieved to be awake, reality reassured me I was alive in Autumn.
Thomson – Scottish poet (1700-174?)
The haves, and the have nots.
Excerpt from a novel by W. Somerset Maugham, “Of Human Bondage” Copyright 1915
Context: Philip, an entitled student was surprised at the ingratitude of his teacher, Monsieur Ducroz, when he gave him a ten-mark instead of eighteen pence, the usual pay. He felt pity for the old man who appeared ill and broken-spirited.
Place: A study in Heidelberg, Germany
Time: 1840’s
He (Philip) was taken aback to find that the old teacher accepted the present as though it was his due. He was so young, he did not realize how much less is the sense of obligation in those who receive favours than in those who grant them.
A few days later Philip’s teacher returned to give his pupil his lesson. Before he left, he spoke the following.
If it hadn’t been for the money you gave me I should have starved. It was all I had to live on.
November 1
Enter November
Here’s November,
The year’s sad daughter,
A loveless maid,
A lamb for the slaughter,
An empty mirror,
A sunless morn,
A withered wreath,
The husk of corn,
A night that falls,
Without a tomorrow,
Here’s November,
The month of sorrow.
“The New Book of Days”
October 28th
Autumn Sigheth
Wind bloweth
Water floweth
Feather flieth
Bird goeth
Whither, bird?
Who can tell?
None knoweth…
Fare-well.
Wind bawleth,
Rose fadeth,
Leaf falleth.
Wither, leaf,
Where you fell,
Winter calleth…
Fare-well.
Tree turneth
Bonfire burneth,
Earth resteth
Sleep earneth.
Wither, earth?
To dream a spell
Till flower returneth…
Sleep well.
On Tiffany Creek 