The Sun as Eucharist Host

October 30, 2012

Sunrise, Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana (photo September 2007)

“And the trees held the cold moon like an eucharist at the tips of their branches.”
The Journal of Jules Renard, edited by Louise Bogan and Elizabeth Roget

I’ve been re-reading some of my commonplace books, hoping to mine some gems for future blog posts, when I came across this passage about the moon.  I think it is wonderfully descriptive, and it conjured up an image I had seen before.  When I went back in my photo archives to retrieve the remembered photo, I realized that my photograph was of the sun — not the moon.  That didn’t diminish the effectiveness of the simile thankfully.

I have to admit that I couldn’t remember a thing about The Journal of Jules Renard Obviously I had read itthe quotes I had written down delighted me then, and still delight me upon re-reading.  But I had quite forgotten the rest of the journal.  I checked it out of the library again, and I can see why it did not become a favorite book in spite of its many rich passages.  The editing is too choppy, I think, and delivers a piecemeal narrative of Renard’s life.

I think Renard would have understood my forgetfulness.  Here are two more quotes from his journal:

“It’s enough to throw you into despair:  to read everything, and remember nothing!  Because you do remember nothing.  You may strain as much as you like:  everything escapes.  Here and there a few tatters remain, fragile as those puffs of smoke left over after a train has passed.”

“I have a remarkable memory:  I forget everything!  It is wonderfully convenient.  It is as though the world were constantly renewing itself for me.”


Stolen Gold: Daffodils

February 24, 2010

“Primroses wear the pale dawn,
The gold daffodils have stolen
From the sun.”
     — Richard Eberhart, from “This Fevers Me”

Daffodils for sale, Pike Place Market

Buckets full of fresh-picked daffodils

Cheerful, yellow daffodils

A Place in the Sun

December 20, 2009

Jellybean finding a spot on a sunny windowsill

Cats really know how to seek and find sunshine.  I could take a lesson from Jellybean. 

But one of the gifts of winter is the darkness, and I need to remind myself to not only accept, but celebrate, this darker time. 

“. . . for despite the frequent foulness of the weather and the hardship of those who have to work outside, there is something of the Winter that is primal, mysterious and utterly irreplaceable, something both bleak and profoundly beautiful, something essential to this myth of ourselves, to the story of our humanity, as if we somehow need the darkness of the winter months to replenish our inner spirits as much as we need the light, energy and warmth of summer.”
     — Sting, If on a Winter’s Night. . . liner notes

Sunset over Glacier Bay

Sunset over Glacier Bay

This sunset on the Inside Passage looks like a forest fire

This sunset on the Inside Passage looks like a forest fire

The mountains go unnoticed,
Their purple figures rise
Without attempt, exhaustion,
Assistance or applause.

In their eternal faces
The sun with broad delight
Looks long — and last — and golden,
For fellowship at night.

     — Emily Dickinson