There’s a bear in the Truro woods. People have seen it–three or four, or two, or one. I think of the thickness of the serious woods around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds; I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles, the cranberry bogs. And the sky with its new moon, its familiar star-trails, burns down like a brand-new heaven, while everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly through the woods for years, learning to stay away from roads and houses. Common sense mutters: it can’t be true, it must be somebody’s runaway dog. But the seed has been planted, and when has happiness ever required much evidence to begin its leaf-green breathing?
~Mary Oliver
That’s a wrap on National Poetry Month! Feels fitting to conclude with Mary Oliver. I love the imagery in this 1979 poem. I’ve never seen a bear in the wild, although they’re quite prevalent in the Adirondacks. Up in the Great North Woods, seeing a bear would be less of a matter for commentary than seeing Bigfoot. (For the record: I’ve also never seen him.) But I love the way Oliver, here, nods to common sense – it’s probably just someone’s dog – before dismissing logic in favor of happiness and fun.
Speaking of fun, did you enjoy National Poetry Month?
Homer’s two epic poems of the Trojan War and its aftermath, The Iliad and The Odyssey, have been on my to-be-read list for years. Like with Moby Dick, I assumed they would be a major time commitment – and they were. More enjoyable, though – especially The Odyssey.
The Iliad recounts events from the final year of the Trojan War, while The Odyssey tells the story of one of the Greek commanders, Odysseus, and his extended, roundabout, journey home to the island of Ithaca. The Trojan War lasted for ten years, and The Iliad covers only a small fraction of the conflict. We don’t see the beginnings (when Paris carries Helen off to Troy, away from her Greek husband Menelaus) or the end (the famous Trojan Horse).
The Iliad opens with the tenth and final year of the war. There is dissension in the Greek ranks; Agamemnon, the army’s commander, has angered the god Apollo by taking, as one of his spoils of war, the daughter of a priest of Apollo. The priest appears at the Greek camp to plead for his daughter’s return, but Agamemnon doesn’t see why he should give up his cherished prize. Achilles, the most fearsome warrior in the Greek army, argues that the Greeks can little afford to offend Apollo (who agrees, and sends a storm to rattle the army). Agamemnon grumpily caves and returns the priest’s daughter, but he’s furious with Achilles – and to punish him, he confiscates one of Achilles’ war prizes, a young slave woman named Briseis. Now firmly at odds with Agamemnon, Achilles refuses to fight for the Greeks until Agamemnon pays for his nerve and apologizes. Achilles calls upon his mother, the sea nymph-goddess Thetis, who intercedes with Zeus on her son’s behalf.
As the waves of the ocean under a westerly gale race one after the other on to a booming beach; far out at sea the white horses rise, then break and crash thunderously on the shore and, one after the other, the Greek contingents moved relentlessly into battle. Each leader was issuing orders to his own command, but the men advanced in silence. You would not think so large an army was on the march or had a voice, so silent were they in fear of their commanders. Their ornate armor glittered as they advanced, rank on rank.
Zeus agrees to help Thetis show the Greeks what they’re losing by angering Achilles, and he intervenes in the war to turn the tide in favor of the Trojans. While Achilles sits stewing in his hut with his boyhood companion Patroclus, the Trojans – led by Hector – begin to rout the Greeks everywhere. The turning of the tide isn’t overwhelming, though, because plenty of gods are on the Greek side, as well – while Apollo and Aphrodite help the Trojans, Poseidon, Hera and Athena side with the Greeks. The squabbling on Olympus turns into a vicious tug-of-war outside the gates of Ilium.
I won’t tell you what happens – other than to say that Achilles is at the center of it all. His rage at Agamemnon, and love for Patroclus, drives the action throughout the book, even as he himself sits mostly idle. Eventually, though, the war does end, and the Greeks board their “hollow ships” and set off for their respective kingdoms. Most arrive home in fairly short order, to one fate or another. Menelaus and Helen rekindle their love; Agamemnon ends up murdered by his wife and her lover. Odysseus, however, is delayed… and delayed… and delayed.
Despite Odysseus’ diligent pouring of libations over the years, Zeus decides to have a little fun with him on his way home. He ends up washing up on an island occupied by Polyphemus, a feared cyclops. After Polyphemus eats about a third of Odysseus’ crew, Odysseus outsmarts the cyclops, blinds him, and escapes. Odysseus makes it off the island with what remains of his crew, but now he has a bigger problem: Poseidon. Cyclops are children of the sea god, and Poseidon is furious with Odysseus for blinding his son. Odysseus isn’t getting home anytime soon.
He spends the better part of the next ten years wandering, encountering sea monsters and witches, traveling to the underworld, and spending seven years as the prisoner of the goddess Calypso.
There sat Calypso with her braided curls.
Beside the hearth a mighty fire was burning.
The scent of citrus and of brittle pine
suffused the island. Inside, she was singing
and weaving with a shuttle made of gold.
Her voice was beautiful. Around the cave
a luscious forest flourished: alder, poplar,
and scented cypress. It was full of wings.
Birds nested there but hunted out at sea:
the owls, the hawks, the gulls with gaping beaks.
A ripe and luscious vine, hung thick with grapes
was stretched to coil around her cave. Four springs
spurted with sparkling water as they laced
with crisscross currents intertwined together.
The meadow softly bloomed with celery
and violets. He gazed around in wonder
and joy; at sights to please even a god.
Meanwhile, as Odysseus alternately pines for Ithaca and attempts to make it two nautical miles without a shipwreck (Poseidon is really mad, fam) things are not going well at home. Figuring Odysseus is never coming back, twenty noble sons of Ithaca have taken up residence in his house and are attempting to convince his wife, Penelope, to marry one of them. As the suitors eat and drink their way through Odysseus’ wealth, Penelope attempts to evade their attentions and her grown son with Odysseus, Telemachus, stews. Eventually, Telemachus sets off on an odyssey of his own, to try to find out what happened to his father – and whether he will ever come home and expel the “suitors” from the palace. I won’t tell you what happens in the end, except to note that The Iliad was extraordinarily bloody, and it would really be asking too much of Homer to suspend his love of gore for an entire epic.
At the risk of making this blog post as long as The Iliad or The Odyssey, a few final thoughts: I enjoyed both epic poems, but I liked The Odyssey much better than The Iliad. I’m not sure if that was the plot (who doesn’t like a rollicking adventure on the high seas, with goddesses and monsters?) or the translation (I read the new-ish version by Emily Wilson, a scholar at the University of Pennsylvania and – I think – the first woman to translate Homer). The best part of The Iliad was the petty squabbling by the gods of Olympus; I loved those parts but often found myself skimming the sections dealing with the battles on the ground, especially when they got too gleefully bloody for my taste. The Odyssey was more balanced and – frankly – more fun. I am glad I’ve read both, and I’ll probably re-read The Odyssey, at least, but not for awhile. I need to read something shorter, to recover.
Morning, friends. How were your weekends? Mine wasn’t bad, overall. Steve had to work, which was a bummer for him – I probably should have worked too, but I just… didn’t. On Saturday morning we were out the door bright and early to hike; Nugget had requested a “hike we’ve never done before,” which tested my ingenuity, because we’ve hiked pretty much every park within a 45-minute or so range. (In case you couldn’t tell, we hike a lot.) But I found one spot we’d not yet tried, the unfortunately named Banshee Reeks Nature Preserve, and we headed out to explore. It ended up being a good find – multiple ponds, lots of birds (I regretted leaving my wildlife camera at home; won’t make that mistake next time), a network of intersecting trails to check out, and a visitor center with A PLAYROOM and an INDOOR BEE HIVE. (The kids almost would have preferred to spend the entire time there, rather than on the trails with us.) We headed home and knocked around the house for a bit while Steve worked, then shoved off to play some itty bitty Arizona Diamondbacks in tee-ball. Nugget fielded a grounder and actually tagged a runner out, the first time anyone has done that this season (on his team or any of the other teams we’ve played).
On Sunday, we woke up to rain, so we spent the morning knocking around the house. I logged some solid reading time on the couch while Steve worked and the kids messed around in the family room (Nugget has recently gotten into a video game, send help). The rain stop and the sky cleared up around midday, so we put on our rain boots and headed out for an afternoon hike at our local favorite, Riverbend Regional Park. It was a good one; we spotted both of the resident eagles and their hatchlings in their nest. I got some pictures – stay tuned. That was the high point of Sunday; things tumbled off a cliff shortly thereafter. I had big plans for a home-cooked dinner (chicken cacciatore) and a cozy evening of watching The Crown with Steve after tucking the kids into bed; all were scuttled when I was reducing the homemade sauce for the chicken on my (electric) stove and the entire house went dark. Moments later, I heard everyone shouting – Steve wanting to know what the backup plan was for dinner; Peanut in a panic because her bedroom light turned off; and Nugget having a meltdown because the TV had gone dark in the middle of his video game. Turned out, a tree had fallen across a power line one street over and our entire neighborhood was blacked out. Whoops. We made the best of it – takeaway Thai (I’ll finish the chicken cacciatore tonight instead), reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to the kids under the skylights until their bedtime, and then chatting to my mom over the phone in the dark while Steve read by candlelight. Not quite the Sunday night I had in mind, but nice in its way. And now I have one more week of law firm life; lots to do in the meantime.
Reading. Pretty good reading week! I finished up A Bite of the Apple midweek – it was interesting, if slow in parts. (Glad I read it, and also glad I got it from the library.) Turned back to poetry and read Devotions, a wide-ranging collection of Mary Oliver poetry that my mom bought for me a few Christmases ago. So good – especially “Humpbacks,” which I’d never read before; I should have known that Mary Oliver would be a whale hugger like me. Saturday afternoon and Sunday – at least until the lights went out and Steve claimed all of the candles for his book – was devoted to Spring Magic, which I am LOVING. It’s one of those conflicting books where I am both dying to find out what happens (feverishly turning pages) but also want to read slowly so it will last longer.
Watching. I’ve been looking forward to Secrets of the Whales on Disney+ NatGeo for over a month, and it finally dropped on Earth Day! We’re watching with the kids, which means each 45-minute episode takes us three nights to finish because we never make it more than 15 minutes before someone sacks out on the couch. So we’ve watched the episode on orcas, and 2/3 of the episode on humpbacks. More whale fun to come this week! (Now that we have power back. It came on in the middle of the night; I checked on Nugget at 4:30 and found him smiling broadly: “Mama, the power’s back! I was afraid I’d never watch Dinosaur King again!”)
Listening. Still on a New Pornographers kick. I decided that I really needed to get a bit more up to date and listened to their 2019 album, The Morse Code of Brake Lights, instead of Electric Version. (Rolling Stone described the album as “anxiety pop” so…) Predictably, I fell hard for “Falling Down the Stairs of your Smile” and ended up listening to it on repeat. And a couple of podcasts – the April episode of Lia Leendertz’s As the Season Turns, and part of a 46 of 46 episode while driving to and from the grocery store on Sunday. The kids came along for the ride and found 46 of 46 especially hilarious.
Making. Well, there was that interrupted chicken cacciatore, does that count? A few other homemade dinners over the course of the week, too – I tried a recipe for cauliflower rice risotto, which was okay but not amazing. And a lot of filed emails; I want my coworkers to be able to find everything they need after I’m gone.
Moving. It was another week of just hiking, cleaning the house, and chasing after the kids – functional fitness. I say this every week. Hopefully I can find some time to get some more formal workouts in this week because I miss them.
Blogging. A Classics Club review of The Iliad and The Odyssey on Wednesday – good timing for National Poetry Month, right? And one final Poetry Friday of 2021. Check in with me then!
Loving. Have we talked about the Furrowed Middlebrow collection from Dean Street Press? I’m starting to compile quite a heap of them. On top of being so pretty (see the cover of Spring Magic, above) they’re a delight to read – they feel good to hold, and the selection of titles is so well curated; I’ve enjoyed every single one I’ve read so far. I love a small publisher or imprint, especially those that focus on forgotten or out-of-print classics.
I think I’ve posted music during National Poetry Month before – right? In any event, you know how sometimes a song speaks to the exact moment you’re in? I’ve been listening to The New Pornographers’ 2003 album, “Electric Version,” a lot lately, and especially to “Ballad of a Comeback Kid” on repeat. It’s become my anthem of right now.
Ever so careful, on the strip we cruise Crippled in someone else’s shoes Who knew? Mind you I never had to stand in line, you did For the ballad of a comeback kid
April may be the cruelest month – rainy, muddy, and (at least in my part of the world) crusted with the evil yellow pollen – but it’s also National Poetry Month, so at least we have that going for us! I have fun choosing poems (and sometimes songs, like this week) to feature on Fridays every year, but this year I’ve been leaning in extra and reading poetry almost every day. It’s been a delight, of course, not least because there are some extremely pretty poetry collections floating around out there. At the risk of enticing you all to judge books by their covers, here are three sets that I’m loving.
Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets. First off, you can’t go wrong with a classic. The Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets collection is popular for a reason. The dust jackets are gorgeous; the small octavo size fits easily into a tote bag – or even a coat pocket – and the volumes are many, widely available, and competitively priced. I don’t have a complete set, by a long shot. But I’ve gradually added to my collection over the years, and I’ve got some gems. My favorite so far is Poems of Gratitude, which I’ve read multiple times (it’s a particularly good choice for around Thanksgiving); next up, I plan to curl up with Poems of Rome.
Candlestick Press “Instead of a Card” Collection. I saw these on BookTube and was immediately enamored. These slim volumes contain ten poems apiece on a particular subject, and come with an extra-large envelope so that you can mail them to a lucky recipient instead of a card. I believe they’re sold in bookshops in the U.K.; I ordered a handful from overseas, via BookDepository. I’ve read Ten Poems about Walking; Ten Poems for Spring; and Ten Poems about Birds thus far – I need to decide whether I’m more in the mood for baking or sheep next. I dream of the day someone actually sends me a Candlestick Press volume instead of a card. In the meantime, it’s BookDepository for me.
Faber Nature Poets. Of all the themes in the general poetic landscape, I am on record as preferring nature. And since apparently no one does poetry collections better than Faber & Faber, I was naturally intrigued (see what I did there?) by the Faber Nature Poets collection. The set of six volumes – this is a complete collection – features six different poets who focused their writing on the natural world: Wordsworth; Keats; Thomas; Clare; Hardy; Coleridge. Again, these are not widely available in the U.S. (so far as I know – I’ve never seen them in stores) but I was able to get them from BookDepository. I’ve only read the Wordsworth volume so far, but I’m looking forward to curling up with each one in turn.
Volumes of poetry don’t strictly need to be pretty, of course, but it doesn’t hurt. I love seeing these lined up neatly on my shelves, and I’ve been enjoying making my way through each collection in turn.
Good (achoo!) morning! How were your (sniffle, sniffle, achoo!) weekends? I’d kind of like a do-over on mine. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad – I just felt out of sorts all weekend. I’m tired and a little frazzled; the pollen hit me hard on Sunday, Nugget had multiple injuries (the guy plays hard) and I’m unattractively jealous of Steve’s vaccine appointment. It’s brought out a really lovely color in me.
Last week was a whirlwind. I’ve vaguely hinted a few times now that I had something big on the burner, and this is what it is: I’m changing jobs. After spending most of my career in law firms, I’ve accepted a position in the legal department of a west-coast based tech giant. (I am not moving; although both the company and my team are based out west, I’ll be staying in northern Virginia and working from corporate offices here.) The past month has been an exhausting round of interviewing and overthinking everything, but I’ve made my decision and submitted my resignation to my current employer, and I’m finally starting to move out of having anxiety around this change, and into the realm of excitement. There’s a lot to do in my last two weeks of law firm life (maybe ever! although my boss did tell me, “If you don’t like it, just come on home” so I have options) and I’m staring down two weeks of feverish activity to get all of my cases in shape to be turned over to someone else. Two weeks to get it all in order, then a week off, and then – big changes ahead.
Anyway, the weekend was a tiny bit of a bust. I spent most of it stressing about transitioning out of firm life, angsting about whether I will ever get a vaccine appointment, and comforting Nugget through a string of calamities – a skinned knee on Friday; a spill off his bike on Saturday; a playdate in which his head seemed to be magnetically attracted to his little buddy’s on Sunday. The guy is covered in battle scars. And I attempted to read outside on Sunday morning; made it an hour before the pollen drove me indoors and I’ve been streaming from the eyes ever since. There were some good moments, though, I swear. Nugget had the best time at his tee-ball game on Friday afternoon; even did a jaunty little hop into home base on one run. (My Nats are also on a hot streak. It’s been a good week on the baseball front.) And in between head-crashing incidents, we had fun at Gravelly Point on Sunday, watching planes take off and land at National Airport with my law school BFF, Carly, and her family. Next weekend, though, I am hoping for a little more peace and quiet, and a little less blood and pollen.
Reading. It was one of those weeks of very little activity during the workweek, followed by feverish page-turning on the weekend. On Friday, I finished up The Odyssey – enjoyed it much more than The Iliad; I’m not sure if that was the plot or the translation, but in any event, it was good fun. I needed something short after hundreds and hundreds of pages of Homer, though, so I ripped through another Candlestick Press – Ten Poems about Birds, this time. On Saturday, I decided – no shade to National Poetry Month at all, but I need a break from iambic pentameter. Brain candy was called for, and The Heir Affair, off my library stack, delivered. The sequel to The Royal We departed from the strict Will-and-Kate fanfiction plot, but was just as much of a page-turner as its predecessor; I tore through 460 page by Sunday morning. Took a brief break to finish reading Betsy and Tacy Go Over the Big Hill to Peanut, and then turned to another off the library stack – A Bite of the Apple: A Life with Books, Writers, and Virago. I can’t resist a book about books, and I am very interested in the story behind the Virago publishing house. Spent Sunday evening curled up with it, and that was time well spent.
Watching. Most of the week’s watching was devoted to a three-part Rick Steves series about European travel tips; this is torture, but we keep putting ourselves through it. Will we never learn? 2023, Alps or bust! And on Sunday evening Steve and I also watched our weekly episode of The Crown. We’re getting close to the end of the fourth season. What to watch next? I’m angling for a BritBox subscription. Anyone have one?
Listening. What with all the upheaval in my career, I have not really had the mental bandwidth for an audiobook – or even a podcast – in the past week. It’s been music or silence. Mostly music; mostly The New Pornographers (or “Carl and Neko” as I refer to them in front of the kids.) One song in particular has become my anthem of right now; I’ll share it on Friday.
Making. A first aid kit for the car. Can you believe I didn’t have one? Clearly, Calamity Joe needs me armed with bandages, antiseptic cream, and medicinal honey pads everywhere I go. Next up, I think I’m going to repurpose one of my Stasher bags for a travel-sized kit that I can throw in my tote whenever we go anywhere. I was caught flat-footed this weekend.
Moving. Just a chasing-after-kids kind of week. I’m really feeling the lack of more formal workouts. I need to get back on the roads and the weights stat. I say this every week.
Blogging. Themed Reads on Wednesday, and it’s a National Poetry Month special for you! And on Friday, I’m departing a little from Wordsworth and Graham and cummings, and sharing some music (which is totally poetry).
Loving. Although I could do without the pollen, there is one thing about spring that always brings me joy: the return of summer shandy. (It gets warm enough, soon enough, here that April is totally shandy-appropriate.) I think it’s in the stores year-round, actually, but I notice it starting around mid-April. I brought a case home from Wegmans last week, and since I’m the only one who drinks it, it should last me a good long while. Related: I also picked up a new-to-me “beermosa” sour – Dogfish Head “Sunday Feels.” It’s not going to replace my beloved SeaQuench, but I am loving the blend of peaches, grapes, and tart citrus; this will be in the rotation all summer long.
Asking. When you eat Triscuits, do you also replay this scene from Billy Madison in your mind?
My brain is a bog, and in it there are planted Seeds bought with money at a fair price, Education, experience, and a packet of travel, Taste and intelligence and good advice.
They were planted faithfully, a long time ago, On a trim, well-weeded, well-watered bed, And it was hoped by now there would be fine harvest, But other things have blossomed in their stead.
There are no tall hollyhocks to mark the border, The red roses have died – they were a total loss, Only the bog-myrtle is blooming and the wild thyme, And everywhere the heavy dripping moss.
There is no promise now of carnations or lilies, But here is a little bunch that will live for an hour: Marsh-marigolds and mint and water-plantains, And sprigs of duckweed bursting into flower.
~Virginia Graham
This reminds me of a meme I saw on Facebook not too long ago: a woman lying face-down on a couch, glasses dangling from her hand and a book splayed out on the ground. The caption: “This can’t be the same brain I was using to read 750 page novels in three days in middle school.” So real, it hurts. I have been wondering lately what’s going on with my brain. It seems a smaller and more crowded place than it used to. I blame the pandemic, not to mention work and parenting, jostling for space. Tee-ball schedules, work deadlines, vaccination statistics, house projects, 401(k)s, school laptop connectivity issues, and an officemate who literally babbles to himself all.day.long. (as I type this, he’s sitting next to me repeating “badger badger badger badger badger badger…”) have taken over the entire mental real estate. But at least Virginia Graham can relate. Can you?
Back in the day, when I lived in Mount Vernon, I used to joke with the neighbors that I loved seeing flowering trees in other people’s yards. They would laugh and nod knowingly. In the mid-Atlantic, flowering trees are emblematic of spring – they’re absolutely everywhere. From our iconic cherry trees clustered around the Tidal Basin in D.C. to the proliferation of redbuds (my favorite) to towering magnolias, flowering trees are pretty much ubiquitous around here at this time of year.
Well – it appears I now have a flowering tree in my yard, after successfully avoiding them for so many years. (If you know, you know – they look absolutely fantastic, but they drop petals like nobody’s business and are murder to clean up; magnolias are the worst offenders, by far.) Meet Little Tree.
Little Tree is a small tree down by our mailbox; it’s been weirdly landscaped so that it’s sort of umbrella-shaped; I can’t explain that choice. When we moved into this house back in June of last year, Little Tree was entirely green, so this is the first I’ve realized that it actually blossoms. At least until this point, Little Tree’s primary attraction was to the kids. They’re obsessed. If you couldn’t tell, they named Little Tree (and several of the other trees in our yard; I can’t keep track of them all, but they’re carrying on the grand L. M. Montgomery tradition around here) and they have been showering love on the poor thing ever since we moved in. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to tell them not to water Little Tree; they’re constantly on the march into the front yard armed with watering cans and the hose, and it’s a miracle Little Tree hasn’t drowned. They also love to drag the chairs from our patio table around the house and set them up in some kind of weird ritual circle around Little Tree.
Poor Little Tree.
Little Tree’s surprise blossoming sent me scurrying to the internet to see if I could identify what it is. After thorough research, I’ve concluded that I think Little Tree is a serviceberry. The star-shaped white blossoms look like serviceberry blossoms to me, although I don’t remember actually seeing any berries in my summer inspections to make sure that Little Tree wasn’t being literally killed with kindness. But then again, I wasn’t looking for that. In any event, Little Tree doesn’t seem to be dropping petals, and at least it’s not a stanky, meaty magnolia. It has been an unexpectedly pleasant surprise to look out the window and spot the blossoms, especially on the mascot of the yard.
Don’t you love surprise blooming the first spring in a new house?
Good morning. Tap tap. Is anyone awake? Good, me neither. So, how were your weekends? Ours was jam-packed and mostly spent outdoors, which is just how I like ’em. On Saturday, we were up early for a backyard coffee date with our good friends – Nugget’s best buddy, D, and his family. They were taking family pictures in a park nearby, and the timing worked perfectly to get in a quick playdate before they headed to their photo shoot and we shoved off for the first tee-ball game of the season. Nugget’s team, the Royals, took on the baby Nationals, and it was hilarious. No one knew the rules, the batter was more surprised by a hit than anyone, and the handful of kids who were actually dialed into the action (a group that included team “ringer” Nugget) ended up piled on top of each other like puppies every time somebody actually hit the ball. We spent the afternoon lolling about at home. Nugget practiced tossing and catching his baseball using his new bounce-back net and strike zone (it’s possible Steve is even more excited about Little League than Nugget is) and I read outdoors.
Sunday was another outside day. In the morning, we drove to Bull Run to witness the annual bluebell spectacle. (Pictures coming soon!) I think we hit it just right this year – it was glorious. And we made it all the way to the Civil War battlefield this time, which was cool to see; Steve and I hiked the battlefield years ago, before kids, but haven’t been in that part of the park since. In the afternoon, we took the rugrats to a local elementary school to ride bikes; they’re learning to pedal without training wheels. Nugget, who has not yet met a sport that he didn’t pick up immediately, has already got it all figured out; Peanut is taking more time to build her confidence, but she’ll get there (please Artemis). Nugget was so reluctant to leave the school that I had to sunscreen him up at home and then take him right back out for more biking – he looped the little mini bike path for two hours. It was the kind of weekend I love – one filled with sunshine, fresh air and friends, and collapsing on the couch with a good book at the end.
Reading. Speaking of good books – I’m really leaning into National Poetry Month, as you can see. Didn’t I tell you my pace would pick up once our houseguests left? (Also, several of these volumes – especially the Candlestick Press ones – are very short, but still.) I finished The Iliad by mid-week and then blazed through Ten Poems about Walking, William Wordsworth (a selection by Seamus Heaney, for the Faber Nature Poets series – more about this coming soon), and Ten Poems for Spring, before turning back to ancient Greece and The Odyssey. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about this new-ish translation by Emily Wilson; I’m about halfway through at press time and I can confirm, it’s fabulous. (And I’m enjoying it much more than The Iliad.)
Watching. Ancient Greece (or ancient Greece-adjacent) watching, too. I convinced Steve and the kids to watch Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief on Friday and Saturday. We all loved it, and the kids have been chattering away about Greek heroes and monsters all weekend, which is too fun. On a more grown-up note, I watched a few episodes from Miranda Mills’ YouTube channel and Steve and I knocked back another episode of The Crown on Sunday night. Good times.
Listening. Not too much – just about an hour of All Creatures Great and Small. More to come this week, since I have to drive into the office at least twice.
Making. Not much this week. A few dinners – chicken escarole, which has been in the weekly rotation for awhile; lemon-pepper shrimp with roasted broccoli and mashed potatoes on Sunday evening. That’s about it. No fun baking to report, no gardening.
Moving. Ugh, let’s just not discuss this. Does panicking over career choices count? Definitely got my heart rate up this week.
Blogging. Another dispatch from the exurbs on Wednesday, and another poem on Friday – pretty standard stuff, but I hope you like both.
Loving. I look forward to this glory of Virginia bluebells all year long, and it never disappoints. Seeing the woods carpeted with ethereal blue blossoms is always such a joy and privilege. Steve and the kids enjoy it as much as I do, which makes it extra fun. Someday I hope to share the bluebell fun with my parents, or with friends – in the meantime, this is definitely good enough for me!
covered in flour 