Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, December 27, 2003
I wish I had taken a picture yesterday, for the second day of Christmas, of not just two, but about twenty-two mourning doves arranged in our trees and at the foot of the bird feeder. There is one pair, inseparable, who seem to be "resident" in the back yard, and the others come as visitors, ornamenting the bare branches of the tall cherry tree and keeping up a constant cooing and characteristic whooo as they fly. Actually, now that my mind is running, I wish I had thought to do a "Twelve Days of Christmas", country-style: we could have begun with a great picture of a wild turkey in an oak tree that J. took in the mountains the other day. Instead, you are getting arty shadows on snow!
In truth, I am delaying. Tonight we're invited to an engagement party for the daughter of old friends. It's supposed to be fancy, and I ought to be figuring out what to wear, but I'm reluctant to paw through my closet. My choices are rather limited: a black top and skirt (or pants) with the nice rust-red-and-gold Indian shawl that's usually on the back of the sofa; the same top and pants with a dark blue velvet embroidered-and-mirrored jacket I bought in an Indian import shop in London years ago; a Moroccan djellebah, black with white embroidery, inherited from my mother-in-law; or my Betsy Johnson tight silk charmeuse pants with a similarly-colored matte silk shirt. I'm leaning toward the latter, but I'm afraid to put the pants on, and it's so damn icy everywhere I'm afraid I'll kill myself if I wear heels.
The usual drill is for people to show up at winter parties wearing their Sorels and L.L. Bean boots, which get left by the door and switched for dress shoes; and layers of coats, to be piled haphazardly onto beds, along with babies and small children as the night wears on. It's great if you haven't already had to hike in up a long driveway or dirt road. This party, fortunately, is in town.
You may shake your heads, city-dwellers, but glamour in these parts generally arrives with a sidekick: humor.
Well, Cassandra got a very nice Christmas present – a tiny digital camera of her very own. I’m looking forward to exploring the creative potential of this marvelous device and being able to show you more of my environment -- like these barberries that grow outside my front door.
We spent a quiet day yesterday with J.’s family after getting home very late from the Christmas Eve service at church. Both the Lessons & Carols service and the midnight Eucharist were moving and beautiful this year. Afterwards I thought about them, as I often do, from the perspective of one who is part of the “giving” aspect for the people who show up just on Christmas or Easter, expecting…what? That’s what I ponder. Within the larger community, our church is seen as providing a “real experience of Christmas”, whatever that is. People come to hear the familiar music, to see the candles and the greens and the poinsettias, to hear the story read aloud; to be touched, to remember.
Before every service in our church, the clergy, acolytes, lay Eucharistic ministers, and choir gather in the parish hall to recollect ourselves in silence for a few minutes, and to briefly pray together. We all know that there are people out in the sanctuary who have come for a hundred reasons, known and unknown, and that there may be someone for whom today’s experience is crucial. I always think of that anonymous person, wondering and wishing I could do more to give them the love or comfort, strength or help they are seeking, but I know this is not entirely up to me. Still I hope that they will find some of these things, as I have, in that place.
Coming up the aisle with the choir on the processional hymn for the Lessons & Carols service, I saw many unfamiliar faces in the packed church, some shining with an almost childlike wonder. They looked happy to hear the music, the full organ, to see the crosses and torches, the long lines of robed singers, but these faces were also expectant. What did they hope for? When I could, I tried to meet an eye with my own, to give a little smile and show some joy and welcome instead of mere concentration on the music.
People usually respond with a little flicker of their own eyes and lips. We meet thus for only a second in time. I never know; it seems like so little, but maybe, maybe it’s just barely enough.
Some virtual gifts I was happy to receive in the past couple of days:
A brilliant little essay on consumerism by maria at alembic, cleverly titled “The Mallpractice of Ecomomics”
Butuki wrote meaningfully about the private difficulties of this season, as well as its joys, and I sent him a reply that I want to copy here, since it pertains to all of you:
Even those of us who are surrounded by snow and the semblance of Christmas loveliness have our private sorrows and inner struggles. I, too, keep the depths of my private life out of my blog... In some ways, that's probably not helpful because it may give the impression sometimes that "I'm OK" while others are not feeling OK. Actually I think nearly all of us in this community are prone to depression, self-analysis and criticism, and are highly sensitive to the world and vulnerable to its pain as well as our own. The fact that we come together is a gift, and while we can't hug each other or sit down over coffee or walk in the woods, it IS real friendship, just of a new kind. I'm very grateful for yours!
Strange...just as many readers are coming here, but nobody is commenting. Are other people noticing the same thing? Are we all stressed?
Today I made a lino cut, the first print I've made in ages. Actually, I made the block but didn't print it. There are problems. And I cut myself - of course, I always do - but superficially. Ahhh. Sigh. It feels so good to do some real art, with my hands and not PhotoShop, and it's so impossible to do really good art when you don't do it often. But that's OK, today I was grateful for the process and the unfolding of the work under my fingers.
While I was working downstairs in my studio, the piano tuner was working upstairs. He likes working on my Schimmel upright, and I like him. Afterwards we sat and talked for a little while about his adopted sponsor-son in Nepal, and about Montreal and Quebec City, and about the difficulties of practicing the piano when you aren't taking lessons. Now the piano is across the room, shining, and I think I will go play for a while, now that it is beautifully in tune, before the heating system and winter weather have their way again with its wooden body and metal synapses.
Meanwhile, I wish you could all be here to enjoy this white Christmas.
8:21 PM
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I'm guest-blogging on "temperance" over at commonbeauty, where there is a series of posts on "the virtues". Take a look, and consider joining in - a few virtues are still up for grabs, and the vices will follow!
They are incomprehensible, the things of this earth. The lure of waters. The lure of fruit. Lure of the two breasts and long hair of a maiden. In rouge, in vermilion, in that color of ponds Found only in the Green Lakes near Wilno. And ungraspable multitudes swarm, come together In the crinkles of tree bark, in the telescope's eye, For an endless wedding, For the kindling of the eyes, for a sweet dance In the elements of the air, sea, earth, and subterranean caves, So that for a short moment there is no death And time does not unreel like a skein of yarn Thrown into an abyss.
Czeslaw Milosz from Unattainable Earth, 1986
8:14 PM
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