I have told you that my father is a poet. He celebrated his 70th year by completing a new edition of his poems in his book On the Beaches of the Inner Sea (self published, but let me know if you desire a copy).
I was bemusedly perusing his old-to-me-by-now collection of poems, rhymes I had grown up loving, as well as ones that were new to me. I came upon a sweet poem, titled simply "Nan". I am not sure how excellent it's quality would be deemed by an astute purveyor of poetry. As a child I probably didn't enjoy it so well because, well, I was a child, and I preferred "The Flying Machine" or "The Fungus". But now, I read "Nan", and I find it profoundly sweet and beautiful. In "Nan", my father is watching my mother do an old handicraft called "paper toll". He writes:
Your face, so straightforward, so intent
Is what I love
Your whole body hunched
In an effort to create something pretty-
You, the creator of beauty
Are the object of it
We were all raised to believe my mother was not an artist, certainly not the artist my father was. She said she couldn't draw. My Dad painted with acrylic. My Mom never wrote a thank you note without a dictionary at hand. My Dad was a poet.
But in this poem I discovered something that I suspect we always knew. My Mom created beauty in tangible, physical ways. She really never put much stock in her talents, such as knitting fishermen knit sweaters and, now for her grandchildren, hats and bunnies!
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| (Remember the baby shower last June?) |
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| (My mom specializes her bunnies for the grandchildren and actually takes orders from the mothers as to the color of the bunny and sweater! I've seen at least one personalized with a name embroidered on the sweater). |
She certainly never gave herself credit for the cross-stitched Christmas stockings that still hang every year at the fireplace.
Oh yes, she did write that book of hers. A cook book! Because for her, cooking was art. (And you can certainly be jealous of we who were served at her table!)
Today, I had a too rare opportunity to visit my sister, the one we all know as "the artist" in the family. Funny how we get our labels.
But as I walked these grounds, it dawned upon me, that my sister and her husband are also artists. They create beauty. The credit for the outdoors goes to my brother-in-law.
My fine Godson showing "Little Red Riding Hood" to me, and explaining that "Cinnamon", the other "Road Island Red" has a smaller wattle, which is how they tell them apart.
Have you ever fetched an egg, warm from the nesting box? I haven't, but my now some of my children have!
I came home thinking to myself that I might just have to blog about today's beauty. I was going to track down St. Paul and St. Augustine. I promise you. And tonight, as I searched for the poem about my mother, I read this, another of my father's poems:
Beauty
The world: starting from movement, becoming, contingency
And the world's order and beauty
One can come to a knowledge of God
As the origin and end of the universe
As St. Paul says of the Gentiles:
'For what can be known about God
Is plain to them, because God has shown it to them
Ever since the creation of the world
His invisible nature, namely
His eternal power and deity
Has been clearly perceived
In the things that have been made'
And St. Augustine issues this challenge
'Question the beauty of the earth
Question the beauty of the sea
Question the beauty of the air
Distending and diffusing itself
Questioning the beauty of the sky
Question all these realities'
All respond:
'See we are beautiful'.
Their beauty is a profession
These beauties are subject to change
Who made them if not the Beautiful One
Who is not subject to change?"
(quotes from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2nd ed., p. 15, #32)
A farm is supposed to be sweetly rural, sweetly rustic. There should be hoses at the back door to, well, hose off. There should be boots. A chicken certainly doesn't hurt.
The credit for this beauty is still my brother-in-law's, even the beautiful pots (well, my niece above is equal parts Mama and Daddy credit).
After a long, lingering hello to the yard, I stepped indoors to visit with my sisters. I didn't get past the entryway.
There was a deep, (pewter?!) holy water font at the door. It is exquisite, and fits so quietly in with the hooks, boots, and Water Hog rug that befits a farmhouse's back door.
Just a little afternoon get together, mind you, no birthdays, no occasion. I step up the back steps and find this display to greet me.
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| I wish my camera had captured the light better. It wasn't dark or dim. |
Turning my head to the right, I see slippers, and brightly colored aprons hanging by the kitchen entry.
And down the hall, two beautiful sisters, but there's more, because I have two sister-in-laws (who we just call "sisters") as well as a baby, twins, and a two-month-old angel that I like to call my Goddaughter. all beyond the line of vision.
I sneak past and give hugs.
Actually, I just start taking pictures. Today, I need to capture the beauty I see.
We get a tour of the newly renovated "attic".
Attic. Right.
My sister is actually an interior designer (are you surprised?) so she gets credit for the pretty home. However, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that my brother-in-law and his boys laid the floor up here. I have a picture of them, all sweating, doing just that...but I'm not sure I have their permission to share it publicly!
Back downstairs, I snap a final picture of the felt garland strung above the table. Then my phone died.
Are you glad? Because there was beauty everywhere. It could have made for a very. long. post.
In an effort to create something pretty, he said,
You, the creator of beauty
Are the object of it.
I know this post needs to end. It's my thank you note to my sister who stayed up until 1 a.m. cleaning for us. She shouldn't have, and she knows that, but she wanted to anyway. Because she is an artist. And she is beautiful.
The poem, written of my mother, concludes:
I have realized all along
That when you sing your happy song
So many beautiful aspects
Like multicolored prismatical rays
Shining through a cloud
Come shining through your life
With the innocence and kindness
Of a little girl
Intertwined with the strength and wisdom
Of a woman
There can be little doubt
Whose eternal side you are on
I will only add, "like mother, like daughter", my sweet sister! I love you!!
(Thank you, Dad for permitting me to use your poetry for this post. I hope it's ok!)
