Misadventures of the Monster Librarian

Today was one of those ridiculously gorgeous fall days: blustery, wind sending leaves skittering across roads; a blue sky with wisps of cloud, a background to a warm sun; a just-cool-enough-for-sweaters-and jeans kind of day. And things are finally drying out after all the rain...and yet I found (and chose to walk) one of the soppiest cow paths through the woods, to my gardens. The path was glorious in its filthy, muckiness and solitary shade. We seem to think of fall as the dying season, where things are packed up and put away, set aside to be rationed out in the winter; and yet today's walk was proof of all that is still thriving and present. While the gardens are sad shells of their former glory, I focused instead on the mossy hill, the scent of wild mountain thyme, crushed and almost palatable in the very aroma rising from under my feet. I snuffed at handfuls of it, interspersing the smell with deep draughts of the fresh farm fall air. I walked the hill--where months before b...

I return to the Farm late tonight/early tomorrow morning. I will drive from the fume-infused, roaring aired airport into the thick, insect-orchestrated music that is the sleeping world of the Farm. It will feel good to be home; to march about my home, like a dog, taking it all in; snuffing out what is mine; finally circling a few times and dropping down onto my bed, stretching out and feeling my body down to the tips of my  toes and into the shoots of my fingers. Everything will be familiar. Everything will be being home.   "On the Grasshopper and Cricket" The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury,--he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter ev...

April, the U.S.'s National Month of Poetry is over, but I just had to post this lovely poem by Keats to really wrap things up. You may remember the opening line of this poem is quoted in "Bridget Jones' Diary"--ah, Hugh Grant, you cad! "To Autumn" Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring Conspiring Working together; literally, to conspire is “to breathe together” ( OED ) with him how to load and bless Conspiring Working together; literally, to conspire is “to breathe together” ( OED )    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves thatch-eves Thatch-eaves, the edge of thatched roofs run; thatch-eves Thatch-eaves, the edge of thatched roofs To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells    With a sweet kernel; to set budding ...

Today is the epitomy of spring. I walked a three mile loop around the Farm this morning; crossing off and onto our property; following paved roads onto dirt onto pavement again, off roads into the woods. It is perfect in its sunshiniest, blue sky glory. Today is a day for walks; wanderings through the Dumps' Swap Shop, in search of treasures; eating lunch outside with friends; reading books in the sun. There is little more to say except what Keats says best: "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever" A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, ...