I hunger for the miraculous
I hunger for deep woods at night
and storm clouds tinged with pink.
I hunger for the miraculous
I hunger for deep woods at night
and storm clouds tinged with pink.
“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” – Marcel Proust
“April… hath put a spirit of youth in everything.” – William Shakespeare
“There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.” – William Cullen Bryant
“Break open A cherry tree And there are no flowers; But the spring breeze Brings forth myriad blossoms.” – Ikkyu Sojun
“In the cherry blossom’s shade there’s no such thing as a stranger.” – Kobayashi Issa
“The April winds are magical.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Our spring has come at last with the soft laughter of April suns and shadow of April showers.” – Byron Caldwell Smith
The winds were wild the day you died
Pear blossoms scattered like snow.
First green tipped the thin tree branches
And your redbud flowered in purple.
Cold wind and sunshine embraced us
As we crossed from house to house.
And the grass and hedge surrounding your yard
Shone in an emerald green.
I knew you had a hand in it –
Delighting in the April glory.
A day of beauty and laughter
When Heaven touched Earth in joy.
“The snow has not yet left the earth, but spring is already asking to enter your heart.”
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest.” – Ernest Hemingway
“That is one good thing about this world…there are always sure to be more springs.”
“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” — Albert Camus
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” –Percy Bysshe Shelley
Images of Ireland and quotes from John O’Donohue’s book, “Beauty, The Invisible Embrace.”
“When we experience the Beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming.”
“When the imagination is alive, the life remains youthful.”
“Beauty calls us beyond ourselves and it encourages us to engage the dream that dwells in the soul.”
“We feel most alive in the presence of the Beautiful for it meets the needs of our soul.”
“The imagination creates a pathway of reverence for the visitations of beauty.”
“With swift, sheer grace, the Beautiful is like a divine breath that blows the heart open.”
“Beauty is quietly woven through our days.”
“The imagination is the great friend of possibility…In a sense, that is what beauty is: possibility that enlarges and delights the heart.”
“Beauty does not linger, it only visits.”
“To experience beauty is to have your life enlarged.”
“When the soul is alive to beauty, we begin to see life in a fresh and vital way.”
“The earth is full of thresholds where beauty awaits the wonder of our gaze.”
“Ultimate beauty is a profound illumination of presence, a stirring of the invisible in visible form.”
“When we awaken to the call of Beauty, we become aware of new ways of being in the world.”
“The eye of the imagination will often be drawn to the edges of things where the visible and invisible worlds coalesce.”
“True beauty is from elsewhere, a pure gift.”
“Everywhere there is tenderness, care and kindness, there is beauty.”
“Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue was a native Irish speaker, a former priest, and author of books that provided sustenance for many souls hungering for connection.” (www.npr.org)
(Images from Pinterest)
In the north of Spain lies the Basque city of Pamplona, capital of Navarra. It’s a significant point on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostella. The streets are full of pilgrims and hikers, as well as tourists taking in the charm of the old city.
It’s a beautiful walking town, with the Spanish Pyrenees forming a dramatic backdrop and the Arga River flowing around the hilltop location. Walking routes from the Old Town take you to the Taconera Park, full of flowers, benches, and gravel pathways. A sunken area that used to be a moat is home for a small herd of deer and several kinds of birds, including peacocks, ducks, and geese.
The walk around the edge of the park offers views of the mountains and valley and reminds you of just how high the city is above the valley — there’s even a tram that takes passengers from the lower part of the city up to the Old City.
A short walk further and you can visit the citadel and the surrounding park. Built in the 16th and 17th centuries, massive bulwarks and stonework reveal part of the original pentagon shape. A museum there explains that the pentagon shape was once a popular design for fortification. (You can listen to the accompanying audio in several languages, including Basque, which is fascinating in itself.)
(Photo – http://www.itinari.com)
The heart of Pamplona, and the most beautiful part, is the Old City. At its center is the Plaza del Castillo, a large square ringed with buildings, many with flowering balconies.
Most of the streets are cobblestone, and there are several medieval cathedrals and beautiful architecture at every turn — and lots of restaurants, many of them with seating outside, part of the famous pintxo tradition. Throughout the day, but especially beginning at around 4:00pm and lingering late into the night, small appetizers, pintxos, are served with the local wines or other beverages. This tradition makes for a lively street life, especially as the night grows and music pours out onto the narrow streets.
Pamplona, or Iruña as it is known in Basque, is most famous for “the Running of the Bulls” during the Festival of Saint Fermin in July. Ernest Hemingway wrote about the festival in his novel, The Sun Also Rises. And for this reason, Pamplona offers another sort of pilgrimage — a literary one. Pamplona is one of those rare locations that is specifically associated with an author. There’s a bust of Hemingway outside the bullring, and a life-size statue of him leaning against the bar at the Hotel Iruña. Photographs of him and his likeness are found throughout the city, especially in restaurants and gift shops.
“Pamplona certainly owes some of its fame to its adopted son, Ernest Hemingway, who spent a considerable amount of time in Navarra during the Spanish Civil War and was a big fan of the San Fermin Festival.” (www.euskoguide.com)
There was a different festival held the week I was there, with celebrations in the Plaza. The city was full of festivities, musicians and performances, and schoolchildren holding hands as they skipped to the music.
I don’t know if it was the festival or the lively pintxo culture, but Pamplona struck me as one of the happiest places I had ever visited. The streets were full of tourists and local families, couples, and friends enjoying the delightfulness of the city — sitting at crowded outdoor cafes, stopping for ice cream, enjoying the street performers and musicians, well into the night.
Though I loved so much about Pamplona, the Iruña Hotel held a special charm for me. It was full of old-world beauty in warm shades of sepia and globes of golden lights that reflected in the carved wooden mirrors.
Sitting in the Hemingway Bar with its nooks and small balcony, it was easy to imagine an older, slower time, with people wearing different clothing and holding different conversations — and perhaps someone sitting alone at a table quietly penning a novel.
(From the collection of short stories, Seven Tales of Love.)
Howard Ashbury strolled along Columbus Avenue, enjoying the fine weather – autumn in New York – a welcome break from the gray of Seattle. Something about the pulse of the city, the charm of the Upper West Side, brought back his younger self, and he felt happy, hopeful. He stopped in front of a little café, and, though it was too early for dinner, he decided to go in. He would read the new script over a glass of wine.
As he entered, he took in the exposed brick walls, the long windows, the candles just being lit in the softening light. Then his heart gave a little lurch when he saw her sitting there – Anna Avilov, his old Juliet. Suddenly, the twenty years since the production of Romeo and Juliet in San Francisco vanished.
My God, he thought. She’s as beautiful as ever. There she sat, with a dreamy look in her eyes, pen poised in her hand as she searched for some word or phrase. She wore her hair loosely swept up, and the shimmering aquamarine blouse caught the color of her eyes. What was she searching for – some hidden world of beauty? What did she see?
Howard felt the old chivalrous urge to help her.
But Anna had never needed anyone. He remembered how they were all in love with her, in love with the beauty and charm she possessed. Men and women alike took to her, as did the audience. They all wanted some of whatever it was she exuded – to possess it, to be in its presence, however briefly. He remembered how she had felt pulled down by that hungry need from everyone, and had shied away from the very attention the other actors sought.
Perhaps feeling his gaze, Anna looked over at him. Their eyes met, and her brow furrowed as she tried to place him.
Howard gave a small, wry smile. Have I changed so much? he wondered.
He walked over to her. “Hello, Juliet,” he said, hoping the name would bring back the memory of him. He waited a beat. “Don’t you remember your old stage manager?”
Anna’s eye widened as she gasped. “Howard!” She jumped up and hugged him. “I can’t believe it! Oh, how wonderful! Can you sit with me? I just can’t believe it!” In between each exclamation she searched his face, stepping back a bit to take in the changes.
He had forgotten how petite she was. She had to stand on her toes to kiss his cheek.
Howard pulled out the chair across from her, and waited for her to take her seat. He then sat down.
They ordered a bottle of wine. As Howard crossed his legs and turned the saltshaker around in his fingers, Anna clapped her hands in delight.
“Oh! You still wear red socks. You haven’t changed. Not a bit. Still so handsome and dapper!”
Howard smiled, realizing that it was ridiculous for her words to mean so much to him. But his recent failed affair had left him wounded and unsure of himself.
They talked and laughed and caught up on the last twenty years. Howard told her that he was still working as a stage manager, the last twelve years in Seattle. He described some of the more memorable productions.
Anna filled him in on the rather haphazard path she had taken. When she moved to New York eighteen years ago, she had found work as an off-off-Broadway actress, filling in the gaps between shows with waitressing and temping. The years since had been marked by a variety of unrelated jobs, a bit of travel, and, ten years ago, the meeting of her husband.
Howard was disappointed to hear that she had given up acting after she married. But Anna said it was writing that she had always felt more at home with.
“Yes, I remember that. You were always writing during rehearsals. What was it you used to say? That you were trying to create the world you were forever in search of. Have you found it? Or have you created it?”
Anna laughed. “Neither, I’m afraid. It still eludes me.”
“And are you still interested in theater?”
“Yes, of course.” She glanced at her watch. “As a matter of fact, my husband has tickets for tonight. Dinner, and then Chekhov. He’s picking me up here. I’m so happy you’ll be able to meet him.”
She went on to say that she had written some one-act plays and was working on a screenplay. As he listened, he observed the old air of wistfulness about her.
After two hours of talking, Howard noticed that evening had crept closer to their window. The candles on the tables and the lights outside shone brighter now, against the dark. That artful thrill of early evening filled the air, and shone from the faces of the couples filling the tables next to them, and from people hurrying by outside – the thrill that the night might hold something wonderful.
Howard knew that her husband would be there soon to take her to dinner, yet there was so much more he wanted to know. He gave a small ironic smile; she still had the power to stir up a hunger in her audience. He poured the last of the wine into their glasses and asked if she remembered William Chase.
“Of course, I do! Benvolio. Or was it Balthasar? You’d think I’d remember.” She looked above his head, scanning the stage of so long ago, squinting ever so slightly, as if the stage lights were still in her eyes.
Howard also wondered how she could forget. “Benvolio,” he said. “And so terribly in love with you.”
Anna nodded. “Benvolio. Of course.” She took a sip of wine. “Whatever became of him? Do you know?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I ran into him last year in Portland. He became a lawyer, of all things.”
“A lawyer?” Anna asked, surprised. “Good for him.”
Howard had always wondered if Anna was aware of the effect she had on people. He thought it unfair that beauty could so effortlessly cause pain to others. He recognized his buried resentment, mixed with admiration, for all the things she represented to him. He had never wanted to sweep her into his arms, or make love to her. Rather, he had wanted to be like her, to move through the world with such power and beauty and ease.
Howard would later blame the wine for making him press on as he did. His words came out almost accusingly. “William told me that he never really got over you.”
Anna leaned slightly back, as if in defense. Her full lips shaped her words as she spoke.
“Well, there was never anything between us. I certainly never encouraged him. I guessed he had feelings for me, but you know how that is – how often that happens in an emotionally charged cast.”
Howard nodded and looked down. The image of the beautiful Roberto filled his mind: how their eyes had met across the stage, how their love had developed, those first perfect months. With bitterness, he remembered the torch he had carried for Roberto, long years after being rejected.
“You know,” said Howard, allowing some of his resentment to creep into his tone, “William always thought it was because of his height. He thought you never took him seriously.”
This was actually Howard’s belief, but he assumed this must be the case since William had been strikingly handsome. “That was one of the reasons he went into law, he said. More weight – or height, in his case.”
Howard waited for her answer. He wanted to know whether he had been correct all these years in attributing to Anna a certain small-mindedness; or whether he had ungenerously projected onto her the reasons for his own unrequited loves.
Again, Anna squinted into the past. “Yes. I remember him saying something about that once. He invited me to dinner, but I just wasn’t interested. He asked if it was because of his height. I think I laughed out loud at such a ridiculous notion. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was his whininess that made him unattractive. It was so off-putting. Do you remember? He complained about everything and everyone.”
Anna swirled the wine around in her glass and smiled. “Besides, I’ve always preferred short men. A better fit, you know.”
Howard snapped upright in surprise – both by her candor, and by his mistaken assumption. He had always believed that height was one of those universally desired attributes – attributes that he, for the most part, did not possess.
He responded with a simple, “Oh?” and began turning the saltshaker around again. His thoughts tripped over themselves as he attempted to reorganize them, realizing that he had indeed misjudged Anna – and perhaps his own beloved – all these years.
Anna spoke as if merely stating a fact, but a sly seductiveness played about her lips.
“Yes, whether kissing when standing, or cuddling at night, or…” Her aquamarine blouse shimmered in the candlelight as she gave a light shrug.
Howard quickly replayed the arguments with Roberto. He had always assumed that Roberto had rejected him because of his age, ethnicity, or some other quality over which he had no control. For the first time, the thought gripped him: What if Roberto had simply found him boring? Or, God forbid, whiny?
Then, as if on cue and choreographed to maximize the insight into his own failed affairs, in walked Anna’s husband – short, if not shorter, than William Chase. He was equally as handsome, though, Howard had to admit, in a more genial manner.
Anna’s whole being surged with pleasure at the sight of her husband’s flashing smile and warm eyes. She stood to embrace him – in a comfortable fit, Howard noticed – and introduced them.
As she slipped on her wrap, the three of them spoke briefly and exchanged business cards. Howard declined the invitation to join them for dinner but promised to stay in touch.
Anna and her husband waved good-bye and left the café.
Howard sat back down at the table and tried to put his ruffled thoughts back in order, tapping the saltshaker up and down. As he shook his head at life’s vanities and wretched misunderstandings, the beautiful Anna Avilov tapped on the window and blew him a kiss, her arm linked with that of her Romeo.
In The Garden House, Miranda’s friend and neighbor, Paula, is the owner of several gift shops. They are filled with vintage jewelry, antiques, and old china from flea markets, garage sales, and estate sales, as well as a few hand-crafted items.
Throughout the year, Miranda contributes wreaths and bouquets from her garden to add to Paula’s displays,
and at certain holidays, like Valentine’s Day, she creates mini-bouquets to be given as gifts.
Valentine’s Day is Miranda’s favorite time of year to shop at Paula’s gift stores. She always discovers some small treasure to add to her home,
or to give as a gift, especially to her daughter, Clara.
Paula’s shops offer a sense of discovery, and delight in adding small touches of beauty to the home.
RAINBOW HUES FOR THE COLD AND GRAY OF JANUARY
(from my Pinterest board on color)
“Color is a power which directly influences the soul.” ~Wassily Kandinsky
“Color! What a deep and mysterious language, the language of dreams.” – Paul Gauguin
“Mere color…can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.” ~Oscar Wilde
“Colors speak all languages.” – Joseph Addison
“Adding color to your life brings beauty, richness, and depth.” – Anonymous
“Color is the fruit of life.” Guillaume Appolinaire
“Color provokes a psychic vibration…which acts on every part of the human body.” Wassily Kandinsky
“Colour stops me in the street, invites me to breathe it in and take it with me.” Suzanne Partridge
Color—like sound and scent—is just an invention of the human mind responding to waves and particles that are moving in particular patterns through the universe—and poets should not thank nature but themselves for the beauty and the rainbows they see around them.” ―
In the foothills of the French Pyrenees lies the small Basque village of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The winding Nive river runs through the town and is crossed by several picturesque bridges.
With the town’s steep cobblestoned streets, timbered buildings, medieval stone structures, and abundance of flowers, the village must be one of the prettiest in France.
The village itself is very small and can be walked in a few hours. The steep cobbled rue de la Citadelle forms the heart of the village and is lined with shops, inns, and restaurants. A stroll through the town offers a close-up view of the medieval city gate — the Porte d’Espagne — and the 14th-century Gothic cathedral. The architecture in this old section is picturesque with arched doorways, tiled roofs, shutters, and charming details —
all set against stunning views of the valley and mountains.
There are several walking trails around the area for longer excursions, such as the one along the medieval city wall. This path eventually leads to the citadelle, high atop the village.
The citadelle was built in the 12th century to protect the river and the crossing route over the Pyrenees.
The site near the chateau and fortifications offers magnificent views of the mountains and valley, and the village below.
The citadelle protected the mountain pathway to Spain — the Roncevaux Pass — making Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port an important point on the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela — also known as the Way of Saint James, the Camino de Santiago, or simply, the Camino.
For those departing from Paris or elsewhere in France, the route was referred to as the French Way. Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port was the pilgrims’ last stop before beginning the arduous trek through the Pyrenees. Pied-de-Port means “foot of the pass.”
The city of Santiago de Compostela in northwest Spain “has its origin in the shrine of Saint James the Great, now the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, as the destination of the Way of St. James, a leading Catholic pilgrimage route since the 9th century.” (wikipedia.org)
Today it is also popular with hikers and cyclists. According to caminoways.com, the French Way is the most popular of all the routes, with over 177,000 pilgrims making the journey every year. Approximately 34,000 pilgrims choose Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port as their starting point.
Several shops along the rue de Citadelle sell gear for the trek, including walking staffs or hiking poles. A rhythmic “click, click” sound made by the pilgrims and their walking sticks can be heard in the Camino towns along the route.
Two symbols are found throughout the town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port — on shops, menus, clothing, and souvenirs — the lauburu, or Basque Cross,
and the clamshell, the symbol of pilgrimage.
“Since the scallop is native to the coast of Galicia, the shell also became a memento, a physical proof of having completed the pilgrimage to Santiago….The shells also had a practical purpose: they were a handy and light replacement for a bowl so the pilgrims could use them to hold their food and drink on their long journey….Medieval pilgrims often wore a scallop shell attached to their cloaks or hats during their journey” (caminoways.com), as shown on this tapestry in the village’s small museum.
The image of the scallop can be found on several inns and shops of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port,
along with images of medieval pilgrims.
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is a tiny town with a long name and a long history. For centuries, it has been a crossroads for travelers and pilgrims, and still offers its charm and beauty for the tourists and pilgrims of today.